#so i tend to favour other things over just a brutal fuck like i like for Chuuya or Nikolai

[kaeyx]

For a religious man, Fyodor really likes the idea of being responsible for your downfall. There's nothing he loves more than taking his sweet, innocent lover and moulding them into his ideal lover, his personal porn. He doesn't actually care if you're not "pure" or "innocent", to him you can always get worse. The more kinks you have the more he can exploit, the less you have the more he can implant into your pretty head until you don't even remember they weren't your idea.

[artsy-hobbitses]

So what's the deal with our grumpy Olympic throwing medic and drift? Like how does their relationship start. Is like hate then mutual dislike then tolerate to omg I think I like him thing?

The relationship starts almost the same way as it does in IDW 2005!

A younger!Drift high on drugs (to deal with his chronic pain in his legs which were damaged in a hit-and-run which ended a potential Olympic career) was assaulted by thugs and then saved by OP who brought him to Ratchet’s free clinic for emergency treatment, and Ratchet ended up saving his life. Over the course of Ratchet nursing him back to health (Ratchet keeps him here for a longer period to keep an eye on his healing injuries/potential withdrawal symptoms), they talk more frequently and become friends as Drift attempts to help Ratchet around the clinic best as he can in his condition. He very much admires Ratchet for the work the man does pro bono in an area no doctor worth their name would want to work and Ratchet sees the spark of who this young man could have been if that accident had not robbed him of a career he’d been training for his whole life.

Ratchet helps ease some of the pain Drift is in with surgery on his legs he could otherwise not afford (It’s not a 100% fix, Drift still feels that his legs are a little stiff and can never run the way he used to, but he doesn’t limp any more and doesn’t need painkillers to cope with it every day), and tells Drift after it’s all over that Drift has a new chance at a new life now, and Drift assured him that he sees his new life here, with Ratch, in that he wants to help Ratch do what he’s doing for people who need it most.

Ratchet takes him up on this as a promise, bc Ratchet is now genuinely fond (not love just yet!) of him, and he heads home to talk to Gasket that he’s found new work with Ratchet, however on his way home is when he witnesses Gasket shot to death on accident by cops when the man was trying to stop them from brutalizing a petty thief, and when they try and immediately cover up what they did, Drift fucking loses it and ends up killing one of them while the other runs off.

Now here’s where it gets Complicated:

- Op at this time is a cop (the cops who shot Gasket are from Sentinel’s station and at this time, Sentinel is trying to take the Dead End back from OP after witnessing how OP’s holistic policing techniques had turned the place around slightly, and there are now gentrification plans for the place that cannot be done if OP insists on letting ‘undesirables run rampant here’) and is Ratchet’s close friend. OP is as kind as a cop as Drift ever encountered but he’s aware that they tend to close ranks around each other, what more when one of them is killed.

- Drift has seen Sentinel’s men come into Ratchet’s free clinic and accuse him of hiding/treating fugitives from the law, with OP arguing in Ratchet’s favour.

Drift is now a cop-killer with little to no protection given his class, and doesn’t want to jeopardize Ratchet’s work or Ratchet himself by going back and proving Sentinel’s men right.

So he goes underground, leaving Ratchet waiting and wondering why he never came back.

They don’t see each other for a long time, but Drift always keeps an eye on Ratchet’s clinic—-those who threaten or try to extort Ratchet in any way tend to disappear or suddenly have a change of heart—-and Ratchet keeps hearing of someone who looks like Drift working in the shadows.

The next time they see each other is in the early days of the war, when Ratchet is busting out Autobots held in a Decepticon prison who refuse to join Megatron after the supposed death of Optimus Prime (who miraculously returns with a new trinket in his chest and was battling Megs as a diversion) and Drift has orders to stop the jailbreak.

Neither of them recognize each initially, but they do once Drift gets past Ratchet’s scars/skin graft and Ratchet, Drift’s armor and guns. In an early shhh-shhh disobedience against Megs’ orders, he leads Ratchet through a back-door escape route and Ratchet begs him to come with them, but at this point Drift is torn between loyalty to Megs’s vision for a better world for everyone, and fondness for Ratchet, and is well onto his life as a mercenary with a sizable body count and fears Ratchet would never forgive him if Ratchet found out, and so declines the offer, telling Ratchet he has a new name now (Deadlock) and apologizing bc the him that Ratchet met years ago is now dead.

They’re forced to part ways, and don’t see each other again for a long time, though Ratchet would hear of Deadlock as a feared Decepticon (which makes him more and more jaded) and it was well-known among ‘Cons that anyone attempting to disregard Geneva Conventions by taking aim at medics would be hurled by Deadlock through the nearest window.

Th next time Ratchet sees him, it’s when the Wreckers bring Perceptor back for emergency care, and introduce the doc to this ‘new guy’ who saved Percy’s life and surprise bitch guess who?

Absolutely doesn’t go well initially and by that I mean all the Autobots, once revealed by Ratchet (not intentionally, it was blurted out in a moment of shock) of who the Wreckers’ tagalong is are like

But Kup speaks in defense of him and he’s given the early Kovu Joins The Pridelanders treatment, just everyone eyeing him like a hawk, waiting for him to ‘fall on his old ways’, and while Ratchet isn’t one of them, he genuinely does not know what to think of Drift right now. He’s torn, Drift has given up two chances to come with him; while there’s a part of him that still remembers and is fond of the young man who was so eager to help him makes the Dead End a better place, he’s also afraid that Drift is just going to leave again.

Perceptor is kind of out of it for a while—we’re talking two to three months warded and surgeries—-and Drift stays by Percy’s bedside for a while, mirroring how he used to help Ratchet in the old clinic, because it’s at least a place where no one is waiting for him to fail. This is where he and Ratchet start having more conversations, stilted initially then passionately heated as Ratchet struggles to understand why Drift made the choices he did. At the end of the day, Ratchet understands that Drift had reasons (not necessarily rational, but understandable) to have kept away from him and Drift understands that Ratchet, who’s been ‘left behind’ twice has even more reason that anyone else not to trust him, even if he still cares.

There’s mutual understanding that there’s a bridge to rebuild, and Ratchet holds Drift to his word again that time time, he’s not leaving.

That’s where the healing begins and they begin to form a working relationship with each other, followed by a proper friendship, and it’s about the time where Ratchet gets kidnapped by Pharma that Drift realizes he likes the Good Doctor more than a friend (less of an OMG I LIKE HIM??!!! and more of a very cold-calm I promised I would be good, but I am about to start dropping so many goddamn bodies for this cranky asshole 🎵 that’s amore 🎵)

There’s never been a point where they hate each other! I imagine there were times Ratchet WISHED he could, but the heart gonna do what the heart gonna do, no matter how jaded and crusty it gets.

[stopeatingwhales]

about a girl (pt.2) x kurt cobain

hi guys :) so sorry for my inactivity, but i’m here finally lmaoo, this is a part two to my kurt fic that i wrote about a month ago, due to school its been much harder for me to keep up writing as usual, but i will absolutely try my best to finish your guys’ requests soon! anyways, hope you enjoy this <3 Pairing: pre-bleach era kurt x reader

Warnings: nothing :)

Word count: 2.167

Requested by anon (the second part was my idea, but i felt like i should still credit the anon for giving me the idea for this x) 

༉‧₊˚✧

The wind exhales short, breezy waves as you lay there, engulfed in your dreams. From the night succeeding to your outstanding performance, you were requited to a favourable hibernation which by admiring you, was needed for not only the sum of a few hours. Your solemn features are painted still, the only movement stimulating from your body is heavy breaths accompanied by a light snore from time to time. I question whether it's righteous of me to allow my eyes to adorn themselves in your serene features, yet I simply cannot stop myself. I find it surreal to witness you in such fragility; for all the pain and sorrow you’ve had to experience in your life, it’s almost like you shouldn’t be sleeping in such a tranquillic state. I wonder if you prefer sleeping than being awake, I wonder if you think it’s a chore to get out of bed. Does the world haunt you? Every click, flash, snap of a camera, does it devastate you? The image you portray to the world is magnificent, yet flawed. It’s almost as if you’re hiding something, yet you don’t care what others think of you, so you do whatever you please. My heart skips a beat every time you shift slightly, cradling your body in the duvet. I advert my stare to your arms, sculpted perfectly in God’s chamber, the lankiness of your bones withering an appearance of discrepancy. You’re not like the rest of them. Your steady breaths softly ease in and out of your flawless torso, your hair so impeccable it looks untouched even when you’re shifting around in your slumber - the hair you willingly dyed and strained with a flavoured drink mix. As I admire you, sleeping beauty, it reminds me of how lucky I am to have you in my life - regardless of where we stand. When you’re awake, you’re the only thing keeping me sane during the day; spending even just a day without you would feel as if I had lost my legs, lost what’s kept me steady for all these draining years. In all my time of knowing and understanding you, have you never not known what to say, for you have such a way with words, it's unfathomable. You carry a sort of intelligence that no one can seem to obtain; you speak words out of a bible and it’s ironic I say that, Mr ‘God is gay’, but it’s true. You’re the reason I wake up in the morning. You’re like a hard candy, sweet and delicate, although the texture is very hard making it a burden to get through to you. I want to taste you on my tongue every morning, if you would like me to be honest. I crave for things as little as your scent even before I’ve risen from the cushion. Your grace must be envied by the heavens; there is and will never be anyone as alluring as you, not that I’m surprised. 

As my eyes continue to wander on him, a sudden stretch of his arms and a small groan echoing out of his vocal chords results in my body almost instantaneously sitting up. I watch him as he blinks his eyes a few times, his vision still not clear enough. “Good morning,” he whispers, his arms thrown to the skies; he’s like a baby, reaching out for their mother in the early hours of daylight, moaning and whining for affection, warming my heart with soreful ease. Quickly taking note of the small clock situated beside him that I was aware of for the many hours I had been trapped in thought, it read a bright and early 11am. My stare continues to linger onto him as I watch him shifting around, the heart situated in my upper chest now beating as fast as drum solos in heavy metal songs. A short silence stood in between both presences; I assume that he hadn’t taken note of my pondering state adjacent to him, though was that idea contradicted by his light greeting. “Did you sleep well?” he chirps, now using both palms to rub his what-seemed-like itchy eyes.

Now what is humorous from this scenario is that he asks this as if it means nothing; a simple conversation starter it may be, though, to me it means so much more hearing those light words roll off his tongue, compared to if someone else had said it, even if it was in the exact same moment living right now. A whiff of bad breath hits my face as I laugh lightly, shaking my head in a sort of admiration towards the man lying down ahead of me. He again blinks a few times, now in attempt to adjust the bright scenery to his view. For a couple seconds the room is frozen, Kurt’s alteration in position to sitting up becoming the only sound ringing through both our ears. As I find my gaze glued onto him once again, I subconsciously repeat the question he asked me, this time directed for him. However, from what I’ve seen, I’m certain he slept wonderfully.

A tired chuckle escaped his mouth. “I asked you first,” he mutters, the morning rasp still prominent in his vocal chords. This makes me smile. The raw, genuinity forwards the idea of realism that this moment was actually happening, coming like a pinch snapping someone out of their daydream, though my thoughts will never be known to understand how I was able to spend time with such a man. “I slept well, though.” he adds, a warm smile playing on his lips. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” I answered, my face now being cradled by my palms. 

I now feel the stare of Kurt burn onto my face. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” he asks, a hint of annoyance laced in his words. “We could’ve stayed up together,” 

A small chuckle breezes out of my nose. How considerate, how caring must you be to, even when you have performed such an exasperating gig, stay awake with me because of one night of my mind’s continuous ambles? For all I know, Kurt wouldn’t sleep for days if it meant I would be in absolute glee. It’s those sorts of traits in those who are lost which draw you towards them becoming the significant other to stay with for life. It’s that sense of attachment, connection you hold with someone, so strong that you would give up the roof over your head if it meant a smile to be drawn on their face. ”You looked so peaceful in your sleep,” I replied, staring directly into his loveable eyes, the shade of blue brightening as the sunlight melted onto his face. His hair was now a little more messier compared to how it was less than ten minutes ago, and the urge of me running my fingers through his golden locks only seemed to grow even more as time passed on. For a moment I decided to hold back my words, inhaling sharply to gain composure to my fatigued state. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” 

Kurt sighed - knowing that he needed sleep more than anything, though a hint of sadness dwindled in his stomach, his mind conflicted from the idea of me drowning in worry as I tended to do when I couldn’t sleep. Reaching his arm towards the table sat beside him, his fingers got lost in between the opened packet of cigarettes that slept reverently on the white wood, grabbing a random one at choice before placing it in a loose grip between his lips. With the known information that you need a torch to light a cigarette, I threw the one I had on his lap, a small laugh escaping my lips for no apparent reason. Actually no, there was a reason. “Who the fuck smokes first thing in the morning?”

Before he torched the lighter, he stopped, his piercing blue eyes locking in contact with mine. “Me, I do,” 

Another laugh tempted to flee itself from my throat, yet I held it back. If you would’ve said that to me the first night I met you, in that small, cramped room, littered with amps that Krist had dragged me into going in to listen to your material, I would’ve scoffed at your blown attitude towards such a random question. Watching you now as you’re admiring the cancer stick with pure attachment, my mind begins to wander over such a topic. I look at you and see a troubled, young kid who just wants love and affection because he seemingly never got enough from the people who designed his childhood; for you haven’t grown up since then. Perhaps in size and features, yes (and definitely the fact that children do not smoke), but hidden inside you is the same boy that was hidden away all those years ago - following onto your parents’ divorce. You say you’ve never been happy since then, you’ve never been able to think optimistically, and maybe you haven’t. Maybe the smile you give to me isn’t genuine; with continuous assurance I’ll consider it to be. Maybe I’ll never heal those bruises that were once your only source of living, and that’s okay, if you’re able to cope with the imprints. If you’re the Kurt Cobain that prefers smoking than having a normal breakfast, so be it; I’d give up my heart for you, and if anything, you’ve already stolen it. Words merely brush the surface of my adoration for you, and sometimes I believe that I’m just lying to myself, that nothing I’m saying in my head is true. Yet, as every minute, every second passes throughout the day, even in silent, contented situations with ceilings bright as yellow from the smoke like these, everything I say to myself simply strengthens in morality. My sweet, you deserve more than one could wish for. You deserve things that this world cannot give you, yet all you believe is that you are worthless. If only you saw yourself in my eyes, maybe then you’d realise, realise the impact you’ve sincerely doused onto me and my mind, you’ve got the moves to empower a generation and perhaps hundreds more - even if you don’t see that yet. 

“Give me one,” He hands me one, the strong gusts of cloud escaping his mouth creating a want for the rough substance to coat my throat in brutal ways; even if it’s slowly murdering me. It was a murderous addiction, nicotine, yet it kills us all, our addictions; and we are too blinded by the goodness it seemingly overshadows what we force to neglect in our minds - the bad in it all. We become so unbelievably enthralled by the pain we choose to accept it; we believe it is favourable, not disastrous and catastrophic. Drugs are frowned upon dearly, as they should be, but once you’re stuck, it takes more than simple courage to escape out of the deadly grip it chokes you in. Placing the cigarette in between my lips, identical to how he had just done, I reached my arm out to obtain the lighter that was in my clutch merely seconds ago, swiftly lighting it with one hand. As I breathed out the first tar-filled cloud from my cigar, I fixed my gaze onto him once again, sucking in my top lip as I allowed the droplets of ash fall onto my shirt. “I know I always say this,” I began as I studied his features, trying to identify any solemn, unpleasant emotions, noticing that there was none at all for the time being. “You’re going to make it big one day, I’m now for certain you’re going to take over the world,”

His eyes now locked into mine, a short chuckle leaving his throat as he blew out an even bigger gust of smoke. “I don’t want that,” 

Smiling, I took hold of my cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding it in my mouth until my body was unable to carry on without oxygen for longer - not that the air in the room was even oxygen; it was more corrosive chemicals than anything else, yet we’ve become so dependant on a small roll of tobacco to guide us to a path of slow death, its unnoticable. I watched as Kurt’s eyes drifted on to admire the elusive sunlight gleaming through the window, the whiffs of grey contrasting the happiness that was attempting to journey itself into the silent room. No matter how many times I may tell, his belief that he will never be as big as acts like the Sex Pistols will empower over anything I endevour on to phrase. It was inevitable though, whether he dreamt of it or not, that they will be big, bigger than anything they’ve ever seen. The path bridging onto it may cause destruction, heartbreak, and even more addiction, but the future is never in our hands - only until it is close enough for the present to capture it. Time is simply a mantelpiece, the light eventually burns out when there’s not enough coal to keep it going. You continue to refill it as the days go by until you simply cannot any longer, which is what all youths fear and avoid. Surprisingly enough, Kurt wasn’t one of the many crowds in devastating apprehension; he wanted to burn out more than anything else, for there were only small things keeping him going, or perhaps he was waiting for a longer, more agonizing death, hence the many packets of cigarettes vanished in a day.

There was nothing left to say in the room; there was no need for a response - it was only going to result in the same bicker as it resulted in many a time. The room, now physically undergoing a change in colour from the smoke, held a significant ambience, one so serene it left you more relaxed than the aftermath of a crazy high in drug use, though sometimes the relaxation is more pain than anything else. Even when my mind was so consumed in ideation earlier in the morning, my thoughts were louder than ever in this given moment. My mind was mulled over the concept of Kurt and stardom. He would never like it, nor does he even want it. It’s humorous to an extent; how much authenticity can one acclaim, to not even look up to the sugar-coated concept called ‘fame’? You’re not like the others. You don’t want fame, you want to create music. And in all honesty, I wish I lie through my teeth whenever I mumble those encouraging words of how you’re going to make it big; I can’t stand the idea of losing you, but like I said, it's inevitable, one day simple moments like these will just be memories to look back on when you’re old and laughing about your previous attachment to drugs. Maybe you won’t look back on times like these however, maybe you’ll remember the more vivid, buzzing moments like your first gig as Nirvana, and maybe I won’t remember this either, maybe these moments aren’t to be remembered, to be lived in instead. If only you knew how much I loved you, would you be surprised that I haven’t ruined my life because of it. You mean more to me than the stars mean to the night sky, more than a memory means to a person’s mind. It hurts my heart knowing I can’t heal you, though I dream that one day, you’ll wake up, just like you did today, turn to me and say, ‘I’m happy,’ because that’s all I ever dream of you to be.

