#think people should be put in cages right? I don’t think prison is an appropriate or effective solution and it

[madigoround]

💜

[mindninjax]

Iron and Wine (3)

Chapter 3- Lovely Bitter Water

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Erwin Smith x fem!reader (Royalty AU)

Warnings: Erwin can't keep his fucking hands to himself, sexual tension, some dirty talk, nightmares,

WC: 3.5K

a/n: Be wary of the warnings on this one just in case anyone is uncomfortable with it. But This chapter contains humor and sexual tension and by far was my favorite chapter to write so far.

The high stone ceiling peels away above you to show the sky. It is clear and dark, save for a thousand twinkling lights, the souls of those you’ve lost shining down upon you. You blink, once, twice, as the wind tickles your skin and dances merrily through your hair. There is a warm pale glow above you and your mind is wandering into the cosmos as you feel a pair of cool lips on your forehead. A glowing ball of white light beckons to you as you sit up and gaze around the swaying tall grass around you.

This is a dream.

You stand, the dress you’re wearing swaying with the wind like a synchronized dance. The air smells clean and fresh, like the trees back home. You take a step forward, smiling to yourself and basking in the white light shining down on you. The moon sits large on the horizon across the field you’re in and fills you with joy as you skip freely toward it. You laugh and it rings out into the field like a carol of bells.

You’re stopped in your tracks as a large white hoof stomps in front of you. The ground shakes from the impact and you can see it start to crumble. You look up and there is a beast with the face of a goat and the body of a man sitting atop the saddle. It’s eyes are blacker than an abyss, staring at you blankly. They’re cold, sucking the very life from you.

Suddenly the wind stops and it is deathly silent. The air no longer smells fresh and clean but reeks of rotten flesh. You whip your head around fear creeping up the back of your neck as the clear night sky forms dark stormy clouds above your head. The sky bursts open with an ear splitting crack and wailing misery from above can be heard. It is earth shattering, rumbling the world and making your ears bleed.

Horrific images flash before your eyes in quick succession. Animals' skin and bone disintegrate in his presence. When he dismounts from his horse the land dies beneath his feet and when he takes a step blood stains the earth.

You scream but the sound is stolen and swallowed by the darkness he brings. The last thing you see before it takes over you completely, is the beast opening his mouth, a sinister crooked smile on his lips as he utters the words “I have come and with me I bring death.”

You awake with a gasp and shoot up in the large bed. Your vision is blurred as the remnants of the dream fade away and the bright morning light breaks through the haze. It takes you a few minutes to recognize your surroundings, but it comes flying back to you when you see Historia lying peacefully next to you in bed.

You are in the wolf king’s castle, acting as what he refers to as a “guest” when really you are his prisoner. Historia helped you take a bath last night, washed your hair and dressed you in a light but extravagant sleeping gown. When it was time to retire for the night, she’d bowed to you and asked to be excused. Remembering how fond she was of the room, you’d suggested she stay here with you and sleep. It might’ve been a bit selfish on your part, her presence was calming and her soft breath next to your ear was the only thing that lulled you into slumber.

But that dream almost certainly was a warning. You’d prayed for clarity before you went to sleep and the Mother provided. However, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t woken up more confused than before. What was she trying to tell you? If Erwin Smith was in fact the enemy, the bringer of destruction and death, why did Her whispers stay your blade?

You shut your eyes tightly, put your index finger and thumb together while intertwining your other fingers and kiss the tip before bowing your head. “Forgive me Mother. I do not understand what it is I’m supposed to do. Erwin Smith is the enemy, so how do I stop him and save your children?” You whisper quietly under your breath.

A bubbling warmth pools in your gut when you think about the Wolf King and you don’t like the way it makes your heart thrum in your chest like a caged bird. You don’t understand what part he’s to play, whether you should trust him or not. But one thing is for certain, The Mother does not want him dead. You roll your eyes before getting off the bed and walking to the window to open the heavy curtains and let in the sun’s warmth.

Historia still sleeps peacefully on the bed, her even breathing occasionally interrupted by soft snores. You smile as you watch her, curled up on the bed, innocent and lovely. Perhaps you were wrong to think you couldn’t trust any of the people in the castle. As you watch the bustling people below from the window, you take a deep breath and make your decision. The only people who have actually shown you their true selves are Erwin and the little dog he keeps next to him. Which means, the only ones you have to distrust right now are those two. It would make for an easier time if you were being forced to stay here.

Then it’s settled, you’ll be cordial to the others and keep your guard up around Erwin and his knight. He may think you’ll agree to his plan, but you won’t. The fact that you can’t kill him is bothersome but you can definitely take this time to learn more about how he rules and bring that viable information back to your people.

Two quick knocks on the door draw your eyes away from the people below and your body instantly crouches into defense. You shake your head, trying to break the automatic defensive edge that is built into your character. Cordial and pleasant. That’s what you need to be. A nervous voice on the other side of the door calls out.

“Good Morning my lady, King Erwin demands your presence in the council room.”

