#it's just evil men working together to keep women down. the world has never quite worked like that. are y'all this retarded?????

[idiosyncraticrednebula]

Can people stop the "Don't call yourself a feminist if-" crap? Y'all still believe in the blatant lies of that movement and ideology?

[handgiven]

a ginger without a soul? groundbreaking.

the year was 1936, the great depression was still rolling through the world, strong as ever, squashing more and more human lives as it went along. wales would lose around 400,000 of its inhabitants to emigration by 1938. gwynn’s family stayed behind for some reason, she thinks they may have owned land and were desperately hoping for the tide to turn but – it didn’t. she knows she received a boy’s name and assumes it may have been that one act of protection her mother tried to perform for her, before she would be found out as a girl, and as such considered less worthwhile to feed in a likely impoverished family.

that little act did not go as planned, as at just a few months old she was found by a few men floating down the river wye in a little basket, ’Moses style’. wrapped around her was a patchwork blanket made out of scraps from around the home, embroidered with her name, Gwynn. on her back they found a sigil, signalling her as cursed to all she would meet. but the river wye took the job of protecting her seriously enough, accompanying her all the way, until she made it to Bristol.

life was slightly less difficult in the city, compared to the countryside. there were always scraps of food to be found, and as she grew there were odd jobs here and there she could take on and make some money, though never too much. she’d gotten caught a couple of times, put into a catholic orphanage, but she usually did not take too long to make her way into the streets again.

the war saw many kids leaving the bombarded city but gwynn had nowhere else to go. the food still more scarce and the streets she grew to call home barren and more dangerous than before. a couple of times she was very close to dying but seemed to survived against all odds by sheer mad luck. the luck that seemed to avoid her at any other time.

when she was twelve she was picked off the streets by MacRae. a queer sort of scottish lady who wore pants and lived in a mansion gwynn would soon find belonged to a rich family once, but their last son had died a pilot in the war and his wife chose solitude over seeking a new man. well, solitude and a lady friend. and so Ruby and MacRae lived together in this giant mansion, doing magic. the two of them were witches and it was actually Gwynn’s sigil that caught their eye. for the first time ever the sigil had gotten her a roof over her head rather than have her cast out.

it was they that helped figure out the sigil as a signage of a demon who took Gwynn’s soul. it was also they who helped her figure out the precise effect the sigil had on her. so long as she has that sigil, her soul may never enter her body again. so long as the demon lives, the soul belongs to him. just that, no more, no less.

Gwynn tried to stick around, feeling a sense of belonging she’d never really encountered before. the women would teach her magic as well, though they rarely could agree on methodology, seeing as Gwynn’s magic was fueled by a hellish connection. they found that the best way for her to use her gifts and not put herself in direct connection to the forces of evil is through the use of amulets. she has the power to charm and hex any objects of her choosing to perform the magical action for her, rather than work a spell of her own. Ruby wanted more, however. Ruby felt they were not reaching her full potential. Ruby had to keep pushing. and so their mansion burned to the ground and Gwynn, fifteen years old, skipped town.

These days she lives with Anane and Antoine, two fallen angels. She sells her amulets, some of them deliberately bad quality (if the buyer seems stupid enough), some of them very powerful (if the stakes seem high enough). She’s gotten quite used to the whole being herself thing, though it means not having a soul. She worries that if she had her soul, she wouldn’t have her magic. And without magic, who would she be?

[robininthelabyrinth]

Lao Nie and Nie Mingjue have a good day together and bond. What was their relationship like before the qi deviation?

Boys - ao3

“Two paths, hmm?” Lao Nie said, squinting at the road markers in front of him. “Well, I don’t see why we can’t go down this one to the right –”

“No.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because little uncle asked me not to let you meet any new dangerous women,” Nie Mingjue said, looking as serious as ever – only his little hands, swinging to the side, revealed that he was just a ten-year-old. Still a child, no matter how mature he tried to act. “And a place called the Springtime Ghost Valley sounds like it probably has dangerous women.”

“Hey,” Lao Nie protested mildly. “Who’s the father here, me or you?”

“If a-die wants a new wife, little uncle will find one that isn’t inclined to kill him.”

That sounded like a recitation.

“Then what’s even the point,” Lao Nie grumbled, and reached out to ruffle his son’s hair, enjoying how Nie Mingjue yelped when he did, glaring up at him with offended dignity.

In all honesty, Lao Nie had no idea how he’d ended up with a son as serious and sincere and earnest as Nie Mingjue – he himself hadn’t taken anything seriously in years. Probably it was his mother’s influence.

Now that was a woman.

Not that his foxy second wife hadn’t been woman enough to blow him away either…

Hmm.

Perhaps they had a point about his taste in women.

“How about men?” Lao Nie suggested. “If it really means so much to you, I could swear off of women entirely –”

“A-die.”

“Mm?”

“Leave Sect Leader Wen alone.”

Lao Nie cracked up.

-

Because Lao Nie was the father, however easy-going he might sometimes be, they ended up heading down the right-hand path regardless. They were supposed to be night-hunting, after all – it was the perfect bonding experience according to Jiwei, though Lao Nie suspected his saber of having selfish intentions there – and deliberately avoiding a place with ‘Ghost’ in the name was hardly appropriate for scions of a Great Sect like theirs.

Although the reference to springtime was admittedly a little worrisome.

If it turned out to be a brothel, with the ghost thing being just a clever if somewhat tonedeaf marketing ploy, Lao Nie was turning around and taking them both home at once. He wasn’t going to risk little Nie Mingjue turning out anything like that awful Jin Guangshan – or, nearly as bad, having to explain anything more about the joys of sex to those earnest little button eyes and dimpled cheeks with no time to prepare first. He still hadn’t recovered emotionally from the last few times Nie Mingjue had asked him a question like that.

When they finally reached the end of the path, turning a corner to behold a clearing that was probably completely ordinary during the daytime, Lao Nie found that he’d been both right and wrong.

“It’s a ghost brothel,” he marveled. He’d never seen anything like it in his life.

“Dangerous women,” Nie Mingjue reminded him.

“A-Jue! Let your father live a little!”

Nie Mingjue rolled his eyes.

Lao Nie virtuously ignored his slightly judgmental brat of a son. It wouldn’t do him that much harm to go visit for a while, with the risk of Jin Guangshan-ness being relatively minimal; they were ghosts, after all. It was the duty of every cultivator to fight against evil, wherever it lived, no matter its form –

“Fighting? Is that what it’s called?”

“Who taught you sarcasm?” Lao Nie asked, knowing perfectly well that the answer was himself. “I ought to smack them.”

Nie Mingjue crossed his arms over his chest and pouted at him. “Fine, it’s fighting, we’ll go fight them. Do you want me to start drawing ghost-repelling talismans?”

“Liberate first!” Lao Nie sang out. “Come on, let’s go see what they’re like – er, that is, I mean, see what grievances they have that are keeping them here, of course. There’s no harm in dangerous women. Just don’t let them eat your yang energy!”

“It’s not my yang energy that I’m worried about, a-die…”

-

The ghostly madame was an extraordinarily charming person and Lao Nie liked her at once.

Not liked her liked her – he’d fallen head over heels with both of his wives from the first word, and that hadn’t happened here – but still, conversing with her was an extraordinarily enjoyable way to spend time.

She was witty and clever, with a broad range of knowledge and a gift for keeping a conversation lively and exciting; she could meet every verbal riposte with ease, and looked utterly gorgeous and composed the entire time. Sure, she kept trying to lure Lao Nie into an orgy in which all of his yang energy would be slowly sucked out before his body was ripped to pieces and his bones cracked open so that the ghosts could consume the marrow within, but what a way to go, right?

Nie Mingjue spent his time making friends with the ghost prostitutes.

Lao Nie wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting.

Well, he supposed he’d been expected a range of things – anything from Nie Mingjue getting suckered in by one of the ghosts and needing to be rescued by his father to Nie Mingjue just pulling out his Baxia and trying to stab them because he felt offended by their existence. He wasn’texpecting his ghostly conversational partner to suddenly frown mid-sentence and say, “What is he talking to them about?”

Lao Nie turned his head slightly and started listening.

“– just because you’re a ghost doesn’t mean you have to work allthe time, surely,” Nie Mingjue was saying, completely serious and earnest in the way he so often was. Lao Nie’s son had in fact inherited his sense of humor, only it tended to be buried fairly deep down and make its way up to the surface in an understated way in the most unexpected times; the rest of the time, he was straightforward to a fault, treating everything sincerely. “The birds in the trees, the animals in the fields – even among prostitutes, even the street-walking ladies know they need to take time to rest! I can’t believe you really have to work every single night. How long has it been since you had a night off?”

The ghost prostitutes around him had contemplative looks on their faces.

“Isn’t the whole point of becoming a vengeful man-eating ghost that you have more power than regular humans? I don’t know, it kind of seems like a bad deal if you have even worse conditions after all that –”

“I’m sorry,” the ghostly madame said, looking irritated underneath all her carefully painted smiles. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment…”

Lao Nie had to bite his hand to keep from laughing out loud.

-

“I think we’ve all learned a valuable life lesson today,” Lao Nie announced.

Nie Mingjue was pouting again.

“I don’t think we did,” he said, sounding profoundly skeptical. A filial child like Nie Mingjue shouldn’t sound so skeptical of his beloved father’s words of wisdom, really; if Lao Nie wasn’t so heartless, he might be offended. Of course, the skepticism might have originated from the heartlessness, so it was all six of one, half a dozen of the other in the end. “Those poor ghost ladies! They were still fighting each other by the time we left!”

“I’ve never seen a ghost pull another ghost’s hair before,” Lao Nie conceded. It had been brilliant. “One day, someone’s going to figure out a more reliable way to use ghosts to fight ghosts, mark my words.”

“Isn’t that demonic cultivation?”

“Oh, sure,” Lao Nie said, still cheerful. “If whoever it is does too much of it, eventually it’ll build up into a backlash that’ll kill them in some grossly horrific manner. Probably ripped into pieces by the backlash. And that’s not even counting how they’d be ostracized and hunted by the cultivation world first! But still, imagine how exciting it’d be in the meantime!”

“A-die…”

Lao Nie patted Nie Mingjue on the head again, earning another glare. “Immortality is a lie, A-Jue. We’re all here for a short time, each and every one of us, and only the length determined by fate and man. All that matters is what we do with the time that we have, and whether we’ve used it well.”

“To fight against evil wherever it lives, no matter its form?”

“To leave the world a better place than when we entered it, and to let our memories linger in the hearts of those that love us,” Lao Nie said. “Fighting evil is the best way to accomplish the former, and living a good life the latter. And you might as well have a good time doing it, if you can! Everything else is just extra.”

Nie Mingjue thought about that for a moment. “And a-die likes to have second helpings of extras?”

That was true. Lao Nie was a man of prodigious appetites of all sorts.

Despite that, he protested, “That wasn’t the point I was trying to make. I was being serious for once.” Seeing Nie Mingjue’s skeptical look, he made a face. “I can be serious, sometimes!”

“Can you?”

“It’s been known to happen! A date written on a wall will be right once a year.”

“Not if the wall gets painted over.”

“Ouch,” Lao Nie said. “I don’t even understand the metaphor you’re making, and I’m still going ouch.”

“Uh-huh,” Nie Mingjue said, utterly unimpressed. “You know, if you wanted one of the ghost ladies to be Third Mother, you would’ve been better off with the one playing the qin, not the ghost madame. She was much more powerful.”

Lao Nie arched his eyebrows. “Was she?”

Nie Mingjue nodded. “She had claws like a lizard.”

Lao Nie tried to remember which one of them had been the ghost girl playing the qin. He couldn’t quite remember at first – the women there were all surpassingly lovely, almost to the point of over-saturation – and then suddenly an image came into view, a beauty with a veil and sharp sword-like eyebrows, leaning over the qin with the shining pearl hanging in the center of her forehead dipping down.

And, yes, claws like a lizard.

“Hmm,” Lao Nie said. “That might have been a dragon, actually. You should be careful of those, they’re tricky.”

They’ll rip you and three dozen other cultivators besides into more pieces than can be picked up without blinking an eye, he meant, and you won’t even know what hit you. Avoid at all costs.

“Oh,” Nie Mingjue said, blinking. “Oops.”

“…what do you mean, oops?”

“Nothing bad! If I’m not supposed to interact with her, does that mean I should go and give back the gift she gave me?”

“She gave you a – give me that,” Lao Nie said. “This instant.”

“But a-die, you said there’s no harm in dangerous women –”

“For me, you foolish child!”

-

“I suppose it’s fine,” Lao Nie finally concluded, having inspected the dragon pearl from all angles several times over. “I don’t know how you do this, A-Jue.”

“Do what?”

Lao Nie thought about how his foxy second wife had cooed over his eldest son with a (slightly disturbing) fervor that she otherwise reserved only for eating snacks, and how viciously she’d dealt with anyone who’d even thought of interfering with Nie Mingjue in any way. He was fairly sure he himself had only survived his second marriage on account of having such a charming son.

“Don’t worry about it,” he finally said, mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure how to explain – or if he even entirely understood. “Anyway, it’s nothing dangerous. Rather the contrary! Dragon pearls like this are given to baby dragons to protect them.”

Nie Mingjue frowned. “What feeds on baby dragons?”

“…I think it’s mostly to protect them from themselves,” Lao Nie said, feeling a little uncertain about it himself. “And if it’s not, I don’t think I want to know, to be perfectly honest. There’s fighting evil, which is only right, and then there’s suicide, which is a waste – a wise man should know how to judge the difference between them. Anyway, that wasn’t the point I was trying to make.”

“It wasn’t?”

“It wasn’t, and you aren’t allowed to start worrying about the fate of theoretical baby dragons – I forbid it.” Nie Mingjue scowled. He’d probably started worrying already. “My point was actually that a pearl like this is a remarkably powerful protective tool for cultivators – one of those things that can only be found by chance and not made. Keep this on you, and you’ll never have to fear your opponent in battle.”

Nie Mingjue looked thoughtful.

-

“What do you want to do with that pearl, anyway?” Lao Nie asked after they’d gotten home and split up just long enough to take a nice long relaxing bath and gobble down dinner. “Do you want to put it in the treasury?”

Nie Mingjue blinked twice, which for him was practically the same as looking terribly shifty-eyed.

“You already did something with it,” Lao Nie deduced. “Something that isn’t using it as intended.”

“Oh, no,” Nie Mingjue said, looking shocked at the mere suggestion. “I’m definitely using it as intended.”

Lao Nie looked him up and down. “You’re not wearing it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t use it. Protection from your opponents in proper battle – that seems like cheating!”

Lao Nie felt a slight headache coming on. People who said they wanted a good boy for a son had no idea what they were getting themselves into, he reflected. Why couldn’t he have birthed a complete rascal instead?

“All right,” he said, instead of saying any of that because at the end of the day, bewildering as he might be, Nie Mingjue was his son and he loved him more than anything. “So what did you do with it?”

“I gave it to Huaisang.”

Lao Nie blinked. He supposed that really was using it for its intended purpose – protecting babies from themselves – although he suspected the dragon lady had been thinking of Nie Mingjue as the baby.

“Although…”

Lao Nie raised his eyebrows.

“…I think he may have swallowed it.”

My boys, Lao Nie thought, and had to sit down and hold his ribs because he otherwise feared he might split his sides from laughing so hard. Only my boys.

[sarcastically-defensive17]

Hello lovelyyy! Could i request a Billy imagine? He makes fun of the reader after hooking up with her at a party and she just playa along for the sake of his reputation but it hurts her a lot. He finds her and apologizes and its all really angsty with a happy ending??✨

Facades - B. Hargrove

I love this req so so so so so so much and I am so sorry I took so long to complete it! If you hate it then I am so so sorry and I hope you let me know so i can send you pictures of baby otters to apologise!

I really hope you like it!!

TW: THIS STORY CONTAINS MENTIONS OF BULLYING, SEXUAL REFERENCES, SWEARING, BRIEF ALLUSIONS TO DOMESTIC VIOLENCE / PARENTAL ABUSE, BILLY BEING A BIT OF A MYSOGINISTIC PRAT, Y/N STANDING UP FOR THE LITTLE PEEPS AND BEING A QUEEN AND MENTIONS OF NON-CONSENSUAL STARING AT INTIMATE BODY PARTS.

IF THIS CONTENT CAN POTENTIALLY TRIGGER YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ. YOUR OWN MENBTAL AND PHSYICAL HEALTH IS IMPORTANT, SO PLEASE TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF. MY INBOX IS ALWAYS OPEN.

Original Story by defensive_sarcasm17.

Please do not copy, reproduce or repost without credit or in a manner that removes my username, and/or ownership from the work. Stealing is not cool, my loves.

Billy Hargrove was an asshole.

Not just your regular asshole, but the kind that knew he was an asshole and allowed his severe longing for attention to control his every action. Whether positive or negative attention, he craved it; he reveled in it.

He knew it was wrong, but simply knowing he was on somebody’s mind in any way filled him with a sense of pride. It disgusted him but the thrill was far too addictive.

And there was sweet Y/N. Anybody could tell that she didn’t fit in. She walked - no, she strut - to the beat of her own drum. The minute he arrived she caught his attention. He had never before witnessed how somebody could be so unique and beautiful, yet remain on the outside. She was a fascinating creature and he hadn’t before felt such an intense desire to get to know somebody.

She was so different to so many people, both in personality and appearance, yet she took care to avoid bringing others down. Her first interaction with him was her reprimanding him for speaking ill of another girl in their grade with his friends. She had overheard the conversation that occurred near to her locker and made sure to discuss it with him away from his friends.

The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him and herself, but she also needed to tell him that his behaviour was unacceptable. He made more of an effort to watch his tongue after that, but old habits die hard and he quickly resorted back to being an ill-mannered asshole.

Just... never to her.

Nevertheless, he was still drawn to her. Their relationship evolved, a few sneaky kisses, hanging out outside of the arcade, or the cinema, or even the one time that Billy was eating at the diner and Y/N took a seat across from him just to babble about some new thing she was doing. If she was anybody else, Billy would have told her to take a hike, but instead, he clung to every word she told.

What Y/N didn’t know, though, was that she had become a butt of some jokes amongst Billy’s friends. Her kind, bubbly personality, her eyes that were often wide in energetic glee, the way she held a cheesy smile on her lips whenever she passed Billy in the hall.

To her it was normal. Never in her the lengths of her imagination would she conclude that the way she behaved would spur other people - people that she has grown alongside - to ridicule and tease her behind her back.

So she continued on in blissful nativity, even going as far as spending a night with the brutish boy - cuddled together, fumbling blindly amongst the rumpled sheets of her double bed. What started as a meaningless conversation at one of the many parties ended in one of the best nights that either had experienced.

She was entirely enamored by him, forming an intense and strong connection with the way he would present himself to her. She quite enjoyed the Jekyll within him.

The euphoria that he felt in her presence wouldn’t fade away like it normally did, even as he took his leave from her.

But when Billy was seen by Y/N’s neighbour, Angela, leaving her house early in the morn, the news circulated with the intensity of a swarm of angry locusts amongst the school.

And when Billy turned up to school late the next day, after a long and enjoyable farewell with Y/N and a quick stop at his own abode to change and freshen up, he was hounded the minute he approached his friends in the cafeteria.

“Please for the love of all that is cool in this world, tell me you didn’t hook up with freaky Y/N,” Tommy blurted in front of almost the entire cafeteria. The frown on Billy’s face did nothing to deter the boy, and from the corner of his eye he could see Y/N still as a statue as she felt most eyes turn towards her. Her tray was clasped between her fingers and she struggled to shift her features away from shock. “I mean, look at her,” he raised a hand as if he intended to whisper, yet the silence of the room ensured everybody heard, “You’d get more satisfaction out of a bean bag chair. She’s a dork.”

In that moment, he had two options: stick up for Y/N and confess to the growing admiration he harbored for her in front of everybody, and remove the cloud of admiration he received from many women and men alike; or do what billy does best-

“Please, I won’t put my dick just anywhere, willingly,” he scoffed, avoiding the burning gaze from the girl. His stormy blue eyes hid the flurry of his neurons, all of them working overtime to one up with an excuse, an answer, anything to avoid judgement from his peers. “She ended up with my jacket at the end of the night and there was no way I was letting her keep it.”

Tommy had an evil smirk on his face, turning his gaze towards Y/N and eyeing her in a grotesque way. His eyes linger on her chest for longer than she deemed comfortable before he snapped back to Billy. “Figured as much, but, we’ve all seen the way the freak looks at you. Even now, she can’t keep her eyes off of you.”

More sniggers erupted throughout the room. Y/N placed her tray down carefully, planning to leave the room as fast as she could, but she stopped when she saw Tommy crook a finger at her. He beckoned her closer, and she wanted nothing more than to shrink down to the size of a mouse.

“Is she dumb?” Tommy grunted as he nudged Billy’s shoulder with his own. “Come here, freaky!” Some chatter resumed in the room, but all eyes were still on her. She slowly stepped towards their table, crossing the few meters difference as slow as she could.

A chuckle left Billy, but he had forced it from his chest. His mind was going through many scenarios in which he could hurt Tommy, his favourite settling on stabbing him in the hand with one of the cafeteria forks followed by a severe pummeling to the face, but the eyes on him sent his adrenaline spiking. He felt horrible about speaking so badly of Y/N, but everybody had their attention focused on him. He was making people laugh, gasp, grumble even. He saw the girls at the table next to them get closer, winking at him and whispering along themselves about Y/N.

It was intoxicating.

“Tell us, freaky,” Tommy drawled, a sinister smirk forming in his thin and cracked lips. “You’re just obsessed with my man, Billy, here. Aren’t you?” Billy didn’t meet her eyes, and she knew - she just knew - that he didn’t enjoy what was happening, but she figured he would have the decency to stop it from continuing.

She had seen many sides of Billy, including the menacing, careless, boarding-on-sociopathic side, but she had managed to convince herself that she was immune to the abuse that tumbled from his lips. Y/N was already scolding herself inside her mind for thinking such discrepancies.

“Look at her, Billy. She can’t even speak!” Billy felt Tommy shove his shoulder with the palm of his hand, dropping the appendage quickly when he noticed the glare Billy shot him. His face paled slightly before the arrogance returned and the smirk resurfaced when his gaze shifted back to Y/N.

She hadn’t moved, her eyes locked on Billy. In those situations, Y/N knew her tear ducts were far to close to her eyelids, often spilling over at the any confrontation. She shied away from it, knowing that it often resulted in heartache and misfortune - but this time she felt anger. She just wasn’t quite sure if the anger was directed at herself or Billy.

Maybe both.

To add fuel to the flame, Billy turned his steely cerulean eyes towards her, raking them along the length of her body before he decided to open his mouth once again.

“Do i make you speechless?” his voice was sultry, warm, juxtaposing with the chill that ran down her spine at the audition.

It took her back to the previous night when he whispered sweet nothings against her skin. But she knew this was not the same Billy. This was the Billy that he would show to everyone. Everyone but her.

This was his Hyde, and she despised it. This was far from her Billy, but she knew how much his reputation meant to him.

He held her gaze strongly, but she could see something else in his expression. He was hoping that she would stay quiet, retreat from any chance of spilling his secret to the entire cafeteria, but part of his mind was telling him that he deserved her to speak the truth.

“I can’t help it, Billy,” she mumbled, hoping that a confession would make everything end. Her face was stoic, jaw set in a tight clench, only relenting to let the words slip out. To the rest of the cafeteria, it would portray as nerves and embarrassment, but to Billy - he knew that something had definitely changed in the usual mild-mannered, kind-hearted woman. Shame was running through her head at an alarming rate, mixed with embarrassment and cut with a growing anger. “I’ve had a crush on you for so long. It’s hard to deny how i feel about you.”

The words hit him like a speeding truck. Despite their activities, she had never once given him an indication for the depth of her feelings, nor had he for her. He had came to the conclusion that she simply knew of his emotions without the audition of them - he treated her so differently, he thought.

Nevertheless, he wanted to believe that her words were the truth, but the fire blazing in her beautiful eyes set his skin alight and had his heart pounding against his ribcage with guilt. She was Y/N. She was kind, she knew him. She knew how much he craved the satisfaction of being on somebody’s mind as if he could sense that he held somebody’s attention.

He knew she did it to help him, and he was somewhat grateful underneath the growing guilt.

“Wow,” Tommy breathed. His face held a look of astonishment, but once again he returned to his stock standard expression. “What an absolute spaz!”

Billy found himself nodding along to avoid the heat-filled stare, swallowing the lump of bile rising in his throat, “Why is it that all the dorks think they have a chance with me? I must have a wannabe-magnet that makes them all hot for me,” his cackle was filled with faux-malice, but the students were none the wiser. His thoughts were roaming around his head, moving faster than he was sure his brainwaves could manage.

He barely noticed when a feminine voice hit his ears and said something about Y/N needing to cool off before pouring a drink over her head. The red liquid was already beginning to stain her shirt and her hair was pushed to the front of her face.

“There you go,” Carol - the girl that had Tommy wrapped so tightly around her little finger that she has a circulation issue - had been the one to spill the liquid over her head. The smile on Carol’s face was dripping with sugar, but Billy knew that it was actually salt.“The red makes you look less like an ugly cow.”

A gasp left her lips, her eyes closing quickly. Y/N knew that the tip of the iceberg was approaching. Everybody has the point in their anger when they hit a point of hypersensitivity. Their body struggling to find a way to release the pent up friction in anyway, and it chooses to take the route of tears.

When she opened her eyes they had already began to blur with tears, yet she could still make out Billy’s figure, but she didn’t stay long enough to hear their taunts any longer. Her feet carried her to her car at a steady pace, where she finally allowed the emotion to escape in any way it pleased.