[chickensarentcheap]

Never Gonna Be Alone -Chapter 26

Title: Preparations

Warning:  it’s filler.  I figured we needed some cute daddy Tyler. lol

Tagging:  @c-a-v-a-l-r-y​, @innerpaperexpertcloud​, @alievans007​, @miss-smutty​, @tragiclyhip​

“When you met mumma, you guys were working together, right?”

Addie poses the question as she sits atop the kitchen island; legs swinging back and forth as they dangle over the edge, the heels of silver and gold glitter infused jelly sandals lightly thumping against the wood. She insisted on bringing one of her favourite pairs of shoes from home; arguing that she didn’t care that they were ‘out of season’ and that she would wear what she wants, when she wants, and no one could tell her otherwise. In the end they’d gone perfectly with the new ‘Christmas’ dress she’d picked out Bloomingdales; a vibrant yellow concoction with capped sleeves embellished with strips of lace, a sash around the waist that ties in an enormous bow at the back, and an elaborate tulle skirt several layers thick that shimmers in the light. Forgoing all the burgundy, emerald green, and red dresses that had lined the regular priced racks in favour of an outfit from the leftover and highly discounted summer section. It was a hill Esme hadn't been willing to die on; preferring that Addie showcase both her independence in choosing her own outfit, and being proud of her personal style and preferences. And it suits her; as bright and adorable as her personality with just enough ‘no fucks given’ sprinkled on for good measure.

While tiny and seemingly fragile, she can be extremely assertive and adverse to any form of compromise; tenacious to a fault and digging her heels in and sticking to her guns when she feels she’s one hundred right about her stance. Even if there’s mountains of proof to show that she is, in fact, completely wrong. Someone so stubborn and feisty lingering inside that cute, wee package; able to hold her own while out playing with her older siblings and not afraid to get a bloody nose or a fat lip or a black eye. And not deterred in the slightest when she DOES get injured; right back to what she was doing only hours after getting stitches or a cast removed. Not shying away from climbing trees or splashing in mud puddles or helping muck out the goats stalls while wearing clunky rubber boots paired with a Disney princess dress. Very much like her older sister had been at that age; enjoying being physical and active and playing sports and rough housing one minute, then showcasing her more ‘girly side’ the next. Loving trips to the salon with mummy for manis and pedis; enjoying picking her own shade of polish and then getting to sip orange juice from a champagne glass while getting a facial and her hair trimmed. Collecting dolls along with various rocks and shells and beach glass. Superhero figures taking up residence on her bedroom shelves right alongside stuffies of her favourite animals -koalas, sloths, and kangaroos currently at the top of the list- and snow globes from different parts of the world. Her closet filled with not only frilly dresses and sparkly leggings and colourful sweaters emblazoned with unicorns and french bulldogs and flamingos, but old hand me downs from her brothers; ripped and faded jeans and tattered t-shirts and board shorts.

“Right,” Tyler confirms, as he tends to running a brush through her waist length hair; damp from misting it down with a spray bottle in order to easier part it into sections.

It’s a far cry from his old life; his beaten and busted up hands with their multitude of scars and calluses once used to being soaked in blood and caked with dirt. Large and weathered with misshapen knuckles, they’d long ago gotten accustomed to hard, manual labour and the brutality that he’d had to inflict on others; fists that pummelled bodies and faces and fingers that pulled triggers and wrapped around throats and choked the life out of combatants. And while they still get caked in mud from working around the house and they’re still entrusted to load magazines and are capable of taking a gun apart in thirteen seconds flat, they’ve morphed into other uses. Beginning with diapering babies and tending to the impossibly tiny snaps on jumpers, buttons on little sweaters, and zippers on sleepers. Moving on to tying kid sized shoe laces and cleaning and patching up skinned knees and elbows. Advancing to far more difficult hair styling techniques than the simple ponytails he’d began affixing on Millie when she was a toddler; various styles of braids adorned with ribbons, and snapping barrettes and clamping clips into place.

Being a girl dad is unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. The six short years -despite the little time he’d actually been home- he’d spent with Austin had prepared him for raising boys. His son, when healthy, had been extremely active and fearless and full of curiosity and energy; getting as messy and as dirty as possible and loving every second of it. Obsessed with superheroes and sports and always clad in clothing that displayed his favourites; football jerseys and baseball caps and sweats emblazoned with Superman or Batman logos. He had been terrified twelve years ago when the news had come in that Millie was in fact going to be a girl; not only envisioning frilly dresses and a closet full of pink and those ridiculous headbands parents insist on putting on their infants, but thinking back to his own treatment of women. The days when he’d used them for nothing more than sex; random strangers picked up in bars or that he’d meet on the street in whatever city a job sent him to. A failed marriage; putting more of a priority on the military than he did on treating his wife properly. And all he could think about was how having a daughter was somehow a punishment for the bad shit he’d done. A little girl that he’d have to protect from guys like him.

It was hard to get used to; big fingers having to master putting in tiny earrings and tending to impossibly small zippers and buttons , getting comfortable with the amount of pink and purple in their rooms and closets. Eventually graduating into attending tea parties and playing with Barbies and helping make crafts; getting used to paint on his palms and between his fingers and glitter stuck under his nails and in his hair and beard. Determined to be a hands-on father even if its activities are way outside of his comfort zone; gymnastic meets and dance recitals as opposed to lacrosse matches and football games. Being a girl dad isn’t for the weak; having to worry about your little girls’ hearts being broken and if the guys they pick will treat them right and if they themselves will make smart and responsible choices as teenagers. And the hormones; the up and down emotions and the drastic switch from bitchy to overly sensitive. Having a wife go through it once a month is enough. never mind the thought of three other girls. The worry of how he’ll handle not only the emergence of puberty, but if all four female ‘clocks’ decide to sync up. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to handle THAT; all the women in his life going through the cramps and the moodiness and the demands to be coddled and babied one minute and left the fuck alone the next.

“Does that mean mummy beat up and killed bad guys too?”

“No. She never did any of that stuff. That was my job, not hers.”

“What did she do?”

“She tracked down the bad guys. And where they were doing mean things to good people. Then she told me...or guys like me...where they were so we could go and take care of things.”

“So you could go and kill them?”

“You don’t always have to kill people. Sometimes it’s enough to just rough them up a bit.”

“And other times they fight back and try to hurt you and you have to hurt them first?”

“Pretty much.”

“Have you killed a lot of people?”

“Not that many," he lies. It's actually a staggering amount; the death toll -from his hand alone- in Dhaka putting the count well over three hundred.

“How many is ‘not that many'?’”

“I don’t know, Peanut. I’ve never kept track.”

“But you’ve helped more people than you’ve hurt. That’s what mummy said when I asked if it was true. If Tyler was lying when he told me you kill people for a living.”

“That’s a while ago. That you asked mummy that.”

“I was three. That’s a whole two years ago. But sometimes I think about it. Especially when you go away. I think about you having to kill people.”

“And what do you think WHEN you think about that? About what I sometimes have to do?”

“I dunno know,” Addie shrugs, and then lifts the spray bottle clutched in both hands and holds it towards her face; giggling when she pulls the trigger and catches some of the mist in her mouth.

“Does it bother you? When you think about it? That I’ve killed people? That sometimes I still have to?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Kind of a hard thing to hear, don’t you think? That daddy has to do stuff like that?”

“It’s your job. It’s what you do. You have to hurt people to save other people. And sometimes, if they try and hurt you first, you have to kill them. Because if you didn’t, they might kill you and then you never come home and we never get to see you again. It’s not THAT hard to hear. I’d rather you kill someone and come home than never see you again.”

“You know,” he plucks the spray bottle from her hands and dampens a section of hair. “You’re pretty smart for only five.”

“Smart like mummy.”

He leans in to press a kiss to her cheek. “Cute like her too.”

“Are you going to get in trouble? For killing people?”

“Who would I get in trouble with?”

“God. Isn’t that one of the things we’re not supposed to do? Kill people?”

“How do you know about that? We don’t talk about that stuff at home.”

“I hear things. At school. Some of the older kids talking. Are you? Going to get in trouble? For killing people?”

“Probably,” he admits. “I’m sure I’ll face some kind of judgement for it. When my time comes.”

“But wouldn’t it be okay ‘cause you only kill bad people? That were hurting good people? Wouldn’t that be allowed? And if you had to kill someone so you could come home to us, wouldn’t that be okay too?”

“I don’t know,” he snags a yellow cloth ribbon off the island and begins braiding a section of hair around it. “I’ve never thought that far ahead about things.”

“It would suck if you got in trouble for helping people. That wouldn’t be fair at all. If you got sent to hell for doing stuff like that. I mean, you were doing something GOOD. You weren’t doing something bad. You HAD to kill evil people to help good people. And to make sure you come home to mummy and us kids. I can’t see you getting in trouble for something like THAT.”

“Doesn’t make much sense to me either. But not a lot does anymore.”

“I’ll be really mad if you get in trouble and sent somewhere different than me. I don’t want us to be in two separate places. I want us to be together. All of us. You and mummy and all us kids. I don’t want us to all be separated. Well, maybe Millie could be. Because she’s mean to me. All the time.”

“Millie is going through some stuff. She’s going to be a teenager soon. A lot of drama leading up to THAT.”

“She says I’m annoying. That she used to really like me when I was a baby and couldn’t do anything. But now I can do lots of stuff and I can talk and she says that pisses her off. That I’m a bratty little sister.”

“You are NOT bratty.”

“Right? That’s what I said. She’s bratty if anything. Am I annoying, daddy? Don’t lie. You can tell me the truth.”

“You are not annoying. If anyone is annoying, it’s Millie.”

“I said THAT too! But she’s mean. She even threatened to cut my hair off. Shave it. Because I couldn’t find my brush and I borrowed hers and she didn’t like that. So you know what I did? While you were gone?”

“What did you do?”

“I took the tops off two Oreo cookies and I ate the middle and then I put in mayonnaise and I put the tops back on and gave them to Millie. I told her I was being a good little sister and bringing her a snack. And she put a whole one in her mouth! She almost puked!”

He can’t help but chuckle. “You actually did that?”

“Yup. It was awesome. I laughed so hard, I almost peed! But then she started chasing me around the house threatening to kill me. Mummy was screaming at her to lighten up, that it was just a joke. And then she told mummy to shut up and Tyler got mad. REALLY mad. He tackled Millie and grabbed her by the hair and pushed her face into the carpet. Then he put her in a figure four leg lock and made her cry.”

“Millie told your mom to shut up?”

“Oooops…” Addie tilts her head back to look at him, a sheepish smile curving her lips. “....I wasn’t supposed to tell you that part.”

“Who told you not to tell me? Millie?”

The five year old shakes her head.

“TJ?”

Another shake, followed by a tiny “No.”

“Addie…”

“It was mummy! She said not to tell you because you’d get pissed off and you didn’t need to. Because she took care of it right when it happened. Well, Tyler did. He was really, really, REALLY mad. She learned her lesson. I’m sure of it. He made her cry. Lots.”

“Did that happen a lot? Millie getting mouthy with your mom?”

“Not really.”

He stares pointedly down at her.

“A few times,” she reluctantly admits. “She said some things that were really mean. To mummy. And she said the F word once, too. Mixed with the B word.”

“She said that ? To your mom?”

Addie chews nervously on her bottom lip. “Yeah, she called her an f-ing B word.”

“What did mummy do?”

“She didn’t get a chance to do anything. Desi freaked out. And he’s really big and he can be really scary when he wants. Like you. Desi told her that she should never, ever talk to her mum like that. And that you’d be really mad if you found out. And that she’d rather deal with him than you. Which is true. Desi might be bigger than you, but you’re definitely tougher. I mean, he doesn’t kill people for a living. You do.”

“Things were pretty bad, huh? While I was gone.”

“A little. Millie went off the reservation. Big time. She’s lucky she’s even breathing. ‘Cause Tyler was ready to kill her. And I don’t blame him. You’re mad, aren’t you. Are you mad, daddy?”

“A bit.”

“You know how I can tell? That you’re mad? Your neck moves. Right here,” she reaches up to press to fingertips against the side of his throat. “Where the bad guy shot you a long time ago.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Mummy told me. I asked her how you got that scar. She said that a long time ago, her and Ovi were in trouble and you had to get them out of a really bad place. And then you made sure they were safe and sound, but a bad guy shot you. In the neck. And that’s why you have the scar there.”

“Did that scare you? Hearing that?”

“A little, I guess. I mean, you could have died, right?”

“I could have, yeah.”

“And then you and mummy never would have gotten married. And had kids. Millie would be the only one to exist. None of us would. So yeah, that part scared me a bit; that the bad guy could have killed and none of us ever would have been born. Did you kill him?”

“Eventually.”

“Mummy said she stayed with you. After it happened. And that she went back to Australia with you and that’s how she ended up there. It’s where you guys got married. And had Millie and me and Kota and Brookie. That we were the ones born there. So we’re REAL Australians, like you. Everyone else is American.”

“Everyone else WAS American. You’re all Australian now.”

“How does that work?”

“A lot of papers you have to fill out. To become a citizen. But you all are. Mummy and I made sure of it.”

“Is mummy an Australian too?”

“By marriage, yeah.”

“It’s a good thing she married you. You’re a lucky guy, daddy. That someone like mummy fell in love with you.”

“I am,” he confirms. “Very lucky. She’s a pretty good mummy, huh?”

“She’s the best mummy EVER. If we could pick our mummies, I’d pick her. Because she’s nice and she gives good cuddles and kisses and she tells the best silly jokes. And she’s super smart and really cute too. And little! Like me!”

“That’s where you get from. Being so cute and wee. You’re just like your mumma.”

Her eyes sparkle as she smiles broadly up at him; the corners and the bridge of her nose crinkle. “And that’s a good thing, yeah?”

“A very good thing,” Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he brushes the tip of his nose against hers; smiling at the way she throws her head back and giggles.

He’s seen her mother do that exact movement and expression a number of times; excitement while on the rides at Disney World with the kids, when she’s had one too many glasses of wine and even his terrible ‘dad jokes’ are suddenly hilarious, when they’ve been on one of their ‘mommy and daddy’ vacations and she’s gotten up the guts to try something new and exciting; emboldened by his encouragement and forever feeling safe and secure as long as he’s by her side. So much of Esme in the tiny little girl in front of him; tenacious and ferociously intelligent and loving deeply and fearlessly. Knowing the darkness and the horrors that exist in the world but not allowing herself to be tarnished by it; always finding ways to smile and laugh and find the beauty in every day.

“What do you think mummy would have done if she didn’t do the job she did?” Addie inquires, when she finally drops her head back down and he’s able to return to tending her hair.

“I don’t know. Teach? Be a nurse? Maybe a doctor?”

“How would you have met her? If she didn’t do her old job?”

“Maybe I would have met her on the beach. In Australia. Maybe she would have come there on a vacation.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you would have gone to where she used to live. In Chicago.”

“She used to live in Colorado. That’s where she was born and where she grew up. Chicago is a totally different place.”

“She used to live by the mountains. When I was in her tummy, you guys lived on a hobby farm. And you had goats and chickens. Mummy says we still own that house.”

“Yup, we do. We rent it out.”

“Can we go there one day? I’d like to see it. I’d like to see where you guys were living when I was in mummy’s belly. Is that where I was made?”

“We’re pretty sure that’s where it happened. Not many other places it could have been.”

“Maybe we can go and visit. And I can see where I was made. That would be fun. I want to see the mountains.”

“Maybe one day.” He finishes up the first braided pigtail, securing it with an impossibly small elastic before turning his attention to the other section of hair.

“If you met mummy a different way, would you have still liked her? Would you have still fallen in love with her?”

“Yup. Why wouldn’t have I? She still would have been mummy. She still would have been the same person. Still would have been the most beautiful girl ever.”

“Do you think she still would have fallen in love with you?”

“I sure as hell hope so. Would sure suck if she didn’t. Your mumma is pretty special, Peanut. She’s the love of my life. Took me until I was thirty five to meet her.”

“You were married before, though. To Austin's mom. You didn’t love her?”

“I did. But not in the way I love your mum. Your mum? That’s who I want to spend the rest of my life with. Grow really, really, REALLY old with. It’s a whole other kind of love. And you know what? It’s not easy to explain. You just know what you feel.”

“Imagine if things were opposite? If you went to Colorado and met mummy instead of her meeting you in Australia and working with you? And then you would have stayed there; where the snow and the mountains are instead of the beach and the ocean. How come you moved? Why didn’t you guys stay? Where the mountains are?”

“Things changed. We weren’t happy there anymore. We needed to get away. Go back to the place where we were the happiest.”

“In Australia?”

“Yup.”

“That’s where I’m happiest too. I love it there. I love how warm it is; the sun and the sand and the water. I like the sound it makes; listening to it when I’m trying to fall asleep. And I like how the beach feels; between my toes and when I let it run through my fingers. And I love my room and my toys and my school and my friends and all the goats and our pigs and our chickens. And Charlie. I love him the most. I love making him peanut butter sandwiches. I’d miss him the most. If we had to leave. We won’t have to leave will we, daddy?”

“I don’t see why we would have to.”