You squint your eyes in frustration. Demands?

You wrench the door open to see the tall farm pup man standing before you. He jumps a bit at the sudden swing of the door and his eyes drift down your body before he turns red and looks away nervously. You don’t realize how thin the garment you’re wearing is. Your nipples bead in the cool air in the chamber and a breeze flows through your legs making it cling to your curves. You smile a little to yourself at his obvious embarrassment.

“You’re one of the knights he sent to stand outside my door, yes? To make sure I don’t run off?” you say, raising an eyebrow.

He still doesn’t look at you, but nods his head and says “Yes my lady.”

“I see, and you are Ser…?”

“Moblit my lady. Umm if you don’t mind me saying, maybe you would feel more comfortable in more appropriate attire? The King is demanding I escort you to the council chamber at once,” he says again.

You study him for a bit. He’s cute with warm trusting eyes. You can tell he’s not faking how nervous he seems to be around you but if you were to guess why Erwin would keep someone like him around, he’s probably levelheaded on the battlefield. You do raise your eyebrow in frustration at his use of the word “demands” again but you clear your throat and look at him.

“Well, thank you for guarding the door Ser Moblit,” you say bowing to him.

You smile brightly at him as he’s caught off guard by your pleasant attitude. He blushes again when you complete the bow and gaze back into his large brown eyes. You can hear Historia yawning and waking up behind you. You hear her little gasp as she jumps out of bed and runs to the door, mortified at the way you’re dressed in front of Moblit.

“You can’t just answer the door dressed like that! It’s indecent!” she squeaks, trying to cover you as you laugh warm heartedly at her. The last thing you say to him before Historia pulls you back into the room and shuts the door is “Please tell the King to get fucked in the ass by his horse before he demands anything of me again.”

Erwin lifts his clear eyes from the scroll of parchment at the sound of the heavy doors opening. The sound echoes loudly around the room creating a grand entrance. He stops scribbling and peaks an eyebrow when he sees only one person entering the council room. Moblit clears his throat uncomfortably as he approaches. All eyes are on him as he bows respectfully avoiding the King’s gaze.

Erwin speaks calmly, no hint of frustration in his voice. “Moblit, why is my guest not with you?”

Moblit bows again before responding, “My apologies sire, she...refused to come.”

“Really now? Did she give a reason why?” He asks as if he’s unbothered with the disobedience.

“N..no sire.”

Erwin smiles to himself, thumping his long fingers on the large wooden table. Of course you wouldn’t come. This is exactly what he expected. If you had shown up, that would’ve been too easy and not your style. “Not giving a reason certainly doesn’t sound like something the silver tongued little lioness would do. Come, tell me her words.”

“S..she requested that your majesty… ahem… be fucked in the ass by your horse,” Moblit stutters and shifts his eyes and it looks like it physically pains him to say this to his King. The room goes silent, Hange tries to keep a snicker in, Levi growls underneath his breath, and the others watch Erwin carefully.

He looks back down to his parchment and continues scribbling. “Nifa.” He says not looking up as he continues to write. Nifa jumps at the sound of her name. She sits in the corner of the room, large rolls of parchment are draped over the side of the small table she sits at. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“Is there anything on the roster after sunset?”

Nifa shuffles through the parchment as her eyes scan over the schedule. “No, Your Grace.”

“Excellent. Please add ‘fuck my horse’ to the roster for just after nightfall. Thank you.”

Hange’s snicker erupts into laughter as Nifa scribbles in the addition and Erwin smirks to himself.

You sit in front of the large vanity mirror, the candles dripping wax down the candle holder. You stare into the fire, daydreaming of leaving this place as the last remnants of sunlight become swallowed by the horizon. You’ve been cooped up in this room all day, refusing all who came to the door with food and gifts of clothes from the King.

“I still can’t believe you told Ser Moblit to tell the King that. I’ve never heard anyone speak like that about His Highness,” Historia says nervously as she brushes your hair. You’re holding a silver goblet full of wine that was brought up to your room, a peace offering, the woman who’d given it to you said. It wouldn’t be here if not for Historia asking to sample it. It’s true you’ve taken a very intense liking to Historia. She truly feels like your only friend here.

You sniff the wine and wrinkle your nose in disgust. It smells processed and fake, not at all like the wine Carla makes back home. Erwin must think you a fool. As if you’d drink something he’d present to you as a gift. It could be poisoned.

You set the cup down as Historia moves to braid intricate little braids at the crown of your head and let the rest flow freely down your back.

“Well, you’ve never left this castle. Outside these walls, the people don’t speak fondly of your king,” you scold her.

“Why not? King Erwin has done nothing but help me since he found me in my village,” she says seriously.

“What do you mean?” You turn around to gaze at her in confusion. It has occurred to you that you haven’t asked her anything about herself and it saddens you. Your gaze softens as you look at her and she smiles her bright smile at you before a firm knock on your door makes the both of you jump.