<><><><><>

He had expected to see her in their next class. Her presence was the only think that kept him from flipping out during their history class. Mr Daniels, the balding, narcissistic, middle-aged douche bag, had it out for him. Billy had often joked that it was because of the hair - pure jealousy, he said. The mere sight of Y/N’s profile managed to keep him occupied, his mind running wild with thoughts of the woman.

But when he had noticed she wasn’t there, all resolve had fled his body as his body fled the school. He had been trying to reach her since he had left, the pay phone on the corner of the block had his attention for nearly an hour, all of his change spent dialing her number over and over again with the same result.

The guilt was eating away at him, shame creeping up his spine.

He was an asshole. Plain and simple.

He had spent nearly his entire wallet on the pay phone, growing more frustrated by the minute. If she were home, she would answer. She always did. She was too kind to ignore a call. Hell, she even stayed on the line with telemarketers until they stopped talking for long enough for her to apologise and bid them goodbye.

The mere thought had him slumping his forehead against the receiver of the phone. His patience had worn thin and he cursed under his breath as he reefed his keys from his pocket and set off towards his blue camaro.

He needed to see her. The image of tears running down her cheek was burned into his mind, occupying all of his thoughts as his subconscious mapped out the route to her house. He had only been there once, maybe twice after dropping her home one afternoon, but he had the way etched into his hippocampus alongside many things about Y/N.

He had barely pulled in to the curb before he shut down the engine and stomped to her door.

His knuckles were rapping on the door before he knew it.

He knocked again, and once more. But no answer. Her car was parked in the drive way, he knew she was home. He picked up on the faint sound of music playing, some indie band that she was fond of. Not Billy’s taste.

“Y/N?” He called, fighting the lump that had swollen in his throat. “Y/N, please, I need to talk to you!”

The door opened slightly, just enough for Y/N to stare at him with innocent eyes full of shame before the chain stopped it from advancing further.

“I think you’ve said enough, Billy,” her voice sounded broken. Shattered even.

Her hair was still saturated, the T-Shirt she wore was stained, and he faintly recognized it as one of her favourite articles. A from was deeply carved into her features and he had to restrain his mind from thinking about how she adorable she looks with a crease between her brows and a dimple forming on her chin with growing anger.

“Darling, please let me in. I need to talk to you about something,” he flashed a charming smile. His pink lips contrasted perfectly against his sun-kissed skin. He was a delectable sight and he knew so; he made sure to dress to impress on the daily. He craved the looks of lust and jealousy. Like neon straight into his awaiting veins, it was his drug. Even the way Y/N glared up at him made his ego hum, but his heart ached with the disappointment she showed. “What happened in the cafeteria... it’ll never happen again. I just, I couldn’t-“

The door abruptly slammed in his face silencing his words in an instant. He froze, the sound shaking his spine and clearing his train of thought, only for the sound of a chain clicking and the door reopening capture his attention back.

There she stood. Hair drenched beyond all hope, clothes stained a bright red, throwing off the aesthetic of her outfit for the day. Her makeup was smudged more than he originally thought, as if she had been furiously scrubbing at her eyes with her hands. His heart ached, but he couldn’t deny the excitement in his nerves when she gave him her full attention.

Her hand reached out to grab his shirt, pulling him inside faster than he thought possible.

“Couldn’t what?” She snapped at him, venom coating her words in a way that made him recoil. “Couldn’t resist making fun of me? Couldn’t resist having every single pair of eyes on you? Couldn’t resist taking the piss out of me, just like you have done for months?”

She wasn’t meant to know about that, he thought. She was meant to be none the wiser. His face paled, eliciting a dry laugh from her chest. She felt the pressure of the forced omission in her stomach, the muscles aching from the furious sobs that racked her frame moments before.

“All of this time, I was trying to be your friend, Billy! And you!” She waved her hand at him, pointing at him in a manner dripping with unbridled anger. “You were playing me for the fool! I’ve been the butt of all jokes between you and your asshole friends since the minute I opened my big mouth to talk to you, haven’t I?”

He knew he was in the wrong. He knew that he should have punched Tommy in the face for even bringing anything up in front of her. His friend had noticed that he had abruptly halted the jokes surrounding the girl in question, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit the real reason why. He was falling head over heels, but he just didn’t know it yet.

Now he felt like his heart was ripping in two at the sight of her blotchy cheeks and red rimmed eyes, and he was the reason.

“It started as a joke, Y/N. I never meant to hurt you,” His voice was full of pain. Self-loathing. “Yeah, Tommy and I used to make fun of you for a while, but...” his words faded away.

The chuckle that left her lips this time was a hearty one, more like she was laughing at an actual joke than their humourless situation.

He didn’t realise how intently he was staring at her sock covered feet until he brought his eyes up to her face. She was genuinely laughing, but the tears that he didn’t realise were falling down her cheeks made his arms twitch from the need to hug her.

“My god,” she huffed, bringing her palms to her eyes and pressing hard, almost as if trying to hold her tears back. Her voice deceived her, and she sobbed for - what felt like - the millionth time that day. “I’m such an idiot.”

His hands connected with her shoulders and he brought her in against his chest. The hug was all he could do to comfort her, for he knew so little about his own emotions to even begin to understand another’s pain.

“Every time we spoke, every time we hung out together...” she pulled herself back from his chest. She couldn’t stand the contact that she craved so much, for she knew that it was unrequited. “Every time I kissed you.. last night. It was all bullshit!”

“Princess,” his own voice began to shake, feeling overwhelmed and anxious, “Every moment I have ever spent with you has been because I want to.”

She worked her hands into her now half-damp hair, pulling it back from her face in a tight grip, “Why? You and your friends needed some new material?” She released a heavy breath, her lips trembling. “Nancy told me about all of the jokes last week, yet I still went home with you last night. I still played along while the entire cafeteria stared me down because I know how much your reputation means to you. I know that I am at the very bottom of your priority list, Billy. Everything you do is for a purpose, and your purpose with me was just to make me feel worse than literally everybody in that school already does.”

He reached for her hand slowly, as if he were afraid she would pull away from him forever. He was never sure of his emotions, but this time, he knew that he would watch the world burn just to make her happy. He hated himself. He hated Tommy, and the girls that embarrassed her further. He hated Neil, and he hated his own narcissism. He hated the world for making such a beautiful soul so miserable, but he especially hated how he knew right from wrong and still chose the latter.

His fingers laced with hers, but her hand remained slack in his grip. It was better than nothing, he thought.

He cleared his throat, the organ feeling as stiff as a piece of cardboard, his mouth dry. The next words would be difficult, but they were honest. She deserved honesty.

“When I first met you, I didn’t know who you were, and I didn’t really want to. You were kind and thoughtful and you pulled me aside to chew me out for talking shit about some girl, but you did it where you knew my friends wouldn’t hear, just so you could spare my reputation. For the first little while, yeah, we made jokes. I made fun of the weird way you dress and the horrible music you listen to, and how you are the nicest person I have ever met, but the it stopped. The things you did stopped being funny to me, and the way I felt when I was around you changed completely.”

“Billy, what are you talking about?” Her tear-filled eyes wrinkles, her brows furrowing deeply.

“Tommy and the rest of the assholes, they noticed that I didn’t want to talk shit about you, or that I didn’t like when they would talk about you in the way - in the way we talk about other girls. Its hypocritical, but they dropped it. Until today. All because Angela couldn’t keep her big mouth shut.” He caught the look that she sent him, frowning slightly. “Sorry. Because Angela told them that I left here this morning, and they wouldn’t shut their stupid mouths the minute they saw me. I told them that I had nothing to say about you, but they wanted answers and I said shit that I never wanted to say.”

She watched him intently. Tommy had made a lot of comments about her over the years she had known him. The other guys had too, but she did notice that they started backing off lately. She hadn’t paid much attention to the fact, secretly hoping that they had begun to mature, but to think that Billy made them stop - well she didn’t know what to think.

“Why did you make them stop?” her mind was running faster than her mouth, but she still couldn’t put it together. If Billy was anybody else, she would maybe think that he reciprocated the feelings she expressed for him in the cafeteria but he isn’t - he is Billy Hargrove, and he doesn’t have feelings for anybody.

He laughed for a second. A soft, disbelief fueled cough. His eyes seemed to shine bright in the dull lighting of her house. Neither of them had realised the time that has passed, it was now nearing the afternoon. He looked down at her, his stomach full to the brim with an odd sensation.

“You really don’t know?” he seemed to have stepped closer to her, only slightly. His shoulders were slightly shrunken in. She shook her head softly, the crease returning to between her eyebrows as she thought. “I’m in love with you, Y/N.”

Never in his teenage life, had Billy feared rejection from a woman. His mother had given him all of the rejection he needed for a lifetime, but now, as he stared into Y/N’s eyes, his lungs seemed to constrict.

It was as if her world froze for a moment. Not only did Billy Hargrove, possibly her best and only friend, confess that he has feelings for her, but he said that he loved her. To say she was at a loss for words would be an understatement, but she stood in front of him gaping like a fish, mouth opening and closing every time she wanted to say something.

“I don’t mind if you don’t feel the same,” He spoke, slightly lower than when he confessed to her. He turned away from her slightly, releasing her hand and using it to rub the back of his neck. His skin felt like it was aflame and he started to sweat. “I just wanted to let you know, especially after what happened today. I-I’m sorry for the shit I said, and I am gonna kick Tommy’s ass for this. And I’m sorry that you had to say that stuff today. I know that you just said it to help me, and I appreciate it but you didn’t have to -”

His words fell short when he felt arms wrap around his waist. It was a soft, slow gesture, new, but not entirely uncomfortable. If he had to put money on it, he would say that she could feel exactly how fast his heart is beating.

“Those things I said today, about my feelings for you...” she began, head pressed against his chest.

“Yeah, princess?”

“They were all true.” He pulled her back slightly to look at her. It was his turn to look confused. “Last night was one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time, Billy. Being around you just makes my heart swell and everything better.”

His heart started to beat impossibly faster, but there was still hesitance in her voice. “I feel like there is a ‘but’ coming.”

“But I can’t deal with this split-personality bullshit, Billy.” He had never heard her curse before. It was music to his ears, exciting, entrancing, but he also knew that she meant business. She was incredibly serious. “The person you are when you are around me, that is the guy I am obsessed with. Who you are when everybody else is around... I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of that now, and I hated it.”

“I know, darling. I’m so sorry for that, I promise, I will be better. Even if you won’t have me, I will be better. For you.” His eyes held an honest strength. It was as if he were selling his soul to her, right there in her entry way, where they had stood since she wrenched the door open in a fury. “But, if you will have me, how about I take you out tomorrow night? If you don’t want to, then I understand.”

“I would love that,” she smiled up at him, the expression growing wider as a matching one took over his face.

He couldn’t help but lean forward slowly, giving her an opportunity to pull away. When their lips connected, he melted into the touch, moving with such intensity it was as if he were repeating his apology and his promise into the kiss.

She had never felt more wanted before, and he had never felt more safe.

When their lips parted she rested her forehead on his for a moment, basking in the silence and the ambiance that surrounded them.

But of course, Billy had to ruin it.

“So, you are obsessed with me, huh?” She could feel the smirk against her cheek as he nuzzled his nose into her temple.

She turned away from him so fast that the wet ends of her hair slapped his face.

“Where are you going, princess?” He followed after her, long strides catching up with her faster than she wanted.

“I’m going to have a shower. If you want to join me, you can leave that bad attitude at the door along with your shoes,” She sent him a sly wink, a smirk on the lips that Billy wanted to taste once again.

“Yes ma’am,” he said, and his shoes went flying into the hallway.

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[maxwell-grant]

Ok, but how would the Shadow get along with Superman?

I'm gonna try something a little different with this ask, because I couldn't really find the right words to answer it the way I usually do. So instead I took the more complicated route and ended up writing a fanfic of sorts, about potential interactions between these two I could think of.

I don't think I'll make a habit out of answering replies through fanfic but, I don't know, something about this question kinda demanded from me a different type of answer. I never wrote Superman before but I do need to get back to writing.

So here you go, the Shadow - Superman fanfic I wrote to answer this. Hope you enjoy.

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They were not friends. They were not enemies. They had their separate worlds to watch over, and rarely did they cross each other. Rarely did they meet under desirable circumstances. 

 The Shadow, as Superman knew him, was not a part of Superman's world. In more ways than one.

Clark knew that he was a man who was mainly active during the 1930s and 40s, that he had been a crimefighter active in the United States during that time, that he has some connection to Bruce and other heroes he knew, and that he has an associate related to Lois named Margo, but somehow, Clark could never find him on his own accord.

Even when he time traveled to said period, he could never find him. Lois and Margo share a bloodline, but Lois does not recall what exactly of what sort, not even under Clark's machines. When he asked some of The Shadow's associates, they could not recall him, and Clark knew for a fact they could not have been lying. Some of them existed in this world but with "ordinary" lives, and others didn't.

Although he seemed to come from an alternate world,there were times when The Shadow appeared to have history in this world as well. Real, tangible history, that seems to be willed out of thin air and to dissappear when Clark goes looking for it. Even Bruce seems to not remember him, and Bruce's the one who seemed to have spent the most time in his presence.

He couldn't quite say he looked fondly on his meetings with The Shadow, if he could be honest with himself. He was cold, remote, harsh and manipulative. He murdered criminals without remorse, something that even he admitted had soured his relationship with Bruce, and terrorized those he fought to a much greater extent than even Batman, who Clark already thought was going too far at times.

Clark knew he was not an evil man, he was certain of the compassion within him that thundered to protect the innocent, but Clark could hardly be certain of how much he knew about him in the first place. Clark, who could see through crowds and make a shopping list out of what each person had eaten for breakfest that morning, could not identify The Shadow's face through his mask, could not see what was behind his eyes.

Clark is extremely aware of the standards he must adhere to in order to operate as Superman, the ways in which he must be held accountable as someone operating above and within society. He understands the importance of his friends and allies that can stop and defeat him, the family he must look after, the reputation he must uphold, the control over his powers and a lifetime of experience in holding himself back. At times he was even grateful for the existence of Kryptonite as a desperate measure. He knows that Bruce goes through a lot of measures to keep himself in check as well.

But he knows little about The Shadow, who works for him, why they do so, who can hold him accountable, who is going to help him when he can't help himself. He worries about what his world must look like, to create a man like him, brainwashing people and gunning down criminals in the streets while laughing. How much good can such a man do if this is what his approach to justice looks like? What is the toil that such a grim approach to life has taken on this man's life?

He knows that overthinking is one of his worse flaws, but Superman can't help but dwell sometimes on the worlds he cannot save, on those that must take on such realities. He only wishes he knew how to find The Shadow of his own accord and try to bring peace to the man, even if he knows better than to assume peace is what he's looking for.

It is the nature of Superman to never stop trying to bring everyone to a world beyond death, darkness and sorrow, and to blame himself for those he cannot save even from themselves.

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It was a well-known fact that The Shadow always worked alone. And like most known facts about him, it was not entirely accurate.

The Shadow strives to cultivate the image that he's alone, untouchable, that all who work for him do so because he forces them to. That he always tells those he saves that their lives belong to him, that they are trembling slaves to a monster sniffing blood in gutters.

Distractions, lies, smokescreens he must create, to allow his agents to operate as spies, and spare them from the wrath of the police and the criminal underworld alike, too busy hunting a legend to notice the flesh and blood people working under their noses, people they would otherwise be all too happy to neglect or stomp on.

Misdirection, the secret of any magic trick. The true secret of The Shadow's invisibility.

There are days where the only positive thought in his mind is that his agents cannot join him wherever he goes.

The success of The Shadow depended heavily on the vast networks of agents and allies he'd gathered over the years, people from all walks of life who trusted him and had chosen to join him. Every courageous move, sacrifice and pivotal role they played was carefully recorded in his files, and never forgotten. They had skills and capabilities The Shadow did not, and The Shadow was proud to see the ways in which they would cultivate those into the betterment of the world around him.

And though the bridge between them was unassailable, though his ways and actions were secret and mysterious to them and they could never know more than he allowed, they received constant signs of The Shadow’s appreciation of their reliable cooperation, and at many points The Shadow had made said bridge less unassailable for their sake.

But they were not his friends. His allies were distant and occupied with fights The Shadow could assist, but not fight for them. His agents were subordinates rather than equals, expected to play the necessary parts and leave the scene for their own safety just as quickly. His friends were few, and often dead. And when it was the moment of danger, The Shadow fought alone. The protection of others came above all else, and on field, although they were expected to think and strategize for themselves and work together, The Shadow's word was final.

There could be no distractions, no hesitations. Those had cost him more than enough on the battlefields of the Great War, mistakes he would never repeat again. The sacrifice of companionship, his own personhood and self-preservation is an acceptable loss for the sake of those he must protect.

There are occasions when The Shadow is forced into circumstances beyond what logic and physics should allow, and in some of those occasions, Superman had been involved in them. There are occasions also where he has to work side by side with other vigilantes, and sometimes, they also include Superman.

He couldn't quite say he looked forward to working with Superman. His arrival almost inevitably carried chaos into the inner workings of reality. The existence of an omnipotent being able to crack planets with a footstep and liquefy crowds with a gaze, held back only by his human personality, was a danger that thankfully did not exist in The Shadow's own world, but was a worrying prospect regardless.

Few of his experiences with aliens and superpowered warriors could be said to be positive ones, and a lifetime of knowing the evil in the hearts of men had taught The Shadow how easily even the best of intentions and the most solid of morals could be corroded and destroyed. It didn't help matters that this being was also a public crusader and celebrity passing judgement on criminals, even while secretly holding a private dimensional prison to throw them into should they be sufficiently dangerous. Someone completely unstoppable and unaccountable, even to death itself.

The Shadow understood Superman to be a good man, a moral man who had been raised well to be the best he could. The Shadow respected and treasured the existence of those like him, men and women and everything in between that could breathe in the sun and uphold mankind, while he dwelled in the underworld to make sure those more like him would not rise to attack them.

But whatever the rewards of these partnerships, he was glad when they were over. His work requires full control. He cannot tolerate the loss of it.

Others can dream of better tomorrows and work to make them happen, his is the task of clearing the darkest paths so others need not tread them.

Hope, light and comfort are noble gifts, but they are not his to give.

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The first time they met had been the result of Vandal Savage's Hypertime Collider, a trap designed to keep Superman running circles through the timestreams, cycling through alternate versions of himself. He had landed in the 1930s, somewhat depowered, in a world where some allies of his existed, but superheroes were nowhere to be found (although some people reacted in terror at him, shouting "IT'S DANNER! HE'S COME BACK TO KILL US!", the significance of which was lost on Clark).

He had met a woman named Margo Lane when looking for this world's Lois, telling her he was a farmboy from Kansas lost in the big city looking for a friend with the same last name. Margo didn't recognize anyone named Lois, and Clark could tell she was only pretending to believe his story (even though it was true, in a sense), but through her, he met a tall, gaunt and hawk-like millionaire by the name of Lamont Cranston, a name Clark recognized from an old radio show Jonathan used to listen.

He had an idea of who The Shadow was. An old detective from a radio show or pulp magazines, sure, Superman's been to worlds he used to think were fictional before, some people still think he's as real as Santa Claus (who was going to join him and the Easter Bunny for checkers next Sunday).

Their conversation of platitudes was cut short, as it wasn't long before the Hypertime Collider was soon transporting him to a different time period, but before he was ejected, he remembered the moment their conversation ended.

Shortly before he could feel the Collider breaking and warping time and space in a chokehold around him, he remembered an eerie silence fall on the room. Though his hearing senses in this world were diminished, he could still pick up minute sounds from miles away, and it was a strange sensation to hear the sound of nothing. A sound that did not exist but silenced everything around it with deafening precision, a sound that Clark had not heard even in the deepest recesses of space, when he could still hear his body's metabolism at work. For a moment, though he did not need it to survive, Clark worried his heart had stopped working, for he could not hear it.

It surely was the Collider's effect at work, he reasoned.

But in that brief moment, whatever surprise he expected to find on Cranston's expression was nowhere to be found. Instead, scattered shadows slashed across his face as the air around him changed and he closed his eyes. He was still wearing Cranston's face when he opened them, and once again, they did not match his face.

The last thing he remembered before his ejection was a voice that cut through the air and the meters separating them, that sounded like a python hissing in Clark's ear, from everywhere and nowhere at once.

"This is not your world."

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The second time was in another dimensional sojourn, this time of his volition.

Having borrowed a portal from Cyberwear Enterprises, Clark was rehearsing a speech intended for the Reginellian people of the Bohren System, one he was expected to give through blinking in reverse morse code, and in order to ensure the atmosphere of their planet would allow them to hear him, Clark intended to pay them a visit. But instead, he was transported somewhere else.

Before he could properly register the time period and location he had landed, he had encountered The Shadow in the middle of rescuing a steamship on fire from sinking.

He was clinging to the side of it unseen from the panicking passangers, drilling bullet holes to the bottom of the ship so it would fall to the side and steer clear from a passing fireworks yacht. He was holding a rope attached to a nearby tugboat with one hand, and with the other he was clinging to the boat's window. The tugboat was moving outside of the steamship's range, and as it moved, it would drag The Shadow and tilt the steamship as he gripped it, just enough to prevent the steamship from colliding head-on with the coming barge.

The tugboat had three men within it, one piloting it and two holding on to the rope that The Shadow had attached, working along with The Shadow to try and pull the steamship. One of these men had a missing eye and was dressed in aviator gear, presumably the pilot of the autogyro atop the tugboat. The other was a tall, muscular black man in suspenders, who dwarfed the pilot in both size and strength.

The strain of their pull could dislocate The Shadow's arms at the very minimum, if not outright kill him, his plunge would carry him 20 feet into the water and potentially under the sinking steamship. Still, they pulled with grim determination, although the boat driver had his eyes closed, and Clark recognized the Yiddish mutterings coming from his mouth as a desperate prayer.

Though they did not see him, these men were extremely thankful when Superman had blown out the inferno with a single breath, and pushed the boat all the way necessary for it's passangers to land on the barge safely, and rescued The Shadow.

Of course they knew the Chief was gonna pull through, he always does.

If The Shadow was thankful for Superman's interference, he didn't show it. In the second he had regained enough strength to talk, he rattled off dozens of names, of passangers in the steamship that had been bruised, by either the flames, the panicking crowd, or the criminals that The Shadow had stopped. People that needed to be taken to medical assistance faster than the ambulances could carry them, of family members that had to be contacted.

He did so without looking at his rescuer, for he remembered Superman, who expected his presence in this timeline to have been erased after he'd destroyed the Hypertime Collider.

Nothing indicated it hadn't been.

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Their most recent encounter was the outcome of an accident where Vandal Savage had trapped Superman in the Arctic and rebuilt his Hypertime Collider, in the hopes of contacting alternate versions of himself so they could all gain Superman's powers and conquer their worlds.

One of said versions was hunted by The Shadow through the portals. The adventure ended rather quickly as the Savages all turned on each other in their tried-and-true method of solving problems with large rocks, but amidst the chaos, a final burst of energy had granted The Shadow a temporary access to Superman's powers.

Thoughts passed through Clark's head of the last time Bruce had accidentally gained access to Superman's abilities, and how despite his best intentions, Bruce couldn't help but overestimate his own ability to wield said powers responsibly. Of how many times he's come across iterations of Bruce who've gained superpowers and used them poorly or tyranically.

He thought of how often he needed to reign himself back, and of the man in black who stood before him, with eyes like thunderstorms ready to break.

The ways in which he is like Bruce, and the ways in which he is decidedly not.

But before Superman could take any sort of action or even ask how he was feeling, The Shadow turned around silently and started walking, straight in the direction of the Fortress of Solitude.

Upon reaching it, he took the million-ton key from beneath the rug that spelled Welcome in a million languages, opened the door, and walked straight into a high security anti-Superman cell within it, designed specifically as a desperate measure against rogue Kryptonians, only stating Superman was going to have to watch him so he couldn't escape.

Clark had never even told him about the Fortress.

He stayed there for the next 12 hours, as Superman ran tests on him to ensure his body wouldn't be negatively affected by the transformation. Clark chose not to remark that some of the bone-deep injuries he had spotted on The Shadow's body previously had healed, as he knew it wouldn't take long for him to acquire new ones after this was over.

They talked briefly at points, and for much of it, The Shadow assumed the façade of Cranston. Sometimes he remembered to breathe and blink, things he forgot to do with startling ease once he no longer needed them.

Clark understood it to be a diplomatic gesture, a façade over the untameable and fearsome Shadow who was frankly unnerving to be around. Even a kind gesture, an effort to address Superman as a man asking for help. Not different than how Superman would prefer to be Clark Kent in order to approach people and ask questions and say things that Superman could never say.

There was a discomfort, of course. There would always be one between the two.

Still, Superman took it as a victory when, after the 12 hours were over, he heard that familiar hiss, with equal intensity but no aggression or even contempt, spell out a "Thank you", as he turned around and was unsurprised to find The Shadow no longer there.

They were not friends, they were not enemies, they belonged to different worlds. They were opposites in their battles for truth and justice.

But truths are often opposite. It is a truth that not all opposites are opposed.

Truth is often as chilling as it can be comforting.

[buildmeafairytale]

Orc Boyfriend - Bash

Oh my gosh guys I just hit 160 followers! I honestly didn’t think I would have nearly this many when I made this blog, and I’m so thankful for all those who read and like my stories! Here’s another one featuring a gifted woman and her orc babe. If you like my work, please consider donating to my kofi, it helps me out a lot <3 Also, sorry if you’re seeing this twice, I had to fix the ‘keep reading’ thing so it wouldn’t be so long. NSFW

 I was a little girl when I heard the siren’s call. My parents were busy doing anything but watching me, and slipping away was never hard. I followed the voice through the forest near my home, the song notes pulling at me like strings tied around my bones. I saw a woman laid out near a creek, sick and dying. She was singing a mourning song for herself, so I sat with her and tried to offer her any comfort I could. She was scared of dying alone; that much I could tell from her pained wails. So I sat there and held her hand for as long as it took, and she thanked me with a gift. I felt the power come over me, blue lights whirled up my arm and through my body from where my hand was grasping hers. I didn't understand what had happened for a while, but it became impossible to ignore. I would whistle a tune and birds would start to follow me, or I would sing and my parents would suddenly want to spend time with me. I didn’t understand the strength of the power until I started school, though. A boy tried to grab at me and lift up my skirt, and the shrill sound that left me was anything but human. He was on the ground with blood pooling in his ears by the time my mouth sprung shut. 