“I don’t ever want to leave Australia. It’s perfect there. It’s where I was born. And where you were born too. We have that in common. We were BOTH born there.”

“Yeah…” he grins, and presses a kiss to the back of her head. “...we were.”

“I mean, we have other stuff in common too. Because you’re my dad and that means you helped make me so that means half of me is half of you. The other half is from mummy. And we both love surfing. And animals. And Vegemite. I LOVE Vegemite. It’s sooooo good.”

“Speaking of Vegemite, was it you that left the Vegemite and Nutella sandwich for Santa?”

Addie giggles. “Maybe…”

“Why would you ever put the two of those together?”

“Tyler made it for his school lunch once and he let me try a bit and it was really good! So I thought Santa might like to try it. Part American, part Australian.”

“You know, that’s pretty genius. And it worked. I tried a bit and it wasn’t bad.”

“Right?! You wouldn’t think it would work, but it does. Somehow. Kind of like you and mummy.”

“What’s THAT supposed to mean?”

“You and mummy are so different. You’re really tall and big and she’s really short and small. Like, you know how mummy is a morning person? She’s always really cheerful and smiley? And you’re not? You’re moody and miserable. A total grump face! And you don’t like to talk until you’ve had your first coffee. With three shots of espresso in it.”

“You notice all that stuff?”

“I notice everything. Mummy says I’m very observant. And that I have really good instincts. Like you. She says ‘cause my tummy tells me if something is right or wrong. And yours does too. You know how else you and mummy are different?”

“How?”

“Mummy talks to everyone! She’s very talky talky. A chatterbox.”

“Geez,” Tyler grins, and tugs playfully at the completed pigtail. “I wonder who ELSE is a chatterbox?”

“She’s a social butterfly. She makes friends everywhere she goes. People like her. Because she’s so bubbly and cute and she makes peoples hearts feel warm because she’s so nice to them. You’re more serious. You don’t talk a lot. At least not to people you don’t know. People are scared of you sometimes. Because how big you are and because you got all the drawings on you and the scars and stuff. They think you’re mean. ‘Cause of all that.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think you’re just daddy. I KNOW you’re not mean. I KNOW you’re a nice guy. I KNOW you give awesome hugs; your arms are big but they feel nice and they wrap all the way around me! If people really paid attention, they’d see that you’re nice. You have soft eyes. They’re blue and they’re pretty and they’re kind. Especially when you smile and they go all crinkly. If people really gave you a chance, they’d see you’re not scary at all. You’re only like that if you HAVE to be. If bad people are near mummy or us kids.”

“Are you ever scared of me?” It’s a recurring thought; if his children ever pick up on the worry and the tension and the fear that comes with his issues. It’s a feat some days; forcing himself out of bed and putting one foot in front of the other. Wanting nothing more than to stay under the covers and surrender to the exhaustion that comes with doing battle with his own mind every day. But his family is his number one priority, whether it’s a good day or a horrible one. And he’ll ‘fake it until he makes it’ as long as his children and his wife know that they’re loved; provided and cared for and made to feel safe and protected.

“Why would I be? Why would I be scared of my daddy?”

“Well, you know what I do for a living. You know what I’ve had to do to people. Does that scare you?”

“Nope. Because that’s just your job. It’s not who you are. When you come home, you’re just daddy. You take us bike riding and hiking and swimming and surfing. And you help us find rocks and shells and you let me sit on your shoulders when we walk on the beach or go into town. And we take naps. On the hammock. I love our naps on the hammock.”

He smiles. “So do I.”

“Sometimes I get a little worried. When you get upset. Or you and mummy argue. I don’t like when you guys argue. I always worry that you’ll hate each other. That you’ll get a divorce. And then you won’t live with us. It makes me sad when I think about that.”

“You don’t need to be sad, Peanut. That’s never going to happen. I’m never going to go and live somewhere else. I’m going to stay right where I am; with you guys and your mumma. And just because we argue? That doesn’t mean we’re going to hate each other. I could NEVER hate your mum. And I’m pretty sure she’d say the same thing about me. We love each other. Very much. Divorce is NOT something you need to think about. But do I ever scare you? Have I ever?”

“I don’t have a reason to be scared of you. Because you love me. You’d never hurt me. I never worry about that. Not even when you yell and your voice gets REALLY loud. I know you’d never do anything mean to me. Just to bad people. And I’m not a person. I’m a GOOD person.”

“You definitely are. You’re a VERY good person. An amazing little person.”

She smiles. “Like mummy.”

“Just like her. More than even I ever realized.”

******

“Addie…” TJ singsongs as he saunters into the kitchen, both hands tucked behind his back. “...what are you doing?”

“Tyler!” She cheerfully greets, and excitedly waves to him with both hands. Her entire face lighting up at the sight of her second favourite male in the house

She’s become extremely close to her oldest brother during her five years on earth; idolizing him and turning to him for help and comfort when daddy is either caught up with one of the other kids, tending to work related matters, or out of the house -and sometimes even the country- all together. And TJ dotes on her in return. Spoiling her and babying her ever since she was an infant and he was always more than willing to help change her diapers and give her feedings. In awe of how tiny she was and how she’d look up at him with so much adoration. He’s the quintessential older brother; patient and loving and ready to kick anyone’s ass that dares messes with her.

“Look at my dress! It’s the one I picked out when I went shopping for mommy. That I kept a secret. Isn’t it awesome?”

“Awesome just like you. It’s really pretty, Ads. Your favourite colour too!”

“Yup! Mummy bought it for me. She said it’s perfect for me. For my personality. It reminds me of Belle’s dress. From Beauty and the Beast.”

“Looks a little like it, I guess. But you know what? It’s even prettier. And you’re more beautiful than Belle. WAY more beautiful.”

“Really?” she gasps, and a noticeable blush creeps into her cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. “You really think so?”

“I REALLY think so. Belle has nothing on you. You’re the prettiest princess EVER. Way prettier than ANY of them.”

“Oh goodness!” She clamps both hands over her mouth in embarrassment, then giggles into them. “Like mumma? Just as pretty as her? Mumma is the prettiest EVER.”

“Just a smaller version of her.” TJ leans in close and presses the tip of his nose against hers. “Guess what I have? What you forgot in my room?”

“Adeline!” she cries, when he reveals the item he’d been keeping behind his back. And she snags the doll from him and showers its head and face with kisses as she clutches it tightly to her chest. “Adeline! I’m sorry I forgot you! I didn’t mean to!”

“I kept her safe for you,” TJ says. “So Declan wouldn’t grab her. You know how he likes to get a hold of dolls and torture them. I didn’t want him getting her. She’s way too pretty and I know how much you love her.”

“He’s mean to my dolls! He’s always taking their heads off and putting their arms where their legs should be and crazy shit like that.”

“Hey,” Tyler frowns, and tugs on the half braided pigtail. “What did I say?”

“No bad language. Especially on Christmas Day. I can’t help it though; sometimes it just slips out. If you didn’t swear so much around us kids…”

“That’s it. Throw me under the bus.”

“You swear A LOT, daddy. Especially in the car. When other people don’t drive fast enough or use their blinkers. If mummy knew exactly how much you DO swear around us, she’d be mad. REALLY mad.”

“Your mum has a worse mouth than I do.”

“As if!” Addie scoffs, and he can’t help but smile; easily hearing Esme’s voice and picturing the expression on her face; the corner up her mouth and her nose scrunched up in disgust, eyes slightly narrowed. “Thank you, Tyler!” She curls an arm around her brother’s neck, squeezing as tight as she can. “You’re the best! Thank you for keeping her safe from the Ginger. You’re the best brother EVER! I only trust you with her. And daddy. That’s it. You guys are big and strong and will keep her safe no matter what.”

“What the hell are you wearing?” He addresses his son as the latter moves to the fridge, pausing in the braiding of Addie’s hair to survey TJ’s wardrobe a pair of ill fitting and impossibly baggy jeans, an enormous untucked dress shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a loose pink, purple, and grey striped tie.

“Your pants. And one of your shirts.” TJ reaches into the fridge and grabs a carton of chocolate milk and a jug of white. Closing the door with his hip and carrying them to the counter by the sink; pouring a mix of both into a plastic tumblr retrieved from the dish rack and then snagging two straws from the cupboard. “Mum told me to. She said none of my clothes were good enough for Christmas dinner. All my jeans have holes in them and all t-shirts have to do with surfing. We’ve never had to dress up for Christmas dinner before. Why do we have to start now?”

“Your mum’s trying to make things perfect. To avoid drama. With your grandmother.”

“Too late. Grandma brings drama with her. And drops it on everyone else.” He drags a bar stool across the floor and places it in front of his little sister. “Here Ads,” he holds the cup in front of her. “A yellow straw just for you. So you don’t have to share my germs. Let me hold it; so you don’t spill anything on your dress.”

Giving a delighted squeal and a smile of appreciation, she takes a pull from the straw. “I think you look handsome, Tyler. You’re growing up. You’re going to be as big as daddy soon.”

“It’s going to be a while before I’m THAT big. But I’m going to work on it. As soon as I’m allowed, I’m going to lift heavy too and put on ALL kinds of muscle.”

“Then you can go after bad people too. And beat them up and kill them when you have to.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Tyler suggests. “Something tells me mummy might have an issue with that.”

“Why doesn’t mum just tell grandma to get lost?” TJ inquires. “It’s not like they like each other. They never have. They’ve always fought. I remember how they’d get into it at Christmas. When we were still living in Colorado. Grandma would get drunk and she’d pick fights with mum and mum would fight back and cry and then you’d go off on grandma. Is that going to happen this year? ‘Cause it’s been nice and quiet at Christmas. Do we HAVE to listen to grandma's shit?”

“What did I just tell your sister? About the language?”

“She’s five, but she’s right. It IS hard to stop and it does just come out. But do we, dad? Do we really have to put up with her?”

“It’s one night. I think you can manage. If I can grin and bear it, so can you. Suck it up.”

“If she starts in on mum about ANYTHING, I’m going to lose it. That’s my mum. No one talks to my mum like that. I almost taught Jacobi a lesson. For calling mum cute and wanting to ask her out. I’ll teach grandma a lesson too. I’m not afraid of her.”

“If anyone is going to teach her a lesson, it’s going to be me. You stay out of it. Your mum wouldn’t want you getting into it with her. You’re TEN.”

“Doesn’t matter how old I am. That’s MY mum. And no one is going to treat her bad. We’re supposed to protect her, remember? You and I.”

“You’re supposed to be a kid and stay that way as long as you can. I’M supposed to protect your mom. And I think I’ve been pretty damn good at it for the last twelve and a half years. And if your grandma starts? I’ll stop it. You don’t have to worry about that.”

“Why does she hate you so much anyway? Is it still the same crap? How she’s pissed because you stole mum away from her family and moved her all the way to Australia? ‘Cause you got her pregnant before you married her?”

Addie scowls. “Who cares? Lots of people have babies and they aren’t married. And so what if mummy didn’t go back home and she stayed with daddy? She’s an adult. She can do what she wants. And she wanted to be with daddy. None of grandma’s business. I’mma tell her that too. If she starts saying mean things about daddy or mummy. I’mma tell her what for.”

“You’re not going to do a thing,” Tyler informs her. “You’re going to leave all the telling off to me, got it?”

“I don’t like her,” Addie says. “She’s not a nice person. She has a mean smile. And her eyes are empty. They don’t sparkle or anything like that. Are you sure that’s mummy’s mummy? Because when mummy smiles, her eyes sparkle. She LOOKS happy. Grandma? She just looks mean.”

“No one likes her,” TJ grumbles. “Best thing we ever did was get away from her. But IS that why, dad? Is that really why she doesn’t like you? Because she still thinks you stole mum and took her all the way to Australia?”

“It’s a few things.”

“I bet it’s the job too. I bet she really has a problem with THAT.”

“Again…” Addie huffs dramatically. “...who cares? So what if daddy kills people? They’re BAD. They deserve it. He helps good people and sometimes when he’s helping them, he has to kill the bad guys. I don’t see a problem with that. If they try and hurt him or kill him, he HAS to kill them first. So he can come home. To us. And mummy. It only makes sense.”

“If Ads can get it, ANYONE can,” TJ says. “She’s only five. What’s grandma? A hundred? If a five year old can get it…”

“Daddy makes the world a better place because he gets rid of the bad people,” Addie continues, as she takes another sip of the drink her brother offers her. “If we had less bad people, everything would be great. There’d be less wars and less people getting hurt and everyone would love one another and be happy. Daddy’s doing a good thing. By sticking up for people. Like you do. At school. You beat up the bullies when you have to. Remember the older kid that tripped me and shoved my face in the mud? Remember him? He’s in grade eight AND you kicked the crap out of me. Because he picked on me.”

“You’re my sister. It’s my job to protect you.”

“And remember that other guy? On the playground by mummy’s store? The one that pulled my hair and told me I was adopted because I’m small and I don’t look like any of you guys. You freaked out on him and made him apologize and scared him away. He’ll cross the street now if he sees you coming.”

“You can’t let bad people get away with doing bad things,” TJ reasons. “If you don’t stop them, they’ll just keep doing bad stuff.”

“Exactly! So it’s a good thing that daddy goes after the bad guys. Grandma needs to learn. And she needs to learn TODAY. You should tell her, Tyler. You should tell her off. You’re not scared of anyone.”

“Not being scared of anyone or anything is not always a good thing,” Tyler informs her. “If you’re not scared, you don’t take a situation or people seriously. That’s when you get hurt. And you know what? No matter how big of a bad ass you think you are? There’s always a bigger one out there somewhere. Believe me. I’ve learned THAT lesson the hard way.”

“The guy who shot you just got a lucky one in,” TJ reasons. “You were already hurt. You weren’t one hundred percent. Some guy had already shot you, hadn’t he? A sniper?”

“What’s a sniper?” Addie inquires. “Is it like Swipper on Dora? Something like him?”

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Tyler says. “You don’t need to know that stuff. Not until you’re older. WAY older.”

“A sniper’s a guy that hides somewhere and shoots you,” TJ replies. “Somewhere where no one sees him. It’s why they’re so dangerous. You don’t even know where they are. They just shoot you. And they kill you before you even know what happened.”

“But daddy didn’t get killed. If a sniper shot daddy, shouldn’t he be dead?”

Combing his hand through her bangs, Tyler tips his daughter’s head back. “What did I just say? About you not needing to know about this stuff?”

“I’m curious now. Tyler said they hide and shoot people and kill them. How come you didn’t die? If a sniper shot you?”

“I guess he didn’t manage to get a good shot in.”

“It was the other guy that almost killed him,” TJ says, and takes a sip of the concoction in his hand. “The one that got him in the neck. That’s when he almost died. Mum saved him.”

“How? How did mummy save daddy? Daddy…” she swivels around in her stool to face him. “...how did mummy save you? Did she shoot the bad guy back?”

“Mum stuck her fingers in his neck,” TJ says. “To stop the bleeding. Or he would have bled to death.”

Addie’s eyes widen. “She DID?”

“When you’re older, MAYBE I’ll tell you more more about it. But for now…” Tyler places his hands on her shoulders and gently turns her back around. “...you don’t need to know this stuff. And you…” he stares pointedly at his son. “...don’t talk about this around her. She doesn’t need to know about this. She’s a baby still.”

“I’m not a baby!” Addie objects. “I’m five! I can almost ride my bike without training wheels. Babies can’t do that.”

“Just don’t, alright?” He addresses TJ. “Don’t talk about this stuff around her. Because she’s going to repeat all of this and she’s going to repeat it to your mum and that won’t end well. For you OR me.”

“It happened though. I mean, it’s part of how you guys met and got together and ended up getting married and stuff. It’s your history. I don’t see why…”

“I said ENOUGH. No more. Not around her. Got it?” He’s on edge; the mere mention of Dhaka and the incidents on the bridge playing straight into the anxiety and the panic he’d felt the night before; when he’d woken up from the nightmare and been on the verge of losing control and had turned to the fentanyl for relief. And it scares him; how easy it had been to not only access the powerful med, but actually take it. He’d encountered no resistance or hesitation; remorse and guilt not setting in until the following morning when he’d woken up and it had been the first thing on his mind. It’s alarming how quick things can return; an addict’s mind and behaviour.

Nodding, TJ holds his hands up in surrender.

“You’re both going to be nice tonight,” he says, and finishes Addie’s final braid. “To grandma. Because your mum is already stressed out enough and we don’t need to make it worse for her. So if the best you can do is smile and nod, just do that. I’m not asking you to kiss her ass. I’m just asking you to be civil. Can you handle that?”

TJ nods.

“You?” He tugs on one of Addie’s pigtails. “Can you do that? Be civil?”

“Do I have to be near her? Or sit on her lap? ‘Cause I draw the line there.”

“You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Just don’t be a little asshole, alright?”

“Me? I’m Mary Freaking Sunshine, remember? That’s what Grandpa Koen calls me.”

“Well then live up to it and be nice to your grandmother. Smile until your face hurts, got it?”

“What do I get out of it?”

He smirks.

“Mummy says to always negotiate. Never settle for the first offer. Can I sleep in the big bed tonight? For being nice to grandma?”

“No.” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he lifts her off the stool; pressing a kiss to her cheek before setting her on the ground.

She turns to face him. Head cocked to the side and one hand clutching her doll, the other planted firmly on her hip. “Can I have ice cream for my bedtime snack?”

"Maybe."

“Maybe isn’t good enough.”

“You ARE just like your mom, aren’t you.”

“I’ll be nice if I can have ice cream for my bedtime snack and you snuggle with me and draw on my back for half an hour. And that’s after FOUR stories.”

“You're bossy, you know that? Two stories.”

“Three. That’s as low as I’ll go.”

“I will give you two stories, ice cream for your snack, and forty five minutes of snuggling and drawing on your back. Instead of half an hour. We got a deal?”