“Don’t,” she says, putting a hand in front of you to stop you from moving. “We don’t need a repeat of this morning. You probably almost killed Moblit. Put this on I’ll get the door for you,” she says handing you a silk robe to cover the thin nightgown you wear.

You chuckle as she walks to the door and opens it warily. You hear her squeak in surprise and turn to see her bowing lowly and Erwin pushing the door open and stepping into the room. You stand quickly, pulling the robe up over your arms and glaring as he enters.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he says warmly to Historia. She blushes and shakes her head quickly, her blonde locks hitting her cheeks.

“No, Your Grace. My lady was just getting ready to sleep for the night,” she replies, still holding the door, face full of shock.

Erwin’s eyes rake up and down your figure and he smiles that cocksure smile he’s famous for. “Yes, I can see that. Historia, would you mind giving me and the Lioness a moment of privacy?” he asks, bending down to take her hand into both of his.

You’re steaming, grinding your teeth as you watch Historia’s face grow pink and she nods wordlessly to him. “No! Historia stays with me. Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of her.” You step between her and the door and she looks nervously between you and him. He gives her a knowing look and she scurries past you, whispering in your ear quickly. “I’ll be back when he leaves.”

When she closes the door quietly behind her, you glare up at Erwin who continues smiling warmly at you. “I see you’re not a fan of the wine I had sent up for your pleasure,” he says walking to the vanity and picking up the goblet. He takes a sip, then closes his eyes and relishes in the sweet taste. “This is the best wine in the entire kingdom, made specifically for the King.” You curl your lip up in disgust.

“It tastes that way. Like it was only meant to please you. It lacks the care, the love for the vine and fruit that you would be able to taste in each sip,” you explain, rolling your eyes. Not like he would understand anyway. A spoiled king with servants to do his every bidding would never understand the time and care it takes to produce good wine.

“Hmm I suppose it does,” he says, eyeing you curiously. You can tell he’s enjoying this, the way his sneaky sapphire eyes move slowly up your body, lingering on the spread of your hips and the curve of your breast. You turn away from him in disgust.

“Why are you here?”

He feigns shock, eyes growing wide and he puts a hand to his chest. “Why, my lady, I thought you summoned me here. Surely I didn’t misinterpret Moblit’s message.”

Confusion floods your face as you squint and question his sanity. “Are you mad? I told Ser Moblit no such thing,” you say, shaking your head.

“Hmm, I thought for sure being fucked by my own horse was some kind of coded message. It is quite sudden I will admit but I have had many who crave me and I will not tell a lie, I am fascinated by what is beneath your lovely gown,” he says casually walking over to stand in front of you and smile down smugly.

You can feel your face heating at the insinuation. As if you’d ever invite him to your room, least of all for that. You sputter a bit before quickly retorting, “Is that what you tell all the women you try to seduce into a pact with you? I am not that weak and I have met many who were worth craving.”

You see the shock flash across his face and return his smug smile. His expression turns dark then and he lowers his voice and moves so close to you that you can smell the lingering scent of the wine he sipped.

“Do not continue to insult me. Your snide comments are only as entertaining as I continue to allow them to be. You would’ve been dead a long time ago were it not for the way I enjoy your tongue sliding over your lips while you say them,” he breathes and the warmth envelops you and makes your head a bit dizzy.

You keep your composure though, opting to continue to tease and make him as uncomfortable as he made you. You’re determined to expose his weakness and walk out of this castle vowing to destroy him and everything he holds dear.

“A shame that even the great Wolf King can be brought to his knees by a woman,” you reply sarcastically.

“Forgive me, but you are mistaking a fleeting lust-filled gaze for something more. I shall not kill you until we’ve come to an agreement, that or...I have at least tasted you upon my lips. And once I have—and I will one day—the fascination will cease. But until then, enjoy your stay in my castle and please read over the document I’ve provided. I am sure it will help with your decision.”

Your hand is itching to slap him across his chiseled jaw. You crane your hand back quickly but he catches it and throws you against the nearest wall. He pins you against it with his large body looming over you, the hand you were about to use to slap him pinned above your head and the other at your side. He tightens his grip on your wrists, a thick muscular thigh wedged between yours, partaking in the warmth radiating from your cunt.

“You’d dare to strike your king?” He grunts in a husky voice as you struggle in his grasp. His breath washes over you again as he cranes his neck down to drink in your scent.

“You are not my king,” you hiss through your teeth.

“Ahh there is the fierceness that makes my cock weep. A true lioness. Breaking you will be the greatest victory I’ve ever tasted. ”

You’re ashamed at how his words affect you. He pushes his thigh ever so slightly up against your folds and you gasp as his cock twitches against your thigh. He stares into your eyes, half lidded as his breathing increases.

His musk strangely reminds you of home, it’s woody and spicy like roasted chestnuts during the Celestial Ides festival. Hints of rose linger around the edges and you try very hard not to be drawn in by it. Your face burns as his eyes shift down to your lips and he leans in to brush his against your neck.