I was more careful after that. Being different in my town is often a death sentence, so I learned to control it and keep this power to myself. I always figured my parents had a hunch, but as they didn’t spend time with me much I was unsure. That was until my parents sold me off, though. Then it was confirmed.

 The men came in the middle of the night. They were dirty and unkempt but dressed in good, although mismatched, armor. They probably had a single set of teeth between them all. I heard the commotion and came downstairs. 

 “Ah good, she’s awake. Go ahead and take her, I have no need for her here.” I heard my father say, his nose upturned and his awful fake accent exaggerated. 

 I watched my father be paid by them while my mother stood to the side. Her lips were pinched tight but she did not speak up in my defense. I looked back and forth in confusion, still half asleep and not understanding what was happening to me. They stood there by the large french doors, draped in their finery while I was sold like a broodmare. 

“She is a monster,” I heard my mother say, “do not be afraid to treat her like one.”

The men went to grab me, but I tried to fight. I squirmed and clawed, and they led me away as I struggled in their grasp. I opened my mouth to scream but I was hit over the back of the head before I could get a sound out.

When I woke up, all I could feel was pain blossoming at the base of my skull. As I got used to the pain, I felt a tender hand brushing the sweat soaked hair off of my forehead. I peeled my eyes open, and as they went into focus I found I was inside of a wooden box, the only sunlight coming in from little gaps between panels. We must have been moving, as I was only slightly aware of the jostling of my head when we hit bumps. The hand was attached to a small orcish girl, still a child. She couldn’t be very old, her tusks were still just nubs peeking out of her lips. It was then I saw her lips moving, the actual words taking longer to get to me.

“Shh are you alright lady? It’s gonna be okay, my papa and uncle are gonna come, I promise. I’m Sheely, and -” her words faded slowly, and I felt myself go unconscious again, her voice luling me out again. 

The next time I wake up is to the screams of the girl being held prisoner with me. I awake abruptly, and while I’m still in pain I move quickly. I see a man is trying to drag her out of the box we are in. She is clawing and fighting him with tears rushing down her face. I do not hesitate, and when I hear men comment about ‘breaking her in’ I let out a cry that has them all on their knees. Blood is running out of all the orifices in their head, like tears coming from their eyes, and a few of them have collapsed. Sheely is unharmed by me and my power does not touch her, which I am thankful for. I grab her and start to run. Everything is blurry for me but I know this is my chance to get us out of this. I don’t want to dwell on the intentions of those men, but I know enough to know we would be better off lost in the wilderness.

 The orc - Sheely is just a child, though, no matter that orcish children are almost as large as a human teenager. She is panicked from the men trying to hurt her, sobs still leaving her despite the running and she catches her ankle on a root. She falls to the ground, but I waste no time in trying to pick her up. I have not known hard labor in my life and orcish children are not easy to carry, though. I feel the panic rising in my chest, and I hold her to me tightly.

 I hear them, then. Some of the men have come after us, and I try to find somewhere to hide the girl. My feet scrape the ground as I try to haul her behind a fallen tree. It is no use, and soon the largest of the men is appearing in front of us. Before I can blink a long whip is wrapped around my arm, bringing us both to the ground. I sing and wail once again but while I can tell he is in pain, it does not stop him. I curse myself now, for ignoring the power I have. If only I had honed it, or practiced more, we could be okay. He backhands me, and I hear a crack.

The pain doesn't knock me out this time, although I wish it had. I am grabbed by the jaw, and I forget all about the pain in my head. Noise leaves me but not enough. and my voice is rendered useless. He glares at me with dark eyes, and all I see is hate in them.

“Are you going to try that again or should I crush your vocal cords too, siren bitch?” Spit flies in my face and I shake my head no to the best of my abilities. He increases his grip on my jaw harder, and if it wasn’t broken before I’m sure it is now. My vision swims with darkness, but I hold on. I won’t leave her alone with them. He lets go and pushes my face away and into the ground. 

“Get the fuck up then,” he tells me, and I obey. 

 We are dragged back to their camp, and I hold onto Sheely. I see several of the men still on the ground before we are thrown back into the wagon. My head hits the wall and I feel the wood splinter into my skin. I manage to position Sheely behind me. I am hopeful that the men are in enough pain to be deterred from their plans with her, but I don’t want to risk not being able to help her if they come back. 

I don’t know how long it has been but I have not had food nor water since I was captured. I had never known this kind of pain, this uncomfortable existence, but I refused to let myself succumb to sleep. Instead I spend my time trying to listen to the men and make sure no one was coming to get us

The words I hear from the men outside all melt together and paint an eerie picture of the life waiting for me. I feel as if I am living in a nightmare and just couldn’t make my screams heard or run fast enough to escape. Scenes play out before my eyes of the ways evil people mean to torture me and throw me away once I am used up. I hear screams and anguished cries, but it all fades into the horror playing behind my eyelids. The screaming dies down into a dark silence, and I can hear Sheely yelling from behind me, apparently awake. 

The last of my strength I spend covering her body with mine, pushing her further into the corner of our dank wooden prison. The door is ripped apart, and the sun has risen. The light blinds me for a moment, but then a large figure blocks it out. I turn my back to the figure and pull Sheely further underneath me. I don’t feel as though I am long for this world in my current condition, and she is so young. I want to give her a chance. 

“Uncle!” I hear Sheely yell this in the back of my mind, and the man yells out for Sheely too. I let go, then. I let go of her, and my will to stay conscious as well. I feel her relief and happy noises all around. I try to soak in her joy as I let go. 

I know enough to know I am not dead. I drift in and out, feeling bumps in the roads and rumbling voices around me. Everything hurts enough that I wish I was dead, though. A wish that refuses to come true, as I am suspended in pain for what feels like an eternity. 

The fog eventually clears and the heavy scent of medicinal steam hangs in the air. The smell is of a healers den, and if I am right then I am relieved. My vision is blurry but I see a shape run into the den, and Sheely’s voice. It’s the sweet voice of a happy and safe child, and I think I manage a smile. I see another shape duck into the tent behind her, as well as a deep voice coming from beside me. A gnarled and old hand comes into vision as well, holding a cloth to my face. The throbbing of my jaw and head is not gone, but muted. I feel bandages wrapped around my arm and feet as well. A small hand takes hold of mine, and when I fall asleep again I feel calm for the first time in days. 

The medicine is strong and leaves me in a daze for a long while, but as I heal they give me less and less, until I am able to understand and remember when people are speaking to me. Ungral, the healer, is a constant companion to me. He explains that Sheely is the much loved daughter of their chief, and I am being honored among the clan. 

“Sheely has painted quite the picture of you to us all, calls you a ‘screeching warrior’” Ungral informs me, his lips upturned in amusement.

“Oh goodness, everyone will be so disappointed when they actually see me. I am no warrior, although I did screech quite a bit.” I jest with him.

“Hush child, no one will be disappointed to see the women who took care of our Sheely,” He sets out food in front of me. It is a thick and meaty stew, and I am in heaven from the smell alone. 

 Sheely visits me everyday before her schooling and often before her bedtime, bringing me snacks and things to do. Her mother and father visited me early in my recovery, but I don’t remember very much. Sheely tells me they are planning a celebration for her return, and that they are waiting until I am recovered since I am an ‘honored guest’. I am grateful for their hospitality, but I feel I have not earned it. All I did was cower with Sheely in a corner while her family saved us both, but I would hate to insult them this way.  

The first day Ungral has me leave the tent to walk is more eventful than I like. The moment I leave the hut, orcs are thanking me and introducing themselves left and right. I am friendly and speak to everyone, but it quickly becomes too much for me. Right before I am going to tell Ungral I need a break, Sheely comes running up to me followed by three other orcs. One of which was a woman, in decorative armor and beads woven into her hair. She grabs my hand with tear filled eyes as Sheely hugs my legs. 

“Thank you for keeping my daughter safe when I couldn’t,” she tells me. My eyes start to fill as well, just looking at her. 

“Of course,” I nod to her, my hands grasping hers back. I am starting to feel dizzy but I dare not disrespect her. One of the orcs with her, the smaller of the two men, comes up to me as well. This is without a doubt the chief. I know little of orcs and their customs, but the beads and armor he wears, as well as the tattoos covering him, seems to indicate this. 

“I am Sheelga’s father, and Chief of this clan,” He tells me, his voice loud and clear. “We are all so thankful for you and that you were able to protect her. You will want for nothing here, nor ever again. Be assured that the men who took you are no longer in this world and as soon as you are fully healed, I will have my best warriors escort you home to your family. If there is anything you need, please, just let us know.” He tells me this, and I am reminded that my family is the one who did this to me. I stutter out a thank you and feel my legs shake. Ungral is by my side quickly, the old man more nimble than I assumed.  

“Leave the girl alone, just because she is stretching her legs doesn’t mean you can all bombard her,” he waves off the chief and his wife, who just chuckle at him. 

“Yes, we will leave you be then. Please, rest and know that you are safe here,” The chief and his wife say goodbye and turn to leave, but Sheely runs into the healing den. Ungral and I follow after her, partially to see what is wrong and partially because my stamina is running too low to do much else. Her parents and the other large orc come into the hut too, and I see Sheely in her usual spot next to the bed with tears running down her cheeks.

Everyone goes over her and when I settle on the bed she hurriedly plasters herself against me. I hold and shush her, and I can make out some words between her broken sobs. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” she bawls out, and I immediately start to hold her tighter. 

Her father has crouched next to her, and his large hand is splayed on her back. “She has a family too, my heart, and we cannot keep her from them,” he tells her, but I speak up. 

“I don’t actually. Well, I suppose I do but they’re the ones who sold me to those men,” my voice wavers as all the eyes turn to me, mixed looks of anger and pity look back at me. 

“Then you have to stay here,” Sheely says, her voice firm. I smile at her, but I do not wish to impose on these kind people. 

“Now little one, I don’t want to overstay my welcome.” I try to sound cheery, but it really just comes out sad. 

“I think I speak for everyone here when I say you should stay,” the other orc speaks up, and I no longer argue. He is the largest being I have ever seen, with dark green skin and long black hair in a single shining braid down his back. He has black swirling tattoos covering a great deal of his arms, and his deep brown eyes lock onto mine. His beauty stops the words from leaving my mouth. 

“Yes, brother,” the chief nods at him and turns to me. “You will stay then, it is settled.”

His wife comes to sit by me and I open my mouth but no sounds come out, I just nod and squeeze her hand. 

Not soon after this I start to heal more quickly. I am sure this has something to do with the lack of stress I currently have. I am surrounded by kind people who want to help me, and I get to stay. A large feast is held to not only celebrate that Sheely is back, but also to welcome me to the clan. It is loud and boisterous, and copious amounts of ale are consumed. Balo, the Chief, drinks so much in celebration that his wife Lorka is rolling her eyes at him. He is telling old war stories and spinning his daughter around, taking intermediate breaks to remind Lorka how in love with her he is. When he hears me laugh, though, he sends a large grin my way and starts a toast for me. I am embarrassed, but flattered as they raise their glasses to me. I drink some too, but Ungral warns me not to do much since it could interfere with some of the medicine he has given me. 

Sure enough, I feel the effects of the alcohol much more strongly than I would have thought, so I go outside to get some space from the crowd. I find a pretty tree nearby and stumble my way over to it. I see Sheely’s uncle leave the great feast hall not long after I do. He looks around until he finds me, then struts toward me. 

“Oh, hi! I’m sorry but I don’t think I ever got your name,” I squeak out the words as best I can, hoping I’m not sounding over eager or over drunk. He is large and powerful, and I cannot look away. He makes me feel so small, and it excites something deep within me. My head spins, and I am unsure if it is due to his presence or simply the mead. 

“My given name is Rhugro’bash, but Bash is just fine little songbird,” he nods at me and settles onto a stump next to me. He offers me a smile and hands me a plate stacked high with food. “I saw you leave and wanted to make sure you would still eat.” 

“Thank you, everyone is so friendly but I’m just not used to such big crowds,” I take the food eagerly, moaning at the flavors. I feel spoiled here, with a beautiful orcish man bringing me delicious food. I open my eyes to see Bash staring at me as I eat, and I almost choke at the look on his face. “Sorry, it’s just so good.” 

He throws his head back and lets out a guwaffing laugh. “Well then I am happy to have pleased one as lovely as you.” 

He reaches over and pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and I’m sure he can feel the heat coming off of my face. He stands and leaves quickly after, wishing me a goodnight in his deep rumbling voice. Oh gods, I think to myself, I am going to get myself in trouble with him. 

The next morning I wake up to a large breakfast and a flower set out for me. I ask Ungral about it and he laughs, shaking his head at me.  

“It seems you’ve caught a certain someone’s attention,” the old man gives me a wry smile, apparently amused by my confusion. He sits across from me with his herbal tea, and passes me a note. It says nothing on it but ‘From Bash’, so it does little to clear things up.

“But...why?” 

“The man wants to cook for you,” he shrugs, “wants to see to it you’re fed, and brings a flower? I think you can figure it out,” he chuckles at me then, and leaves me with a meal that was composed of more food than I would be able to eat in days. 

 Bash comes to visit with Sheely later in the day, who hugs me then promptly goes to hang out with Ungral instead. I thank Bash for breakfast and he goes from a warrior to a puppy in an instant. He lights up and breaks out in a breathtaking smile, the gold bands on his tusks shining brightly. The two of us sit down, and he sees the flower sitting next to my bed. I clear my throat, feeling much more nervous in his presence than the night before when I was emboldened by alcohol. 

“I hope it wasn’t too forward of me, songbird. I wasn’t sure how things like this are done where you are from.” He speaks so casually and directly, I am not used to that. 

“What kind of things do you mean?” 

He reaches over and folds my hand in his, his calloused palms brushing against my skin in the sweetest way. “Romantic type things. I want to court you.”  

“Can I ask why?” 

He laughs a bit and schooches his chair closer to me, a playful look on his face. He leans closer to me as he speaks, and his proximity makes my head spin. “You are strong, and brave. I like the way you look when I bring you food, and how beautiful you are. You love Sheely, and were ready to lay down your life for her. I cannot think of better traits for a mate.” 

My mouth is in an “o” shape, and he leans back with a satisfied look on his face. Sheely comes barreling back in and I am grateful for the distraction. 

Bash continues to send food to me, along with little gifts or trinkets. He gives me clothing too, as well as a homemade chest to put everything in. I appreciate it and everything he does makes me feel so special, but I hardly feel as if I deserve it.

 One day he comes to take me for a walk, and I voice this to him.

“I really do enjoy everything you do for me, I just feel like I am undeserving of all of it. You spoil me.” He finds a log to sit on, and pulls me to sit on one of his thighs. My arms wind themselves around his neck with his behind my back. The closeness is so effortless for him, it seems, while I feel my heart is going to pump out of my chest.

“Now don’t go feeling guilty, pretty bird. I like doing things for you.” He frowns at me, and makes everything sound so simple.

“I just feel bad I can’t give you anything in return.”

“You give me plenty,” he scoffs, “you gift me your time.”

You huff and adjust yourself on his knee, turning to face him more. 

“You give me that too though. I want to give you something and yet all I have are things you have gifted me.” I frown at this realization. They have welcomed me in but I’ve really just free-loaded. 

Bash taps a finger to my forehead, startling me out of my thoughts. “I don’t know what’s going on in here, but cut it out. You wanna give me something?” I nod, of course I do. He smiles, almost wicked. “Sing to me, bird. I want to hear it.” 

My eyes grow big. Of all things, I was not expecting this. 

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he says, playing with my hair with an exaggerated pout on his lips.

“I’ll do it for you, I’m just not used to singing nice things. It’s always been a bit of a defense mechanism.” I try to think back to when I was young and would sing to the birds and the flowers. I think about the feelings I have for Bash, the look in his eye when he sees me and the happiness he brings me. I concentrate and let my abilities take over. It’s natural for me, like taking a breath of fresh air after being underwater too long. 

My voice sings of a new life, of a gallant rescue. I sing of new feelings and new family, how much more beautiful life is for me now. I sing of new beginnings, of spring. I let my emotions well up then pour out, and I am unsure how long I sing but when I stop he has tears in his eyes. 

I reach up to wipe them away, noticing how out of it he looks. He has pulled me much closer to him while I was singing and I am thoroughly pressed against him.

He whispers “thank you.” Bash presses his lips to my brow and we stay like this for quite some time. Once we hear crickets chirping he takes me back to Ungral’s.

The courting gifts start to increase and get larger after this encounter. He insists on cooking almost every meal for me, and I try to squash my feelings of being unworthy. I sing to him occasionally too, since he says it’s one of his favorite things. We often have the healers den to ourselves, since Ungral lives in a separate building behind it. I haven’t been to his house yet, as he said he is in the middle of building onto it.

The first time he kisses me, it is while he is cooking for me. I move to the kitchen to peek at what he is making, and he just leans down and pecks me on the lips. He pulls back and looks shocked at his own actions, and I get to see my great warrior flustered. I give him no chance to apologize. I lift up onto my tippy toes and pull him down, slanting my mouth over his. He holds his arms out awkwardly to the side at first, but soon drops the wooden spoon and kisses me back. 

He’s vocal and does not bother to hold in his groans. I pull at him until we are on the cot together, kissing and petting at one another. He moves to my neck, placing wet open mouthed kisses under my ear. The feeling of his tusks brushing against my neck sends chills up my spine. All too suddenly he rips himself off of me, running to the kitchen. The sound of soup boiling over registers and I hop up to help clean up the mess. Bash’s cursing turns into laughter when we look at one another, and I peck his lips again but the heated moment has passed.

I am adamant about giving Bash an actual tangible courting gift, and I ask Ungral about it. 

“It’s not frowned upon, if that’s what you mean,” he tells me, showing me how to blend certain medicines. “Not required either, but after one courts you a while giving a gift back is a way to accept the courting or encourage them that you want it to advance.” 

Winter is around the corner and Bash told me he has a lot to prepare for with his home, so I try to think of something good to get for him today. I talk to Ungral about this too, but it feels odd talking to him about my romantic life. He is more of a father than mine ever was, and I sense it’s a bit awkward for him as well. 

“Take this,” Ungral says, trying to shove a bag of coin in my hand. I push it back at him. 

“What, no! What for?” I ask him, “I already live here for free!”

He gives me a flat look in return “You help me with my work and Bash feeds the both of us with his excessive courting meals. I should still pay you for all the work you help me with. Go buy a courting gift and stop fawning, girl.” He turns around and leaves no room for me to argue. 

I do want to give something nice to Bash so I take it, but I vow to help Ungral even more to feel as though I earned it. I walk along the shops in the center of the village, and one tent catches my eye. Inside are glittering beads, hair ties, and bottles of oils and soaps resting on shelves. Bash’s hair is beautiful, and he knows it, so this would be perfect. I look along the beads and one instantly catches my eye. It’s a pretty blue bead and dangling on it is a bird. It’s absolutely perfect. I go to pay for the bead and the shop owner wraps it up in a nice box for me. I can’t wait to give it to him, and I hate that I have to wait. 

The hours could not go by any slower, but eventually Bash comes by to tell me goodnight. He walks in and kisses me, but I can tell he is tired.

“How was your day songbird?” 

I cannot help to smile in excitement, I probably look crazy to him.

“It was good,” I tell him, “I have a surprise for you.”

“Oh really? And what may that be?” 

“Sit here and close your eyes! I’ll be right back.” I sit him on the bed and get a sleepy smile in return. I go to get the bead and a snack for him as well. I’m only gone a moment, but when I return he is snoring. My disappointment is fleeting, he looks so sweet like this. I set the box on the table and get to work. I gently peel his shoes off and his more uncomfortable looking clothing as well before tucking him in. The bed is small so I decide to snuggle in, hoping he doesn’t mind the liberty taken. 

Bash is warm, and I find it was one of the best night's sleep I’ve had in awhile. We are tangled together in the morning and he is awake before me. A hand is petting my hair, and I just sigh and shove my face more into his chest.

“Sorry I fell asleep,” he whispers to me, and I have never thought him more attractive than now, with his groggy voice in my ear. 

“Shh, m’still sleepin,” I mumble into his chest, and get a laugh in return. We bask in the moment before I remember how excited I am, so I just roll over and hand him the box, jolting up to give it to him. 

“Open it,” I encourage, and he purposefully goes slowly. 

When he sees it he gasps, and I feel like I’ve done well. I realize why he enjoys doing things for me so much now. His excitement and happiness when he holds it up is my new favorite look for him. He has me braid the bead into his hair, and the blue is a stark contrast to his dark hair. 

“I have something for you as well, my songbird,” Bash gestures to his satchel, and I hand it to him. He digs around, and then presses a key into my hand. It takes a moment for my brain to catch up. I look at the key then back at Bash for a minute before it sinks in. 

“You want me to...live with you?”

“Yes, I can’t think of anything I would want more,” he admits to me.

“I don’t need an answer right away,” he continues, one of his large hands caressing the side of my face. “Just...come by tonight if you decide to, otherwise I will see you in the morning and we can take things as slowly as you wish.” He kisses my stunned face and goes to walk away, apparently nervous for your reaction. 

I grab him before he makes his way out.

“Bash!” I stop him, and pull him down near me. “I’ll see you tonight,” I whisper in his ear, planting a kiss underneath. I can practically feel the chill that runs through him, but I usher him out anyway. I’ve never been to his house before, and wasn’t even sure where to go. I talk to Ungral a bit before I pack up my things. I leave most everything there for now, as my chest and other things are too heavy for me alone. I then go to visit his sister-in-law’s house for a bit of help. 

Later that night I walk up the cobble pathway in nothing but the silk nightdress Lorka has given me. My hair is down, and I feel every bit the siren I have been accused of being. The home is beautiful under the moonlight and the colors seem vibrant bathed in the blue of the night. Fireflies dance over the pond and the stone house is reflected in its depths. I open the heavy door and all the breath leaves my body.

Bash is waiting for me in the home he has built for us in nothing but his loincloth.  He stands proud and tall in front of me. Deep rumbles of desire come from his chest and mix with the sounds of the crackling fire; it is the most beautiful melody I have ever been lucky enough to hear. The fire gives his skin an otherworldly gleam and he looks every part the formidable warrior he is known to be. My formidable warrior, now. I walk toward him as if I am a newborn deer and I fear he can hear my knees knocking together, but one of his hands reaches out to steady me. 

His hand moves up my arm while his other goes around my waist, pulling me against him. His warm skin quells a shaking chill I didn’t know I had, and I let myself melt into him. He has barely touched me and I feel as though I’ve run miles. 

“Let me take you to our bed, my songbird,” he says, and I nod my head. My eyes are wide gazing up at him and Bash smiles down at me. He bends down and lifts me up a bit to close the gap to place a soft kiss on my lips. His tusks brush against my cheeks and I gasp. He suddenly places his hands on my bottom and pulls me up with my legs around him. I squeal out a laugh and the nervousness is broken. 

He gives kisses and raspberries all over my neck and chest as he walks me to the bedroom. I squirm and laugh, and my hand ends up in Bash’s hair. I give it a tug and am rewarded with a playful growl as he tosses me onto the bed. The bed he has crafted is beautiful, and I am once again lost in his duality. He is a powerful warrior who can wield his warhammer like no other, and yet he created and carved the delicate wooden features adorning our headboard. He seems hard on the outside, so intimidating and yet he kisses me so softly. 

He climbs up with me and pulls my legs on either side of his hips, perched up on his knees. My hand splays across his stomach and I feel the muscle there, covered in a layer of softness that makes me find him all the more appealing. I gawk at him, tracing the tattoos and scared planes of his body. 

“See something you like?” His large hands run over my thighs, the fingertips dipping under my nightdress on each pass.

“I see a lot I like,” I quietly admit,  finally lifting my gaze to meet his. A pleased sound leaves him. He kisses me and pulls me even closer, so much so that the heat between my thighs settles on his manhood. I can’t help but grind myself into him. 

“I want to make you sing for me,” He tells me, and he slinks down the bed. I push myself up onto my elbows and watch his broad shoulders push apart my thighs. I can feel a deep throbbing in my core, and I gasp when his fingers trace the lines of my underclothes. His other hand moves upward and settles on my stomach before he pulls my underwear aside. 

His warm breath washes over me, and he places the gentlest of kisses around the apex of my thighs before licking a broad stripe along my folds. I fall back onto the bed writhing , my hands digging into the sheets. He starts to lick and kiss at my clit, and a strong finger finds its way to my entrance. My back arches and a moan leaves me at the pleasure he is giving. His other hand wanders up the bed to meet one of mine, untangling my fingers that were clutching the sheets. As his finger pumps into me in time with his mouth moving on my clit I cannot hold in my noises. 

“Bash, please,” I moan out to him, unsure what I am asking him for. His answering rumble vibrates through me and his tusks start to dig into my soft flesh. He adds another finger and I feel myself quickly tighten around them. The crooking of his fingers and the pressure on my clit increases and a knot builds in my stomach. The noises leaving me increase as well, but everything quiets the moment that I find my release. Fireworks go off behind my eyes, my legs tighten around his head and my hips jerk. He sounds like a man feasting, grunts and groans leaving his mouth. He does not relent until I am jerking away from the stimulation with a whimper, the ecstasy too much. 