Her eyes narrow as she considers it; nibbling on her bottom lip and swishing her hips back and forth. “You’re good at this.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Peanut. I’ve dealt with tougher than you. What do you say?” He offers a hand. “Deal?”

“Deal!” she agrees, his hand easily swallowing hers as they shake on it.

Grinning, he runs a hand over the top of her head and then drops a kiss on her hair. “You really DO have a lot of your mum in you.”

“Great things come in small packages,” Addie reasons, standing on her tiptoes as he leans down and pecks her lips. “Thank you, daddy!” she chirps. “My hair looks beautiful. You always do it perfect.”

“Pretty hard not to when my subject is so cute. Good thing I married your mum, huh? So I could have a kid as cute as you?”

“You really are a lucky man!” she declares and then cheerfully skips out of the room.

“I hope grandma is on her best behaviour,” TJ says, as he finishes the drink in his hand and then slides off the stool and returns it to its place at the island. “Because if she DOES start on mum, it’s going to be a wild night. I really hope she watches her step.”

“My too, kiddo,” Tyler sighs, and reaches out to tousle his son’s hair. “Me too.”

[reddrobins]

of coffee cups + criminals - three [j.todd]

TW: language

ONE - TWO

Chapter three

Waking up whilst tied to a chair was not on [Y/N]’s to-do list. 

Groggily, she tried to look around the dimly lit space - though found it nearly impossible to open up her eyes. The front of her face felt hot and sore, a temporary reminder of the punch she had endured. 

Pushing through the searing pain, she opened her swollen eyes to the best of her ability. From what [Y/N] could make out, it was a large room - the ceiling nearly impossible to see. The space around her seemed to be crowded. Multiple different crates littered the area, some open - their covers tossed among the floor, others stacked atop each other. 

Based on the minimal sight of her surroundings, [Y/N]’s best guess at her location was a warehouse. Though, that didn't really help her narrow down exact places as Gotham was full of warehouses. 

Assuming that the Black Mask was smart enough to operate in secrecy, she knew that the warehouse wouldn't be one near Gotham Square. No, it must have been near the outskirts of town, maybe even close to Blüdhaven. 

“...my end of the deal.”

A voice sounded from the far right of the room, [Y/N]’s head snapping towards the sound. It was just light enough to make out a few figures, one animatedly talking.

“I told you, I always keep my word.” 

[Y/N] could easily tell who the baritone belonged to. Hell, it was the last thing she had heard, right before that fucker punched her in the face. Sionis grew closer, his conversation now clearer to her ears. Deciding it better to be found asleep, rather than face the criminal again, [Y/N] drooped her head, feigning a deep slumber.

“Not sure why you think she’s needed, didn't seem to know a lick about the Hood - but if this is all I gotta do to make sure he's taken care of… She's all yours.”

The small group was now mere feet in front of her, all the members oblivious to her eavesdropping. Risking it, she peaked open an eye in an attempt to count the pairs of feet.

One, Two, Three… 

On the fourth pair, her breath caught in her throat. 

She didn't believe it.

There was just no way.

And then in one quick sentence, Roman Sionis confirmed her fears.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. J.”

-

Seven hours, thirty-two minutes and 12 seconds since the last time he had heard from her.

Jason was officially starting to panic. After phoning, dare he say it, Batman, he had sent a signal to the rest of the family - putting his own hubris aside to get [Y/N] back safely.  Though, that was over 6 hours ago.

Dick and Damian had gone to Blüdhaven, expanding the search effort outside of Gotham. Meanwhile, Tim had been instructed to remain in the cave and access each and every public camera in the city in hopes to catch a glimpse of [Y/N]. Steph stayed too, wanting to be on guard just in case Tim found something. Cass and Duke briefly went out on recon, but came back empty handed. The only two that were actively on the scene were Jason and Bruce. The distant father and son duo had spent the waking morning on the roofs of Gotham. 

Currently, Batman stood with his back towards Jason - getting intel from Oracle through the cowl. It had been like this for a while now, Bruce would silently get filled in whilst leaving his son to wonder what Barbara had said. Jason had just about had enough, it was his search after all, no one would be involved if it weren't for him. They should be filling him in, not Bruce.

“You ever planning on filling me in, old man?” Jason finally spoke. He leaned against the rooftop ledge, angrily (and anxiously) drumming his gloved fingers against his leather coat.

Bruce grunted as a reply, acknowledging his son's question, but not bothering to turn around.

Jason, with years of practiced impatience, scoffed and tapped the side of his helmet, tuning into the comlink. “Oracle, do me a favour - quit talking to Bats and actually tell me what's going on.”

He almost cringed at the harshness in his tone. He had never had anything against Barbara, if anything he felt closer to her than anyone else in the family. Shared trauma tends to do that to a person. Nonetheless, the secrecy between her and Bruce was getting on his nerves. He knew the longer he was out of the loop, the longer it would take to find [Y/N] - and that was the opposite of what he wanted. 

“...Red Hood, I don't know if that's the best course of action right now. I think letting Batman handle this would-” Jason was quick to rebuttal, the notion of letting Bruce handle anything set him off.

“I’m sorry Babs - But last I checked I asked him for help, not the other way.” The name drop, Jason will admit, was immature. Though the line was secure, he knew better than to expose identities. Sighing, Jason apologized, “... Sorry Oracle, that was on me. I just… I just need to find [Y/N].”

It wasn't often that Jason shared his true feelings with the Batfamily, thus this admission of truth was a pleasant surprise to Barbara. The older woman then spoke through her link, “It's fine Hood.” She then turned her words to Bruce. “I- I think he's right Batman. It is his case… He deserves to know everything.” 

Maybe it was admiration for Barbara or maybe it was the swell of ‘I told you so’ to Bruce, but Jason, for the first time since [Y/N] had disappeared, felt hopeful. 

Bruce finally turned around to face his son, who in turn titled his head in earnest. “Oracle,” The older man voiced, “shut off the coms.” A click resounded inside the two mens headsets, signaling the radio silence.

“Before I disclose the information, I need a promise.” Though he donned the cape and cowl, Jason knew that this was not the caped crusader asking for a promise, but his father. As civil as he could be, Jason nodded for him to continue. “I need you to promise me that you won't go running into wherever, that you won't let your emotions get the best of you.” 

The former Robin wanted to scoff, but opted for rolling his eyes under his mask. Bruce was being ridiculous, “This isn't fucking Serejavo, alright?” He knew that he stuck a nerve, he could see a fraction of a flinch from his mentor. “I’m twenty-two, not fifteen - remember? Or do you have me confused with another one of your child soldiers?”

Uncomfortable silence ensued between the two, the seconds ticking by as Jason quietly wished for [Y/N] to be by his side, making this time spent with his adoptive father tolerable. 

Bruce’s response was monotonous, practiced as to not show emotion, “That's enough. We’re on a life or death search, this isn't time for a pity party.” 

‘Okay, Ouch.’ Thought Jason, ‘Thanks for rubbing salt in the wounds, really great work there B-man.’

Having had enough of this familial crap for the day (lifetime it felt like), Jason conceded, “Just get on with it.”

Heaving a sigh, Bruce took a small tablet out from under his cape. He handed it to Jason who quickly sifted through all of the information. It was chocked full of files, pictures, videos, fingerprints, fuck - blood samples. He perused more and more, going further into the database and then - 

Jason thought his heart stopped, again.

He felt as though all the air had been pulled from his lungs.

File 104 out of 305: a single strand of acid green hair paired next to an unknown fingerprint.

“Nightwing found it while crashing a drug trade.” Bruce stated, tone calm and collected.

At that, Jason's brows furrowed, “That's not usually his M.O. Drug trades were never his thing.”

‘No,’ A sick voice hissed in Jason's head, ‘Brutally beating a child to death is though!’

Batman nodded, “Correct. He didn't conduct it. The Black Mask did.” 

Roman Sionis, that fucking dweeb. 

Jason had had a personal vendetta against him ever since his successful take over of the Gotham underground. In the past, he wouldn't have paid a second of attention to that idiot, but once Falcone dipped, the crooks of Gotham were his for the taking. Sionis seemed to think that just any ‘Roman’ could replace ‘The Roman’. 

“What's this got to do with [Y/N]. I don't have time for an extra case, if you haven't realised, my girlfriend-”

Bruce was quick to interrupt before Jason continued one of his heated tangents, “We have reason to believe that he and Black Mask are working together.”

Jason stayed silent, for the first time actually wanting to hear what Bruce had to say. “That being said, rather, we believe Black Mask has hired…” The older Wayne looked at him head on, trying to gage his emotional response before he pressed on, “We think he has hired the Joker.”

It was involuntary, just an ingrained reaction for him to tense up at the mention of the Clown Prince of Crime. Maybe his constant thoughts of [Y/N] were clouding his detective skills, but he had yet to make a connection - or maybe he knew exactly where Bruce was going, but refused to even think of the implications.

“So what are you saying…”

The dark knight closed his eyes, composing himself before giving the final blow.

“I am saying, Black Mask has hired the Joker… to get rid of you.” Even with the mask on, Bruce could sense the indignance oozing from Jason, he held his hand up to silence him and continued, “You’ve been severely depleting the Black Masks profits - he’s losing grip of the crime world. He’s deemed you as the one thing stopping him from complete control, and he's desperate. So desperate that he's hired a maniac to do his bidding.” 

Taking another deep breath, Bruce let the information he had been keeping in, spill out, coating Jason in its toxic bearings. “The Joker knows you, as much as I hate it - he knows you better than any other criminal out there. He knows how to get to you. He knows your weaknesses. He knows your strengths, and he knows your allies. Even Jason Todd’s allies.”

And just like that, the small ounce of hope that Jason had felt earlier, diminished to nothing.

He would have taken being blown up again than this.

“Where is he?” Was all that Jason could muster. 

Bruce immediately shook his head, “No, Rob- Red Hood, I told you, you promised not to go in like-”

“Like last time?” Jason interjected.

Under the cowl, Bruce's face felt hot, unexpected embarrassment rising to his cheeks. “I didn't say that.” He grit out.

Jason finally let out the over do scoff, “But you meant it.” He then approached the larger man, leather gloved hand stretched out, “Now give me the fucking location.”

Though Jason was the closest to Bruce's build within the family, the older Wayne still had a height advantage on him. He stared down at his son, piercing eyes glaring at Jason to ‘stand down’.

Lifting a hand to press the comlink on, Jason spoke into the helmet mic, “Oracle, send me the Jokers coordinates.”

Before Bruce even got a chance to interrupt Barbara's channel, Jason had received the map, location locked in.

Jason backed away from the Bat, crossing over to the ledge once more, grappling gun at the ready.

“Jason!” 

Annoyed, he turned around to catch a glimpse at his mentor, expecting to be yelled at or lectured. Surprisingly, Bruce gave him a tight lipped nod, then - “Be safe.”

Not bothering to acknowledge his fathers - what he assumed to be - half assed façade of care, he swung to the next building, ready to get his girl back.

Bruce knew that two words wouldn't make up for all the hurt he's put Jason through, but it was the most he could do at this moment. He was afraid, he was worried, he was everything a father would be when their child throws themself into danger. Letting out a sigh of built up frustration, he linked up to Babs.

“Keep an eye on him, if it gets out of his control - I’m going in.” Oracle gave a hum of recognition, tuning in her cameras to Jason's helmet. 

“Keep him safe… please.”

[dwellordream]

“…When confronted with the very real fact that owning slaves and doing genocide has never been OK initiatives like the 1776 Project rely on one very bad argument almost in exclusion. In a nutshell it is this, “Actually you cannot say these people were bad for owning slaves and doing genocide because everyone was doing it at the time, so it was OK.” Friends, I say to you once again that this is a very bad argument.

Why? Well two reasons: First it states that the only opinions that matter are of the guys who were holding the enslaved and doing the genocide. Just because the group of people doing all the atrocities were cool with it doesn’t mean it was OK. Cuz guess what? The people who were enslaved and being genocided? Not big fans! Turns out people don’t like to be killed and owned as property! Wild, I know. And they were pretty clear about that fact throughout history.

Every major slaveholding society experienced slave rebellions, which should give you a hint about the enslaved felt about their lot. Spartacus? A real guy! Who led a real slave revolt! The Zanji Rebellion? Real, brutal, and understandable. Hell, Rei Amador’s revolt against the slave holders on São Tomé pretty much happened as soon as Europeans started the whole moving Africans to the New World thing.

The views of enslaved people on the matter are therefore a) pretty clear, and b) are as important as those of the people who had enslaved them. Yes! I assure you they are! If you do not think that enslaved or murdered people get a say in the morality of an event, I encourage you to maybe do some introspection about why you feel that way! (The answer is that you have been born into a society which has inculcated you from birth to believe that black and brown people do not matter as much as white people. Work on that.)

…Secondly, even if we were only going to count the feelings of white people as important in this discussion – which I absolutely am not going to – no matter when you confront genocide and slavery you also encounter people who do not think it is good!

This is true from the ancient period. Enemy of the blog Aristotle, pretty famously argued for slavery, because he had a whole gross justification about how the enslaved had a totally different nature to free people. Even when he makes unsavory arguments like this, however, he ends up admitting that there were some philosophers who “maintain that for one man to be another man’s master is contrary to nature, because it is only convention that makes the one a slave and the other a freeman and there is no difference between them by nature, and that therefore it is unjust, for it is based on force.”[1]

Unfortunately, we don’t really know who those people arguing against Aristole were, but their complaints were common enough that he had to acknowledge them while he was busy being a d bag. We do know that at least one stoic philosopher, Dio Chrysostom, argued against slavery some time in the first century AD though.[2]

In the medieval period the fact that slavery was bad and being enslaved sucked is evidenced in numerous ways, but it crops up repeatedly in saints’ hagiographies especially. Time and again we are treated to tales where Christians are saved from slavery through the miraculous intercession of saints. My man St Wenceslas, in particular saved a lot of slaves, for example. These stories are always kinda spicy as well because they tend to highlight cultural differences between slaves and those who hold them. A lot of the time it is not just a problem that someone is a slave, but the issue is that they are a Christian slave being held by a non-Christian.

Concerns about this were echoed early on in European legal code as well. The Pactum Lotharii signed between Venice and the Carolingian Empire established that it should be illegal to sell Christian slaves to non-Christians. This was later reiterated at several Church councils, starting with the Council of Koblenz in 922.

We also have smaller-scale examples of the freeing of slave, such as the remarkable Cornish Bodmin Gospel which individually records some fifty-one acts of manumission over the period from 950-1025, which show us how Christians considered it an important part of their practice.

…All in all slavery largely fell out of favour across Europe in the high and late medieval period. By 1315 King Louis X of France famously allowed serfs to buy their freedom and also stated that any slaves who set foot in France would be freed.

Did people still hold enslaved people in medieval Europe. Yes, though it was not a widespread practice. They were usually traded by intermediaries or captured in battle, and they always had to be non-Christian. This is an important point because the fact that one could not enslave a Christian is a tacit admission that being a slave fucking sucks and you shouldn’t do it to people. You had to enslave people whose souls were already lost to God in order to justify such a crushing and unsavoury practice.”

- Eleanor Janega, “On slavery, propaganda, and “apolitical” history.”

[peepingtoad]

||—@dokuhebi​ submitted:

They are at a bar, the evening is warm, the people are cheerful, the drinks are free, and they are surrounded by familiar and trusted faces. This is no time to be feeling more blue than the curaçao cocktail sitting in front of them. One of far too many in their light weight system. Loosening a tongue that was far too cutting and dangerous to be so honest. But then, they remind themself, they are also only in their twenties, and had already been swept up in the dealings of multiple wars, civil and global. Assignments since they were seven. Orphaned since they were six. So really - what right did any technicality the universe could offer have to tell them they ought to wait for the ‘appropriate time’?  Their golden eyes are watching him, the way his hand fits around the entire glass, the way he so quickly gets through each drink - yet somehow seems to be more sober than the serpent. How the white hair framing his face moves with him when he laughs, the shape of his eyes and lips when he smiles, the little glances he steals between them and Tsunade.  And if they were being fair - which they self admitted they were not, and refused to be - they may realize that for every glance he steals at Tsunade, he gives one to them. That every time he offers her a drink, he offers them one. That if both they and she were cold, he would forfeit his jacket and then his shirt so both of his team mates were content. It should be enough. But when was anything enough for the viper? Especially when they found themself brooding a little too much.  Because that was perhaps, one thing no one had found the trick to saving them from. Not since the day their parents died. Not since they caught a glimpse at the monsters in this world, and became so haunted by the prospect, that they imagined these monsters even when all was peaceful. Tormented by a monster once real and now more commonly fabricated. So as they move the straw in their glass, stabbing at the drink more than indulging it, they can not help their quip. The moment their teammate makes some statement, promise or playful joke about keeping the serpent and Senju princess safe, their golden eyes snap up and away from their drink. Not at all within the realm of festivity as Tsunade and Jiraiya offered. No, their voice, regardless of the smile they offer that shows little more than teeth, is coated in venom and tactless query.  “What if you could only save one of us?” It isn’t a fun question, it doesn’t hold any playfulness. It is far too real a possibility in their shinobi lifestyle, and it is far too accusing a question. Too timed. It had been plaguing them for the longest while. Not quite who he would rescue, for they are not afraid to protect themself out on the field. But instead, a backwards way of trying to dissect his mind and decisions to find out who he loved the most. And while any sensible person would perhaps find a quiet moment to ask the man such a thing in private, for a true confession, the serpent must set up a trap, and corner him. If they ask him one on one, he may just say he cared for them, to appease them. But how much more blocked in the man is when Tsunade sits beside the serpent, both team mates facing Jiraiya. Of course, they don’t pose it as something serious. No, they disguise it as one of their mistimed and socially inappropriate jokes. How they are accused of being cold, cruel and weird for their off beat demeanor. An easy hiding place, madness.  “Say we both drank poison, and you only had one cure. Or we were both targeted by enemies, and you could only intercept one attack,” they ask, toying with their drink as they toy with him, acting much like a cat playing with a mouse before eating it, wanting franticness and panic, or there simply wasn’t any fun, “well? Who would you save?”