His lips are surprisingly soft and he’s very skilled at swiping them against your collarbone and up your jaw in such a way that would have you pleading for more if it were not him. You shudder and hold in the moan that desperately craves to be released before wriggling in his grasp to try and free yourself. Your hand moves to the tiny hidden slit you made in the robe when Historia wasn’t looking.

He moves gently up to your jaw, dragging his lips over your soft skin. He only stops when he feels a cool sharp prick right beneath his rib cage.

“Let. Me. Go. Or I’ll carve out your heart and feed it to your dogs,” you say between clenched teeth and heavy sensual breaths. You push the dagger harder into his side and it pricks through the fabric of his shirt, drawing blood.

He chuckles and releases his hold on you, stepping back with his hands raised in surrender. He pulls a rolled up piece of parchment from the inside of his loose sleeves and places it onto the vanity before saying, “I should’ve known you’d have a weapon hidden on your person. I guess you’ve become a bigger distraction to me than I previously assumed.”

You wipe your neck and face where his lips were in disgust, holding the dagger and crouching ready to spring should he come closer to you.

“Get out. And do not ever touch me again.”

He only smiles a warm hearted smile, as if nothing has happened and walks to the door to open it.

“Until next time, my lady,” and shuts the door quietly behind him.

--

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Strikethrough means tumblr won’t let me tag! I’m sorry

[remsmoonlight]

— title : calming the waters

— word count : 2.3 k words

— pairing : rick grimes x reader

— summary : the switch from surviving on the road to living in a cookie cut neighbourhood hasn’t been easy on anyone, especially the leader of your group, you leave it to yourself to remind him it’s not all on his shoulders

— warnings : only brief descriptions of blood and violence .. usual stuff for twd

note: only at the end did i realise i left the opportunity for smut but im too tired to continue damn

Life in Alexandria has so far been strange to adjust to, you continue to find yourself waking up regularly through the night. Your body has relied so long on a broken sleep cycle it simply cannot switch off the switch as easily as you wish for it, and wish for it you do every night before bed. However, life refuses to heed to your desires, preferring to disregard them completely. Your family finds it amusing to tease you about the dark circles under your eyes, that is after you have had anything with caffeine in to rattle your system into a state of alertness.

How the residents have made it this far agitates you to no end, while you and your family have suffered tragedy and loss at the hands of people like the Governor, to the people at Terminus while they sat sheltered and safe from the horrors of this new world crawls under your skin. The thought scratching inside of you, they’ve never known pain as you have, the realisation comes as one of the sons of the Monroe family accosted you the moment you set out of the door.

“ ⏤ she keeps going on about this pasta maker. I’m telling you, she never stops. “

“ she never stops, huh? “ you ask, placing yourself on the porch step with your head lazily resting in your hands. You felt as soon as he began speaking to you it was going to be a conversation you would not be interested in.

The you from twenty five minutes ago happens to be correct.

This all began because Rick thought it appropriate to let you sleep a while longer, and while you do feel more rested than you have in the longest time you can remember, you can feel irritation tickling the back of your neck intensely. Oh, I’m going to kill him when I see him. A silent thought interrupts you rudely, you almost shake your head to be rid of it and focus back on Spencer.

“ yeah, she’s not someone you wanna be caught right now by. She can talk your ears off for days. “ he informs with a chuckle, completely unaware of your blasé attitude or uncaring for it.

“ you know, I can really imagine that. “

Every inch of you is buzzing with an uncomfortable energy, you don’t want to integrate with their community just yet, preferring to feel around and understand the dynamics of how everything works. When society fell into the flames from humanity’s last fight with the walkers, you were lucky enough to have been able to seek safety with your group back in Atlanta at the quarry, and these have been the same people you have spent time with, shared your meals with, everything done has been with them. Quiet town life has been a memory of a past life that has faded into nothing more than a grey blur, shrouded in fog. To live here? It’s like learning how to ride a bicycle after many years of letting it gather dust. Your ways are not perfect, but they’re perfect for you. For your own pace and peace of mind.

“ has my mom given you a job yet? “

“ uh, yeah actually she has. I used to be a preschool teacher before everything went to hell. “ you explain to him, your memories of the children you used to teach had been painful until Judith. The little girl had been what you needed to confront your past that you had been so quick to push away in order to survive. You can’t count how many times you’d come close to thinking about their little faces, and if they’d survived the initial chaos, refusing to even put a face to a possible death. You’d spent many days and many hours getting to know their audacious and bold personalities, it cut you deep to even imagine the days they were supposed to have, the lives they should have been promised extinguished so prematurely as if they had been no more than a flame of a candle burning in the night.

“ well, those classes are really small. You won’t have your hands full. I suppose you’ll probably be helping with the afternoon classes, we’ve got more teenagers here. “

“ mhm, I thought as much. “ your words are a small acknowledgement, though it deterred him little.