“Bash, c’mere,” I pull at his shoulders, my request coming out a breathless whine. When he looks up at me he is debauched. His eyes are full of desire and my wetness covers his mouth and chin. As he moves up my body, he pulls my underclothes off of me as well. 

“Did you enjoy me, my songbird?” He inquires, laying kisses up my arm as sparks continue to dance on my skin. I give a breathy yes in response to him. I reach my hands out to pull him down over me, and his arousal is evident as it presses into my stomach. I arch into it and my desire is reborn. I reach down and run my fingers along his shaft over the loincloth still covering him. I pull at the edges of the cloth and it falls down, releasing his heavy cock. 

I feel my mouth water at the sight of it. It hangs beneath its own weight, and I bring my hand up to hold it. The hot flesh pulses in my hand, and I feel my entrance pulse in answer. It’s an even darker green than the rest of him, and more tattoos swirl near the base of it. Fluid leaks out of the tip, and I run my fingers over it, coating the head. When I look back at Bash’s face, I am not disappointed. His eyebrows are knitted together and his eyes are dark with want. I hold his gaze and give a tentative stroke, letting his hips jerk into my hand. My other hand comes up to caress his heavy sack, gently massaging him in time with the strokes. 

“Fuck, I’m going to come from your hands alone if you don’t stop that, woman,” he snarls out, but I only slow down my efforts.

“Don’t you want to?” I ask him sweetly, leaning up to kiss his neck. 

“Minx,” he scolds me in good nature, then leans down to snarl darkly in my ear. “I want to feel you come around my cock when I release. I want to fill you up so much you leak my seed for days, and any Orc who comes near you will smell my claim on you.”

His words alone cause a whimper to leave my mouth. “Please,” I breath out, wanting nothing more than for that to come true. He strips me of my nightdress, and I take his hands in mine and pull him back with me on the bed, curling one of my legs over his hip. His cock runs through my folds, my wetness coating him, before he notches the head at my entrance. He sucks and licks at my tits before smoothly thrusting into me, my nails coming up to dig into his back. My cunt is tightly wrapped around him, every vein of his cock pulsing inside me. He is so much bigger than me in every way, and I’m surprised he fits inside of me without pain. The stretch is uncomfortable at first, but soon fades as my pleasure crests. 

“Look how well you take me, songbird. Will you sing to me again?”  He punctuates this with a hard thrust, and I let out a long moan. I feel my power imbed itself into my voice, but I cannot help it. Tendrils of my magic reach out and touch him, caressing his skin and coaxing out more desire with my noises. His movements speed up, and I hear grunts leave him. Bash brings his face to my chest, growling into it. Pleasure builds in me again, and as I wail out my climax Bash follows me. He buries himself deep within me and pumps me full of his seed as he promised, his hands holding tight to my sides. 

Fucked out mewls escape my lips and Bash coos down at me, praises passing through his lips. He gently rolls off of me and lays beside me. 

“You’ve conquered me, my songbird. I don’t think I can feel my legs,” he teases, petting me sweetly as I come down from my high. He manages to clean us up before he throws blankets over us both. As I’m drifting off, I feel a kiss to my forehead and Bash mumbles to me.

“I can’t wait to cook for you in the morning, my love.” 

[rpmemesbyarat]

RP Meme from "Chapter One: The Bad Old Days" in the Bone Gnawers book from "Werewolf: The Apocalypse" Part 2 of 2

"Soon you’ll be blind to the world around you!"

"Oh, and then there was the long-discarded ideal of actually giving a shit about the human race. Remember that?"

"We fought to defend everyone, before we became so damn cynical and skeptical."

"It is our pleasure to serve. And it is a pleasure to entertain you."

"Look at this poor sap. Living off garbage. Sleeping in the street in that smelly cloak."

"What’s so great about being homeless?"

"For what? Money? Power? Privilege? For nothing."

"They say we’re cowards, bastards, lazy, selfish, or worse. Don’t buy it."

"Let me be straight; I’m not dumb enough to try to save

everyone."

"Most folks aren't worth saving."

"The world is corrupt, so people are corrupt."

"Ninety percent of everything is crap, including humanity."

"It’s like a big garbage dump."

"I can’t just laugh off the world."

"My world is different."

"In my world, when I walk down the street, no one looks me in the eye. They lock their doors. They keep their distance."

"People on the sidewalks reach out for help, and all they get is nothing."

"I don’t want to play the fool."

"It’s up to us. It’s time we acted up."

"You’re only a bum if you want to be a bum.

"You want to be a hero? Get to work."

"We had to save the world."

"The meek were set to inherit the Earth, but they were going to get dirt unless they took what they needed."

"We fought for anyone that had been cast out, kept down, or ripped off."

"Clearly the next taleteller has an edge, or perhaps a bit of influence in the right place."

"Quit your growling!"

"Okay, so maybe it went a little easier on us."

"Women laying down with wolves to mate with them, bearing their spawn. Men breeding with beasts in animalistic rites. Stalking demons showing up in the dead of night to claim their children from human parents."

"Millions suspected of witchcraft and heresy writhed on the flames of bonfires."

"No more finding food for the hungry to eat. No more protecting places where the homeless could sleep."

"Cowardly freak."

"Humans found the remains, stripped of flesh and gnawed to the bone."

"No matter where we came from, we came together in America."

"We’ve fought for a lot of ideals, as you can tell, and we’ve certainly suffered when they’ve failed."

"This time, we wouldn’t take the cowardly way out."

"In a sense, the war almost became a game to us — a deadly, glorious game."

"Sweet, glorious freedom."

"If we didn’t have a place of our own in Europe, then we’d have to make a home in America."

"Because we fought for it honorably, we felt like we’d earned it."

"Fair play is the American way, after all!"

"But right now, you’re on my turf!"

"We each tell the story to serve our own ends."

"Maybe I’m just proud of who I am. You got a problem with that, pal?"

"Ancient and powerful undead stalked the corridors of Versailles. Tainted vampires took obscene pleasure in sipping the blue blood of the French nobility. Evil ancients remained content to maintain their facades of power and privilege."

"And we don’t do that sort of thing, do we? Well, do we?"

"They didn’t understand what we were fighting for!"

" And then again, maybe we should have paid less attention to human society and more to our own."

"But if your lot in life involves getting humiliated on a regular basis, it’s time for a change."

"You see, we’ve been cast out and kicked out and beaten up over and over again, but we never gave up, and we never give in."

"Some bit of hope or foolishness kept us going, and enough of us believed in it back then that it started to make a difference."

"If we weren’t good enough for the old traditions, we’d make up new ones."

"And remember, anyone can be a success if they work hard enough!"

"When the Romanovs lost power, the people surged up to retake what was rightfully theirs."

"Hey! I ain’t no Commie! But I got a lot of sympathy for anyone who’s been beaten down for so long."

"Sometimes you have to survive any way you can."

"Someone preaches a high ideal, we do the hard work, someone else reaps the rewards."

"You keep fighting until you win."

"If everyone works, everyone wins."

"You were still a hero."

"We didn’t want to die; we played to win."

"So where the hell are we?"

"Drunk off our asses and freezing cold."

"We should get involved."

"How is the world going to end?"

"Or is the Apocalypse just the dawn of a new age, where everything’s going to be created all over again?"

"I live here and now!"

"I’m alive, and I’m going to stay that way, no matter comes my way!"

"We’re gonna survive, even if we have to scavenge the bones of the carcass of the world!"

"Look into the flames! That is what the world will look like, and soon!"

"THE END OF THE WORLD IS HERE!"

"Life in the shadows continues."

[cats-and-cockatiels]

come to me now (and relive the past)

It is Gran Torino who calls All Might, and it is All Might who tells Aizawa about the Stain Incident.

“I thought you should know,” the Pro Hero tells his coworker. Blood speckles his lips, as it often does in his diminished form, and the taste of electricity is in the air. Rain batters at the windows of the staff lounge, and lightning lances from the boiling clouds, thunder rumbling in contrary reply a few seconds later.

“Thank you,” Aizawa Shouta says. He is staring at All Might without seeing him, his mind spinning, thoughts shattering against each other in haphazard array. He can’t think, can’t concentrate, can’t comprehend what All Might has said—can’t do anything but stare at the wall through All Might’s head, hands clenched into fists in his lap.

“Aizawa,” All Might says, and his voice is stern. “Eraserhead.”

Aizawa blinks—and he feels his Quirk deactivate. He had not even realized he had activated it. All Might offers him a shaky half-grin, then reaches across the table to grip his shoulder. All Might squeezes, and for half a second Aizawa feels reassured.

“I know how you’re feeling,” All Might says. “Trust me. I feel the same way: helpless, anxious, angry.”

Aizawa narrows his eyes at the foremost hero in the world. “Just what does Midoriya mean to you?” he asks. It is a question he has asked before—but All Might has never given him an answer.

He supposes he shouldn’t have expected an answer this time either, Aizawa reasons when All Might stands abruptly, body rippling out into its full, heroic size. All Might smiles, brilliant and blinding, and laughs.

“He is my student!” he exclaims, “just as he is yours.” Then he turns on his heel and strides out of the staff lounge, leaving Aizawa alone with his thoughts.

---

The journey to Hosu takes longer than Aizawa expected. The train reroutes twice, and he is forced to switch trains twice more before he arrives at the Hosu station. When at last he steps onto the platform, however, it is to the smell of smoke still hanging in the air, and to the blare of police whistles and shouts.

He threads his way through the crowd, skirting women holding children, men holding briefcases, children holding stuffed animals to their chests. He is, for once, not dressed in his hero outfit, but in jeans and a plain, grey shirt. His capture weapon, however, is still looped around his neck in the parody of the ever-popular scarf; he hopes no one will recognize it for what it is—though he doubts they will. As an Underground Hero he is rarely, if ever, in the spotlight, and there are very few people who know how to use the kind of capture weapon he utilizes.

With his hands shoved deep into his pockets, a laptop bag slung over one shoulder, his head ducked, and his hair hanging in front of his face, Aizawa hopes that he will blend in with the rest of the crowd—will be nothing more than another citizen aggressively trying to go about his business in the wake of the attack the night before. The subtlety is most likely unnecessary—but Aizawa has not lived as long as he has as an Underground Hero by being careless. He does not know who all is still watching, whether heroes or villains, and he doesn’t want anyone to know he is here.

The city is trashed. Streets are cordoned off every few blocks: red and yellow police tape stretch between orange cones; striped barriers section sidewalks from roads; police officers stand on street corners with whistles, batons, and weapons holstered on their hips. Aizawa sees multiple canine patrols, the dogs on high alert with hackles raised and lips pulled back from fangs, their handlers struggling to keep them under control. They do not, Aizawa supposes, like the scent—or even the memory of the scent—of the nomu.

Buildings are broken, sidewalks are cracked, and char marks litter the concrete and asphalt—Endeavor’s doing, Aizawa assumes. Two of the nomu bodies have already been removed from the public eye, taken to some underground lab deep in the mountains, where they can be dissected and studied—but, Aizawa sees as he walks the city, one has been left where it was embedded in the streets.

He is at the juncture between two residential side streets when he sees the partially dismembered nomu protruding from the ground ten yards away, hidden behind two walls: one of plastic and tape, and one of human flesh. Dogs bark, men shout, and the crack of asphalt smacks through the air with all the alacrity of a gunshot.

Curiosity rises in his chest, choking his lungs and swallowing his heart. It pricks at him, gnaws at him, needles him until his feet move of their own accord toward the dead enemy. A hole has been blasted through its chest, one of its arms has been shredded from its body, and the visible brain is charred black and ashy. It is, quite clearly, dead.

Still, as Aizawa walks towards it, his boots scuffing pebbles and blasted chunks of concrete out of his way, he swears, for just a moment, that he sees the nomu move: a twitch of its fingers, a twitch of its beady eyes, a twitch of its skin.

Adrenaline slams through Aizawa’s body like a knife through flesh, electrifying and enthralling and illuminating. He is moving before he realizes what his body is doing, lunging and reaching for his capture weapon before he can tell himself what he is seeing is not real. The “scarf” comes away in his hands, unspooling around the goggles he always wears around his neck—just in case—and his hair lifts as his Quirk activates.

“Stand back!”

The voice cracks through the adrenaline flooding his blood with fire, through the glass on Aizawa’s eyes, through the fearpanicdesperation pounding in time with his heart. Aizawa sees the wall of police, sees the dogs and the batons and the guns, sees the dead nomu at their feet—and twists his body in on itself, sending himself tucking and rolling onto the ground in a desperate abortion of his attack. He comes up on his knees, one hand propped against the asphalt, his capture weapon falling uselessly to the ground and the red glow leaving his eyes.

“What was that?” he hears one of the police officers mutter, accompanied by an equally confused, “Who is that?”

He straightens, flicking his capture weapon back around his neck, already fishing in his pocket for his wallet.

“My apologies,” he says stiffly, flipping his wallet open and showing the nearest officer his hero’s license. “I thought I saw movement in the nomu.”

The officer’s eyebrows raise. The officer is a young woman, with dark hair and vibrant green eyes that are too bright to be natural. They flick across his license, taking in his hero name—and her eyebrows rise further still.

“Eraserhead,” she says, and it is loud enough for the others to hear her. Aizawa might imagine it, but he thinks, for an instant at least, that a sigh of relief shuffles through the gathered officers.

He hates that the police in a city he has never worked in know his name—hates that anyone knows his name—but after the USJ Incident, he knows his name and face were plastered across every news station for days. It will be years before he will be able to go back undercover as he once could; his face, and his name, are now too well-known in conjunction with UA and the Incident, as he thinks of it still.

Still, though, notoriety may have its perks, he realizes as the officers move aside to allow him closer to the nomu body. It means they do not hinder him, or even speak out when he kneels beside the corpse and reaches out to touch its cold, dead flesh. It means no one questions him, even when his breath quickens in his chest, and his eyes narrow, and his heart pounds, his eyes flickering red, red, red for one heartbeat, then another heartbeat, then another. It means they allow him to leave without demands for answers, or asking him to accompany them to the station.

And if he smells blood in the air, tastes copper in his mouth, and sees the world filtered crimson as he walks away, he says nothing—and neither do they.

----

He eats dinner in a small, out-of-the-way café in a relatively untouched part of the city. He sits alone in the corner, nursing a water with lemon and a cold sandwich, wishing the drink was stronger and the food was warmer. He watches the pedestrians walk past the large windows that fill one full wall of the café, and watches his fellow diners. They are all oblivious—all unaware of the dangers that Aizawa knows lurks in their midst.

The nomu were defeated, yes, and the Hero Killer detained. But the fact that there were three more nomu than Aizawa had thought there were, the fact that the League of Villains was purportedly behind the nomu attack, and that they were also working with Stain all pointed to something very dark and very ominous—even if Aizawa could not put together all of the disparate puzzle pieces just yet.

More than that, though, there was evil in every gathering of humanity. From cutthroats to robbers to worse, Aizawa had seen the darkest dredges of the human soul, and he knew just how far a person could fall—even a seemingly innocent and good-hearted person. There was evil buried in every heart, darkness in every mind. It was only a matter of unlocking it, of watering it, of tending it and letting it grow. Any one of these people could become the next Stain, the next member of the League of Villains, the next one he would have to take down to—

To what? To protect the human race? The notion of good versus evil? The peace of society?

Somehow, none of those things felt particularly right.

Fear, crashing through his chest, echoing between his ribs, sparking against his skull. Anger, threading through his fingertips, igniting in his lungs, pooling in his mouth. Determination, steeling his bones, strengthening his resolve, tearing through his terror.

He could hear his students behind him, 13 hurriedly reassuring them. He could hear the villains below him, laughing raucously and jeering at him, at them, at 13. He could hear the thrum of his own blood in his veins, the breath in his lungs, the beat of his heart in his chest.

He was so, so alive.

Then: pain.

Splinters of bone, and fragments of thought, and droplets of blood. His own voice tearing at his throat as he screamed, screamed, screamed. The taste of copper, of iron, of death in his mouth. The coursing heat of blood, blood, blood on his face, on his arms, in his chest and stomach and mouth.

“You really are so cool, Eraserhead!”

They’re all going to die. They’re all going to die. They’re all going to—

“Sir?”

Aizawa blinks, looks up and to his right, sees the waitress who had been serving him standing at his elbow. She is small, with frizzy, dark hair and dark eyes, a worried frown stamped on her lips and her brow. She is holding the tablet with his check, a stylus in her other hand, her apron an off-white. The air is cold against Aizawa’s skin, the hum of the air conditioning accenting the chatter of the patrons, the clang of pots and pans echoing from the kitchen. The chair is real and solid beneath him, the table’s surface cool under his palm and fingers. The smell of grease and old food and cleaner is stark in his nose, snapping his thoughts away from the artificial smell of recycled air, of long-standing chlorinated water, of man-made mountains.

“Sir,” the waitress says again, then asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” says Aizawa. His elbow throbs. His arms twinge. The scar beneath his eye prickles.

“Do I know you?” the waitress asks.

“I doubt it,” Aizawa lies.

“Hm,” says the waitress. Then she shrugs, and offers him the check. “Thanks for coming in,” she says, and then disappears back into the kitchen.

Aizawa pays, then stands and leaves without a glance back. If anyone stares at him—at the scar on his face, at the capture weapon around his neck, at the dark hair that falls into his eyes—he does not care.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

----

He is halfway to the hotel he chose to stay at while in Hosu when he sees him: a tall, broad-shouldered figure cast in shadow by the flames dripping from shoulders and face. Endeavor walks down the street without glancing to either side, his stride purposeful and his footsteps certain, confident that no one will stop or hinder him while he wears his glare.

Aizawa quickens his pace, pulling abreast of the Spotlight Pro, and then falls into step beside him.

“Hello, Endeavor,” he says casually.

Endeavor stops abruptly, whirling with eyes narrowing. He takes in Aizawa’s face, the scar beneath his eye, the capture weapon looped around his neck.

“Eraserhead,” he growls, folding his arms across his chest. “What are you doing here?”

Aizawa shrugs. “I could ask you the same thing,” he says blithely.

“I am here doing hero work,” Endeavor bites out. “I cannot say the same for you.”

Aizawa squints and cants his head to one side, as if he is considering his next words—as if he is considering the man standing before him. The truth is, he already knows what he is going to say, and where he wants this conversation to go; he only wants the façade of stumbling blindly down a dark alleyway in the middle of the night.

“And why is that, Endeavor?” he asks. “Can the Pro who fought the nomu first not take an interest in their continued existence?”

Endeavor frowns. “You nearly died the time you fought them,” he says pointedly. “I wouldn’t think you’d be so keen on repeating the experience.”

“Ah, but the nomu are dead, are they not?” Aizawa points out. “You killed them all, didn’t you?”

Endeavor hesitates. Aizawa waits.

“What do you know?” Endeavor asks, instead of answering Aizawa’s question.

“Only a little,” Aizawa lies.

“Hm,” says Endeavor. Then, “Walk with me.”

He turns and begins down the street again, heading toward the intersection at the end of the road. Aizawa falls in step beside him, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hopes, futilely he suspects, that no one will notice him in Endeavor’s shadow.

“The nomu attacked unexpectedly,” Endeavor says, “and it seems as if they were in league with the Hero Killer.”

“Hmm,” hums Aizawa. “So is that why you were in Hosu City when the nomu attacked? Because of the Hero Killer?”

Endeavor shoots a look down at Aizawa, who keeps his face blank.

“Yes,” says Endeavor. “I was hunting the Hero Killer.”

“And you found him,” Aizawa says. “According to the paper I read this morning—”

“Yes,” says Endeavor brusquely, cutting him off. “I found him, after disposing of the nomu, and defeated him as well.”

“I see,” says Aizawa thoughtfully. He had not truly expected Endeavor to tell him the truth—not without him revealing that he already knew who had really taken down the Hero Killer. To do so would be dangerous, to both Endeavor and to Aizawa’s students. Still, it answers a question Aizawa had wondered about Todoroki’s father.

“So why are you really here, Eraserhead?” Endeavor asks, when Aizawa makes no move to say anything else, but also makes no move to leave Endeavor’s side.

“I told you,” says Aizawa. “I was curious about the nom—”

“I’m not so sure that’s it,” Endeavor cuts in.

“Oh?” Aizawa asks, the faintest hint of a grin curling his lips. “Then why am I here?”

“You’re here to open old wounds.”

Aizawa raises his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “What old wounds do you speak of?” he asks.

“That scar on your face, for one,” Endeavor says bluntly. “I would think that the one who nearly died when facing the nomu would be less inclined to rush back to face the instrument of his downfall.”

Aizawa grins properly now. “How can the nomu have been my downfall when I am still standing, and it is not?” he asks.

“How indeed,” Endeavor says. He is silent for one step, two, before saying, “Or perhaps you are here for a completely different reason. Perhaps you are here to check on your students.”

Aizawa misses a step, catches himself, walks on. He had not thought that Endeavor would be so intuitive, and he hopes Endeavor did not see his reaction to his words. If he did, however, Endeavor makes no comment on it, and he does not look at him as they reach the corner of the street and the crosswalk there, and at last come to a halt.

“And why do you think I’d be here for that?” Aizawa asks, lacing his voice with just a drop of derision.

Endeavor finally turns and looks at Aizawa properly once more. His expression is stern, his face half bathed in light cast by his flames, half in shadow cast by the angles of his cheekbones, his brow, his chin.

“You fought 50 villains for your students,” Endeavor says, once more crossing his arms over his chest. “You fought 50 villains for your students, and though you did not win—you did not lose, either. It takes a great deal of fortitude—and a great deal of purpose—to achieve something like that.”

Aizawa smiles bitterly. “It depends on your definition of losing, I suppose.” It is more than he meant to betray, though he does not think Endeavor will realize what he has just said. Not, at least, the full implications of it.

“You are still standing,” Endeavor says, echoing what Aizawa had said but a moment before, “and they are not.”

“That’s true,” Aizawa says. He turns, cants his head to one side, looks Endeavor in the eye. “What do you want, Endeavor?”

“I want you to stay away from my son,” Endeavor says.

Aizawa smiles, bitter and broad, and asks, “And how am I supposed to do that, Endeavor? He is in my class, after all.”

“You know what I mean,” Endeavor growls.

“No,” Aizawa replies with a sharp edge of steel at the corners of the word. “I don’t.” He pauses for just a second, a breath, a heartbeat, and then he asks, dangerously soft, “Are you threatening me, Todoroki?”

Endeavor looks as though he’s been slapped in the face with an old dueling glove. “How dare you—” he starts to say, only for Aizawa to activate his quirk. Endeavor’s flames vanish from his face, leaving him looking suddenly pale and small. He twitches, takes half a step back as if Aizawa had slapped him again, looks around at the small group of onlookers that has gathered since they began their conversation.

“I don’t take well or kindly to threats,” Aizawa says softly, eyes glaring red. “Especially when they are threats that involve my students.”

Endeavor glares in return, takes a step back forward. “And what are you to your students?” he sneers, pitching his voice low. “Their father?”

Aizawa blinks and turns away. Endeavor’s fires flicker back into existence.

“I’m their homeroom teacher,” Aizawa says simply. He hesitates, then turns back to Endeavor and says with a carefully controlled smile, “And I daresay that’s a little more than what you can say.”

With that, he strides away, pushing his way through the gathering of onlookers. They give way before him, startled and almost-afraid—almost-afraid of the man who could silence Endeavor, the Number 2 Hero; almost-afraid of the man who could extinguish Endeavor’s flames. Their eyes follow him, and their shoulders turn to face him, as he threads his way through the crowd. He ducks his head as phone cameras click, and he wonders if he did the right thing by challenging Endeavor out in the open as he did.

Too late for regrets now, he thinks, and tucking his hands into his pockets, he leaves the crowd behind.

----

Aizawa spends the night in a run-down hotel in the middle of the city, some two blocks away from Hosu’s hospital. He doesn’t touch the lumpy bed, instead electing to sit at the pitted and stained table with his laptop, which glows blue against the darkness permeating the room. Aizawa leaves the lights off, but a sharp, yellow glow sneaks in through the cracks in the curtains, lining the thinly carpeted floor with footprints of light. The chair is squeaky and flat and even more uncomfortable than he assumes the bed would be, but Aizawa ignores the discomfort, instead slumping over the table with his chin resting on his folded hands, his elbows splayed out, his mouth flattened into a thin line.

He reads article after article about the Stain Incident, but none of them line up with what Aizawa knows to be the truth. Each paints a different picture—of Endeavor the hero, of Endeavor the villain—but few of them mention the students involved, and none of them, of course, give the students the credit for Stain’s capture. By the time the glow of a grey sunrise begins to creep through the yellow footprints on the floor, Aizawa’s eyes are gritty and tired, and all he wants is to lay down and go to sleep.

He doesn’t. Instead, he closes his laptop, packs it away, changes his shirt and loops his capture scarf around his neck, and leaves the room, locking it behind him.

Aizawa walks the two blocks to the hospital through a fine, misty rain, shoulders slouched and hair dripping. He walks in through the sliding double doors, hands shoved deep into his pockets, and meanders his way up to the main desk situated on the far end of the main foyer.

“Hi there,” the nearest woman behind the desk says, looking up at Aizawa. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to get some information on a few of your patients,” Aizawa says.

The woman frowns. “I’m sorry, sir,” she says, sounding put out, “but I’m afraid I can’t give any patient information to you, unless you are a direct relative or have jurisdictional relevance, such as being a pro hero involved in an on-going investigation.”

Aizawa looks at her, then says, “Lucky for me, I am a pro hero, and this has to do with my jurisdiction.” He pulls his wallet out of his pocket, flips it open, and shows the woman his hero license. “I’m running a tangential investigation into the Stain Incident, and I would like information on the three students who encountered him.”

“Ah,” says the woman, and after inspecting his hero license for a few seconds, nods and turns toward her computer. She taps on her keyboard for a few seconds, then says, “What information do you need?”