With a countenance as naturally severe as theirs, it’s always difficult to say whether Orochimaru is even having a good time or not; even with alcohol thrown into the mix, it makes them no more easy to read than if they were stone cold sober. The only thing working in Jiraiya’s favour is many years by their side, of knowing them and their ways, and knowing that periods of watchful silence (a different beast to their regular silence) tends to mean that there’s something unpleasant going on within that unfathomable mind of theirs.

And it’s just like Jiraiya to simply let them lie dormant when first he senses that this silence is indeed one of those silences, figuring that if they want to say something, they no doubt will. No doubt waiting for the perfect time to pipe up amid the pleasant buzz and clatter of patrons and bar staff. 

Until then, however, Jiraiya has every intention of maintaining the levity of the evening as well as he possibly can—first of all, because it had been quite some time since they all had a short reprieve home, and second of all because they damn well deserved it. After months spent surrounded by the drab grey of Ame, whose ruined ground was by this point nought but scorched earth, blood and the rot of corpses pounded into a slurry by the relentless downpour… yeah, he very much ached for his home, and wanted to make some good memories here to tide them over once they were sent back into the fray.

Still, it’s only natural that given the state of the world around them and the overall horrific turn their lives had taken, conversation soon turns to lighter recollections of their exploits, the frankly insane things they’d survived so far, and the numerous ways they’d saved each other’s skins. After all, the name Densetsu no Sannin had spread like wildfire, right to the point where it had become very well known at home, where the familiar visages that greeted them were of the utmost awe and (far less familiar) respect. 

So it had been a simple thing to stir up some excitement and revelry with wild tales, until the three of them were left alone once more to chat more freely as they were wont to. In hindsight, it’s always easier to play up the theatre of their feats when one isn’t currently in that place of peril, with death reaching out to wrap barbed tendrils around one’s throat and yank them flailing into the underworld—but even then, the tall tales sold to random patrons come with a certain lull afterwards, punctuated more noticeably by the stabbing of a straw against ice and glass than he’d paid heed to so far.

And when Orochimaru speaks up, which Jiraiya had been starting to expect was coming like the most quiet yet brutal storm, he only needs to see the smile before he realises it won’t be good.

The stirring of the drink, whose colour was dimming thanks to the ice melting faster than they were imbibing, creates a little whirlpool in the glass that Jiraiya finds himself equally as mystified by as the question at hand. Oh, how he feels like he’d somehow been shrunk down and trapped in that boozy vortex, being spun endlessly around by a cruel and relentless hand! The unfortunate fact of the matter is, he has no idea what they’re really thinking while asking this, which is probably clear in the suspicious quirk of his eyebrow, and yet his own tipsiness is enough that despite gripping his glass a little tighter, he’ll rise to the challenge. 

He won’t let himself flounder and sweat, and he certainly won’t let whatever game was being played get under his skin… and yet it still rankles him enough that the atmosphere becomes tinged with a certain… frost.

Most of the time, he thought it was Tsunade that really had no problem hurting him. But times like this come as an unpleasant reminder that she simply isn’t as subtle about it as they are. She’s straightforward. She doesn’t test him. Whereas when it comes to Orochimaru, the needles come so subtly in the dead of night, in the form of some question or comment, and without even the moonlight to afford him that warning flash. He’s had it before, where a casual conversation somehow ends with him feeling like he’s fucked up—so it sets in rather quickly that there’s nothing cute or fun about this line of questioning whatsoever, for all he gives a hum of amusement into the next swig of sake, before setting his glass bluntly down again.

“Are you forgetting how not ordinary we are? Surely not, my dear friend,” the sage says coolly, in that irritatingly old-and-wise tone of his—the one reserved for moments of profound wisdom and bullshitting such as these. “What’s poison, after all, to the finest medic the world has ever seen? Or to a disciple of Ryūchidō whose blood is said to match that of the most deadly viper itself?”

That was one of the more wild rumours that had surrounded Orochimaru, for sure, but Jiraiya is ever one for playing up the mystery. He knows damn well they’re a B type—just like him, just like Tsunade. Sometimes he wonders whether that was a purposeful choice on Sensei’s part… or a grave oversight. Putting that matter aside in his mind, Jiraiya taps his chin thoughtfully, trying to maintain the illusion that this is a well-meaning expression of Orochimaru’s characteristic curiosity rather than a test of… well, he’s not sure what, because he refuses to ease up on the illusion, you see.

“Well, Tsunade’s more likely to save herself from a mortal wound,” he continues, inclining his head towards her, “and you’re more likely to evade an attack in the first place…” Having nodded towards Orochimaru, he stares somewhere above and between them for a moment. “As for me? Well I’m as tough as a cockroach, not to mention quite wily, aren’t I? But I’m only one guy. Can’t I say I’d send my body to one, and my protective shield of hair to the other? I’ve got about a hundred tricks that means I don’t hafta choose…”

It’s a cop-out, and he knows it. Plus, that illusion… it really isn’t holding up that well. He just knows that saying the wrong thing will get him in trouble, or perhaps even come across as some grave betrayal… and that includes refusing to give a conclusive answer.

One or the other, Jiraiya. Think about it, think about it—would saying I’d just off myself for the two of them be acceptable? No no, probably not…

“Urgh, fine. In a situation where there was absolutely no option, no wiles or nothin’ that would help, just straight up choosing… I guess I’d simply have to go for the least annoying one.” He shrugs matter-of-factly, then spares a sneering side-eye and irritating lean towards their dearest medic, who is fast nearing drunken belligerence. “Sorry Tsuna!~” 

His subsequent jolly guffawing is cut short with an ‘agh, ouch!’ as he is rather predictably socked in the arm for such a comment, not that Tsunade really seems to care. Mind games like this aren’t exactly her thing, and certainly not while drunk. In fact, in her drunkenness she slurs something or another about ‘not needin’ t’be saved by no-one, much less you, idjit’… which in part, may have impacted his choice to go that way at all. 

Because really, how does one answer such a question in all seriousness? And what would they say, more pertinently, if asked the same ruthlessly unfair question? They’d never know, because neither of them ever would. 

And Orochimaru should see it, how unfair it really is, in the way Jiraiya turns his teasing gaze from Tsunade to them—and how in that most minute of movements it takes to refocus his attention onto them, his overall demeanour shifts from merry to overcast, no matter how his lips try to hang on to that signature cheeky curl. There isn’t a particular message he’s trying to convey in that look, no specific reprimand or indication of exactly how serious his answer had been… just a certain wounded discomfort, marred with something else. Something that he himself can’t place, not even with the benefit of inhabiting his own thoughts.

What he does know, however, is that there’s certainly more truth in it than his skilfully casual approach to the answer, in the end, had let on… something that may not be as simple as a measure of love, which they were deviously trying to weed out of him, but of his fiery protectiveness for them in particular, which was admittedly a shade stronger than what he felt towards Tsunade. And maybe that is, in and of itself, reflective of his love for them… or, perhaps, what he feels he is to them. What value he has to them, in comparison to her. It’s far too much to figure out on such a pleasant night, the first in months, with the alcohol flowing and emotions hastily smothered beneath tall tales.

Whatever it is though, he just hopes that they recognise it somehow, lurking in his soft, subdued eyes, and that they’re satisfied.

[rough-and-whump]

RWT: Whump Triangle and Types of Whumpers

Let’s take a look at some of the different archetypes among the Whump Triangle, shall we?

First off – what is the Whump Triangle?

It’s what I’ve come to call the three types of character roles that can be contained within whump:

Whumpee (the focus of our whump)

Whumper ( sometimes optional, a perpetrator of whumping)

Caretaker (sometimes optional, but all good whump needs caretaking)

But there’s different types of each of these – and amazing things happen when you cross over roles.

Let’s start with our Whumpers, then our Caretakers, then our Whumpees. Then I’ll do “mixed-triangle” (idkwtf what to call that) ones at the end.

Whumpers

The stock!whumper is a person who hurts their whumpee. Often they have a somewhat sadistic side. They exert control over their whumpees and take pleasure in inflicting pain and agony.

Reluctant!Whumper

One of my favourite types of whumper. Perhaps they’re a member of the whumpee’s team who’s under duress and forced to hurt their favourite teammate. Maybe they’re a henchman of the whumper’s who has begun to see the error in their ways. Maybe the actual whumper turns reluctant somehow.

It’s like getting triple the whump: the whumpee gets whumped traditionally, the whumper then gets emotionally whumped by themselves as they struggle with their actions, and the whumpee gets more whump because they’re now confused and trying to figure out if they can trust this new reluctant side.

Suave!Whumper

The kind of whumper I’d be. (oh fuck, should I make a quiz? Fuck I feel like I should be back in jr high) Charming, socially capable, manipulative, emotionally mysterious. A suave!whumper may not always be manipulative, but they are charming. One of my fave tropes of the suave!whumper is when the whumpee is so broken that the whumper’s charm takes them in and the whumper takes advantage of their charm to inflict more turmoil.

Raging!Whumper

Scary, but visceral. Maybe they’re a barbarian like Barog, or they’re just having a real shitty day. But these whumpers mean business and they mean it now. My favourite raging whumper trope is just a brutal, guttural, primal beating. Bonus if the whumpee is suspended, but it’s whumperflies even if not. One of my favourite moments in a raging!whumper scenario is when the whumper’s tuckered themselves out – do they feel minor regret in going too far? Are they themselves out of breath? Do they say anything or do they just silently leave? How does the whumpee react the next time they see the whumper? Bonus – what if the whumper is actually much more moderate when not actively torturing someone?

Slow!Whumper

Another heinous type of whumper, the slow!whumper does things, well, slowly. Excruciatingly so. Slow drags of a rusted knife across flesh, methodical and slow restriction of airflow on a whumpee they’re choking, slowly breaking a bone as they maintain eye-contact and a smile. The slow!whumper takes a grand pleasure not just in pain, but in the fear and desperation just before the pain hits. They like to draw that out.

One of my favourite slow!whumper tropes is when the whumper is going so slowly, and the whumpees anticipation and fear are so strong, that the whumpee starts to lose it even before the physical whump starts. Playing with that fear is a strong experience for the slow!whumper.

Calculated!Whumper

A calculated!whumper is a bit of a mash up of several types, though their distinctive trait is that they tend to play the long con or otherwise engineers scenarios to make their whump soul shattering. Sinister chameleons, these are the whumpers that will infiltrate a team to target the weakest member; they’re the one who builds a spider’s web of influence and dependence, and the one who rejoices when the team finally realizes they’ve been betrayed.

OH! The calculated!whumper is, at their core, a betrayer. They adore getting their slimy fingers in every aspect of a whumpee’s life (and often they whump everyone) and just ruining everything they can find. They are one of the scariest whumpers, in my mind.

The calculated!whumper often favours completely breaking a whumpee, or conditioning them so strongly that they’ll never be the same. A calculated!whumper takes pride in marking their victims for life in an unseen way.

Cold!Whumper

Whether or not the cold!whumper gleans any enjoyment out of what they do, it’s hard for their whumpees to tell. Expressionless, emotionless, distant – the cold!whumper gives no indication of their thoughts. And it makes their whump even worse. Where other whumper archetypes might “play” with their whumpees or otherwise engage with them, the cold!whumper sees their whumpee as nothing more than a thing. Not even for the purposes of dehumanization. They just don’t interact.

Cold!whumpers are the worst (best) fit for emotional or social whumpees. Cinnamon rolls who need interaction or contact or conversation to feel a sense of safety.

Anywho, those are some of the archetypes of whumpers that come to my mind. Are there any that come to yours? What are your faves? What’s your fave out of what I’ve listed? What archetype do you want to see Spoken Words done for?

(I’ll do more of the archetype posts later – this one is getting quite big)

[awed-frog]

in which caesar hasn’t even been born yet

[Hi, this is me stanning Adrian Goldsworthy’s biography of Caesar. I studied Classics, but not this period, so all I can contribute here are squeals of delight, a few mistakes and the occasional witty comment. If you’d like to know more, please buy the book - it’s really good and a fun read.]

PART 1

So the first thing that’s important to remember if we’re talking about Rome is that Rome sucked. And, I mean, it sucked in a wide variety of very specific ways, but when it comes to the world Caesar would soon be born into, well - Rome sucked because it fooled everyone into thinking it was a democracy (to. this. fucking. day.) when it really, really wasn’t.

Basically, Rome worked the usual way: if you’re rich, you get a say; if you’re not, fucking starve maybe? Loser.

Specifically, the main reason why Rome had managed to defeat everyone else by that point is because it was a very well-structured, yet oddly flexible, oligarchy - which means you don’t have a mad king suddenly deciding he’s going to invade the Moon (= monarchy) or some rich asshole forming a new party and causing a civil war (= democracy). Instead, wealthy people worked together to remain wealthy, and those who seemed a bit dangerous or too ambitious could be booted out before they became a problem.

More specifically, there were three bodies of power (we’re talking about 130 BC or so): the magistrates, the Senate and the Popular Assemblies.

The magistrates are few, and they normally only stay in power for one year, but they can do a lot of things. A lot. They’re sort of the executive, and if you’re rich and talented, that’s where you start your career.

The Senate is a ~parliament: it convenes when the magistrates decide it should, debates stuff and votes on stuff. You’re automatically part of it if you’re a) rich enough and b) old enough and c) obviously a man and also d) a Roman (duh).

The Assemblies are fun. They can’t debate or propose anything, just vote on items from a list, and traditionally vote what the Senate tells them they should vote. Also the nice part is - in theory, these were open to all male citizens BUT not everyone’s vote was equal. There were, like, groups depending on class and wealth, and every group had one vote. Surprisingly, this tended to favour richer people, simply because there’s always more poor people than rich people. So a group of three very rich people would share one vote, and a group of two billion poor people would also share one vote. 

Another fun fact is that shortly before Caesar was born the system was starting to crack because imperialism. 

You’d think imperialism would be a good thing! But nope!! History is full of surprises!!! See, the problem is as follows:

You have a beautiful new country but it’s tiny and all your neighbours have Things and could be Dangerous, so you start attacking them and later write 9896-line poems on how you had to attack them because alas, your tribe had no women and women are the absolute best.

To prevent the survivors from stabbing you in the back, you offer them generous peace terms, like low taxes, paved roads and not-quite-a-Roman-but-hey-at-least-you’re-not-a-barbarian-anymore status.

Great. Now you have a larger territory and a free supply of soldiers (which your allies have to provide, cf. *Terms &Conditions) to go to war.

Unfortunately, these new wars take more time because in order to kill people and destroy entire civilisations you’re forced to go farther and farther away from home. #LiveLoveTravel

What this means is that the poorer soldiers in your army are struggling to keep their day job - if they’re away from home for five years, their farms won’t produce anything much.

Luckily, you and your friends are getting richer and richer because of everything you stole in the conquered lands and also all the slaves you’re bringing back.

[*instert light bulb gif*]

That’s how rich people start buying poor people off their land and creating vast estates farmed by slaves.

Meanwhile, those who can’t afford to play Roman monopoly basically become professional soldiers, which means more than half or the economy suddenly depends on being in a permanent state of war.

Spoiler alert: this fine and just system stops working when a) you run out of countries to crush or b) your military commanders are rich idiots who keep losing battles or c) enough soldiers get old and need an actual job, money and a house. 

And this brings us to about 30 BC (before Caesar), ie 130 BC (before Christ, but at this point, of course, it’s all a bit Christ who?).

By now, all of those three things have started to happen. 

In particular, a large bit of the Roman army is massacred by some Northern tribes who, honestly, were just moving around and Didn’t see you there, my bad, and the entire city of Rome starts to freak the fuck out. As it usually happens, this means the one decent startegist they’ve got in the entire army gets promoted - Marius, Caesar’s uncle and a hero of many foreign wars, becomes consul and basically stays consul well after the official terms. 

(Which: weird and dangerous! A threat to ‘democracy’!

But: he slaughters a lot of dangerous enemies abroad, so that’s fine.)

And secondly: someone realizes inequality is a ticking time bomb and they’d better find a place and a good salary for all those soldiers before they form a mob and burn everything to the ground.

Enter the Gracchi brothers. 

I know everyone goes through a teenage phase of stanning the Gracchi (including the whole ‘I’ll pretend-kiss that poster of yours I’ve got in my bedroom’), but just as a reminder, Tiberius and Gaius Gracchus were two tribunes who tried to make the Roman system work for everyone, not just the 1%, and were brutally murdered for their trouble.

(Of course, this being Rome it’s completely possible they were self-serving assholes drafting legislation to win over the public and crown themselves Mr et Mr Universum, but let’s be optimistic for fucking once.

I like them.

There.)

Their proposals were stuff like: limiting how much land one guy can own, redistribution of all that other land to the poor (which automatically created more soldiers for the army, btw, because you couldn’t fight if you didn’t own land), fighting against senatorial corruption, giving more rights to allied tribes and keeping wheat at a set price so nobody would actually starve to death when the markets were bad.

As I said, they were both lynched by political opponents, which doesn’t surprise me. What does surprise me is that Rome was surprised. Apparently, despite - well - everything - until 133 BC, when Tiberius and his friends were chased down the streets by angry senators, killed with random furniture and then thrown in the Tiber, Roman politics had been sort of civilised.

(Uh.)

With that murder, it all changed, and this is how Caesar’s story begins. 