Spencer keeps talking and talking, every once in a while you mutter an ‘ yeah ‘ or an ‘ mhm ‘ and even at points humming in response. It’s obvious he means well and is trying to get to know you all but it’s just a simple clash of cultures, it’s why you’re unable to cut the conversation short so rudely. Even during the apocalypse being respectful hasn’t been wiped away.

Yet.

“ hi, Spencer! “ the sugary sweet tone of Carol interrupted the interaction as she greets Spencer and yourself, the broad smile ignites her features.

Although, you know her better to know this is not one born of genuine emotion to see the man.

“ I was hoping to borrow my friend here. Rick’s looking for them. “

Recognition lights his features up, his eyes widen in understanding her words. Never have you been more thankful for the older woman than currently, if there’s one thing Carol can be, is a miracle maker. Spencer backs away with little to say, bidding a goodbye to both of you.

“ Carol, thank you. “ you breathe, your hands move up to scratch your scalp as tension eased away into the open air. “ I thought he was never going to leave. “

“ yeah, I thought you were in trouble. I thought you were ready to kill him. “

“ believe me, if he spoke for two more minutes I was coming close to getting very creative with one of those blunt dinner knives in there. “ you speak, a short giggle plummeting from your lips at the thought.

“ he’s at the gate ⏤ Rick, that is. If you want him. “

A few more words of light hearted humour are exchanged between you, just little things. You have known Carol for a long time, one of the few people to continue to see her as a human after losing Sophia, yes she was in mourning, but she was still human. You never tiptoed around her, you offered her support as best you could and for that she continues to be grateful. Even in the prison, you became closer, as time passed on she took up something of a parental role in your life. Though you were old enough at the time to not need one, you accepted it. A slice of normality granted to you for what reason you have never found out, but one you wouldn’t seek out either, for some things happen without cause or reason, a mystery of life.

Turning around a corner, you’d realised you took a wrong turn around one of the houses, your sense of direction would have been your downfall had you not found the people you now call your family. Admittedly, you’d not spent much time exploring the vast environment that is home to these large homes, you still dedicated some time to mapping all the twists and turns. However, not even that has aided you. Despite this, you find a silver lining to getting lost.. you have been able to shake off whatever blades of irritation that sorely wished to cling to your being for longer, you wanted nothing more than to approach Rick without anything that could set him off.

Though few words have been shared between you both about how you all feel about being in Alexandria, it doesn’t mean you haven’t noticed a tension building its blocks within Rick. Knowing all he has been through, you’re worried that he will reduce himself to being no more than a caged animal, biding his time to break free. It’s why you’re searching him out, a discussion is sorely needed before anything should happen, chaos has a way of trailing your family like a puppy following its master.

“ there you are. “

Rick lays his sights on you in the distance, waiting for you to move closer before saying a word. You would go so far as to say it has been one of the few instances of genuine contentment as his features relax from the lines of strain it held not even a few moments previously. Your hands move straight to your hips, standing a few metres away from him.

“ oh, you were actually looking for me? “ eyebrows raise ever so slightly, you thought Carol had been simply nudging you in his direction.

“ just to check the perimeter. “

“ and you need me for that ? “ you question him as your hands move to rest on your hips, a knowing smile lifting your expression as you observe him.

“ ‘course I do. “ Rick’s tone matches yours, it’s been a while since you’ve heard even the faintest hint of amusement associated with the intense male. It’s alien in a sense, though you’re welcoming of it.

Few words are exchanged with the Alexandrian who has been tasked with guarding the gate, exchanging the barest of information you realise as you watch Rick. You hope that even an hour outside the walls of the town is enough to soothe even the slightest of the negative energy that surrounds his being. Your situation is not perfect, and it’s inverted to what you had been experiencing previously, but you believe in your heart that this has to work. The thought of your family not being able to survive yet another bout of the outside world terrifies you to your core, the ice that is your fear erupting from your centre at the idea.

“ is there a real reason why you wanted me out here? “

“ it’s been a while since it was just us, gettin’ hard to breathe in there. “

“ Rick, you know I’m always here if you need it. I hate to see you carry everything on your shoulders the way you do. “

The hardness that had embedded itself into his face slowly eases at your words and thanks you for your support, he reaches out in between the distance that separates you to slip his fingers between yours. A comfort warms you in a way that no heat could at the action, you’re unable to stop the laugh that bursts free with a splutter. Even back on the road, and he was at his wits end, he was never this affectionate. It’s not something you hold against him though, there were many more things on his mind that required more attention.

“ somethin’ funny? “ he questions you immediately.

“ seeing this side of you, it’s just a bit weird. A good kind of weird, though. “ you assure, continuing to walk over the overgrown branches. “ you’re doing okay? Like, really? “

“ just hard to get used to. These people have just been lucky. “

You nod in understanding, it’s been your first thought every morning since walking through that gate with months of dirt and grime that had accumulated, clinging to every inch of your skin. While blood from the dead dried into your skin, becoming part of you, they lathered themselves in floral perfumes and sprays. As much as you want to allow the venom to pool within you, to form a monster born of hate ⏤ you can’t.