“What injuries did they sustain?”

“I don’t have access to that information.”

“Then get me someone who does.”

The woman sighs, taps on her keyboard for another few seconds, then she looks up at Aizawa and says, “I’ll have a nurse come and speak with you. If you’d like to take a seat in the waiting room, they’ll be out shortly.”

Aizawa turns and slouches over to the waiting chairs and takes a seat. He folds his hands in his lap and leans back against the back of the hard-cushioned chair, eyes half-closed and half-hidden behind his hair. He thinks while he waits—thinks of Todoroki, of Iida, of Midoriya. He thinks of revenge, and of pain begat by losing someone loved, and of the wrath and fury birthed by heartache. He thinks of Ingenium, and of a boy named Loud Cloud, and of his three students facing an unspeakable evil in a dark alley, alone.

The door into the back of the hospital opens, and a nurse walks out, looks around, calls, “Eraserhead?”

Aizawa stands and makes his way over to her, hands once more shoved into his pockets. She looks him up and down, then turns and leads the way out of the waiting room.

She takes him to a small office off of the main hallway, and gestures for Aizawa to sit in one of the small, plastic chairs situated across from the desk. He does so, and she brings up the computer sitting on the desk, accessing a set of files in the database.

“Their injuries were relatively minor, all things considered,” she says. “The worst was Iida Tenya, who suffered reparable nerve damage in his hands.”

A shot of ice arcs down Aizawa’s spine. “Nerve damage?” he asks.

“Yes,” says the nurse. She peers at him over the keyboard, then repeats, “It is reparable.”

Aizawa nods, and asks only, “What of Todoroki and Midoriya.”

The nurse tells him about their other, more minor injuries, Aizawa listening intently, and then asks if Aizawa has any other questions.

“What room are they in?” Aizawa asks.

“Room 213,” the nurse says, and closes her files.

“Thanks,” Aizawa says, and stands.

He slouches out of the office, hands once more in his pockets, feeling the nurse’s eyes on his back. He knows what she’s thinking—or, at least, what she’s likely thinking: surprise that he, of all people, is a pro hero, along with wariness and uncertainty about whether or not she just broke any laws by giving him the information she had. Lucky for her he was a pro hero—and one who was used to skirting around the edges of proprietary law, and thus knew what he could and couldn’t get away with.

Aizawa takes the elevator up to the second floor, then counts the doors on his way down the hallway. He reaches 213, and there he hesitates, waits, stops dead still, one hand half-raised as if to reach for the handle.

They don’t want you, a quiet, snide voice whispers in his mind. If they’d wanted you, they would have asked for you, not left it to All Might to tell you what truly happened.

Aizawa’s hand drops to his side.

The door cracks open.

Aizawa spins and turns on his heel, strides away from room 213. He hears footsteps shuffle out of the room behind him, hears a confused exclamation, hears someone call out after him, “Hello? Did you want something?” It is Todoroki.

Aizawa keeps walking, and hopes he is far enough away already that Todoroki does not recognize his capture scarf.

----

“Who was that?” Midoriya asks as Todoroki reenters the room, looking perplexed. His brow is furrowed, his lips flattened into a thin line.

“I don’t know,” Todoroki says. He hesitates, considering, then says, “But it looked like Mr. Aizawa.”

“Mr. Aizawa?” Iida repeats.

Todoroki nods.

Iida looks thoughtful.

“Why didn’t he come in?” Midoriya wonders. “Is he angry with us for going up against Stain ourselves? But if he was, wouldn’t he have come in to lecture us? Then again, perhaps he is waiting until we are back at school to give us the lecture—”

“Why would he care?” Todoroki asks, cutting Midoriya’s rambling off. “I mean, sure, he’s our teacher, but would he really come all the way out to Hosu City for us?”

“He did fight 50 villains for us,” Iida points out softly.

That kills the conversation. It is hard for any of them to talk about the USJ Incident, even now.

Finally, though, Midoriya says, “We could always ask him when we get back.”

“If he had a reason for not coming into the room—which I assume he does, because he never does anything without having a reason,” Iida says, “then he won’t tell us the truth.”

“How can you be certain?” Midoriya asks.

Iida smiles, but it is not a happy expression. “I know Mr. Aizawa,” he says.

“Don’t we all?” Todoroki asks.

But Iida shakes his head. “I’ve known him since I was a kid,” he admits to them softly.

“What?” Midoriya asks, shocked. “You mean to say—”

“My brother, Tensei, is good friends with him,” Iida confesses.

“Oh,” says Todoroki.

“Yeah,” says Iida. He shrugs then, and settles his shaking hands into his lap. “I’m not surprised he didn’t come in,” he says, but no matter how hard the other two press him, Iida refuses to explain his statement.

----

Aizawa walks back to his hotel room lost in thought and half-lost in direction.

I wasn’t there for them, he thinks. They needed me, and I wasn’t there.

He hates Stain, he realizes. Hates Stain, and hates the nomu, and hates the League of Villains.

Most of all, though, he hates himself.

I wasn’t there. He grimaces. Even if I had been, though, would I have made a difference?

He thinks of air chlorinated with standing water, thinks of recycled air, thinks of man-made mountains and man-made flames. He remembers the sound and feel of bones shattering in his arms, remembers the taste of blood in his mouth, remembers the crunch of his face impacting concrete not once, not twice, but three times.

What had he done then, but almost die in front of Midoriya, Asui, and Mineta? Nothing. He had accomplished nothing but traumatizing the very students he’d tried so hard to protect.

What good was he, then, if he couldn’t even protect his students from the villains they weren’t yet ready to face? What was he, but a failure?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He reaches the hotel, climbs the stairs to his room, unlocks his door and steps inside. He looks at the bed. Turns away.

Instead, he goes to the bathroom, turns the shower on. He waits for the water to heat up to unbearably hot, then sheds his clothes like a second skin and steps under the spray. He lets the scalding water wash over his body, lets it burn his self-loathing into his bones with ribbons of red skin. He washes his hair with hotel shampoo—just another way of hating himself—and scrubs his arms and legs and torso until his skin stings from the abrasive washcloth.

He finishes, steps out of the shower, towels himself dry. He brushes his hair, uses the blow-dryer, changes into fresh clothes.

He has one more thing to do in Hosu, and then he can go home.

----

“He’s asleep, but you can come in.”

Aizawa steps into the sterile hospital room after the nurse, who closes the door behind him. She hovers close by as Aizawa pulls a chair up to Iida Tensei’s bedside, then turns and leaves after he sits.

Aizawa settles his masked face in his hands and, for a long time, simply sits there, head buried and eyes closed. Finally, though, he lifts his head and looks at Tensei, still asleep, and says, “You’d be proud of him, Tensei. Angry, probably, but proud.”

He sighs, settles back into his uncomfortable chair, and stares at Tensei. “I don’t even know if you’re going to be given the true story,” he admits softly. “But I hope they do tell you the truth. Even I wasn’t supposed to know, but thankfully All Might ignores rules as often as he ignores his own health, which is to say “he doesn’t care about them at all”.

“He did it, though, Tensei—him and two of his classmates. They avenged you. And I can’t say I’m glad about that, but God, I wish I’d been able to avenge Oboro. I wish there’d been some way for me to avenge him—some way to put the past in the past, and move on. I hope—I hope Tenya was able to do that with this. I hope…” He takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. “And now I’m rambling,” he curses softly.

Tensei stirs, opens his eyes. He turns his head, looks at Aizawa, and crooks a small smile. Aizawa can see it in his eyes.

“Shouta,” Tensei rasps. “So you did come to see me.”

“Hizashi and Nemuri send their love,” Aizawa says. “They’re sorry they can’t get away to come see you themselves. My kids are currently in the middle of internships, so I had some free time.”

“Right,” Tensei says. “How—how’s Tenya?”

Aizawa sighs. “He’s gonna be okay,” he tells Tensei.

“Going to be?” Tensei asks. He looks away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I didn’t—”

“No one did,” Aizawa says, cutting him off. “No one blames you either, Tensei.”

“Except me,” Tensei admits bitterly, softly.

Aizawa sighs again. “Except you,” he accedes. “You’re going to have to let this go someday, though,” he says.

“I passed my name on to Tenya,” Tensei says, instead of answering Aizawa’s statement. “I wanted him to be Ingenium.”

Aizawa grimaces, the pieces slotting into place. “I guess that makes more sense now,” he says aloud.

“What?” Tensei asks with a frown.

“Nothing,” Aizawa says with a flap of his hand.

“What?” Tensei asks again.

“They chose their hero names last week,” Aizawa says dismissively. “I was half-asleep for most of it.”

Tensei rolls his eyes. “Right,” he scoffs. He knows better than to think that Aizawa is anything but constantly aware of what is going on around him, no matter if he is feigning sleep or actually asleep. He hesitates then, and then asks, “Is everything okay, Shouta?”

“Yeah,” says Aizawa. “Why?”

Tensei looks at him suspiciously. “I’ve known you a long time,” he says. “I think I know when something is bothering you.”

“Reparable nerve damage.”

“I’m fine,” Aizawa says.

Tensei shakes his head against his pillow. “Look,” he says, and he sounds both tired and weak. “Whenever you say that, you aren’t fine.”

Aizawa rolls his eyes. “This isn’t about me,” he almost snaps. “I came to visit you, who is the one in the hospital for serious injuries.”

Tensei snorts. “Don’t tell me you’re about to start pitying me too.”

“Pity?” Aizawa asks. “When have you known me to ever pity anyone?”

“Fair point,” Tensei replies. “I’m just…tired.”

Aizawa thinks of bandages swathing his body from head to waist, thinks of casts around his arms, things of stitches beneath his eye. “I know,” he says, and the almost-teasing lilt is gone from his voice, leaving it heavy and dry. “It gets better.”

Tensei looks at him, sees the grim knowledge in his eyes and in the cant of his lips. He smiles. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” Aizawa says. “Now get some rest. You need your strength.” He stands, and Tensei settles back against his pillows. “I’ll see you later,” Aizawa says, and with that, he leaves the hospital room, and his friend lying in the bed behind him.

----

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Hizashi asks him.

They are sitting at dinner in some fancy restaurant that his friend had wanted to try, cocktails at their elbows and seafood pasta in front of them. Aizawa picks at his noodles, swirling them around the bowl through the sauce, and tries not to think too hard.

“Yes,” he lies.

Hizashi laughs. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“No, I’m not,” Aizawa retorts.

“You are to me,” Hizashi says.

Aizawa rolls his eyes.

Hizashi is quiet for a moment, then he asks, “How’s Tensei?”

“He’s fine,” Aizawa grunts.

Hizashi sighs. “What aren’t you telling me?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Aizawa lies again.

Hizashi puts his fork and spoon down, leans forward over his plate. “You can’t keep holding this in forever,” he tells Aizawa.

“What’s that?”’

“Everything,” Hizashi says, waving a hand through the air to punctuate his point.

“Illuminating,” Aizawa grumbles.

Hizashi smiles. “I know,” he says, and sits back in his chair. “My point stands, though.”

Aizawa shakes his head. “I can,” he says.

“No—”

“Then I will.”

“That’s not how it works,” Hizashi points out.

“It is if I try hard enough.”

Hizashi sighs again, picks up his fork and stabs at his pasta. “Whenever you’re ready to face your problems,” he says, lifting a bite of food toward his mouth, “I’ll be there.”

They finish the rest of the meal in silence.

[lifeofroos]

Part 48. I like Ariadne. 

In short: Nico gets therapy from Dionysus. In this chapter, Nico takes a minute to talk to Dionysus’ wife, Ariadne. The rest of the story can be found on AO3, FanFiction.net and in Tumblr tags like Dionysus, Nico di Angelo, Fanfic etc. 

This Might Be Crazy: Chapter 48: Rosemary Tea

I lit a small incense stick. The smell of pinewood filled my cabin. Just when I wanted to begin praying to get Ariadne’s attention, I already got it. One moment, I was in my cabin, the next I was on Olympus, looking out over a massive vineyard. 

‘Nico di Angelo.’

I turned around. ‘The lady of the house, I assume.’ 

‘Yes. You called on me?’

Barely. ‘Yes. I, well…’ I shrugged. I wasn’t entirely sure. I didn’t think I’d get this far. 

Ariadne put her chin up. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t expecting you one of these days. Why don’t we talk?’

I mean, that is what I had in mind. I nodded and she gestured that I could come into the palace. 

Dionysus’ palace was big. It took a good twenty minutes to walk to a sitting room on the other side. In the meantime, Ariadne chatted about the decor for a bit. It was clear she had been responsible for most of it (it was way too stylish to be done by Dionysus). 

We sat down in two comfy chairs, with a coffee table in between. Ariadne snapped her fingers. A pot of tea appeared. ‘Sorry for the long walk. The west flank of the palace is not under control by the headmaster, so I had to bring you there.’ 

Zeus. ‘Eh, I get it.’ So. Now that we sit and we’ve got tea, I was kind of curious about how you managed to live with Dionysus for thousands of years.

‘Lets get the obvious question of your mind: You are wondering how I managed to live with Dionysus for thousands of years.’ 

I nodded, a little perplexed, but mostly glad I did not have to open the conversation. 

She poured out two cups of tea and picked up her own. ‘I don’t read minds or anything, it’s just what they always ask. The short version is that he helped me when I was going through a hard time, the same way he is helping you now. The difference is that he somehow fell in love with me.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘And, after some more time, which he gave me, I felt the same way. Got married, stayed together, end of story.’ She picked up her cup. ‘Yet, you probably already guessed that there was more.’ 

‘Well, Yes. I would say that the support he gives you goes further than with me. He once, kind of accidently, told me about the bond.’

She nodded. ‘Accidently? Oh well. Yet, yes, we have a bond. I’d say it connects us quite well.’

‘Quite, quite well, I’d say. For thousands of years.’ I picked up my own cup. ‘Hephaestus told me Dionysus treated him like a regular human… or god, whatever. Like he was more than a tool or a piece of garbage. That is basically how my therapy works. ’

Ariadne nodded. ‘We share that sentiment, you, me and Hephaestus, among others. We feel like we are worth something. Like someone does care about us. That is how it made me feel.’ She looked at the ceiling for a second. ‘Cared for, and like I was finally free to do and go where I wanted, gods! That means something after constantly being bound to something, either my chambers in the palace, or the island, or the men I was with. I still don’t know how I did confinment for twenty years.’ Her expression soured. ‘I do know why I went with Theseus. It meant... a change of scenary, at least.’ 

I sighed and slouched in the chair a little. ‘Ah, yes, sons of Poseidon.’ 

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Sons?’

I looked up. She didn’t know? ‘I thought Dionysus would have told you. Anyway, I was in love with one of those too, once. He just wasn’t a piece of garbage about it. Did not abandon me somewhere, at least, or bully me for it. He might have been a little confused, but, you know. I get that. He seems confused about most things, actually.’

She shifted. ‘It must have been Percy Jackson.’

I took a sip. ‘Yes. And, eh, sorry.’ Didn’t want to rub it in your face. I wanted to ask what she thought of Percy, but maybe that wasn’t…

‘I do not have anything against Perseus Jackson, if you were wondering about that.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I think Dio has more problems with that than I do.’

‘I think you might just be right.’

She sighed. ‘Oh well. Yet, I did hear you were accepted like you are in camp, son of Poseidon as your first crush or not.’

‘I was! Camp overall is pretty accepting, actually, that is nice. They even learned to trust Hades kids. And idiots who fall in love with sons of Poseidon. It took a while, but they accept Annabeth now.’

She chuckled and pushed her hair out of the way. ‘So many more things are getting accepted these days, even amongst the gods. There is a shift in their behaviour. I don’t know what the trigger was, after thousands of years, but I am glad it is this way.’ She twisted a curl around a finger. ‘Sorry, entirely different subject, but how did your talk with the elder gods go?’

‘It was weird, but it went good enough. Over the last few days, I have heard less and less of the voices from Tartarus, and more and more from the voices of where the Elder Gods are.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘Luckily. You know, admitting the elder gods is a central part of becoming immortal. Because of previous lives, something, something, even the lord of the heavens is not really sure, I had to talk to them.’ She sighed. ‘Basically, part of me is also an older god, which meant that I was supposed to fill this role as a goddess right now.’ She rolled her eyes. I snickered. ‘I hardly understand what it means.’

I adjusted my jacket. ‘Still, that must be strange, though, to know that part of you is just…’ I waved my hands around. ‘Somewhere in superheaven.’

‘You get used to it.’

‘Still, it seems weird.’ 

‘To me, it seems weird that you visit the Underworld so often.’ She shuddered. ‘For me, it wasn’t a very good place. After I was killed, I was sent to Elysium. My father, king Minos, kept trying to control me and I missed Dio terribly. I would have chosen rebirth if Dionysus hadn’t taken me out of there.’ 

‘Oh yes, bringing people back to live, the thing he tells me is unhealthy to do.’

She gave me a mellow smile. ‘The difference is that he is immortal and you are not.’ 

Maybe. ‘Not yet. And I met king Minos, too. He was a nasty piece of work, sorry not sorry to say it. He tried to control me into his evil villian plans.’

‘I am not offended. He was a bad king, a bad husband to my mother and a bad father to his children.’

‘And a bad partner to raise the dead with.’

‘I am going to pretend I did not hear that.’

‘Thanks. Although my therapist is already aware of it.’ I took a sip. ‘Then we can both agree that he was a huge dirtwad.’

‘We quite certainly can. I still do not forgive him for marrying off my youngest sister to some old king who died not even a year later. She was then forced out of the palace to make room for the new king and queen, just so Minos could get the bridewealth payments.’

‘Oh yes, that is a very dirtwad thing to do.’ We both sighed.

Her expression grew dark. ‘I used to think my mother was better. She tried to protect her children, even Asterion. Yet, that was before she tried to take my labyrinth and use it against who I am. What she did a few years ago, raising it without my permission…’ she clutched her fist. ‘She had no business doing that and getting me wound up in it again. Before that, the labyrinth was a memory, safely far away from the human world. Now...’ She looked at her teacup. 

I nodded. ‘Eh… my sister was the one who handled Pasiphae in that encounter. I think she is gone, now…’

‘She isn’t, Nico, and she never will. She harnesses too much power to just be gone.’ 

I fell silent for a second. ‘I think I believe that,’ I whispered. 

‘I hope you do, but I also hope you don’t have to deal with her in your lifetime anymore.’

I was fifteen. On average, there was a lot of lifetime left to meet Pasiphae a second time. But I did not want to think of that right now.

‘If there is anything you take away from this, let it be that women in mythology, and not uncommonly men too, often fled, because the situation at home was chocking them.’ She had a flicker in her eyes, which suddenly left. She shook her head. ‘You probably don’t want to think of that right now. Say, have you ever tried this tea before?’

Now she was just trying to change the subject. I played along. ‘I recognise it. Rosemary?’

‘Yes! We grow it in the garden, actually, or better said, my garden. His garden is more or less... taken.’ She smiled again and looked out the window, at the vineyard that spread all around the castle. 

‘Guess that makes sense.’

‘I wouldn’t mind more flowers. But hey, I knew what I was getting myslef in to, back when I moved here.’ We kept looking out the window. I noticed a few panthers lazily roaming about. Ariadne didn’t even blink at seeing them. Just a regular day in Dionysus’ palace, apparently. 

‘I don’t know if I will tell Dionysus about this encounter.’

‘I think he already had a hunch it was going to happen, because I did. Bond and stuff.’ I nodded. ‘If you already told him you were in love with Percy… well, that is an easy link to me, I’d say.’

Maybe. Ariadne studied me, before she stood up. ‘If your finished, maybe you should get back. They might begin to miss you. 

I looked up at the clock and jumped up when I saw it was already past eight. Ariadne telling me the clocks were mad and did what they wanted did not calm me down. 

While we walked back to the mystic Zeus-free west flank, she said: ‘I am glad I could finally meet you. You seem like a nice, smart young man.’

‘Thanks. Eh, also, thanks for the talk and thanks for the tea. It was good tea.’

‘I’ll give you some. I am kind of proud of it, actually. It is one of the only teas that isn’t brewed by Demeter.’ 

A/N: My first draft of this felt clunky, it is better now. Still, I find it strange that it turned out the way it did. That Ariadne of all people is the goddess who keeps her distance for a bit, aside from the things she has in common with Nico.

As I said before: I need more Ariadne fanfiction I am being denied my RIGHTS the first hit when I google it is my own fanfic of two years ago and one chapter in Weezl’s drabble doc. 

Legit, Ariadne is the ‘mistress of the labyrinth.’ Don’t know how RR missed that. Be prepared because this fact WILL come back in a later chapter. 

[spectrumed]

8. book

I decided to start writing a book. A novel, it’s going to be fiction. It’s a big project. I dread big projects. I don’t feel as if I am ever able to complete them. It’s going to be left unfinished, why do I even bother? So many projects that I’ve started and never finished. I get an idea, then I can’t make myself do the actual work to make it a reality. Why do I think I can write a book when I can barely read books without becoming distracted and doing something else instead? I give up too easily. But, then again, do I really have it in me to produce something that is good? That people would want to read? Insecurity creeps in, telling me that I will fail. I fear failure. Of course I do, who doesn’t? Whenever people say that their greatest fear is failure, all I wonder is who out there is not afraid of failure? Is there someone out there with so much confidence that they absolutely do not in any way fear failure? Even narcissists technically fear failure, it is what leads them to such ridiculous overcompensation, putting on the facade of bravado to mask their actual dire sense of insecurity. Do not fall for the scams, no person is truly without self-doubt. (Well, I guess maybe psychopaths, but there’s a whole lot of things amiss with them.)

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve entertained myself by coming up with stories, fictional universes that I would populate with characters of my own invention. When I was a kid, what I really wanted was to become a comic book writer and artist. Well, in between other gigs I imagined would suit me, including at one point wanting to be a “singing farmer,” as I put it. Still, I’ve always returned to fiction and storytelling. There’s something about creating a world that lets you so fully distract yourself from all the stressful daily hullabaloo that goes on around you. Escapism, it’s fun, it’s therapeutic, I think. There’s a reason why humans have been telling each other stories for millennia, since even before we lived in houses. Back when we were all huddled around the fire, wearing our best comfortable animal furs, sharing tales of the hunt. Your uncle who once took part in killing a mammoth, the impressive beast nearly gorging him with its big tusks. How clever he was when he noticed that the mammoth had one leg weaker than the others, and used that to his advantage. How the entire hunting party banded together to bring the behemoth down, getting all that meat to feed their families with for months! Stories make you feel good. Like as if you have something to celebrate, even when you might be starving due to the more recent hunts not having gone as well. Damn that saber-tooth tiger that killed your uncle…

Storytelling is linked to acting. Both with acting and with storytelling you have to commit. Whatever you are doing, whatever role you are performing, you have to sell it. You may be on stage talking about that time you went scuba diving with your future wife, and how you encountered an oyster with the most magnificent pearl inside, and how you made a ring for the pearl and used it when you proposed to her. You have to sell it. You have to get the audience laughing, gasping, crying, going “aww,” feeling as if they were there with you that day. Of course, they don’t know it is all just lies. You made it up. It’s all fiction. But you committed, so they won’t ever know. Storytelling is a gift to others, people will appreciate you if you tell good stories, but you’re also kinda deviant. Even if it’s technically based on a true story, you’ve certainly added your embellishments. You’re a trickster, a devious individual. No wonder actors have historically been seen as dubious folks. They come into town, romances all the young women and men, telling them big tales of their lives on the road, and they can’t possibly know if you are telling the truth or not. You may just be lying. You probably are lying. Let’s be honest, you’ve probably not told a single true thing in your life.

I am bad at the hustle. No, I can talk quite well, and I can keep people’s attention for a long while. But I can’t be a huckster. Going out there, putting myself on the line hoping people will swallow my bullshit. I can’t really avoid speaking from my heart when I do speak. Or when I write, as I happen to be doing now. This blog has so far been thoroughly candid in places, in such a way I may come across like I’m at a confessional. Not that I have much evil to confess, but I can’t help but be transparent. I can’t flip into different kinds of personalities, each with its own schemes and plots, being some master manipulator, someone who you can never figure out what they're truly up to, or what they truly want. No, what I am is clearly written on my face. I’ve got one self, and it is the one before you. He’s hairy, and tall, and a bit of a dork. I am happy to talk to you, to engage with you, but I won’t be anyone but myself. I am me. I hope that’ll do.

Of course you are familiar with all those pick-up artists that plagues the internet. Or well, not just the internet. Go into any old-fashioned bookstore (where they store books on paper, not in digital code,) and you are bound to find some sleazy book written by a sleazy guy about how to sleazily seduce women. Those books don’t want you acting like me. According to them, seduction is all about manipulation. To figure out the very right thing to say to get women to fawn all over you. They don’t want you to be sincere, telling the truth as you see it. Nah, you gotta keep that stuff bottled up, deep down inside your soul, because most likely, your true self is ugly. It’s interesting how you can get little details from these pick-up artists depending on the sort of things they say, the tips they provide. The fact that all of them seem to harbour this festering misogyny is no big surprise, but every so often, you get these little glimpses of these people’s true worldview, one where power is everything, true love is a fallacy, and happiness is a lie manufactured by Hollywood to make us all into docile consumers. No wonder the “red-pill” so often leads to people taking the “black-pill.” First hucksters will lure you in, telling you that they’ve got the secret as to how to be a success, then when they’ve got you isolated, they reveal to you how truly misanthropic and bleak their actual beliefs are.