— NEXT

[yszarin]

see below for thoughts on Threshold

- Marcus MacKenzie! At last! We have been waiting since Episode 27 for this, and I am very excited - A Sturdy Lock is one of my favourites (I have a lot of them), and it’s one of the ones that actually got to me, which may or may not have been because I first heard it at around 3am in my very vocal uni house when my housemates were away for the weekend, with my bedroom door unlocked. But it still brings up all this nostalgia for my first listen-through all the way back in 2017, S2 still airing and not yet any [EXTENDED SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PIPE MURDER] and I’d given up any attempt at saving any of the podcast for travelling in favour of listening to all of it immediately. Good times.

- ... I hate to break it to you, Marcus, but. your dad has a door too, and also they probably will end up being your undoing.  

- oh dear, kids losing their favourite toys is always a very D: sort of thing

- ah, empty corridors - these are Spiral doors, then. and these are getting progressively worse, I love it.

- no need to apologise, Marcus! the Archives are hungry, after all.

- why are we deciding to look into Hill Top Road now, Jon? usually he just sort of skips over the Web stuff, has to have it pointed out to him by other people, so this is a thing. 

- those were good days! we had a Sasha! we had an apparently happy Tim!

- like I’m in any position to mourn the suffering of the innocent - ouch, but also, sympathy and regret are not something that you don’t get to have just because you’ve done bad things? like, they don’t excuse any of the shit you do but not having them isn’t going to help you not be a monster. honestly I much prefer Jon feeling bad for the statement-givers and what they went through, makes me think there’s still hope (for the moment, at least).

- Helen! :D

- ... should she have? she wouldn’t know to mention it, the Distortion’s eaten a lot of people, she probably doesn’t put out a monstrous newsletter for all of them. but also ooof for Jon at hearing Helen talk so calmly about eating people when she was so uncomfortable with it at first, given that he knew her before she was a monster.

- yes, Jon, of course they can make other avatars do things, just like you can make other monsters tell you things, but, if you’re noticing it, I’m afraid it’s all you, and it’s going to be your responsibility to stop doing it. It’s not going to be as simple as just squashing a spider and it all goes away. but I do appreciate the confirmation that he still doesn’t really want to be full Archivist monster.

- ooooh, Helen laughing! and I suppose she’s getting nothing at all from Jon doubting himself and that. it’s not that I think she doesn’t mean to help him, exactly - though, she does seem to want to help him be more Archivist - more that she is literally a manifestation of lies and chaos, and while I don’t think she’s explicitly lied to Jon, well, confusion is in her interest.

- everyone! :D hello! Melanie, it’s been so long!

- oh - well, good on Martin for trying to keep them in the loop? keeping that to himself would not have been great.

- four? what the fuck, Jon? wait, FIVE? well that’s. severely not okay.

- I do love the little statement bits though, they all sound horrible :D

- well, that’s interesting - the tapes do tend to turn themselves on when a thing is happening, so I wonder what it is about Jon’s free range statements that it doesn’t think we should hear? maybe if they’re just for Beholding and Beholding isn’t the tapes.

- Basira, it’s really really not that different, Jon may understand what he’s doing but what he’s doing is not murdering people, which was probably bad all along, so I figure it evens out. And then, Basira has been encouraging some ability-use? She’s not to blame for Jon going and snacking, of course she isn’t, that is on Jon, but... the useful bits of the monster are still bits of the monster.

- oh, the Web wants to meet, then? and ye gods Basira that is a terrible, terrible idea - thanks Melanie, yes.

- ... Mel. I mean, I was already shipping Daisy/Melanie and this. is not going to stop me. 

- looks like we’re off to Hill Top Road, then? I feel like if they go, they’re not all going to come back, and if we’re going to lose someone, I feel like it’ll probably end up being Daisy - Melanie seems like she has an arc ahead with that therapist, since we heard that bit of their session, Basira is the main point of contact with Elias and also might be getting a Beholding thing, and Daisy is currently mostly recovering and trying not to go monster. It feels like losing her would make the Archives’ situation a whole lot worse, too. Maybe Jon? Yeeting him through into an alternate reality would be a big thing, though, and while I would trust Jonny to pull it off (though I tend not to like AU stories in canon), it’s still. big. possibly we could lose Martin while they’re gone (please be Simon Fairchild, my Vast trash heart needs this), but I feel like the Extinction storyline still has some way to go, and he’s our main link to that at the moment.    

- I am interested to see how we’re going to try to stop Jon snacking in future - if they’re going to try and lock him up like a full-moon werewolf or just have someone with him. possibly he could subsist on just Gertrude’s statements, but I feel like that would be quite a step back for him, and a lot to make, especially when if he just uses his powers, he can do good things like saving the world. either way, no easy times ahead for him. 

[kiangreyback]

❝ He tore the beauty from his face, and called it terror. ❞

AVAN JOGIA? No, that’s actually KIAN GREYBACK. A SEVENTH YEAR student, this RAVENCLAW student is sided with THE DEATH EATERS. HE identifies as CISMAN and is a UNKNOWN ( WEREWOLF ) who is known to be CUNNING, TEMPERAMENTAL, and BRUTAL but also RELIABLE, ADROIT, and ADAPTABLE.

links: pinterest

triggers: child abuse, child abandonment, kidnapping, drugs, alcohol

CHILDHOOD.

!! CHILD ABUSE TW, CHILD ABANDONMENT, KIDNAPPING TW !! The most that Kian can remember about his childhood is abandonment. Perhaps the cruelest thing to him was his parents deciding to carry him for nine months, bring him into this world and leave him for it to devour. –And devour it did.  The story is that his parents just didn’t care– they had lives and he wasn’t a part of them. The most they’d done for him is stuff his pockets with a couple galleons and leave him behind in Knockturn Alley ( because who would go around asking ‘who’s kid is this’ there. )

However, he didn’t have to suffer abandonment for very long. Fenrir Greyback had an eye for those who ‘needed’ a pack and knelt down with a hand offered. It came with a price but what wouldn’t Kian give for a home– a family. Perhaps if he could go back he would have refused that offer…only perhaps.

Fenrir was a cruel man..and that was putting it mildly– but Kian wonders if he’d take his own parents over a monster of a man because at least he’d given him a home. ( Not that home meant comfort but it did, eventually, mean FAMILY. )

His ‘father’ was hard on him. He was pushed to his breaking point again and again. He was taught how to endure cruelty, how to get his vengeance, to bleed but not be weakened by it. The lessons were vicious – but in Kian’s eyes necessary. He adapted well, fought until he couldn’t catch his breath and held up his siblings when it was their turn. Even though he was scared, Kian would approach everything in control– because that’s what he was taught. His ability to look Fenrir in the eyes and say NO earned him the most hated and most favoured spot in ragtag group of his siblings. ( standing up to his father only had a punishment at the end– though it seemed as if Kian had made his own mark with his stubbornness. ) Get knocked down, you get back up and you swing.  !! End TW !!

SCHOOL DAYS.

Kian was sorted into Ravenclaw. A strange house for someone who’d seem more fit for Gryffindor or Slytherin. But it came down to his cleverness and craftmanship that stuck him in with the eagles. He was smart– or rather a smartass – found unconventional solutions to problems and had a cunning way of adapting to even the worst of conditions.

He isn’t very popular with the others in his house or year– a little bit of an outcast because who doesn’t know that GREYBACK is synonym for WEREWOLF. HE tended to be a target for the upperclass peers to dig into when they were feeling bored. Though it ended with someone hexed or cursed or sporting a split lip or broken nose. But such was his life and he wasn’t too bothered by it. –As he grew older and stronger and word got back to those scaredy-cat pureblood parents that it was a Greyback throwing said spell/fist– things quickly quietened down for fear of retaliation from Fenrir. ( Not that the bastard actually cared but it’s the… thought that counts.)

HE doesn’t really spend time in clubs or extracurricular as he feels it’s a waste of time. Besides he has one band of dumbasses he doesn’t need to join any others. However, he did pick up quidditch from an early age and was quite a talented flier. His postion is naturally a beater– though he’s not fond of being led by a weasley.

His grades are above average and had once been considered for the position of prefect because of them but ultimately wasn’t offered it because of the fights he’d been involved with. smart but not friendly nor helpful enough.

OTHER STUFF.

Uhm, he doesn’t believe in all this ‘purebloods are superior’ shit. He’s just mostly here for the fight– at least that’s what he believes his ‘father’ is in it for because Merlin knows they aren’t fucking purebloods no matter how you spin it. There’s no money. No real parents. No hoity-toity clothes. No nose so far up his own ass. – IN fact i think he believes the Purebloods are a disgrace and can’t hold their own and that’s why people like him have to fight their battles. ( He doesn’t really voice this but he definitely thinks it even if it isn’t particularly true— just he’s real dumb? arrogant? idk? about this mess of a war )

He’s actually quite calm??? ( I KNOW?? WHAT?? ) He doesn’t mess with others unless he’s messed with and he tends to keep to himself. Kian isn’t out there being a social butterfly because he really doesn’t fucking care what you do or say or whatever. Life is dumb as hell, in his opinion, and he thinks dealing with his own is enough without someone elses involved. HOWEVER, if he is messed with this boy is gonna throw down. LIke he’s gonna go for the throat because that’s how he was raised. It’s either you or them there is no BOTH.

with that ^ said— he does have friends ( hallo plots ). he can be quite charming if he puts in the effort and perhaps his ‘life sucks, do what u want’ attitude tends to draw in people who may need stress relief from the war or you know normal things like last nights essay.

!! DRUGS TW, ALCOHOL TW !! Kian does smoke. Cigarettes and pot– never been one for anything harder than that. If he really wants to let go he’s out here for a couple rounds of firewhiskey. This is probably to the best way to see his true personality.   !! END TW !!

Loyalty is important to him ( though he isn’t past using it as a toss-around word for the DEs because he just really doesnt give a single fuck about them ). His lays with his siblings– though not biological he is very protective of his sisters but not enough to stand in the way of danger for them ( unless lethal. he will definitely step in ) After all they should know how to survive by now ANYWAYS. ( okay he does step in more often than that ;) a pack is a pack. )

There is some light at the end of the tunnel with him. He is quite funny when he wants to be– he can have a laugh and smile ( no, i mean an actual smile ) but it seems to be reserved for those he can trust and let down that massive guard he has up.

MORE RANDOM THINGS.

Probably would love baseball in the muggle world.

The name Kian was given to him due to that being the first word he spoke to Greyback. ( OR at least that’s what Fenrir believes he said ). Kian would be the name his father had and somehow it had stuck in his mind. ‘Why are you out here all alone?’ ‘Kian.’ SOOOOOOO he has no idea that’s his real father’s name….but yeno I guess you do get some things from your parents ha.

He doesn’t really remember anything about his birth parents. He only remembers Greyback. Greyback is gross and likes to hold things over your head so -- his parents leaving him is something that is usually brought up in order to take kian down a notch-- though it doesnt work how Greyback anticipates.

Doesn’t really have an opinion on being a werewolf other than it’s time consuming and therefor irritating to deal with. Pain is pain. Its an inconvience he wishes he could cure but not one that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to cure it, if u get me.

His favorite food is probably something dumb like mashed potatoes with gravy or roasted chicken with cous cous. – Favorite drink would be something equally simple like apple juice. Basically the palate of a two year old. Meaning he’s also here for things like lollies and popcicles, general summer time sweet treats. Not much for hot drinks like coffee or tea tho..go figure.

He has SEVERAL tattoos…..and  none of them really mean anything? They are mostly just  a series of lines/designs/patterns that he doodles on his parchments and, you know, since Papa Greyback don’t care about anything except himself this boy’s been getting them since summer before sixth year.

Tends to favour clothes that are flowy or breezy. Oranges and reds…blacks and whites mostly when outside of uniform. Doesn’t mind tighter jeans but the shirts gotta be flowy.

He cuts his hair every so often. Like real short then lets it grow out…currently like mid-length and usually pulled up out of his face either in a pony or half-up-half-down.

PRetty damn good at wizard’s chess ( eat your heart out ron weasley! ) and most anything that requires quick-strategy. He’s pretty good at figuring out the other’s intention which leads to a win.

He does draw– not anything too complicated but enough to know he has a mediocre talent in it? ( ie. his tattoos/doodles. )

His favorite classes are probably transfig, charms and probably astronomy. Most hated is herbology, comc, divinations and History or studies of anything.

UMM VERY UNSURE of what he’s gonna do when he graduates?? He doesn’t really have a certain goal for right now but….hopefully he can figure it out before the end of the semester tbh.

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

Best Friends. I SAID IT!!! i know i mentioned lone wolf but listen-- he needs a bestie or two  to fuck things up with or at least someone to treat him like he isn’t just, yeno, a wolf.

‘Bullies’.  This tech could be any blood status but i think, particularly, purebloods would be fun for this. basically when they were younger they picked at him for assorted reasons and eventually told to leave him alone by his parents because of Fenrir Greyback. Probably holds resentment to him because of that. also probably still takes abs at him. --kian being on the edge of chilling and ready to throw a curse at you, some could be fun enemies and/or frenemies at this point.

Hookups. basically fun hookups, angsty hookups, any genders. there isn’t a particular reason just that he likes to hookup -- this is probably something that is just physical. he’s not emotionally available and most likely doesn’t know how to be.

That ONE Person. you know that quote? ‘When is a monster not a monster? oh when you love it.’ I think it’d be nice to have someone that treats him softly-- on equal grounds. Like not scared of him or not here to make fun of him but to be gentle towards him. LIKE YOU KNOW the ones taht are saying ‘well your feelings are important. you are important. you aren’t trash’ ( even tho he is trash sometimes lmao )

Qudditch Buddies. Kian is usually abrassive but when it comes to this sport he is probably the only one in the school with good sportsmanship. he doesn’t care if they win or lose ( he still plays well though he’s not lazyyyy ) he’s just there to have a good time!! I think that’d make him quite likable on the pitch-- probably, as funny as this sounds, a breath of fresh air.

[tonystarktogo]

An Unwise Murder (An Inconvenient Survival)

Summary: “Someone within SHIELD sold out an Avenger. That was their first mistake.” When Avenger Steve Rogers is declared killed in action, everyone expects his best friend and fellow agent Bucky Barnes to go on a rampage. It’s the quirky mechanic with a sharp tongue and a secret talent for less-than-legal hacking that throws the whole agency for a loop. Featuring: A dead Steve (but when is Steve ever dead), a very pissed off, fucked-up secret agent Bucky (so basically your usual Bucky), and a very civilian Tony (who is exactly as harmless as you’d expect Tony Stark to be).

Read on AO3

Here is, as promised, the first part of the Double-0-Bucky/Hacker-Tony fic! To most of you, this part will probably be familiar already, but we have to start at the beginning *shrugs* and don’t worry, the next part will follow soon. Enjoy!

Part I 

Funerals aren’t meant to be a pleasant event, so Bucky doesn’t bother to put on a show.

His face could be carved in stone for all the emotion it conveys, and his muscles are tense, coiled, trembling faintly with the desire to grab his gun and pull the damn trigger.

Bucky isn’t sure if he’d stop shooting once he starts though. Not with how many tempting targets currently surround him. Not with how it would finally shut Pierce the fuck up. People tend to talk a lot less after you’ve emptied a magazine or two into them  — and Bucky has always been a man who appreciates silence.

Fuck, Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s here for. He doesn’t attend mandatory events. It simply isn’t done. The few weeks of the year that Bucky spends in his own country, he wastes drinking and sleeping around, often both at the same time. What’s to stop him from walking straight out of this impersonally sterile room filled with people he doesn’t trust, and go back to his favourite rundown bar to knock back vodka until he can’t feel the cold on his skin anymore?

Oh right. His best friend just got himself killed in action. The lucky bastard.

On a fucking nightmare of a mission in France of all places. If it had been Russia or Iran or North Korea or even just Sokovia (and really, it takes skill to be wanted by all four sides of the conflict), Bucky could have dealt with it.

But France? Bucky takes that as a personal offence.

Avengers don’t get killed in France. Avengers get killed the way they kill: brutal and messy, with no one left behind who’d bother to avenge them. Because justice is a fairy tale, and every act of peace is built on the actions of someone smart enough to wash the blood off their hands before they step in front of a camera.

At least the acknowledgements are short and free of false sentimentality. A whole lot of bullshit, sure, but it’s not like there is another choice. Not when the truth amounts to Steve Rogers died on a mission we weren’t authorised to give, in a country he wasn’t supposed to be in, over intel that we won’t admit exist.

Bucky doesn’t laugh. Barely huffs a a breath, but the people on both sides of him twitch tellingly.

Like all Avengers, Bucky has sought out the back of the room, where he can keep his back to the wall at all times, has a clear view on all available exists and a good excuse to keep an eye on the crowd of mourners.

The thought that one of them — multiple ones, possibly — are faking their sorrow makes Bucky clench his fingers against the urge to start an interrogation right now, Avenger style.

“Don’t kill anyone you might need to sign you off on field work again,” Barton mutters to his left, the words barely audible.

Bucky forces the tense muscles in his shoulders to relax, adopts an at-ease position that won’t fool the other Avengers, but at least won’t traumatise the attending techies and lawyers. The psych department always makes such a fuss when you break their precious, civilian employees.

There’s no point in fooling his colleagues though — if the Avengers can even be called that. It’s not like he meets them for brunch or goes out drinking with them in his downtime. They’re the elite of a internationally operating spy organisation for a reason, and it’s certainly not their ability to play well with others.

Just hours after having one of their own killed in a SHIELD-issued safehouse, all the Avengers are on edge. More so than usual. That the entire op smells like foul play all the way across the Atlantic does about as much to deescalate the situation as throwing a hand grenade into a room filled with weaponized uranium.

Someone inside SHIELD sold out an Avenger.

That was their first mistake. Their second was taking Steve out without killing Bucky as well.