In this world you can’t be driven by such emotions, to aim them at innocent people. Had you been in their position, would it be such an easy position to leave this protected bubble? A piece of the previous world left untouched by the cold, ghostly grip of the dead.

“ we can’t hold it against them. “

“ they’re weak, they could get one of ours killed. “ he quietly grumbles in response, his head shaking at the thought. They’d lost too much already, and he would be damned if he lost any more members of his family, especially now they’d reached an element of safety.

“ or they might not? “ you counter his statement, your eyes pleading as you stop where you stand, your hands still connected.

“ we can’t deal in maybes, we deal in certainties. “

“ what are you suggesting, Rick? That we take over? “ you ask, your brows dropping lower. You’d seen enough death and violence to last you a lifetime, you’d had enough for now. You can’t confirm if you have enough energy for another fight. Too much has been lost.

“ if it comes to it. “

“ this is their home now, our home. They’re not bad people. “ you argue lightly, not wishing for a heated disagreement out there. Any walker around would be attracted by the noise and then the smell of the living, you’ve begun to get used to not having to slaughter walkers every day.

“ no, but they’re unprepared. “

“ so were we at some point! “ inch by inch, you close the distance. You rest your grip on his forearms, trying to calm him no matter how useless it may or may not be. “ Rick, you’re trying to create a problem. I get this is an adjustment and if anything does happen, we’ll have you back. We will fight, but for the sake of safety.. we have somewhere to actually live. “

Against his better judgement he nods, just to put a stop to the conversation. He’d wanted to spend some time alone with you that held no prying eyes from Alexandrians, nor the entertained gazes of your group.

“ let’s just see how things go, and try not to keep things bottled up. It never works out. “

“ I’m not sure you want me to share my deep, dark secrets. “ he asserts with a playful inkling hidden poorly within his words.

A smirk lines itself into your features, you’re feeling the energy from Rick and you can’t deny that it feels good. You lift your chin higher, inching your lips closer to his, the warm glow beginning to burn brighter ⏤ a silent dare in the form of a quiet whisper on your tongue. “ try me. “

[rwbyvein]

Firen Lhain:  Chapter 711:  The Hart of the Oak:  Part II/III

The airship docked in the hangar of the aerodrome, and they soon started to file off.

"Perhaps?," Weiss asked, and turned to her sister," we should show you your room."

"After speaking with Mr. Rex, I have decided to take up temporary residence in your servant's quaters.

"Is love in the air?" Yang jokingly asked. Winter looked about nervously.

"Definitely not for me." Taj said, as he finished up in the cockpit.

"There seems to only be one man," Weiss voiced, "that is always on her mind."

"Sister?" Winter asked.

"A joke." Weiss said with a smile. "I hope."

"Sister?" Winter repeated.

"I will show you to our, er, servant's quarters..." Weiss voiced.

"Thank you, Sister."

"I'll go relieve them in the... uh... dungeon..." Jaune said, and stopped. "Not sure what is more shocking, that we have a dungeon, or that we have prisoners in a dungeon."

"You are a duke." Blake stated, and Jaune gave her a questioning gaze, "Assuming he's using the older form of Earl, given the surrounding circumstances."

"So, what?" Jaune asked, "I should build a tower?"

"Yes!" Nora shouted.

Weiss paused to turn and give a brief, judgemental glare before developing an uncertain look. She then turned to continue down the stairs.

* * *

"Sister?" Winter asked, as they walked atop the wall between the towers.

"Sister?" Weiss replied.

"I hate to pry, but that look... to your husband?.."

"I love him, and them all dearly." Weiss stated, "Though, love can oft be vexatious."

* * *

Jaune and Yang walked down the stairs into the dungeon. Qrow and Tai stood up and gave each other a bro-fist.

"Let's leave the newlyweds alone." Qrow stated.

Tai turned toward the cell, "It was, uh, good to meet you."

"He says that now." Mercury stated.

"He's just being polite." Qrow growled at them, "It's kind of his thing."

"So?" Jaune said to the cells, and paused, "I've been thinking."

"This aught to be good." Emerald said with a wicked smile.

"Children." Cinder said to them, "Show your manners. Am I going to have to punish you?"

"Jaune does spank us." Yang said, causing Cinder, Mercury, and Emerald to look at her with shock while Jaune just hung his head and deeply sighed. He breathed in deep before raising his head.

"Alright, now, the only thing that keeping you in this cage is that you want to."

"He's just now figuring that out?" Emerald asked.

"Emerald." Cinder admonished.

"In the spirit of trust." Jaune voiced.

"We're going to do a jail break!" Yang exclaimed.

Jaune looked at her and breathed in deeply before replying, "Exactly."

Mercury cricked his neck, "Should we do the honours?"

"Are you suggesting we break out?!" Emerald asked him.

"What?" Mercury asked, "He told us to."

"Perhaps," Cinder voiced, and looked at Jaune alluringly, "we should see our big, strong man show us what he's got?"

"Not gonna lie," Yang said with heady breath, "I SO want to see that."