I am fascinated with cults, for much of the same reason why I am fascinated with storytelling. What is a cult leader if not just a great storyteller? They’re something like the modern day shaman, capable of spellbinding people with their weird idiosyncratic way of speaking. High-functioning people with autism are often said to have an idiosyncratic way of speaking. No, I am not suggesting that cult leaders are all somewhere on the spectrum, though it wouldn’t surprise me if some famous cult leaders did turn out to have been on the spectrum. However, for an autistic person to become a cult leader, I think they would have to be a true believer, and not some fraud just looking to scam others. Ultimately, no autistic person would want to surround themselves with people unless they truly do believe it is essential, to like, save mankind from damnation or something. It’s the difference between sincerity and insincerity. It is difficult for autistic people to be insincere, as insincerity requires a lot of social skills that autistic people struggle with. Having to juggle all these balls in the air, making sure you keep the big lie going, that you remember to change your behaviour depending on who you are speaking to in order to keep them from figuring out that you’re a bullshitter. Hollow people are great at being insincere. People like L. Ron Hubbard, the founder of the highly profitable cult that is Scientology, was at his core a hollow individual. He had no problems twisting the minds of the people around him, because he never felt a need to be sincere. If an autistic person were to become a cult leader, I can guarantee you that it wouldn’t be a profitable cult. Nah, autistic people aren’t in it for the money, we’re all about keeping it real.

Being a sincere person, surely I should be able to write a novel and make it feel earnest. Like it was delivered with passion, because I wouldn’t be able to write anything that wasn’t true to myself. Well, I do hope so. Having something I’ve made be referred to as genuine is something I see as a great compliment. I’m a student of art history, I’ve made some “serious” art before, I know how terrible art can be when it is not delivered with good faith. Sure, some art is cynical, or ironic, but even then, it tends to come from a real place. Good artists, even when they’re fully armed with the dada mindset, must believe in what they are doing. Whether they are doing it for a laugh or not, that’s irrelevant. Even if all you wish is to be silly and make something that is comical, you have to believe in what you are creating. Or else people won’t bother engaging with it. Why look at a painting by someone who is just interested in making money? Insincere artists do exist, and they can end up becoming quite successful, but ultimately, history won’t be kind to them. Damien Hirst comes to mind, heard he's into NFTs now.

Sure, I don’t like insincere people. Does that make me a bigot? Like, it’s not as if they can help themselves. It’s just who they are, spineless maggots with no soul. It doesn’t mean we have to hate them. No, no, no... I am just generalising. Don’t go thinking there’s just two kinds of people in the world, the sincere and the insincere. It’s not a binary. Most people are both, just like with introverts and extroverts, humans are complex. But there are definitely those that decide to feed into their insincere side, realising that it is often the key to success. Through insincerity, you learn to let go of self-doubt, you stop worrying so much about what others think of you, because you are never truly yourself. If they hate you, then so what? They don’t actually hate you, they just hate a role that you are playing. So what if you seduced that woman, made her feel as if you were the perfect match, then you ghosted her and completely forgot about her? It’s her fault for falling for your tricks. You were clearly just playing the game, being a super-seducer, she should have known better. By embracing insincerity, it’s like gaining a superpower. No longer do you have to care about the impact you have on others, no longer do you have to worry about what it means to be a social human being making choices that affect the others around you. Because you’re not the person they think you are. Actually, you’re not quite sure you’re the person you think you are… Who are you?

I’ve got the plot all laid out in my head for the novel. It’s going to be based in the fantasy world that I’ve been working on for the last few years. I’ve been working on this world for almost half a decade now, come to think of it. Why do I keep feeling as if I am never able to keep to a project, when I’ve clearly been working on a massive project all this time? Sure, it’s all just in my head, but it’s not as if most people have the kind of patience to keep going back to a single big project, even if it is just in their head. Not once, while thinking about my fantasy world have I been distracted and started thinking about cute puppies, instead. And you know how difficult that is. Maybe I am too hard on myself. Maybe I will finish this book, and maybe people will want to read it. Maybe it will even get a minimal number of angry reviews, like, I may get a book published without some folks trying to harass me into committing suicide for daring to think I can write. Some people may even be enthusiastic, blowing up my ego with great praise. Maybe someone will come along and tell me that they want to buy the rights to make my book into a movie or a television series. Maybe I will get rich? Maybe I will get famous! Woo! Success here I come!

Well, no, here I go being insincere. That’s not what it’s about. I should be writing this book because I want to write it. Because I want to prove to myself that I am able to write it. Sure, it’s not as if there’s not a little brain goblin inside my mind whispering sweet nothings about how one day I might turn out a real respected author. One with real fans that gets to do big book tours talking about how brilliant I am, how brilliant my work is, and how brilliant things are going for me. I am not going to pretend I don’t have the same aspirations for success that others have. Inside of me you will find the same greedy piglet of an ego hungry for more adoration and more validation that you will find in any person. Humans don’t know when to quit, we always want more. But I am at least safe knowing that I will never debase myself, descending to the same depths as those inhabited by soulless grifters who go through life abusing the trust of others in order to get by. I’m sincere, in the end. I always turn out sincere, in the end. I am a good boy.

And I am also really sexy. I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before on this blog, but I am really, REALLY, sexy. Like, you wouldn’t believe it. Oh, I am so hot. And if you follow and subscribe and hit that bell, I will teach you how you can be just as sexy as I am! And buy my book! And my merch! And my new single! And of course, my new cryptocurrency, by the name of “autism-coin.” It’s going to be a real success on 4chan, let me tell ya!

[thedigitalpen]

My 10 favourite... beefcake animes!

Okay yes, I realise that this is a rather weird title. I had originally thought to call it something along the lines of my favourite martial arts or fighting animes, but because the animes don’t always fall into that category, I decided to call a spade, a spade (or a beefcake, a beefcake) and admit that, most times sometimes, I just enjoy animes with muscular guys in them. That’s not to forget the ladies though because some of these shows also feature some rather muscular ladies in the mix too. So there’s something for everyone!

So, in no particular order (because the genres are sometimes different so making comparisons wouldn’t be fair):

1. Street Fighter series.

Hardly a surprise considering that this is a series that has a legacy firmly placed in the gaming world. Although you don’t really need to know who’s who in order to watch these shows, it doesn’t hurt to know a little about the characters before you jump in - mainly because the creators assume that those who watch it are fans of the show. Expect a fair amount of fighting (the name gives that one away), lots of bromance (Ryu and Ken 4eva!) and the eternal fight of good vs. evil (which is usually the plot of every show/movie)! Even if you aren’t familiar with Ryu & co., the show won’t lead you astray so you can watch without worry. Oh and let me just say - Chun Li is ma gurl! If you want to see a woman that’s not only beautiful but can also kick your ass, then watch these shows - especially Street Fight II the movie! 

2. Hajime no Ippo.

One of my most favourite sports animes of all time which tells the tale of Makunouchi Ippo and his rise up the ranks of the boxing world. He starts off as a kid that just wants to get stronger so that he can fend off the bullies who harass him. Sick of his weak self (and after a couple of incidents here and there), Ippo joins a boxing gym, starting from scratch and going through basic training. His coach sees his potential and helps shape Ippo into a power boxer who fights head on and never backs down from the fight. Throughout the series, we get to know the other boxers in the gym as well as the competitors that they face, and we watch them battle it out in the ring. It’s a story with a great balance of sports, a sprinkling of slice of life (well, the life of a boxer) and comedy. And, of course, boxing boys come with boxing bodies... and I’m not complaining! And if you enjoy this and want more, try either “Ashita no Joe” (old school classic) or it’s more recent spin-off, “Megalo Box”. Oh and in terms of strong women - no one beats Ippo’s mom! She’s a powerhouse!

3. Baki the Grappler.

More of an MMA vibe with this one - it’s about a kid (he’s like 13 when we first meet him) who has been raised to be a fighter since he was born - his mother gets him the best trainers and equipment money can buy. He eventually feels like he’s outgrown the traditional training method and starts to find other ways to become a better fighter, which includes following his fathers footsteps - training the same way he did and with the people he did - and taking on some of the other fighters he meets along the way. After an altercation with his father (using that term rather lightly), Baki’s path eventually leads to the underground fight scene where challengers can test their strength and face off against each other in an anything-goes type of fight, using whatever techniques, power and skills they have at their disposal. And Baki’s ultimate goal? To defeat his father! It’s got some family drama as the foundation, but when it comes to beefcakes, there’s no shortage here - even if it is a 17-year old kid looking like a grown-ass man. Oh, best to be aware that (excluding the OVAs) there 3 seasons of Baki - the anime series from 2001 and the 2018 Netflix version which covers the "Most Evil Death Row Convicts" arc. 

4. Kengan Ashura.

When I first started watching this, the first thing I thought was - ahhh! this reminds me of Baki! And, indeed, there are quite a few elements that are similar. There isn’t any family drama here but there is an underground fight scene where anything goes in terms of fight style. However, the premise here is that the fighters don’t fight for themselves (well, not officially anyway) but that they fight for various companies who settle their business disputes via these types of organised “kengan” matches. It eventually reaches a situation where some of the other businessmen wish to get rid of the current Kengan chairman, and so this chairman organises a huge battle royale for any companies that wish to enter. The prize? The owner of the winning company gets to be the next chairman! This sets the stage for a number of one-on-one showdowns between the various fighter representatives. In terms of background stories, we have two main protagonists and their stories. The one is about a salaryman (turned “CEO”) and his life, as well his relationship with his son, and the other is about a fighter and the vendetta he holds against another fighter for a past incident. Personally, I love the way the fights are presented in this show - not only because of the eye-candy - but because it really does feel like you’re at a grand show! Oh, and unlike Baki, at least most of the fighers are adults.

5. Golden Kamuy.

Bring on the boys! Honestly one of the most entertaining shows I’ve watched in a while (and one where I demand that there be another season at least!) and also culturally/historically interesting too. It’s set around the time of the Russo-Japanese war and follows the story of Immortal Sugimoto - a soldier who left active service and finds out that there may be Ainu gold hidden somewhere in Hokkaido. The only problem is that the map has been tattooed in pieces, onto the torsos of various prisoners, most of whom have dispersed to different areas. Nevertheless, thus begins the hunt for the map! Along the way, Sugimoto meets various people along the way - making allies with some and enemies with others - all of whom are associated with each other in interconnecting ways. And all of whom are working toward one goal - get the gold! It’s a brilliant show that’s got some fighting, some mystery, some espionage vibes, some comedy (some of which is could be considered dark and/or weird) and some feels. It balances it all out and makes for an interesting and entertaining watch. Oh, and let’s not forget - a very enjoyable watch too! Mm mm mmm...

6. All Out!!

Another sport anime here, but this time it’s rugby! As someone from a country where rugby is a staple, national sport, this was totally up my ally! The premise is similar to most other school-based sports animes - a kid who’s self-conscious about his height joins the rugby team and learns to get along with the other boys as he trains and works together with them as part of the team. This is not only so that he can help the team improve, but to also prove his own worth. The team goes through training camps and they play against other schools, getting to know some of the opposing teams’ members and establishing some rivalries along the way. It’s pretty typical fare, but damn are these boys stacked! It’s pretty accurate though since rugby is a contact sport which requires some power (and apparently some short, tight shorts) to get the job done. It’s a light watch, but that eye candy is truly sweet!

7. Tiger Mask W.

From rugby to wrestling! This actually a continuation of sorts to the original Tiger Mask and Tiger Mask II series, building on the legacy and keeping related in the same sphere, but not directly incorporating the older characters. Unfortunately, the original series is hella hard to get hold of but even without it, you can watch Tiger Mask W without much of an issue. So the story is about a guy who had decided to join a wrestling gym and was pretty happy there until the gym was destroyed by another rival gym. Vowing to take that other gym down, he strikes out on his own and eventually joins one of the national wrestling associations, working in their match roster. But it’s all so that he can reach his goal of taking down that other gym by defeating the players supported by them. Enter into the ring various wrestling friends and both friendly and unfriendly rivals (including an old friend - bromance anyone?) and you get plenty of matches, plenty of muscles and some satisfying action! They also don’t forget the female wrestlers, which is a nice touch! Another one that’s light enough to enjoy at face value - much like how you’d enjoy real wrestling too.

8. Gifuu Doudou!! Kanetsugu to Keiji. 

A historical vibe with this one - it’s actually based on the spin-off of the original manga, “Keiji” which was created by Tetsuo Hara. And if that name doesn’t ring a bell, check number 10 on this list and you’ll know who I’m talking about - that’s right, it’s the guy who worked on Hokuto no Ken - and that should immediately give you an idea as to why this show is on the list. It’s a period piece about the friendship between Maeda Keiji and Naoe Kanetsugu - both of whom found their accomplishments on the battlefield. It’s told in hindsight, where they sit together, have a drink or three and reminisce about their younger days and what it took to get to where they are now. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but it was pretty entertaining - especially when you see just how clever these guys were when it came to political maneuvering as well as in a fight. Of course, they’re pretty high in the beefcake stakes so if you like your men manly, then you’ve come to the right era. 

9. Dragon Ball series.

I’m pretty sure that I don’t have to talk about this anime, but in the interest of completeness, let me give you the wiki breakdown about what this anime is about: “The series follows the adventures of the protagonist, Son Goku, from his childhood through adulthood as he trains in martial arts. He spents his life far from civilization, until he is found by Bloomer, a teen girl who encourages him to explore the world in search of the seven orbs known as the Dragon Balls, which summon a wish-granting dragon when gathered. Along his journey, Goku makes several friends and battles a wide variety of villains, many of whom also seek the Dragon Balls.” (source). Of course, this is continued throughout the various series that follow, where Goku has his own family etc. But when it comes to the muscle factor in this show, it’s got it where it counts - everywhere! It’s a classic for a reason so even if you aren’t into beefcake guys, you should still probably watch it if you haven’t already.

10. Hokuto no Ken.

It just wouldn’t feel right if I had to leave this off the list because when someone says “manly anime”, I’m betting that 99.9% of the time most people think about Hokuto no Ken / Fist of the North Star. It’s the post-apocalyptic era and times are tough, with everyone fighting to survive with what little there is on the planet. Some guys want to be rulers, some guys want to be thugs, but one guy just wants to find his fiancee and do what he can to right the wrongs of the world and make a difference to the people he meets. That one man is, of course, Kenshiro. It’s full-tilt action, usually incorporating martial arts through the various fighting styles of the characters - whether it’s Hokuto Shinken, Nanto Seiken or sometimes just brute force and good old hand-to-hand combat. There’s a few female characters here and there who also kick ass so it isn’t completely one-sided, but they usually end up getting saved by the dudes so take that with a pinch of salt. Post-apocalyptic world or not, these guys sure can maintain their physiques. And when it comes time for a fight, you best believe they pull no punches! If you like pure fighting animes where you get to see people explode each episode, followed by the most epic line ever said in anime, then this is the one! 

Honourable mentions.

...because, can we really do without more muscular men and women in our lives?

1. Terra Formars - if you’re looking specifically for that muscular vibe, then try season 1. While I enjoyed both, season 1 had better animation (for me) and they all looked badass when defeating those nasty roaches - both the men and the ladies! 2. Hinomaru Sumo - a sports anime that revolves around a newly formed high school sumo club and the career path of the main protagonist. Informative if you don’t know much about sumo and, as expected, loads of meaty guys aiming for victory and aiming for the position of yokozuna. 3. Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure - another show that hardly requires an introduction and would probably take way too long to explain considering how many Jojo’s there are, but rest assured, the guys are packed, stacked and ready to attack! 4. One Punch Man - if only because there a few characters who fit the beefcake category perfectly, e.g. Suiryu (hello there!), Garou and Tanktop Master to name a few. An anime that’s some parts serious, some part hilarious but always flipping shounen tropes on its head. 5. Sengoku Basara - also, not completely beefed out, but there are a few characters who would make the grade, e.g. Maeda Keiji (dejavu from number 8?) and Oda Nobunaga. Another period anime, based on a Capcom game, that uses a lot of poetic licence to make it an exciting watch with very memorable characters. 6. Free! - “Make us free na Splash! Kasaneta... 👏 👏 !” Swimmers bodies - that is all. If you’ve ever seen a swimmer’s bodies in real life, you’ll know what I mean ‘cos they have muscles in all the right places. A slice-of-life sports anime that revolves around high school boys (who eventually become college boys) who engage in competitive swimming. 7. Air Master - The ladies take over in this one, which is a show that revolves around street fighting and the goal of those various street fighters and martial artists to become number 1 on the Fukamichi Rankings. It’s more of that underground fight scene vibe but the main protagonist is a gymnast-turned-street fighter who takes on anyone who’ll challenge her (man or woman) and usually kick their ass. It’s got a quirky/weird sense of humour to it, but that’s part of why I liked it.

Well, I’m pretty sure that there are other shows that I’ve missed, and mountains of characters who have that A-grade beef, but I tried to choose shows that specifically have that muscular aesthetic as a default setting in the show. Hopefully I hit the mark here, sharing my faves with you, but if there’s some show or character that I absolutely must see, feel free to let me know! Because just like Tanigaki’s shirt, I’m always open to suggestions.

[thebluelemontree]

I don't know if you've already answered a similar question, if you have I apologize and will look better for it. But do you think Sandor and Sansa would still love each with how much they've both changed? They've almost become new people, but still the same beings.

It’s no problem. I’ve written about that here and probably touched on this in many other posts. 

I wouldn’t frame the question as would they “still love each other with how much they’ve both changed.” It implies that their feelings were already understood as love by them when they were together. What they had was a confusing mess of conflicting emotions that neither were fully capable of understanding or accepting at the time. Each had their reasons for why that was so, which goes to some of the issues that stood between them. While there is chemistry, intimacy, and empathy shown, IMO, it’s better to think of them as possessing the building blocks that can lead to love in the future.  

On the other hand, there was also:

The fact that she’s too young, immature, and unready for a consummated romance with anyone. She needs space and time to grow up and figure out what she wants. Until AFFC, she’s still only comfortable consciously fantasizing about Loras Tyrell, who is non-threatening, conventionally attractive, and uncomplicated. They are still relatively chaste/borderline erotic fantasies. The unkiss takes time for her to consciously accept and embrace as reciprocated erotic desire.  

The fact that he has no idea how to express himself without resorting to the language of violence that he understands best.

The fact that he copes with the unresolved childhood trauma and PTSD in unhealthy ways like his abrasive Hound persona, his overly-cynical worldview, and sometimes abusing alcohol when he’s under stress.

His immaturity and inability to simply ask for and accept the emotional support he wants (which she was perfectly willing to give) without freaking out over being vulnerable with someone. 

The fact that they are on opposite sides of a war where Sansa’s family is in open rebellion against her captors who Sandor owes fealty to. 

The fact that she’s the king’s betrothed. She’s his property. To explicitly act upon any romantic attraction would be considered treason, punishable by torture and death.  

The fact that there is a massive class disparity between them that overshadows the age difference in their world. That’s one reason why neither can put a name to this thing between them. A future queen / high lord’s daughter from an ancient house should not be fraternizing with a non-knight from a house only three generations old. That’s why they struggle even knowing what to call each other because using first names shows too much familiarity and intimacy. This would be true even without any of the other conflicts. Class controls everything in Westeros. 

And yes, he still owes her a big heartfelt apology for his abhorrent behavior during the Blackwater, and he should beg her forgiveness.  

Most of these points I elaborate on in more detail in the links above. If you notice, though, most of these things have either been resolved or are in the process of being resolved. None of these issues were ever insurmountable obstacles. 

The ways in which Sansa and Sandor have evolved even in their separation has been largely positive and complementary of each other. They haven’t grown apart or become incompatibly different at all. If anything, it’s pushed their feelings further along, and it’s clear they are very much on each other’s minds. Since we can see Sansa’s perspective firsthand, she’s only thought about Sandor more since he left.  

Sansa has grown and matured a lot more when we see her in the TWOW sample chapter. Had the five-year gap panned out, she would be legally an adult in Westeros; however, dropping it doesn’t seem to have affected GRRM’s intentions for any of his POVs. She’s in the company of unconventional, sexually mature women in their early twenties who can be role models in navigating adult relationships. The sassy way she takes no shit from a brutally honest Harrold Hardyng shows she has confidence and the ability to go toe-to-toe with Sandor’s gruff personality without getting flustered and running away. After she wipes the floor with him with her wit, she ends up winning Harry over to the point he’s begging for her favor. There is no point in the sample chapter where she voices any anxieties about not feeling ready for marriage, sex, or children. This no longer seems to be an issue for her, so we can assume she feels okay with having an adult relationship at this point.   

Her time as a bastard girl has made her warmer and friendlier. She was always kind, but proprieties and courtesies can also read as aloof and re-enforcing strict class boundaries. Can you imagine Kings Landing!Sansa hugging someone like Lothor Brune, a landless knight, as she does in TWOW? Or preferring the company of a sex-positive widow who enjoys taking lovers or a bastard girl over the “perfect sister” she saw in Margaery Tyrell and her cousins? Hell no. That would never happen. This new Sansa lacks those prejudices and is openly affectionate towards people she was raised to keep at arm’s length. Once she loosened up and stopped reciting courtesies, people actually got to know her and like her for who she is. That’s what Sandor always wanted from her, right? To drop the courtesies and flattering bullshit and just be a real person with him, not a talking parrot. While that criticism was harsh and rudely put, it had a lot of truth to it. It seems to have made Sansa into a happier person and more in touch with her authentic self. Now that she has accepted in Feast that she wanted Sandor like that, what is there to stop her from acting on it later?

The Quiet Isle didn’t exist before Feast. It was written for Sandor to recover and rehabilitate. Not just physically, but he’s getting what constitutes psychological counseling and a treatment plan that deals directly with his worst traits. He appears to meet with the Elder Brother often enough because the latter seems to know quite a bit about Sandor’s backstory, what his issues are, and exactly who Sansa Stark is. The rest of the time, he must observe the no talking rule and do meaningful work as a novice. This man, who once flaunted his contempt for those who couldn’t defend themselves as weak and deserving of death, is put to work digging graves for the innocent victims of violence. All day long, he has to look at the faces of men, women, and children killed by evil men with that philosophy. One brother even yells at him for carelessly tossing dirt around with the shovel, and he silently takes it. No smart ass backtalk. In the evening, he has to serve food and clear plates for men he would have once mocked. They’re men of faith, they’ve renounced violence, and Sandor sits lower in status than them. To Sandor’s credit, he humbly submits to all this in a show of respect and humility. It’s like he wants to learn these lessons they are offering and is allowing himself to be schooled. Now Sandor may always be Sandor on some level (if Stranger kicking down the stable doors and refusing to be gelded is any indication). Still, it does look like he’s become a gentler, healthier, and sober version of himself. The only part of Sandor that Sansa rejected was the Hound, and it’s both stated in the text and by George himself that the Hound is dead. Period. And yeah, it seems like Sandor is in a place where he is unlikely to backslide into old behavior, and he can make that heartfelt and necessary apology to Sansa. I don't think Sandor could ever be okay with moving their relationship forward without making amends first. It wouldn't sit right with his sense of remorse and personal responsibility, which is a good thing. 

All these changes are for the better for them as individuals and as a possible future couple. Contrary to your ask, I would say a positive, fully-fledged romance with "HEA" potential wouldn’t be possible or believable without all the growth and changes they've undergone. When they reunite, they can do so on more equal footing. 

Not that there aren’t more conflicts to overcome. They both are currently wanted fugitives for murders they didn’t commit, so they both need to clear their names and reclaim their true identities. There is still the matter of Sansa’s marital status as Tyrion isn’t dead but their marriage was also unconsummated. She could try to have her marriage officially annulled by the Faith somehow, but to do that, she’ll have to take the risk of revealing her true identity. Again, these don’t seem like plots that won’t be resolved anyway at some point. What about that class divide though? Well, the Starks aren’t like Tywin or Cersei, and they actually value things like faithful service. No reason why Sandor couldn’t be awarded a lordship and lands in gratitude for saving the lives of both Arya and Sansa. I’m just sayin’.  

[princessmadafu]

37 bleedin’ pages!

I have condensed them for you and left out most of the bits that the nasty evil British Press have already covered. Feel free to skip any boring bits.

Dax Shepard: Welcome, welcome, welcome to Armchair Expert's Experts on Expert. I'm Dan Shepard. I'm joined by Monica Mouse.

Monica Padman: Hi.

[...]

There follows some heavy marketing of towels and stuff...

DS: Now please enjoy Prince Harry. We are supported by Brookelinen. My favourite hotel quality sheets to get into and writhe around in the nude. [...] They're impeccable. They're decadent, they're soft, they're absorbent. Brookelinen was started to create beautiful high quality home essentials that don't cost an arm and a leg. They're so confident in their product, they come with a 365 day warranty. So give yourself that comfort refresh you deserve and get it for less. Go to Brookelinen.com and use promo code 'expert' to get $20 off with a minimum purchase of $100. That's Brookelinen.com and enter promo code 'expert' for $20 off with a minimum purchase of $100. That's Brookelinen.com, promo code 'expert'.

Pretty ironic really, as Harry wades into fake news and how advertising algorithms are ruining us...

DS:...It's like the algorithms on the internet. You can't compete with that, a human.

PH: You can't if you have the awareness of what it's doing to you. And the fact that it's learning, which is scary. And advertising has been going on for hundreds of years, but done really responsibly. The difference here is targeted ads. If ads have always worked for companies, you can put on the TV, you can walk away, you can come back, your involvement is switching on switching off or changing the channel. Whereas now with algorithms is there, it's just feeding your habits. And it's also reading through your emails and everything else. So it's getting to know you, like, it gets to know the decisions you're gonna make before you make them, then it creates this echo chamber of no pushback, of no context of nothing. It's just perpetuating and feeding the bias and the habits that you already have inside of you, which is terrible.[...]

Harry needs to learn about AdBlock and Ghostery and VPNs and Tor and DuckDuckGo and Smartpage and all the other clever little ways the computer-literate have of ridding their lives of unwanted advertising. I haven't seen an ad in years. The only person feeding my habits is me. It’s called personal responsibility. Maybe Harry still needs a Nanny but most grown-ups don’t. Oh wait, I forgot, the “Meghan&Harry Show” fans are all kids.