There’s a shift in Bucky’s peripheral vision. Natasha Romanoff, codenamed Black Widow, looks as affected of recent events as she always does: not at all.

Is she the traitor? Bucky wonders as he tilts his head ever so slightly in acknowledgement. The rivalry between Black Widow and Steve is no secret. It isn’t a friendly one either, not that any of the Avengers are the sort of person one might associate the word “friendly” with. She betrayed the Red Room at eighteen. What offer would it take for her to turn on a fellow agent? An Avenger at that? Is she tense because she expects me to do this country a favour by killing Pierce or is she afraid to be found out?

The service lasts barely twenty minutes — unsurprising, considering how much isn’t said, can’t be said, because living within the specter of the highest security clearance makes for a shoddy eulogy — but to Bucky it feels like forever.

It doesn’t help that half the people around him are waiting for him to fly off the handle in either grief or blind rage. Blind rage admittedly being the more likely outcome.

It doesn’t help that the other half undoubtedly suspects him to be the traitor — who better to kill Steve Rogers than his best friend, after all? Especially when Avengers so clearly don’t have best friends — though Bucky can’t fault them for the sensible assumption.

He’d suspect himself too. The black hole that is four years of being held as a POW on his résumé hasn’t left him with what one might call a solid standing within the agency. Or a stable life in general.

Bucky has simply been lucky that Avengers don’t have much use for stability as it is. (Also, Steve was planning a revolt, should they stop attempting to recover Bucky. Not that anyone likes to acknowledge that. Pierce’s secretary still pales every time she catches sight of one of them.)

He’s been lucky that he’s too useful to be killed.

That might change now — Steve Rogers’ death changes a lot of things — but if it comes to that, Bucky will make damn sure to take the traitor with him. Another outcome isn’t acceptable.

And Bucky is very, very good at getting what he wants.

But first, he needs to find someone clean — meaning unaffiliated with SHIELD in any way — who can take a look at the USB flash drive he’s found in one of his dead drops two days after Pierce declared Steve KIA.

Fuck, but the first thing Bucky is gonna do when he sees Steve again is punch him in the fucking face.

*

Tony has always had an interesting way of making friends.

For example, Tony meets his best friend Pepper during a hostage situation when he’s sixteen. He’s never before seen a girl throw high heels at a guy’s head with such a deadly accuracy. Suffice to say Tony likes her immediately — and promises to buy her all the shoes she needs to knock stupid people down, naturally.

They keep in touch afterwards, and it’s the start of something great.

He meets his brother in all but blood much the same way, only Tony barely remembers that one because those kidnappers were smart enough to drug him before trying anything funny. Luckily, Tony has Rhodey for the straight thinking part — or at least he does after that episode.

On another, memorable occasion, Tony befriended one of his kidnappers.

In his defence: they were some pretty alright people, for being criminals holding him for ransom. No unnecessary threats or bodily harm, and they actually gave him drug-free food too. Also, you have no idea how mind-numbingly boring being kidnapped is. Well, not the getting kidnapped part but the staying-kidnapped-whilst-your-kidnappers-fail-to-get-their-money part.

Sadly, some people still believe that Stark Industries will pay for the disowned heir Tony Stark’s safe return. And usually they don’t react too well to being proven wrong. That time being one of those rare exceptions. In no small part thanks to a certain member of the crew whose identity Tony will protect until the day he dies. Or something.

Never mind.

The point is, Tony is used to meeting cool people under very hazardous, extraordinary circumstances.

Which is why — as he will later explain to a very exasperated Rhodey and an even more distrustful Pepper — when Tony locks up his garage at 7.40 pm after a long day of changing oils and busted tires, only to suddenly find himself face to face with a hooded stranger — after he’s already locked the doors, though he won’t share that part with his friends — he doesn’t panic.

He greets the guy — there’s a twenty percent chance Tony knows him, okay, hiding their faces as they track him down isn’t exactly a rarity — like a civilised person instead.

“Hi there,” Tony says with his best customer smile. “How may I help you?”

The guy — who definitely has more upper body strength than Tony, not that he notices or anything — doesn’t so much as twitch. He just stands there, body turned towards Tony, face shadowed by his hood. Tony really should have switched out the broken light bulb ages ago, maybe then he wouldn’t have to squint at his visitor like a sceptical squirrel, trying to make out the guy’s features.

“Anthony Stark?” the guy asks after a moment, voice low and rumbling, like gathering clouds on the far end of the horizon, as a violent storm approaches.

It’s that specific, unfairly nice sound that decides it: Tony definitely doesn’t know this guy. There’s no way he would have forgotten a voice like that.

Tony lets his smile brighten a little because if he’s about to be kidnapped — is it that time of the month already? Tony wouldn’t know, his last calendar sorta had a small accident involving a fire and DUM-E using up all the fire extinguisher on Tony rather than the actual fire. It was a pretty sweet, protective gesture, actually. Tony may or may not have teared up, just a little, but that didn’t change that half his equipment had to be replaced — then he’d like to start their working relationship on a good note. The kidnapping attempts tend to have less violent endings that way.

Additionally, Tony really doesn’t want to start a fight in his garage. This is his work place — which is basically holy, ask anyone. His cars are in here. They are not acceptable collateral damage, no matter what Pepper says.

“Do you know a Steve Rogers?” is mystery guy’s next question.

Which is a damn shame because it takes all of Tony’s not inconsiderable self-control to not tense at that particular inquiry. Steve Rogers.

God fucking damn it.

Tony forces the memories, the reflexive questions — a bloodied, broken body, screams of pain, narrowed, blue eyes glaring at him even as strong hands push him out of the line of fire — down immediately, takes care to keep his expression calm and clueless instead. He’s got lots of practice doing that. It’s just like being confronted with an obnoxious reporter who won’t stop bothering him with stupid questions about why he denies his father’s legacy. Bloodthirsty reporters, bloodthirsty assassins, it’s really just more of the same.

Tony has been handling shit like this since he was nine. If mystery guy expects him to trip up and give up even a single piece of information the easy way, he’s got another thing coming. Tony Stark doesn’t do easy.

Especially not when it concerns people he almost considers tolerable. Those gems are hard enough to find as it is — well, among the boring, totally legal working crowd at least — Tony will protect them with all he has. Not that he wouldn’t do the same for people he doesn’t like, he just wouldn’t be as happy about it.

Mystery guy is in for a surprise.

“Rogers?” Tony furrows his eyebrows in confusion. “That doesn’t ring a bell.” Close enough to the truth to count.

Then, the grin slides completely off Tony’s face and his eyes narrow in open suspicion. “Not that it matters. I don’t make a habit of handing out contact information to strangers who can’t be bothered to introduce themselves. Client privileges, I’m sure you understand.”

And yeah, some sarcasm may slip into those words, but can you blame Tony? He’s been working for almost ten hours in that special place reserved in hell for customer service, and, frankly, Tony is done with the world for the day. That he’s most likely dealing with what’s either a very diligent mercenary or a very strange kidnapper does little to lighten his mood.

Both options are far less appealing than mystery guy’s sexy voice initially indicated. Tony feels a little cheated.

“Oh, I understand,” mystery guy murmurs ominously.

When Tony squints, he can literally see the shadows behind the guy blacken. On an unrelated note, he really needs to stop binge-watching those horror flicks. Clearly it’s messing with his mind.

Not that this keeps Tony from bristling at Mystery Guy’s threatening tone — if anything, it has Tony reflexively square his shoulders because he does not fold.

Mystery guy snorts, and Tony has the fleeting impression that the stranger has the gall to be amused by him. He kind of wants to deck the guy just for that.

“I can see why he liked you.”

Something in those words freezes Tony into place long before his brain has puzzled through their meaning. By the time his mind catches up to the past tense that refers to a person it should absolutely not refer to, mystery guy has already taken a few steps towards the only functioning light bulb in Tony’s garage and slips his hoodie back.

The bleak light reveals a pale, handsome face with a strong jaw and icy, blue eyes. Absently, Tony approves of the way the hoodie has messed up Mystery Guy’s wild hair into something untameable and unfairly attractive, but it’s kind of hard to melt into a puddle of appreciative goo when you’ve just learned of the death of a friend.

Or well, acquaintance maybe. Rhodey always reminds Tony that he can’t just go around, adopting friends left and right just because he wants to. And with Steve it’s hard to say. The guy is almost impossible to read.

Still, it’s Steve they’re talking about. And whatever mess he’s gotten himself involved in, Tony doesn’t doubt for a moment that Steve thought he was doing it for the right reasons. He’s annoyingly self-righteous like that. It sucks even more when you listen to him rant and realize he’s got a point, not that Tony will ever admit such a thing to his face.

Which will be hard to do if Steve is actually—

Tony presses his lips together and defiantly stares up at Mystery Guy. Who is, in fact, taller than him. There really is no justice in the world.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” is what Tony settles on to summarize the maelstrom of confusing emotions wrecking chaos inside him.

The man takes a threatening step closer. Of course, it’s not that hard to come across as threatening when you’re half a head taller and made of muscles and steel. Still. The guy could at least try to keep his looming on the downlow.

Not that Tony does him the courtesy of giving up an inch. This is his garage, damn it. No one makes Tony feel afraid in his own home.

Mystery Guy growls and there is a lethal coldness in his eyes that Tony doesn’t think a human should be able to portray.

“I was Steve’s best friend. And you’re going to find the people who killed him so that I can return the favor.”

Thoughts? 

[darnedchild]

Universally Monstrous - The Phantom of the Opera

It’s Sherlolly Halloween. This year I’m playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.

Universally Monstrous

The Phantom of the Opera

It was a well-known secret that New Scotland Yard was haunted.

Or “haunted” if you talked to certain people.

The Phantom—as he had been christened by someone who obviously spent far too much time reading paranormal fiction and not enough doing their job—seemed to favour the basement level of the building.  

Whispered tales of a rare disembodied voice offering biting criticism and unwanted advice routinely made the rounds through the locker room.

“He said it was criminal that I was allowed in the lab,” Anderson had groused over a shared bag of crisps during an impromptu gossip session after a departmental meeting. 

One of the lab techs rolled his eyes.  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the Phantom isn’t the only one who thinks that.  Have you talked to Donovan lately or are you two still fighting?”

Anderson ignored the other man.  “I’m not kidding, Hooper.  When I checked the shadows to find the owner of the voice, they were empty. The Phantom is real.”

Molly might have scoffed if she hadn’t heard the voice herself.

The first time she’d thought it was a prank, one of the other’s playing a joke on the new hire.  

She’d been sitting at her desk during her lunchbreak, working on the first draft of the fictional crime novel (with a hint of romance between the feisty pathologist and the gruff cop with a heart of gold and abs of steel) that had been screaming “Write me!” in her brain for the last few years.

Molly had been slogging away at a particularly frustrating scene, one that delved into the mind and motives of the murderer, when the need for something caffeinated and bag of crisps grew too great to ignore. She’d minimized her document and headed toward the cafeteria.  When she’d returned twenty minutes later her manuscript was open on the laptop screen, front and centre, and someone had left a long and detailed paragraph of where she’d left off.

“What the hell?”  She’d been extremely annoyed that one of her co-workers had invaded her privacy like that and was mentally preparing the bollocksing of the century when the Voice spoke.

“That’s not how he’d think.  Your killer.”  

Molly had jumped, “Who are you?  Where are you?”

“Don’t be dull,” the Voice admonished her as if it—he—was disappointed in her response.  “You know who I am, I hear you lot chattering on about me all the time.”

She huffed.  “We don’t chatter.”  Molly was met with silence for several seconds.  “Well, I don’t, at any rate.”

“True.  You do tend to hold your tongue when the some of the others begin to wax poetic about the most ridiculous things.”  She’d thought the Voice had been coming from the left before, but now it was clearly coming from the right.

Molly turned a full circle to look for someplace an adult (for he definitely had the deep, smooth voice of a man) could hide. She even ducked to look under the desk.

“Your villain’s thoughts are far too chaotic and disjointed for the methodical serial killer you’ve set him up as.”

“How would you know?”  Could the stories be true?  Was there really a ghost haunting Forensics?  “Is this what you did in a past life?  Get into the minds of criminals?  Did you work down here, or maybe as detective?”

She thought she heard him laugh, and the husky sound caused a sensation like the touch of warm fingers softly brushing up her spine. She shuddered as he spoke again, “Something like that.”

“So, is this one of those ‘unfinished business’ things, or…”  

Molly held her breath and waited but silence was her only answer.

Two weeks later she was sitting at her desk, transcribing her notes from the latest autopsy when she heard, “Excellent catch on the Marshall case.”

“Thanks.  I thought it was a long shot, but what could it hurt to run an extra test or two so-“ Her body recognized his voice before her brain did.  Her skin tingled and something at her core warmed even as she spun in her chair to search the room with her eyes.  

Three days after that, she’d been working on her novel during another lunch break—she’d taken the Phantom’s advice and completely reworked the scene with her villain’s inner thoughts—when she realized she wasn’t completely alone.  Her hands stilled on the keyboard.  “Hello.”

Molly heard him draw in a startled breath somewhere behind her.  “How did you know I was here?”

“You’re not as stealthy as you think.”  She slowly turned, completely unsurprised to see that the room was empty.  Still, she felt that he was nearby.  “I noticed a . . . scent after your last two visits.”  It had been clean and masculine, not clouded with cologne or the musky bodywashes that were popular amongst the male staff.  “And there was a creak, something shifted under your weight this time.”

He was silent for so long she began to worry he might have left again.  “Interesting.”  She got the feeling he was watching her, studying her.

“You, uh, you’re not a ghost, are you?”  Molly almost tripped over her words.

“Of course not.  Didn’t you know, ghosts don’t exist.”  He seemed amused.

She heard another creak and her eyes darted around the room, hoping to pinpoint where the noise was coming from.  “So you just lurk, then.  For fun, or . . .”

“I observe.”  As if that explained anything.  “Some of your co-workers are idiots.  Most of them.”

Molly opened her mouth to argue then shrugged. He wasn’t exactly wrong.  “Still, I’m pretty sure what you’re doing isn’t exactly legal.  For a vast number of reasons.”

He laughed again, and it made her shudder just like the last time.  A good shudder.  The kind that was going to keep her awake thinking the sort of things she shouldn’t. “I’ve never been worried about legalities.”

“Aren’t you worried I’m going to run upstairs and report you?” she asked.

“Are you?”  The Phantom’s seemed to come from directly behind her, which was impossible as her desk was set against a wall.  She didn’t bother turning around as he continued to speak.  “Would it make you feel better to know at least one Detective Inspector is aware of my secret, and has been for nearly as long as I’ve been ‘haunting’ the halls.”

It did actually.  “Do I know them?”

“Possibly.  His name is Lestrade.”

“Oh, I’ve worked with him!”  He’d come looking for her six months before, requesting her assistance with a particularly brutal double homicide.  “Wait, did you-?”

He hummed, a noncommittal answer if she’d ever heard one.

“Am I allowed you know your name?  You obviously know mine and I can’t keep calling you the Phantom like some 1920’s horror movie.”  She bit her lip.

After a long moment, he answered.  “It’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” Molly tested the word, rolled it around on her tongue like a decadent treat.  She swallowed hard and lifted her chin.  “So now that I know you’re real, are you going to show yourself?”

Silence.  He was gone. “Okay.  I’ll take that as a no.”

Over the next few months she slowly stopped joining her co-workers in the cafeteria for lunch or the afternoon break, telling herself she was choosing to stay in her office to work on her novel.

That Sherlock had become a semi-regular visitor at those times had nothing to do with it.

Right?

She often found herself verbally working out plot points and dialogue, smiling when the disembodied Voice occasionally replied to offer suggestions or encouraged her to think through the moment with only a bit of gentle prodding and praise.  Even better, as far as she was concerned, they’d begun to speak of other things. Her life outside of work, bits and pieces of his (although he still kept a tight lip on most everything), books they’d read (they were both voracious readers), all sorts of little things that had begun to add up.

“So this is going to be one of the really difficult bits for me to write.”  Molly leaned back in her chair and pushed away from her desk on the squeaky wheels so she could spin around in a lazy circle.  They’d been talking for nearly half an hour.  “There’s been this building sexual tension between Brandon and Rachel almost from the moment the first met.  Now they’ve just survived a near death experience, emotions are high, the attraction is there.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and Molly sighed.  “I know, it’s a cliché but it just seems right at this point in their relationship.  But I’ve never really done that.  Well, I mean, I’ve done that; just not the passionate, all consuming kind of . . . that.”

He still remained silent.  She couldn’t help but fidget.  “It’s just, it’s been a long time and even then it was more of a ‘let’s scratch this itch’ than a ‘take me against the wall right this second’ thing. God, I think my ex Tom would have hurt himself laughing if I even dared to suggest it.  If anything it was boring and I just wanted to get it over with so I could see if there was anything good on the telly.  And I have absolutely no idea why I’m telling you any of this.”

“I’m not really sure why you’re doing it, either. What is it you want from me, Molly?” He sounded almost as uncomfortable as she felt.  Not for the first time, she wished she could see his face to better read his emotions.

“Well, you’re . . . You’ve got that voice.  And you’re smart.  And you have a wicked sense of humour.  I know you hang around here most of the time, but surely you-you’ve . . . I can’t imagine there would be a mad scramble for the remote with you.  That is, with you and-and the person you were with. So, I was hoping you could help reel me in if I get a little too . . . unrealistic?  With the scene?”  That was it. She was going to go home and drown her embarrassment in a carton of cookies and cream ice cream and try to pretend she’d never started this conversation.

He sighed.  “Molly, I don’t know what you imagine I do when I’m not here, but I am absolutely positive it isn’t whatever you think it is.”

“What?”

“Fuck it,” Sherlock sighed.  The large shelving unit that was bolted to the wall slowly swung inward to reveal a dark doorway.  She could just make out a tall figure standing in the shadows.  