"Alright, alright." Jaune stated, and looked at those in the cell, "Step back."

"Why?" Emerald asked.

"Because I literally have no idea what I'm doing." Jaune stated.

"And it would be gracious to do so." Cinder stated. She elegantly turned around and walked away from the cell door. She then turned back around, to look at Jaune as her minions followed her.

"So, what, I break the lock?" he asked, looking between the cell and then at Yang.

"I was kind of hoping you would just rip the bars off or something." Yang said nervously.

"I could try?" Jaune asked, and walked to the side. "Again, I have no idea what I'm doing." he said as he reached for the bars and grabbed it snuggly. "Here goes nothing." he said, and summoned his strength, his rage, and his aura, and pulled the bar off so hard it bounced off three walls, nearly hitting a awestruck Yang in the process. "I don't really know what I was expecting, but you should be able to slip through there. The bar might not miss next time."

"Is it wrong that I feel so hot right now?" Yang asked.

"It would be insulting not to." Cinder said as she walked up to the missing bar. She then elegantly slipped out and got extremely close to Jaune.

"Excuse you." Yang harshly said to her, putting her arm between the two.

"If the gentleman could give us a bit of room?" Cinder asked.

"Oh, uh?.." Jaune asked, and stepped back, Yang moving to join him. Cinder looked back, holding out her hand to help Emerald through, before standing back to let Mecury out.

"Alright?" Emerald asked, "so we're out of the cell. Where do we sleep?"

"It's fall," Jaune voiced, "and we're in the mountains, so preferably some place warm."

"Then why is it to warm?.." Emerald asked, and everyone looked at her. "Because the temperature under ground is constant." Jaune stated, and turned around, "Spoiled city dwellers."

"I know, right?" Yang asked, turning to join Jaune.

"Spoiled!?" Emerald exclaimed, "Do you have any idea what we've been through?!"

"No, he doesn't." Mercury admonished her. "I also don't think he'd take it as an excuse."

"We have done a great many terrible things." Cinder stated. Yang and Jaune turned back to her.

"She can admit it." Yang said.

"Doesn't sound like she's sorry." Jaune stated.

"I'm sorry I didn't know what I wanted until now." Cinder said with a bright smile.

"Which is?" Yang asked.

"To be my own woman." Cinder stated. "And how good it feels to have minions."

"It is," Jaune voiced, and paused, "a lot better than I expected."

* * *

The group walked onto the first sublevel. "Hey?" Yang asked, "Why don't we show them the garden?"

"It's not much of a garden." Jaune stated, "More weeds."

"We would love you see your garden." Cinder said with glee, "Wouldn't we?" she asked Mercury and Emerald.

"Wonderful." Emerald said sarcastically.

"Wonderful." Mercury said with a neutral tone.

* * *

Jaune closed the cargo doors as Yang lead them up the rampart into the garden.

"Well," Emerald said, followed by a nervous pause, "there's plants."

"We, uh, haven't really gotten around to doing anything with it." Jaune said nervously.

"Yeah," Yang stated, "we've been focusing more on the honeymoon part of being married."

"And we've only been here a few days." Jaune said, "But, yeah, that's our garden. Full of plants."

"I wouldn't say full." Mercury stated.

"What does he want us to do?" Emerald asked, "Garden?"

Jaune's head bobbed to the right and left and he shrugged.

"I suppose that would be one way to earn their trust." Cinder stated.

"Now that we're free?" Mercury asked, and turned to Jaune and Yang, "I do have a question?"

"Shoot?" Yang asked.

"Why does the tower shake at night?" Mercury asked. Yang leaned forward as the laughter burst from her chest while Jaune just sighed and looked about nervously.

"Now," Cinder stated, "it's not really appropriate to ask certain questions about married couples, or however else it works."

"Wait, what?" Emerald asked, while Mercury's eyes widened with shock.

"uh, huh, yeah..." Jaune voiced. "Um?.."

"I don't mean to brag, but..." Yang added.

"So, what?" Emerald asked, "We're farmers now?"

"It worked for us." Jaune absentmindedly stated.

"It what?" Emerald asked him.

"Hm?" Jaune asked, "Oh, yeah, knightly house. Disarmed because the Good King asked us to. Swords to plowshares." He then shrugged.

"You wouldn't believe who the Good King was." Yang stated, "I mean, I'm seriously still having trouble believing it."

A pregnant pause followed.

"You going to tell us?" Mercury asked.

"Maybe when we get to know you better." Jaune stated.

"Kind of hard to build trust that way?" Emerald asked, "I mean, seriously."

"We did just kind of let you out of our dungeon." she said, and visibly shuddered.

"That is kind of a big step." Jaune stated.

"It's not like the bars were doing anything." Emerald stated.

"It's the thought that counts." Mercury curtly stated.

"Precisely." Cinder said with a bright smile.

"That's..." Jaune voice and paused, "kind of creepy for a monster like you."

"After everything?!.." Emerald asked, but Cinder cut her off.