PH: [...] It's a computer. It's like, who wrote the algorithms? You guys did? Probably all male and all white.

Oooh, let's be sexist and racist, Harry! Did you ever hear of these women or are they too scary?

https://biztechmagazine.com/article/2012/05/mothers-technology-10-women-who-invented-and-innovated-tech

Then they discuss Naked Vegas (this guy Dax has a thing about nudity) and Harry in Afghanistan. And discuss a calendar of naked men that DS and MP put together - their favourite male bodies. What a good job it's only gloating over naked male bodies and not naked female bodies. It's apparently acceptable, for some reason. Harry doesn't know who the guys are.

DS: Monica makes this for me every year and it's a calendar of all my favourite bodies of friends.

MP: And they're all men.

DS: They're all men.

MP: And they're all gorgeous bodies.

[...]

And is Harry nervous talking about mental health? He shouldn't be, he's been banging on about it for years.

PH: Yeah. Was I nervous? No. Not so much nervous. But I guess on this particular subject around mental health. Yeah. For me, it's always a, unfortunately, today's world is quite a sensitive subject, not just for the people who are sharing. But ultimately, the subject matter itself has to be handled with care. [...] It ends up getting weaponized by certain people.

Weaponised by certain people? Like him and Markle, for instance. Neither of 'em has any talent so they weaponise their mental health. Big big mental health bombs loaded with word salad to lob at their own families and cause huge distress. Not nice, Harry.

PH: That's how I've always felt when it comes to projection. I mean, hatred is a form of projection, right? [...] We're not born to hate people. So it manifests itself over a period of time. And of course, it can come from unresolved pain, or being hurt continually, as a young kid or through adult life. But ultimately, there's a source to it. There's a reason why you want to hate somebody else.

Like his dad, his brother...

PH: And actually have some compassion for them. Which is really hard when you're on the receiving end of this, like, just vile, toxic abuse. But the reality is, is you say, flip it. [...] Every single one of us wherever we are, wherever we come from, there will always try and find some way to be able to mask the actual feeling and be able to try and make us feel different to how we are actually feeling, perhaps having a feeling. Right, because so many people are just numb to it. That was a huge part of the beginning of my life, which was like, I rejected. I said, there's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine.

And now he's moved on to promoting his new mental health stuff with Oprah, The Me You Can't See...

PH: So if you are making that conscious decision to say: You know what, it's not self serving, but I want to share my story. I'm being asked to share my story to hopefully help someone or loads of other people. I'm probably going to get trolled. I'm probably going to get attacked by the same people that were doing anyway. If I'm willing to make that decision, surely that comes from a place of courage rather than weakness?

Or possibly naivety. Harry is only wanted for his money-making title and royal status; he has no mental health qualifications, he's not a mental health professional, he's not an expert, all he brings to the table is the glamour of being a prince of the BRF. Which he quite clearly hates. Markle is lining her pockets from their self-indulgent mental health whinge fest and he's too dim to see it. There follows the bit about the spectrum of upbringing that the press is covering nicely so I can skip the next few pages - the bits where Harry says he doesn't see that talking about his own issues is complaining, and “it's the job, right”, how he never wanted the job of being royal, and his therapy and how “massively self-critical” he is (yet still can't see that he's not being honest with himself), ooh and sharing his hatred of the British press - that's a good bit, let's skip to page 18:

PH I think the biggest issue for me was that being born into it, you inherit the risk, you inherit the risk that comes with it, you inherit every element of it without choice. And because of the way that the UK media are, they feel an ownership over you. Literally like a full on ownership. And then they give the impression to some of their, well, most of the readers, that that is the case. But I think it's a really dangerous place to be if you don't have a choice, but then, of course, then people quite rightly will turn around and go. So what if you didn't have a choice? It was privilege? [...] Page Six of the New York Post, they took pictures of my son being picked up from school on his first day [...] But I guess my point is the way that I look at it, especially now living here one hour outside LA. Like it's a feeding frenzy here. We spent the first three and a half months living at Tyler Perry's house. You let us stay. And the helicopter helicopters, the drones the paparazzi cutting the fence like it was madness. And people out there -Their response was, Well, what do you expect if you live in LA? It's like, Okay, well, first of all, we didn't mean to live in LA. This is like a staging area before we try and find a house. And secondly, how sad that if you live in LA and you're well known figure, you just have to accept it. The first security we had, I said, Well, where's the safest place? Inside. Just because I'm a well known person, you can't go outside anymore. [...] it's really, really sad. And of course, their argument is - the paparazzi and everybody else - is like all if you're in the public space, then it's absolutely fine for us to do it. So what is our human right as an individual and as a family, you're saying that if the moment we step foot out of our house, that it's open season and free game? What? Because of public interest?. There's no public interest in you taking your kids for a walk down the beach. Nothing...

And on and on it goes... He should've stayed in the UK then. The Cambridges are managing very nicely, thank you. They take their kids for walks on the beach, and we'd never seen them until they released their anniversary video the other week. Harry's clearly envious of William; Harry's mad wife is vitriolically envious of Catherine. Oh and I’m pretty sure it’s the mad wife who keeps phoning her go-to paps when she needs to be in the news again.

PH: [...] I believe we live in an age now where you've got certain elements of the media redefining to us what privacy means. There's a massive conflict of interest. And then you've got social media platforms, trying to redefine what free speech means. Why - I wonder why you're doing that. And again - so this has been happening for 15 years now. And we're living in this world where we've almost like all the laws have been completely flipped by the very people that need them flipped so they can make more money and they can capitalise off our pain, grief, and this sort of general self destructive mode that's happening at the moment [...]

He doesn't get how hypocritical this is, does he? The Markles are the ones capitalising on their grief, pain and the rest of it. And no-one would be interested in them without the royal bits because they have nothing else to offer. Failed actress and used-to-be-a-soldier wrapped up in festering bitterness.

Blah, blah... went shopping in a supermarket... saw lots of chewing gum... blah, blah... Archie on the back of his bicycle... girls want to be princesses... You don't need to be a princess, you can create the life that will be better than any princess or it's something along those lines... she said she expected [the press] to be fair... Pages and pages of how he hates the British press...

PH: [...] And especially when you can't defend yourself so yes, I think when you marry into it, especially when it's one Princess Diana's sons there is a certain amount of 'okay what I'm actually letting myself in for?' But very few people actually know - apart from the Brits - how toxic that element of the of the UK press is.[...]

We're up to page 24 now, if you're still with me. Oh here it is, Harry's unconscious bias... What’s the betting the mad wife has scripted this bit for him?

PH: [...] So going back to the whole sort of travelling around the Commonwealth, I thought I knew, right, having been able to travel that much and meet so many and such a diverse group of people. I thought I understood life. Especially bearing in mind most of the countries I was going to were, most of the communities are going to were people of colour. But then I was really shocked once I started doing therapy. And that bubble was burst. And I started doing my own work, really - a lot of work - and started to uncover and understand more about unconscious bias. And I was like, wow, I thought since I screwed up when I was younger, and then did the work. I thought I then knew. But I didn't. And I still don't fully know. It's like a constant working progress. And every single one of us has it. [...] Everyone has biases, of all sorts. But I think it's a really important point, especially now, after everything's happened in the last year and a half, like the world is changing, the younger generation are driving it. And you've got to like a multi-racial, cultural sort of movement happening, which has never happened before. But unconscious bias is the way that I understand it, is, again, it's not something that's wrong with you. Right? And you don't have to be defensive about it. That's the thing. No one's blaming you. But the moment that you acknowledge that you do have unconscious bias, what are you going to do about it? Because if you choose to do nothing you're continuing to fuel the problem, which means that you're then heading towards racism. Whereas unconscious bias is actually something that is inherent, unfortunately, in every single one of us. But that it is possible to educate yourself to be more aware of the problems and therefore be part of the solution rather than part of the problem.

Markle's got him well-trained on this one, hasn't she. I wonder if he's read anything critical of the unconscious bias movement, or just repeating what he's been told to. Oh and then he goes off about being in the army...

PH: I loved it. I love wearing the same uniform as everybody else. I love being treated the same. I love the expectation of if you want to get that job, or you want that promotion, or you want to finish this race, it's all on you. There's no special treatment, you're not going to get any help. If anything, you're probably going to get treated the opposite because everyone thinks that you've had an easy life. And everyone's always helped you get to where you are.

But...but...but, Harry wasn't treated the same, there was special treatment, he was helped to get to where he was. He scraped a couple of poor quality A Levels and got admitted to Sandhurst because he's a prince. Good old Wikipedia says:

In June 2003, Harry completed his education at Eton with two A-Levels,[22] achieving a grade B in art and D in geography, having decided to drop history of art after AS level.[23] He has been described as "a top tier athlete", having played competitive polo and rugby union.[24] One of Harry's former teachers, Sarah Forsyth, has asserted that Harry was a "weak student" and that staff at Eton conspired to help him cheat on examinations.[25][26] Both Eton and Harry denied the claims.[25][27] While a tribunal made no ruling on the cheating claim, it "accepted the prince had received help in preparing his A-level 'expressive' project, which he needed to pass to secure his place at Sandhurst."[25][28]

PH: And then suddenly, like - while I was at school, I hated exams. And I promised myself I'd never do exams again. Then I joined the army of which is full of exams. I still promised myself I'm never gonna do it and then I end up flying Apache [...]

Gods, it's getting boring. Even the interviewers are zoning out. Still ten pages to go. Wish I hadn't started this, I could be out weeding. Weather's nice, not too windy... Do I deserve a quick G&T yet?

PH: Or worse, was they turn around and say, right, because last week, you're out the front. This week, you got to carry his bergan, I'm like - what, 30 extra pounds? Nooo. But it was, it was the most normalising experience or job that I could have ever hoped for. And then going to Afghanistan twice [...] And someone said to me very recently, from the moment that you're born into today's world, life is trauma, so the sooner that we actually acknowledge that but but [...]

A-a-a-a-and he's back on the mental health thing, PTSD or PTSI,

PH: Post Traumatic Stress Injury is like: Well, that makes sense, because I just saw my mate get blown out. But the other piece of this is, what we need to remember is, the lot of the recruiting that we do in the UK, comes from certain cities and certain homes, where there's childhood trauma. So what we collectively have already got inside of us, the trigger of seeing something happen in Iraq, Afghanistan can be the trigger. So everyone goes: Oh, it's because they were on operations, and because they saw their makeup blown up. It's like, no. [...] So that's what I've been working on for years, for the last five years, which is like, and it started in therapy of like, I don't want to lose this thing, because I think it's, I feel so connected to my mum. [...]

They move on to parenting, which the press is rubbing its hands over... Harry blaming everyone but himself and his saintly mother - Charles, HMTQ, PP... "They f*ck you up, your mum and dad". But not the mum bit. He can't push his mum off her pedestal.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48419/this-be-the-verse if you don't know Larkin's poetry. How much more? Nearly there. Monica loves The Crown and doesn't realise it's fictitious.

DS: [...]Well, Harry, I've really really liked talking to you. You're very charming. You're very intelligent. You're handsome, and I can't wait to see your torso.

MP: Thank you so much for coming.

DS: So I just want to remind everyone that May 21 on Apple Plus, you should check out Oprah and Prince Harry's 'The Me You Can't See'. I have to imagine it's similar to her book, which I just read, which is absolutely incredible 'What happened to you?' So everyone should check out 'The me you can't see' on Apple plus May 21.

And still Harry won't shut up... Shut up, shut up. Cut his mic. You don't have to read this last bit, they've already wound up the interview...He still won’t shut up.

PH: Yeah, we're moving from the physical to the emotional, right, physically. At the beginning of this pandemic, people were panicking. And there was that fight or flight like, ahh what do we do like lockdown, survival? Yeah. And now that the vaccines have been sort of, we're getting to the point where more and more people are being vaccinated, we're now in the emotional phase of what I read in the New York Times article was called languishing, which is really interesting. It's like the is the middle child between flourishing and depression. You just feel flat, and it's not depressed. It's definitely not flourishing. You lack the energy and the will, the motivation, all that kind of stuff. Because you're kind of sitting there going - Well, what happens next? And I think it's really important that we talk about languishing. And it was coined by someone I can't remember who but I think it was the journalist who wrote the story was Adam Grant. No, he didn't come up with it. Someone else came up with him, he wrote this, the most amazing article about languishing and the fact that how important it is to be able to talk about it because - look when it comes to mental health, we need to realise and accept that every single one of us have mental health. There's varying degrees, as we said, you've got the mental illness, and then you've got the sort of the awareness and the work that you can put in, like, Where do you want to be that we shouldn't just sit there and go: Oh, mental illness is once we are literally on the floor crawling around in the foetal position needing help. But for me, I don't think I need therapy anymore. But I wanted. And when I say therapy, I mean, actual therapy, sitting down having a discussion with someone. But I also mean like, nature, like going for walks, like throwing the ball for my dog down the beach and stuff like that. There are certain things around the world that are free, some you have to pay for, but ultimately go searching for the things that make you feel good about yourself. Like that's the key to life, get rid of the bad stuff, get rid of the hate, and just focus on the good. And your whole life turns around from that. I hate this idea. And I was one of them. I fell for it. Right? I didn't acknowledge that clearly what happened to me when I was 12 years old, losing my mom and all the other pieces that happened, the traumatic experiences that happened to me since then, I didn't acknowledge them, when perhaps - maybe I need to deal with this because if I don't, how the hell am I going to be a decent father to my son and my daughter? Like that awareness, I didn't have then. But again, we've got what - 40 experts as part of this series, and the Surgeon General, Dr. Nadine Burke Harris, she's absolutely fantastic. And she was talking about this concept of mental health being sort of public health, right. Because the services are so limited. There's not enough money. The problem is actually immense. How can we all help each other rather than this: 'Oh, once I'm broken, or once I'm suffering, I have to go here.' And there's not enough rooms or spaces for the amount of people or the for the need, when actually you can get ahead of it, and work on the prevention by sharing and being more vulnerable with each other, and being able to process this grief or this loss, or this trauma that every single one of us have experienced and will experience. So anyone who's sitting there going: 'I don't have a problem, and I never will have a problem.' Well, you probably are already contributing to the problem, because you probably got your blinkers on, you probably created your own echo chambers. So I think it's a that, that's certainly what I've experienced for my own process, my own journey, my family and my friends and everybody else is. Anyone who thinks, oh, we're fine. You're the one who's like, willing to talk about it. It's like, yeah, I'm willing to talk about it and talking about it. And the financial element as well. We're pouring money into on the downsteam, when it's like, Can we just focus upstream? Yeah, we focus on one thing, like to me listen to Oprah was what was one of the reasons that this whole thing started was two of the biggest issues that we're facing in today's world, I think, is the climate crisis, and mental health. And they're both intrinsically linked. Basically if we neglect our collective wellbeing, then we're screwed. Basically, because we can't look after ourselves. We can't look after each other. We can't look after each other, we can't look after this home that we all inhabit. So it's all part of the same thing.

DS: Prince Harry, I don't say this lightly. I love you. Thanks for coming. This was great.

M: Thank you so much.

PH: Thank you very much.

Wish I'd done my weeding.

[collegeburnoutsuperstar]

Social Distancing Book Recs

I’ve been getting tons of book recommendations from friends and family to help get through social distancing/self-quarantine, so I thought I should share some of my favorite books with everybody!

Horror/Apocalyptic: *all books are ADULT*

- The Stand by Stephen King “This is the way the world ends: with a nanosecond of computer error in a Defense Department laboratory and a million casual contacts that form the links in a chain letter of death. And here is the bleak new world of the day after: a world stripped of its institutions and emptied of 99 percent of its people. A world in which a handful of panicky survivors choose sides -- or are chosen” (Goodreads Summary).

- Inferno by Dan Brown “Harvard professor of symbology Robert Langdon awakens in an Italian hospital, disorientated and with no recollection of the past thirty-six hours, including the origin of the macabre object hidden in his belongings. With a relentless female assassin tailing them through Florence, he and his resourceful doctor, Sienna Brooks, are forced to flee. Embarking on a harrowing journey, they must unravel a series of codes, which are the work of a brilliant scientist whose obsession with the end of the world is matched only by his passion for one of the most influential masterpieces ever written, Dante Alighieri’s The Inferno” (Goodreads Summary).

- World War Z by Max Brooks “The Zombie War came unthinkably close to eradicating humanity. Max Brooks, driven by the urgency of preserving the acid-etched first-hand experiences of the survivors from those apocalyptic years, traveled across the United States of America and throughout the world, form decimated cities that once teemed with upwards of thirty million souls to the most remote and inhospitable areas of the planet. He recorded the testimony of men, women, and sometimes children who came face-to-face with the living, or at least the undead, hell of that dreadful time. World War Z is the result. Never before have we had access to a document that so powerfully conveys the depth of fear and horror, and also the ineradicable spirit of resistance, that gripped human society through the plague years” (Goodreads summary).

- It by Stephen King “It’s a small city, a place as hauntingly familiar as your own hometown. Only in Derry the haunting is real... They were seven teenagers when they first stumbled upon the horror. Now they are grown-up men and women who have gone out into the big world to gain success and happiness. But none of them can withstand the force that has drawn them back to Derry to face the nightmare without an end, and the evil without a name” (Goodreads summary).

- The Shining by Stephen King “Jack Torrance’s new job at the Overlook Hotel is the perfect chance for a fresh start. As the off-season caretaker at the atmospheric old hotel, he’ll have plenty of time to spend reconnecting with his family and working on his writing. But as the harsh winter weather sets in, the idyllic locations feels ever more remote... and more sinister. And the only one to notice the strange and terrible forces gathering around the Overlook is Danny Torrance, a uniquely gifted five-year-old” (Goodreads summary).

- House of Leaves by Mark Z. Danielewski “[House of Leaves] focuses on a young family that moves into a small home on Ash Tree Lane where they discover something is terribly wrong: their house is bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Of course, neither Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist Will Navidson nor his companion Karen Green was prepared to face the consequences of the impossibility, until the day their two little children wandered off and their voices eerily began to return another story -- of creature darkness, of an ever-growing abyss behind a closet door, and of the unholy growl which soon enough would tear through their walls and consume all their dreams” (Goodreads summary).

Comedy:

- Good Omens by Neil Gaimen and Terry Pratchett “People have been predicting the end of the world almost from its very beginning, so it’s only natural to be skeptical when a new date is set for Judgement Day. But what if, for once, the predictions are right, and the apocalypse really is due to arrive next Saturday, just after tea? You could spend the time left drowning your sorrows, giving away all your possessions in preparation for the rapture, or laughing it off as (hopefully) just another hoax. Or you could just try to do something about it. It’s a predicament that Aziraphale, a somewhat fussy angel, and Crowley, a fast-living demon now finds themselves in. They’ve been living amongst Earth’s mortals since The Beginning and, truth be told, have grown rather fond of the lifestyle and, in all honesty, are not actually looking forward to the coming Apocalypse. And then there’s the small matter that someone appears to have misplaced the Antichrist... “ (Goodreads summary).

- Dad Is Fat by Jim Gaffigan *PG-13* Dad is Fat is a comedic memoir that details Jim Gaffigan’s life growing up in a large Catholic family to his experiences as a husband and father (specifically parenting his five young children while living in a tiny walk-up apartment in New York). I highly recommend the audiobook (which is narrated by Jim Gaffigan), my family and I always listen to it during road trips. It never stops being funny. 

- Bored of the Rings: A Parody of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings by The Harvard Lampoon *ADULT* “A quest, a war, a ring that would be grounds for calling any wedding off, a king without a kingdom, and a little, furry ‘hero’ named Frito, ready -- or maybe just forced by the wizard of Goodgulf-- to undertake the one mission which can save Lower Middle Earth from enslavement by the evil Sorhed… Luscious Elfmaidens, a roller-skating dragon, ugly plants that can soul-kiss the unwary to death-- these are just some of the ingredients in the wildest, wackiest, most irreverent excursion into fantasy realms that anyone has ever dared to undertake” (Goodreads summary).

Middle-Grade:

- Percy Jackson and the Olympians series by Rick Riordan (book 1: The Lightning Thief) “Percy Jackson is a good kid, but he can’t seem to focus on his schoolwork or control his temper. And lately, being away at boarding school is only getting worse - Percy could have sworn his pre-algebra teacher turned into a monster and tried to kill him. When Percy’s mom finds out, she knows it’s time that he knew the truth about where he came from, and that he go to the one place he’ll be safe. She sends Percy to Camp Half Blood, a summer camp for demigods. Soon a mystery unfolds and together with his friends-- one a satyr and the other the demigod daughter of Athena-- Percy sets out on a quest across the United States to reach the gates of the Underworld and prevent a catastrophic war between the gods” (Goodreads summary).

- The Heroes of Olympus series by Rick Riordan (book 1: The Lost Hero) “Jason has a problem. He doesn’t remember anything before waking up in a bus full of kids on a field trip. Apparently he has a girlfriend named Piper, and a best friend named Leo. They’re all students at a boarding school for ‘bad kids.’ What id Jason do to end up here? And where is here, exactly? Piper has a secret. Her father has been missing for three days, ever since she had that terrifying nightmare about his being in trouble. Piper doesn’t understand her dream, or why her boyfriend suddenly doesn’t recognize her. When a freak storm hits during the school trip, unleashing strange creatures and whisking her, Jason, and Leo away to someplace called Camp Half-Blood, she has a feeling she’s going to find out. Leo has a way with tools. When he sees his cabin at Camp Half-Blood, filled with power tools and machine parts, he feels right at home. But there’s weird stuff, too-- like the curse everyone keeps talking about, and some camper who’s gone missing. Weirdest of all, his bunkmates insist that each of them--including Leo-- is related to a god. Does this have anything to do with Jason’s amnesia, or the fact that Leo keeps seeing ghosts?” (Goodreads summary)

- The Children of the Red King series by Jenny Nimmo (book 1: Midnight for Charlie Bone) “Charlie Bone has a special gift-- he can hear people in photographs talking! The fabulous powers of the Red King were passed down through his descendants, after turning up quite unexpectedly, in someone who had no idea where they came from. This is what happened to Charlie Bone, and to some of the children he met behind the grim, gray walls of Bloor’s Academy. His scheming aunts decide to send him to Bloor’s Academy, a school for geniuses where he uses his grifts to discover the truth despite all the dangers that lie ahead” (Goodreads summary).

- Things Not Seen by Andrew Clements “Bobby Phillips is an average fifteen-year-old boy. Until the morning he wakes up and can’t see himself in the mirror. Not blind, not dreaming. Bobby is just plain invisible... There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to Bobby’s new conditions; even his dad the physicist can’t figure it out. For Bobby that means no school, no friends, no life. He’s a missing person” (Goodreads summary).

Science Fiction:

- Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? by Philip K. Dick *Adult*  “It was January 2021, and Rick Deckard had a license to kill. Somewhere among the hordes of humans out there, lurked several rogue androids. Deckard’s assignment-- find them and then... ‘retire’ them. Trouble was, the androids all looked exactly like humans, and they didn’t want to be found!” (Goodreads summary).

- Jurassic Park by Michael Crichton * Suitable for Young Adults* “An astonishing technique for recovering and cloning dinosaur DNA has been discovered. Now humankind’s most thrilling fantasies have come true. Creatures extinct for eons roam Jurassic Park with their awesome presence and profound mystery, and all the world can visit them-- for a price. Until something goes wrong...” (Goodreads summary). 

Fantasy:

- The Magicians trilogy by Lev Grossman *ADULT* (book 1: The Magicians) “Quentin Coldwater is brilliant but miserable. A senior in high school, he’s still secretly preoccupied with a series of fantasy novels he read as a child, set in a magical land called Fillory. Imagine his surprise when he finds himself unexpectedly admitted to a very secret, very exclusive college of magic in upstate New York, where he receives a thorough and rigorous education in the craft of modern sorcery. He also discovers all the other things people learn in college: friendship, love, sex, booze, and boredom. Something is missing, though. Magic doesn’t bring Quentin the happiness and adventure he dreamed it would. After graduation he and his friends make a stunning discovery: Fillory is real. But the land of Quentin’s fantasies turns out to be much darker and more dangerous than he could have imagined. His childhood dream becomes a nightmare with a shocking truth at its heart” (Goodreads summary).

- The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater *YA* (book 1: The Raven Boys) “What do you know about Welsh kings?” This incredibly atmospheric story centers on a seemingly random group of teens as they uncover the mysterious and magical secrets of their small Virginia town.

- A Darker Shade of Magic by V.E. Schwab *Suitable for Young Adults* “Kell is one of the last Antari-- magicians with a rare, coveted ability to travel between parallel Londons; Red, Grey, White, and, once upon a time, Black. Kell was raised in Arnes-- Red London-- and officially serves the Maresh Empire as an ambassador, traveling between the frequent bloody regime changes in White London and the court of George III  in the dullest of Londons, the one without any magic left to see. Unofficially, Kell is a smuggler, servicing people willing to pay for even the smallest glimpses of a world they’ll never see. After an exchange goes awry, Kell escapes to Grey London and runs into Delilah Bard, a cut-purse with lofty aspirations. She first robs him, then saves him from a deadly enemy, and finally forces Kell to spirit her to another world for a proper adventure. Now perilous magic is afoot, and treacher lurks at every turn. To save all of the worlds, they’ll first need to stay alive” (Goodreads summary).

- The Lord of the Rings trilogy by J.R.R. Tolkien *Suitable for middle-grade through adult* “In ancient times the Rings of Power were crafted by the Elven-smiths, and Sauron, the Dark Lord. forged the One Ring, filling it with his own power so that he could rule all others. But the One Ring was taken form him, and though he sought it throughout Middle-earth, it remained lost to him. After many ages it fell by chance into the hands of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins. When Bilbo reached his eleventy-first birthday he disappeared, bequeathing to his young cousin Frodo the Ruling Ring and a perilous quest: to journey across Middle-earth, deep into the shadow of the Dark Lord, and destroy the Ring by casting it into the Cracks of Doom” (Goodreads summary).