Molly got to her feet as he stepped into the room and she saw him clearly for the first time.  He was tall and fit, dark but impeccably tailored clothes, a mop of soft looking curls, and a strange black mask that covered the left half of his face.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” she asked.  She’d referenced the old Phantom of the Opera movie before, did he take that as a challenge?  Was he making fun of her?

“I wish it was.”  Sherlock lowered his head and reached up to carefully remove his mask. He took a deep breath before he lifted his face and turned toward her fully.

Whatever had happened to him had ruined half of his face.  He was lucky he was still able to see out of his left eye.  “How?”

“Acid.  I’d barely begun working with Lestrade as a Consulting Detective—you wouldn’t have heard of the term, I invented the position—and the abusive husband of one of my clients decided to get his revenge.  It could have been worse.  As you noticed, I was able to keep my eye and my mouth and vocal cords were virtually undamaged.  Believe it or not, I was even more of a socially inept arsehole and my interest in relationships had been virtually non-existent before the incident.  And then this happened.”  He gestured to his face.  “You can see how off putting this is to another person.  It was easier to seclude myself than deal with people every day.”

Molly had questions.  A lot of questions.  “Okay, I get the wanting to stay away from other people thing, but how in the heck did you get a secret door in the basement of Scotland Yard?”  

“Doors, plural.  I have a contact in the government and a massive trust fund.”  He blinked at her.  “Why haven’t you run off or retched on your shoes?  Why are you pretending this doesn’t bother you?”

“Last week I had to do a post-mortem on a floater who had been in the Thames for several weeks.  A disfiguring facial injury and healed scar tissue is nothing in comparison.” She bit her lip and took a step closer. “Could I-Would it be all right if I-“

“Touch my face?” Sherlock asked at the same time Molly worked up the nerve to say, “Get a tour of your underground supervillain lair after my shift ends?”

They stared at each other for a long moment before he nodded.  “I guess that would be acceptable.  As long as no one saw you roaming the halls after you were supposed to be gone.  As incompetent as most of the idiots upstairs can be, they are trained law enforcement officers.”  

Molly smiled.  “One more question, and this one is super important.  Can you get wi-fi down there?"

[sburbian-sage]

Prospitians and Dersites

A small list of all those cute carapacians and what role they have.

Artillery Deputy/Ace Dick/Angelic Dude

Alignment: Prospit

A short stout Prospitian, and one of the 3 agents for the golden planet. He, like the others, is willing to jump into action, and does a damn fine job of it, but is rather peculiar. He is very strong, but has an incredibly poor imagination and is not creative at all. Talking to him is poking a brick wall to find the Magicant. But he has his upside. Particularly, an access to lots of guns. He usually totes a tommy gun, a shotgun, or in some cases, a minigun. Don’t bring him for utility, befriend him for the dakka. He’s also great as a tank. But watch his health, because his special move is taking a shot directly in the gut.

AD’s imagination is so poor, the game doesn’t even know his recruitment parameters. Just try asking politely. I think you should try tootsie rolls?

In certain cases, AD will take the identity of Ace Dick when exiled and join a gang of investigators, which is really ridiculous, but still cool. His lack of imagination shows here because he makes a name instead of a title like his friends, but at least it fits the theme of being named AD.

If AD gets the Ring, he becomes the Angelic Dude, and will be very powerful. Unfortunately, his low imagination means he won’t use any of his powers to any great extent. He’ll still be hardy though.

Authority Regulators

Alignment: Any

What is pretty much the police. If you break the law, they’ll bust down on you. There’s 3 types, each with a rating matching the level of crime they solve. The first one is Petty Guards, for petty crimes like littering and squabbles. They look like regular carapaces in a suit. They are cutely inefficient, and actually kind of fun to mess with. The second type are Standard Guards, for standard crimes like assault, theft, and vandalism. They look a bit rougher, and will go to great lengths to finish the job. This makes them great allies, aces in the sleeve, and occasionally monkey wrenches. Then we get Serious Guards for serious crimes, like murder, mass destruction, and unpaid parking tickets. That might be a bug. They will solve problems with violence and guns if they have them. They also tend to be more of a problem for the player than anyone else. Keep in mind that the guards are called based on the seriousness of the crime, but if one is in the area they will come, regardless of their level. This results in Serious Guards threatening to kick your shit in for missing the trash can, and Petty Guards trying to stop a Rampaging Player.

These guys are made for comedic sociopathy.

If any of them come across The Ring, they will return it to the proper Royalty. However, Derse Guards will take a WK/WQ ring to Derse, while a Prospit Guard will take a BK/BQ Ring to Derse. Talk about lawful stupid.

Black King

Alignment: Derse

The main villain. He leads the Derse armies on the Battlefield and can always be found there. His armies are always destined to win and the game reaches its peak when the players challenge his claim to The Ultimate Reward.

Black Queen

Alignment: Derse

The Queen of Derse. Despite being presumably being married with the King, she seems to cavort with Jack Noir quite a bit. However, the SGRUB version explicitly states that Jack and Queen have a Kismesissitude, which includes polyamory, so she’s not cheating in SGRUB, while might be in SBURB. But nobody is stopping her, because the Queen is very powerful. In fact, a fully prototyped Queen will sometimes be more of a challenge than a fully prototyped King. Killing the Queen then the King is a challenge in Replayer circles. But you may want to do that later, as the Queen can give favours and even be asked for assistance. Just keep in mind that she is a vain beast, so be sure to be humble and compliment her every other sentence.

Courtyard Droll/Clubs Deuce/Capricious Demon

Alignment: Derse

One of the Derse Agents, but don’t worry. All he does is sit around and dance with his stupid hats and umbrellas, and get bullied by the other Agents. DD is probably the nicest because he just puts his cigarettes out on him. This one is marked with a Clubs, and he tends to settle disputes. SGRUB refers to him as a loose Auspistice, so him stopping you and a friend fighting is actually somewhat lecherous. Kinda. Regardless, he doesn’t look much, and his unassuming nature is his strength, as he can get by undetected and unexpected and do some serious damage, including theft. And if he gets his hands on explosives, you’re severely disadvantaged, if not dead. Knocking off his hat will stun him, so take advantage of it. And whatever you do, don’t get hit by his cane. It’s... upsetting.

You can actually recruit CD temporarily by wearing a hat and showing interest and knowledge in hats. Just don’t get addicted to hats. That’s a documented mental illness and it fucks up everything.

If he gets exiled, he will probably join a gang with the other Agents as their powder monkey. But if he gets the Ring, he becomes the Capricious Demon. If this is the case, he usually follows a plan of doing empowered tasks for the other agents, realizing he is more powerful, murdering all of them out of revenge, and then claiming The Ultimate Reward for himself. He will also gain a bit more pyromaniacal traits, and will blow up The Ultimate Reward. Stop him before he does this. Recruiting the other agents if they’re alive is best for this, but make sure they don’t betray you. 

Filching Rapscallion/Filthy Roughneck

Alignment: Derse

A lowly thief who lives in alleyways. He’ll probably steal things from you and the royalty, but mostly out of survival. Hell, if he gets the Ring, he won’t even think about putting it on, he’ll try to sell it. Despite his criminal nature, he’s actually nice, and can be called upon for help and even recruitment. You can trade your items and boondollars for his black market/stolen/illegal items, and feeding him a feast’s worth of food means he’ll be in your debt. In battle, he fights with a knife and can score brutal sneak attacks and backstabs. A little bit of a glass cannon, but an expert dodger. Any kills he lands also pays out more grist. He’ll eventually ask you to help him steal his Thief Armour from Prospit and Thief Knife from Derse, and doing so will net you lifetime loyalty, discounts, and his best armour and weapons. He’s one of my go-to NPCs. The only disadvantage is that he won’t enter jailhouses, buying from him is a Standard Crime, and him following you is a Petty Crime.

Draconian Dignitary/Diamonds Droog/Destructing Duke

Alignment: Derse

One of the Derse Agents. He’s the classy one marked with a Diamond. He is a slacker, and spends most of his time smoking and reading his newspaper. Please do not read the newspaper. On that note, troll girls, stay away, and human girls, don’t paint yourself grey. However, despite his slacking off and odd interests, he is a powerful man. He’s Jack’s second-in-command, and in SGRUB versions, his Moirail. He’s extremely charismatic, and can sweet-talk anyone, even some players! And if all fails, his pool cue and twin automatic rifles even the field. Be careful of this one. Even if you exile him, he does the same thing, just as Diamonds Droog, and he’s dressed better.

You can recruit DD by being a grey lady for uncomfortable reasons, but the more respectable way to do it is showing good taste in fine jazz, and lighting his cigarettes every once in a while. In addition to his regular traits, he boosts fraymotif power.

If DD gets the Ring, he’ll either hand it to Jack, or wear it himself and become the new boss, Destructing Duke. He’ll be Orcus on his Throne, and if he has to get up, he’ll salt the land. But SBURB is a game about chess. You’ll have to beat him at wits to get the drop on this man.

Hackneyed Genius/Hi-jinks Gunman

Alignment: Derse

A crazy dersite inventor, identifiable by his mustache (which he always pronounces as MOO-stash) and wearing of two monocles. He can be found in bunkers and other isolated places where he works on inventions. HG will never wear the Ring, instead choosing to study and test with it. He can be recruited by giving him some alchemy equipment. Doing so will allow you to buy alchemized equipment for Boondollars, but he also has combat use. He chooses to hang back and use guns, except they shoot weird things. This usually results in trick bullets and status effects. HG also does more damage against robotic targets.

Hegemonic Brute/Hearts Boxcars/Hulking Berserker

Alignment: Derse

The biggest Agent. Identifiable by how damn big he is by his Heart marking. He is not big on brains. This isn’t to say he’s a moron, but he knows where his strengths are (in his strength). He uses axes, but has also been known to use any big object around. Or cannibalism. He’s big on cannibalism. He’s mostly the muscle, and there isn’t much else to him. He is however really into flushed romance, and will ship the players and everyone else, so be wary.

You can recruit his strength by fulfilling his fantasies by acting lovey dovey with the person he ships you with, even if you fake it.

If he gets the Ring, he will put in on out of curiosity. If it fits his giant armoured sausage fingers, he will become the Hulking Berserker, freak out, and destroy the Incipisphere. It is nearly impossible for him to burn out. Just kill him. He is oddly weak to decapitation.

Jack Noir/Spades Slick/Sovereign Slayer

Alignment: Derse

The Big Man hass... the knif...

Jack Noir is the head of the Derse Agents. The only weapons he needs are his knives. If you anger him, it’s death by stabbing. Most Dersites have grown to fear that shadowy black Spade he wears. Jack Noir is going to be one of your biggest enemies. He thrives off violence and maybe even gets off of it, as he represents Kismesissitude. He’s even pining in black over the Queen. And you’re going to need him. He’ll help you take out the Queen, but make sure she doesn’t die, or he’ll stick your head outside his office as a testament to other players. He’ll also ask you favours to dismantle the Prospit royalty, and hands out infinite Regiswords that do more damage to royalty. Yeah, he just has infinite amounts, it’s a bug that he capitalizes on. As sharp as his knives.

If you exile him, he’ll just start fresh, but this time at the top as Spades Slick. He oft forms a gang known as The Midnight Crew, and they are cruelly efficient.

If Jack gets the Ring, mercy be upon you. The Sovereign Slayer will take the throne. All the thrones. The dead royalty pile will stack in a fast manner. And then he has all the power to take you lot out. It’s widely recognized that a Noir takeover is one of the hardest challenges in SBURB.

Recruiting Jack is a good option as he is powerful in the early game, respectable in the late game, and you’re close enough to betray him. The easiest way to recruit is doling out licorice scotty dogs. Yeah, I don’t know what those are either. So just take one for the team and get shanked. After you’re gushing blood, show reverence and respect for him, and you’ll get on his good terms. Humans and Red-Blooded Trolls have better chances as he’ll be inclined to shed his own blood and show how you two are the same. If you’re a troll session and you’re mutated, just flash him some hemoglobin and threaten the others with Jack if they get all cully.

Jack hates Clowns, will be enraged by them, and does extra damage to them.

Madame Domino

Alignment: Prospit (Zizi)/Derse (Zebra)

The Madames Domino are a a pair of twins. The Prospitian one lives on Derse and dresses in black and the Dersite lives on Prospit and dresses in white. HUH? I think they’re doing a switch or an “exotic musician” thing, because nobody notes them besides how good they are or how nice they look. The Dersite is named Zizi and the Prospitian is named Zebra. They’re pretty cool and make good jazz and pop respectively. Hanging out near them is good stress relief. They can also help make good fraymotifs on their downtime, but are otherwise unrecruitable.

Ms Paint

Alignment: Prospit

She’s a rather cute Prospitian who carries a bucket of paint. Humans think she’s just cute girl. Trolls are either disgusted or turned on. It doesn’t help that whoever made this game gave this single carapace boobs. Sometimes dimorphism is good. She also has a weird trait in that nobody can harm her. They all can’t harm such a cute person. Even Jack Noir, who can only feel hate and bloodlust, will go red for her.

Miss Taylor

Alignment: Derse

A timid lady in Derse who works in a clothing shop. Doing favours for her results in new outfits for you Dream and God Tier clothes. A fan favourite. However, there’s another aspect about her people like. She can be recruited, but has no combat capabilities. This is probably a glitch or bug or just mistake, but Guards and Dames can protect her and get bonuses for protecting someone. In fact, GodsGiftToGrinds, author of the SBURB Glitch Faq, actually noted that he survived a case of being the sole survivor of a Session Wipe by utilizing Miss Taylor. Listen to the real pros here.

Parcel Mistress/Parcel Mister

Alignment: Any

Not one carapace so much as multiple carapaces. These guys are WILD. The Mailing companies evidently hire ninjas because these guys will walk across Battlefields, angry Dream Moons, and places like the Land of Glaciers and Magma (because fuck convection) to deliver their mail. They will deliver. The mail will never fail. They also hand out mail-delivery quests, and these are some of the deadliest quests out there. In addition, they’re largely free spirits and will do anything. They can wear the Ring. They can kill players and royalty. They will deliver. Respect these guys.

Prospitian Sheriff/Problem Sleuth/Pulchritude Saint

Alignment: Prospit

The de facto head of the Prospit Agents. He walks around and investigates crimes from Petty to Serious in a hard-boiled manner. But he has a weird quirk in that he treats the petty crimes as Serious and the serious crimes as Petty. Still, good work ethic. He’s handy with a gun, and is otherwise average at everything else. He’s also been known to form a band of detectives and call himself Problem Sleuth.

PS can be recruited by giving him candy corn which is delicious fuck you, finding his flask for him, and unlocking him from his office. He is also fond of racially diverse murals. If you’re an all Alabaster Human session, that option is blocked. Troll Sessions give him an appreciation for hemospectum diverse murals.

If PS gets the Ring, he becomes the Pulchritude Saint. This is extremely powerful, as he also unlocks the [Sepulchritude] Hope ability and uses it. He can potentially use it in his regular form, but it’s hard to unlock. This man will become a beast. He will also eat every candy corn in the universe.

Psychic Initiate/Pickle Inspector/GodHead Pickle Inspector

Alignment: Prospit

The tallest Prospit Agent. He often spaces out and probably has some sort of mental issue or something because he isn’t entirely upstairs. However, he has access to magic powers, and is willing to help you focus your Aspect powers, as well as help the Royalty and assist PS when needed. 

He can be recruited with copious amounts of candy, but be careful, because he will burst with power.

If he gets his hand on the Ring, he becomes GodHead Pickle Inspector (regardless of if he ever was Pickle Inspector) and will quickly become beyond morality and just sit around, provide indirect help, and also regard the Universe. Note that he messes with the session and now you have to breed the Genesis Pickle, and everything gets made out of Pickle Inspector. Don’t worry about it. It’s also better to have a useless GodHead than an empowered Derse Royal/Rogue Agent, so don’t worry about him. He’ll do his own thing.

Relations Officer/Romance Official

Alignment: Prospit

An older Prospitian who is as weird and obsessed as HB, but without the muscle. He knows all about how people interact and facilitates what he calls a “shipping wall”. He’s mostly useless as he will only use the Ring to marry people off, but he does have one cool feature. The shipping wall can keep track of how everyone feels about each other, and Humans without access to the Replayernet can learn about Troll Romance from him.

Stupefied Warrior/Shambling Wrecker

Alignment: Prospit

A big man who stands around the halls of the Prospit Castle. He does guard duty, but if you bribe him with big legs of meat, say hello to some hired muscle. He’ll put anything in the ground with some brutal combat, and is a great tank. Just be aware that he will get stuck in doors.

Warweary Villein/Weakened Vanguard/Whelpish Viscount

Alignment: Any

A class of carapaces more than one person. They live on the battlefield, but they aren’t soldiers. They’re just trying to live, and will hide and starve all the while. They can be counted on to be help in tactician duties if you want to engage the Black King in war, but don’t hold up in combat. They can also experience trauma and PTSD. Help them, let them help you, but don’t break them.

White King

Alignment: Prospit

The leader of the Prospitians on the Battlefield. He’ll ask you for favours in the war that can be done for Reputation and other boons, but he is destined to lose. He may not always die, but he will fall, and his scepter will break. But in your times of need, if you assist him, he’ll be there to catch you.

White Queen

Alignment: Prospit

The Queen of the Prospitians. She stays on the golden planet to provide help and comfort to her subjects. She is a powerful ally, and can provide boons for help. Mutual assistance. She’s also central to a lot of quests, and responsible for most of the Festivals and Celebrations on Prospit. If she dies, the gold planet dies a little, irreparably. When asking things of her, be polite and courteous. She won’t reject or banish you, but she has a long memory.