- The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss *Adult* “Told in Kvothe’s own voice, this is the tale of the magically gifted young man who grows to be the most notorious wizard his world has ever seen. The intimate narrative of his childhood in a troupe of traveling players, his years spent as a near-feral orphan in a crime-ridden city, his daringly brazen yet successful bit to enter a legendary school of magic, and his life as a fugitive, and his life as a fugitive after the murder of a king form a gripping coming-of-age story” (Goodreads summary).

- The Lies of Locke Lamora by Scott Lynch *Adult* “An orphan’s life is harsh-- and often short-- in the mysterious island city of Camorr. But youge Locke Lamora dodges death and slavery, becoming a thief under the tutelage of a gifted con artist. As leader of the band of light-fingered brothers known as the Gentleman Bastards, Loke is soon infamous, fooling even the underworld’s most feared ruler. But in the shadows lurks someone still more ambitious and deadly. Faced with a bloody coup that threatens to destroy everyone and everything that holds meaning in his mercenary life, Locke vows to beat the enemy at his own brutal game-- or die trying” (Goodreads summary).

Fiction:

- The Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich *ADULT mystery-thrillers/romance* (book 1: One for the Money) “You’ve lost your job as a department store lingerie buyer, your car’s been repossessed, and most of your furniture and small appliances have been sold off to pay last month’s rent. Now the rent is due again. And you live in New Jersey. What do you do? If you’re Stephanie Plum, you become a bounty hunter. But not just a nickel-and-dime bounty hunter; you go after the big money. That means a cop gone bad. And not just any cop. She goes after Joe Morelli, a disgraced former vice cop who is also the man who took Stephanie’s virginity at age 16 and the wrote details on a bathroom wall. With pride and rent money on the line, Plum plunges headlong into her first case, one that pits her against ruthless adversaries - people who’d rather kill than lose” (Goodreads summary).

- The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown *Adult* “While in Paris, Harvard symbologist Robert Langdon is awakened by a phone call in the dead of the night. The elderly curator of the Louvre has been murdered inside the museum, his body covered in baffling symbols. As Langdon and gifted French cryptologist Sophie Neveu sort through the bizarre riddles, they are stunned to discover a trail of clues hidden in the works of Leonardo da Vinci-- clues visible for all to see and yet ingeniously disguised by the painter. Even more startling, the late curator was involved in the Priory of Sion-- a secret society whose members included Sir Isaac Newton, Victory Hugo, and Da Vici-- and he guarded a breathtaking historical secret. Unless Landon and Neveu can decipher the labyrinthine puzzle-- while avoiding the faceless adversary who shadows their every move-- the explosive, ancient truth will be lost forever” (Goodreads summary).

- Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle *Adult* Sherlock Holmes stories are always fun when stuck at home.

- 11/22/63 by Stephen King *Adult* “Life can turn on a dime-- or stumble into the extraordinary, as it does for Jake Epping, a high school English teacher in Lisbon Falls, Maine. While grading essays by his GED students, Jake reads a gruesome, enthralling piece penned by janitor Harry Dunning: fifty years ago, Harry somehow survived his father’s sledgehammer slaughter of his entire family, Jake is blown away... but an even more bizarre secret comes to light when Jake’s friend Al, owner of the local diner, enlists Jake to take over the mission that has become his obsession-- to prevent the Kennedy assassination. How? By stepping through a portal in the diner’s storeroom, and into the ear of Ike and Elvis, or big American cars, sock hops, and cigarette smoke... Finding himself in warmhearted Jodie, Texas, Jake begins a new life. But all turns in the road lead to a troubled loner named Lee Harvey Oswald. The course of history is about to be rewritten... and become heart-stoppingly suspenseful” (Goodreads summary).

Non-Fiction:

- The Men Who Stare at Goats by Jon Ronson *Adult* “In 1979 a secret unit was established by the most gifted minds within the U.S. Army. Defying all known accepted military practice-- and indeed, the laws of physics-- they believed that a soldier could adopt a cloak of invisibility, pass cleanly through walls, and, perhaps most chillingly, kill goats just by staring at them. Entrusted with defending America from all known adversaries, they were the First Earth Battalion. And they really weren’t joking. What’s more, they’re back and fighting the War on Terror. With firsthand access to the leading players in the story, Ronson traces the evolution of these bizarre activities over the past three decades and shows how they are alive today within the U.S. Department of Homeland Security and in postwar Iraq. Why are they blasting Iraqi prisoners of war with the theme tune to Barney the Purple Dinosaur? Why have 100 debleated goats been secretly placed inside the Special Forces Command Center at Fort Bragg, North Carolina? How was the U.S. military associated with the mysterious mass suicide of a strange cult form San Diego? The Men Who Stare at Goats answers these and many more questions” (Goodreads summary).

- Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert *Adult* (I recommend listening to the audiobook, which is narrated by Elizabeth Gilbert) “To recover from [an early midlife crisis, divorce, and depression], Gilbert took a radical step. In order to give herself the time and space to find out who she really was and what she really wanted, she got rid of her belongings, quit her job, and undertook a yearlong journey around the world-- all alone. Eat, Pray, Love is the absorbing chronicle of that year. Her aim was to visit three places where she could examine one aspect of her own nature set against the backdrop of a culture that has traditionally done that one thing very well. In Rome, she studied the art of pleasure, learning to speak Italian and gaining the twenty-three happiest pounds of her life. India was for the art of devotion, and with the help of a native guru and a surprisingly wise cowboy from Texas, she embarked on four uninterrupted months of spiritual exploration. In Bali, she studied the art of balance between worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence. She became the pupil of an elderly medicine man and also fell in love the best way-- unexpectedly” (Goodreads summary).

[tumblezwei]

Despite how little time I actually have these days to sit down and read anything, I’ve developed quite the long list of manga. Some of it’s popular stuff like AoT or Berserk, and others are just trashy series that I’ll never talk about because I have some level of shame. I don’t know where Im leading with this except to give some kind of context for the random manga I’m about to list off. I’ll put genre and a small synopsis, not all of these are going to be to everyone’s tastes, if any of them are, but I highly recommend each one of them. 

We’re gonna start with my favorite and go down

1. The Faraway Paladin

William is a shut-in that dies alone in his apartment and is reincarnated as a baby, surrounded by three undead figures: a mummy, a ghost, and a skeleton. The three raise him as their own son and teach him combat and magic as he tries to figure out the reason he was given a second chance. 

fantasy, adventure, isekai

Please don’t let the isekai description deter you, it’s not a harem, or an ecchi anime, or some power fantasy where Will is the chosen one. It’s focus is mostly on family and Will’s connections with other people and how that strengthens him. It’s only got 28 chapters translated right now, so don’t expect a sweeping saga, but it’s still criminally underrated in a space saturated with mediocre fantasy isekai. But if you do like the story and can’t wait, it’s adapted from a light novel. 

Also just, look at my boy, my beautiful son. 

2. Ebony

5 years ago, Ebony Vonieck was convicted for the murder of her fiance and sent to a women-only prison, where the guards abused and mistreated the inamtes on a daily basis. Then one day, Archduke Schneider somehow managed to free her from her imprisonment and brought her to his manor, where she was tgiven a warm reception and care that she was not used to. Schneider sees in Ebony a level of intelligence and potential that’s wasted on the patriarchal society of her kingdom, and gives her the oppurtunites to grow her skill and work alongside him. 

historical, fantasy, romance

Honestly it would probably be better to just paste the descriptions as they’re given, but I don’t think either description fits with what this story is. No, this is not a stroy where a man comes in and saves the poor woman from the evil other men and tells her she ~just doesn’t know how special she is~. This is a story about a woman taking her life back after everything was stolen from her, and taking the oppurtunities given to her to rise above her percieved worth and gain confidence in herself. Ebony is a fantastic character, and the story is majorily focused on her growth as a person, rather than her romance with Schneider (which hasn’t even started yet in the chapters that have been translated). 

3. A Stepmother's Märchen

At a young age, Shuli was sold off to marry the windowed Marquis of Neuschwanstein and take care of his four children. But suddenly, the Marguis died, leaving Shuli alone in a high society world she knew nothing about. She lived her life under harsh criticism and scorn, even from her own adopted children, until one day she’s pushed down a flight of stairs and dies. But instead of dying, she’s brought back to the day of her husband’s funeral, and begins living her life as the  Marchioness Shuli Von Neuschwanstein, but this time she’s going to do it differently. 

fantasy, romance, drama

At this point you can probably tell my preferences, and guess what this one is going to be about. And you’d be right, it’s about family, rectifying past mistakes, and romance that’s pratically nonexistant because finding out who you are and what you stand for is more important at the moment. Admittedly this one is more on the power fantasy side of Shuli getting to stick it to people who were assholes in previous life, but I still think it’s a good read with some unique and beautiful art. 

4. Mieruko-chan

All of a sudden, Miko is able to see grotesque monsters all around her; but no one else can. Rather than trying to run away or face them, she instead musters all of her courage and... ignores them. Join in on her day-to-day life as she keeps up her best poker face despite the supernatural goings-on.

comedy, supernatural, horror

This one’s mainly just for fun, and to break up the list so you don;t think all of my faves are the exact same lol. You’ve defintely seen at least a few images from this one, even if you don’t remember where they’re from. It’s mostly a gag/slife of life manga about a girl who can suddenly see ghosts everywhere, and tries to keep them from noticing that she can see them as she goes about her daily life. But what you might not know is that it has...a plot? Kind of? There’s defintely an overarching story going on that’s been taking priorty for the most recent chapters, and it’s defintely what kept the story from going stale on me. Overall it’s a fun read with more depth to it than you’d initially expect. 

5. Yeon Lok Heun

Yeon grew up disguised as a boy, living in a monk sancuray learning marital arts as her father went on a journey to get revenge on the people who murdered her mother when she was a baby. When her father gets arrested and is about to be excecuted for his crimes, Yeon begs the young Emperor Garyun to take her life instead. The emperor sees potential in this boy and agrees to spare the father in exchange for the boy’s life-long servitude. The manga follows Yeon solving supernatural problems for the Emperor while trying to keep her identity hidden, even as she falls in love. 

historical, fantasy, romance, action

YEAH IT’S ANOTHER ONE OF THESE. AND? AND??? 

In contrast to the others, however, this one actually isn’t about found family or personal demons, it’s mostly just about Yeon and her supernatural misadventures. And also the romance kind hits you like a freight train. There is no slowburn here, it’s just nonexistant and than WHAM, you’re making frustrated groans at your phone at 2 a.m. because you dorks, you’re in love. It’s fun, a little angsty, and trust me don’t even go into this expecting a breadcrumb trail to the romance just enjoy the story and wait to get hit. 

6. The Emperor and the Female Knight

Paulina is a bastard daughter of a count that was sold off at a young age and trained as a soldier to fight in the ongoing war between Cukda and Acrea. After 6 years fighting in this war, she’s captured by Acrean soldiers as a prisoner. After seeing her potential and dedication, Lucius, Emporer of Acrea, offers her a chance to work under him in his army. 

historical, fantasy, romance

shut up shut up shut up shut up

I’ll only say one think: twink king supreme and his ginormous, stupidly obvious crush on his butch right hand woman. If you want a romance centering around a masculine woman who’s never given that “Cinderella moment” where she realizes she was “beatiful all along,” and instead stays the entire story as a gruff, buff, battle-hardened badass, then this is the story for you. Incredibly funny, good characters, and a poor man that just wants to smooch Paulina so bad but she’s such a musclehead and doesn’t get it. 

7. July as Found by Chance

It starts with Danoh realizing that she has severe gaps in her memory. One minute she’s in class, and the next it’s three days later and she’s in a hospital bed for a check-up on her heart condition. The, she gets flashs of the future, jumbled up images and words that later come true right in front of her eyes. And then she finds the book, with her name inside it. But she’s not the main character, she’s a side character that exists to die. 

romance, drama

Unlike every other manga/manhwa on this list, this one is actually completed. It’s a pretty somber story, about two people that find out they’re characters in a story with a set storyline and no chance of happiness together. It’s mostly about their struggle to find some agency in their situation, no matter how much they’re pulled apart. It’s cute, and sometimes sad, with an incredibly unique take on “characters trapped in a story” that I’ve never seen before and haven’t since. 

And that’s it for now! Each one of these has something unique to offer, in my mind, and deserve a lot more attention than they have. And now you have a glance at what my tastes are lol, if I’m not reading something like this, then it’s something more action oriented or at least more well-known. If you’ve managed to make it to the end, thanks, maybe I’ll do another one of these if people like this one. 

[neworleansspecial]

I Never Thought of Myself as Mean (I Always Thought that I’d be the Queen) | Letters!AU

Summary: Ava tells her side of the story

WC: 3.3k

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Murder, Suicidal Ideation

-

My name is Ava Bekker. I was a cardiothoracic surgeon with Chicago Gaffney Medical Center for a few years, but I had that taken away from me just like everything else. I write this letter not to instill pity, nor fear, but to express my side of the story because all anyone ever heard was that of the people who did this to me in the first place. Nothing I did could stop them from holding that over my head. 

I write this letter also at the advisory of Dr. Sarah Reese, should that be of concern to anyone who reads it; my dearest Sarah wanted me to tell my side in hopes of bringing me some sense of closure, or perhaps catharsis, about the trauma which I faced at the hands of the Rhodes men. I do believe her timid assistant, Miss Sexton, only agreed for the purposes of publishing and analyzing my literature. I am sure edits will be made to my retelling to make it more palatable to the audience, though I will write things as they happened for this exact reason. 

It occurs to me that my version of events will likely never become public in the way the story of those who victimized me is. It was published across thousands of news sites the way I allegedly brutalized Connor and Cornelius Rhodes, but not a single one asked me whether or not they got what was coming to them. 

There are also fictionalized versions of the events. Some publishings said that I gutted Cornelius Rhodes like a fish, which is simply untrue. Reading the coroner’s report alone disproves that. It was Connor who died a bloody death, and even then, I showed him much more mercy than he deigned to show me. I will not bore the reader with such details now, as this is my side, and I intend to tell it chronologically. 

I know that Connor never wanted me in Gaffney. The first thing Dr. Latham told him, even prior to the passing of Connor’s mentor, Dr. Downey, was that I would have been his choice for a fellow. I joined Med shortly thereafter from my position in South Africa. To be honest, I took the position for the raise it gave me. I made much more as a heart surgeon in a premiere Chicago hospital than I did in a small South African hospital. I didn’t care about who would replace me. I just wanted the money, and I wanted change. I have always been good at what I do, and I think Connor resented me for being better at this than he was. He hated that I was better than him. He hated that I was better liked than him. He hated that I was prettier than him. 

Before my arrival, I was aware of the reputation he had. It persisted even in my presence. He slept around, with women and men alike, and he was viewed as being pretty. It was the blue eyes and the dark hair, I think, that made him so “classically beautiful” and earned him the attention he received. Patients and their families flirted with him as well as our coworkers. After I arrived, however, much of this attention was redirected toward me. It is not that I wanted, or even liked, this attention, but merely that I received it in lieu of him once I settled into my role as a CT surgeon at his side. 

We performed many surgeries together, Connor and I; some things are easier with two sets of hands. He never listened to me in such cases. I was the lead surgeon more often, but he chose to ignore my instructions and advice, if he did not try to overtake my leadership altogether. I think he may have been unable to relinquish control to a woman, particularly one he was attracted to. 

I do not claim his attraction as a facet of narcissism, but as a statement of fact. As I continue on, my evidence will become clear and one will understand how I know he found me, if nothing else, pretty enough to put his hands on. His father did to. The apple did not fall far from the tree with the Rhodes men, though Connor would deny such a thing. He did until his deathbed, after all. They were both narcissists and power-assertive rapists, a term I’ve read much about in my incarceration. 

I’ve found myself reading near constantly since my arrest, primarily about trauma and psychology. I’ve read about myself. People have written papers on how I was able to “hide” a personality disorder, and the way I likely killed before, and I’ve read each one. Those who have never even come within ten feet of me claim to know me, and attempt to explain my behavior as a facet of mental illness rather than trauma. 

I’ve debated myself whether Connor is a power-assertive or an anger-retaliatory rapist, though I’ve settled on power-assertive. He always hated me, of course, but he did not attack me as a method of punishment. He did it because he could, just as his father did. I read several pieces of literature about it, and watched old news recordings of Captain Olivia Benson from New York City. I wanted to understand them, though I know now I will not be able to get inside their heads enough to truly understand why they did what they did. 

When I was a child, I was attacked similarly. I was eleven years old, I was scared, and I did not understand what had happened to me. I repressed the memory for a long time, and it is only recently that I have begun to remember it. There lies another thing to be angry and hurt about. 

Connor and I were friends, if nothing else, for a little while. I liked him enough to not want him to leave, out of a fear that someone worse would take his place. He hated me, and then he realized his attraction to me outweighed his ego, and we reached a peace of sorts. I did not prefer his company even then, but I did learn to tolerate it, and became used to him. I do struggle with change, and always have, so I suppose I wanted to cling to the evil I knew. I knew what to expect from Connor. Or at least, at that point in time, I thought I did. While I knew how he felt about me, it never occurred to me that he may do something as vile as what he did. 

Twice. 

We were friends, though. Not close, but close enough, and when he was shot down on the hybrid OR due to funding and planned on taking the job at the Mayo Clinic, I did not want him to leave. As such, I stepped into his world, and that led me to his father, Cornelius Rhodes. 

I had met Cornelius on perhaps one or two occasions prior, and he was the only person I knew with the funds to pay for Connor’s hybrid OR. I had hoped to convince him by reminding him how much he loved his son, and perhaps repairing their damaged bond for my benefit. I can admit, such a task was manipulative, but it was all I knew to do at the time, and as such, I tried. I dressed up nice and tried to do the right thing. I wanted to help Connor. 

There was nothing nice or helpful, of course, about being pushed up against a desk and having my dress yanked up my thighs. 

I would like to say that I struggled, but the truth is quite simply that I froze. I have read a lot about this phenomenon- the third survival instinct, beyond fight or flight- and learned that I am not the only one it has happened to. I could not move. I could not think. I could not breathe. My memory of the event remains hazy but I remember that it hurt, and he left bruises on my body that made me vomit every time I saw them. I hated what had happened to me, and I wanted to die. 

I thought about killing myself, at first. My body, my soul, felt tainted by what had happened to me. I felt like I let it happen because I didn’t, couldn’t, fight him off. When I told my lawyer, I was asked why I never reported, but the truth is that I tried. I told Will Halstead’s brother, the only police officer I knew and believed I might be able to trust, and he sat me down with a very stern look on his face. 

“Those accusations could ruin Mr. Rhodes’ life,” he said to me. “Why didn’t you fight back?” he asked me. “It’s not worth it to do a rape kit,” he told me. “You’re being overdramatic,” he informed me. He never made a formal report, nor did he pass this information on to his coworkers or superiors, and I felt humiliated for having to relive one of the worst things to ever happen to me, only to be berated for allowing it. When I was done speaking with Det. Halstead, I felt even worse than before and knew that no one would ever be willing to hear my side of the story. 

Cornelius did not leave me alone after that. He sent me flowers. The moment I saw them, I knew I would never be able to escape what happened to me. I refused to leave Gaffney, however, because it did not seem fair to me that I should have to give up everything I ever worked for because of something that was out of my hands. It only got worse from there, but let it be said that I tried so hard to survive this and make it out unscathed. 

I had nightmares where it happened again. The same scenario, the same rape, over and over again whenever I shut my eyes for longer than a blink. I could not forget it, and it was exacerbated by Connor’s eyes and his voice. He was so much like his father that I could hardly stand it anymore, but I still wanted things to be alright. I tried, day in and day out, to keep moving forward in time when it felt like my body wanted to sink into the earth like quick sand. 

Then there was the gala, the one where Cornelius claimed I slept with him to get him to pay for the OR, and Connor punched him but he believed him. He had looked at me with that same arrogance in his eyes like he knew no one would ever believe me about what truly happened. I heard his voice calling me a whore all over again. I felt his hands on my body. My cheeks burned and my eyes stung and I wanted to die rather than live through this. 

That is the first time Connor attacked me. 

We were leaving, and I felt both exhausted and embarrassed on top of the pure terror that comes with reliving something like that. Of course, Connor was angry with me. He believed his father that I willingly slept with him. He didn’t want to hear that his father raped me, or that it happened because I was trying to do something nice for him. All he wanted to hear was that I had betrayed him. We were quiet in his car for about half the drive before he started yelling at me. 

I didn’t invite him up to my apartment, but he came anyways. He followed me. When we were alone, he pushed me up against my door and put his hand on my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. All I knew was panic, and I tried to scratch at his hands to get them off of me, but nothing worked. He was stronger than me, and angrier. 

He dragged me all the way to my bed and pushed me down. He tore my clothes off me and laughed at me for trying to cover my body with my hands. Connor pinned my wrists with his hands and my thighs with his knees and he assaulted me. I looked at the clock while he did, so I didn’t have to look at him, and it took hours for him to be finished violating me. I think it was. I remember it being around 10 when he started, and around 2 in the morning when I was able to move again. He was getting redressed and I saw my blood on the sheets. I curled up on the mattress and tried not to be sick. It was all I could do not to add to the mess. He did not say anything before he left

I chose not to report it this time, since they were so helpful when Cornelius attacked me. No one would believe me. Once I could move again, as painful as it was, I crawled to the shower and turned it on as hot as I could possibly manage without scalding myself. Then I took my scrub and ferociously attacked my skin with it, desperate to erase any and all traces of Connor on my body. I didn’t want to feel him anymore. I could smell his cologne, feel his hands, feel his lips still on my skin. I wanted him gone. 

The next three days, I called out of work. I could not face the world, and certainly not Connor, after being brutalized a second time. I did not know that he would try once more, only that I was hurt and afraid and so uncomfortable in my own skin that it burned with every movement I made. At that time, I could not bear to return to my bed, so I stayed in the bathtub, shivering, until the sun rose the next morning and I could crawl out of the plaster. I spent those three days wallowing, unsure how to carry on. 

Connor acted like nothing ever happened. 

I did too, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do, but I was never the same afterwards. I could not stand the way his voice sounded, or the feel of his hands on my skin in a million casual touches carefully orchestrated to make me lose my mind entirely. I hated him. I was terrified of him. I wanted him dead. 

That is not when I decided to kill Connor, however, and it was not even when I decided to kill Cornelius. At that point I was just scared. My decision to take back my courage and my sense of self was made much later on. 

I began to hate myself in the aftermath of what Connor did to me. I had allowed myself to be assaulted twice, or at least, it seemed I had allowed it, and I could no longer trust myself to do anything. What kind of weakling must I have been? How stupid? I trudged on. I wanted to die, though I was too much of a coward to commit to it. Connor never mentioned what he did, and in fact continued to flirt with me and make comments about my inability as a surgeon compared to him. No one paid attention to my flinches when his hand touched my back or the way I cringed from the sound of his voice. 

Some three months later, Cornelius was hospitalized and placed in my care because of a heart problem. As I looked after him, he talked about his memories of hurting me, and how lovely he found the sweat on my skin against his hands when he held me down. That was when I finally decided I had had enough. 

It was not an impulse decision to kill Cornelius, though it was for Connor. I wanted this vile man off the face of the Earth. I waited for the right time, found an extra dose of insulin, and made to shoot him up with it. Unfortunately, this insulin had a contamination that could be traced back to me, something I did not find out until later. 

After his father’s death, Connor confronted me with his accusations. He was correct, of course, but I lied to him and turned the tables back toward him. It would be beautiful for him to be imprisoned for my murder of his father. One rapist dead. One behind bars. I craved it, but I was too late. They would know it was me in a matter of hours.

I tried to run. I could return to South Africa, or make a home for myself in Brazil, or any number of things. I would need to pack a bag quick, draw cash quicker. It occurred to me that I did not have much time, if I had any at all, but I still made for an empty operating room to breathe and figure out my next step. 

Unfortunately, Connor followed me. 

He shoved me, hard, towards the surgical tray and put his hand around my throat just like he had when he hurt me. I panicked. Though he was not choking me nearly as hard, I couldn’t breathe past the memory of what he did. His free hand found the waistband of my scrubs and I knew he would do it all over again. So I did what I had to. It was my only choice. 

I picked up the scalpel and slid it into his chest, dragging it and pulling to rip his torso open like he ripped open my soul. His hands fell from my body and his body hit the floor. He was still alive, frantically pressing down on the wound and gasping for breath when I did it again, across his stomach this time. Then I did the only logical thing. I made sure he would never even think about hurting me again. I pulled down his scrubs, though such an act made me gag, and I castrated him. He screamed, then. If people weren’t on their way before, they were then, and I knew I would not be able to escape. Connor’s final act as the light began to fade from his eyes was to ensure I would never be free of him. I would never be able to forget what he did. 

When the police found me, I was laying next to his body, covered in his blood. I was laughing. I don’t know why. Perhaps it was the fact that I would never have to face either of the Rhodes men again. Maybe I knew my life would be spent in a cage. Or I just lost what few pieces of myself were left, and some sad, hurting, angry thing in a fit of laughter was all that was left. 

I told my lawyer everything, but no one believed me, just as they did not believe me when it all happened in the first place. My rapes were never brought up in trial, only my responses. When I tried to make the claim, I was objected to. They shut me up. Dead men’s reputations were more important than my freedom. 

The few friends I had all abandoned me. Not one of them wanted to hear what I endured. All they cared about was the murders, and then, only of the victims and not why I did it. Until Sarah, no one cared at all. 

I still wonder if Sarah even cares, or if she merely means to profit off my suffering.