"We have a LOT of make up for to earn his trust."

"It's not like you can actually make up for it." Yang stated.

"Then what are we doing this for?" Emerald asked.

"Can't you see?" Mercury asked, "They are trusting us more and more as it is. If Cinder thinks we can earn their trust, we have to believe her."

"And if I'm still worried?" Emerald asked.

"It's not like we have much of a choice at this point." Mercury continued.

"We could steal their airships, and..." Emerald tried to say.

"And nothing." Cinder stated, "As unhappy as I am to say it, this is the safest place in the world for us."

"As farmers?" Emerald asked.

"As gardeners." Mercury stated. "I could use some time just relaxing and training. There's an old Mistralan saying, it's better to be a warrior in a garden than a gardener in a war."

"That doesn't make any sense." Emerald said to him.

Mercury closed his eyes and breathed in deep. He opened them up again, "When's the last time we just stopped."

"Stopped what?" Emerald asked, "Stopped breathing?"

"Stopped to reflect?" Mercury asked. "Since Cinder picked us up, we have done nothing but scheme and manipulate and do everything but decide for ourselves."

"We did decide!" Emerald shouted at him. "We chose Cinder!"

"And now what?" Mercury asked, and Emerald was at a loss for words.

"And now we garden." Cinder said with glee.

"How can you be so happy?" Emerald asked her, "I mean, I didn't mean to question you, it's just, I mean?.."

"If gardening happens to help us with our goal, why wouldn't I be happy to do it?" Cinder asked.

"But it?.." Emerald asked.

"It's?" Cinder asked her.

"We're too good for this." Emerald stated, and Yang let out a scoff.

"Let's..." Jaune voiced, "Let's not get into that. But, there is one thing I can say. Being productive is important for people. The average working class family are happier than the elite, as long as they aren't eaten up by elite, or frog kings, or whatever."

"Frog king?" Cinder asked.

"Oh?" Jaune asked her.

"I'm kind of curious, myself." Yang added.

"Some frogs prayed for a king, and the gods gave them a log to act as a figure head." Jaune stated, "The frogs were upset. They prayed again, for a great and terrible king, like those men had. The gods then sent down a crane who started eating the frogs."

"What in the every loving?.." Emerald asked. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Be careful what you wish for?" Yang asked, and Jaune bobbed his head back and forth.

"Despite not being knights anymore, my family is still the head one in town."

"Will you just tell us already?!" Emerald asked.

"It's kind of a like a mayor, but not formal." Jaune said. "Anyways, one of the most important things about being a leader is morale."

"Happiness?" Emerald asked, "You are telling us to be happy, because?.."

"Motivation." Jaune stated, "Unhappiness kills motivation, so you have to be conscious of what is making those under you happy or sad."

"And you think you can make your wives happy?" Mercury asked.

"Absolutely not." Jaune stated, and Mercury developed an incredibly smug smirk.

"But?.." Yang pleaded.

"But they do." Jaune said and shrugged, and turned to Emerald, "And the point, Green Girl, is that famlies struggling to survive are often happier than the richest elite. True power comes with the burden of the crown. If you mess it up, you lose anything. The crane that ate the frogs lost subjects to make his kingdom thrive, and all he got was temporary satisfaction. This is one of the... many... reasons I didn't want to be the leader."

"You've been doing that the entire time?" Yang asked, "For us, for your team?" Jaune nodded, and Yang noticed a bit of moisture in his eyes.

"Then maybe that's why we're here?" Mecury asked, "To learn what true leadership is?"

"Are you saying you don't want to follow Cinder?!" an offended Emerald asked.

"It's the only thing I do want." Mercury stated, "Maybe I want to know what that means?"

"It is." Cinder said, "And is not. I want enough power ensure a good life." She then looked down at her left arm and then brought her left hand up to cover her eyes. She looked at Jaune with her Grimm eye covered, "And for some reason you don't seem disturbed by it?"

"I'm disturbed by what's inside you." Jaune stated, "I'm disturbed by how broken you can be. I'm disturbed by how casually you can destroy other people's lives. AND WHAT DID IT GET YOU?!"

Cinder looked away, trying to hide the conflict inside her. She felt like she was succeeding until she had to wipe away the tears from her real eye, (but not the fake one).

[nominnation]

Of Fins and Tails

Pairing(s): Jaehyun x Doyoung

Synopsis: Doyoung has a rocky past. A dangerous and deadly past. One that haunts him because, try as he might, he can't escape it. Perhaps he should come clean about his past to his boyfriend. But what if he has passed the appropriate time to reveal such baggage?

How will Jaehyun feel when he finds out that the man he loves is far more complicated than any human?

Warnings: drowning, mentions of major character death, mentions of blood, secrets, supernatural beings.

Word Count: 5100

Author's Notes: This is the second fic in the Qian Manor series. It has been posted on ao3 and amino. I hope you enjoy!

Edit created by Sunny on NCT Amino

1723

Air drifted through an open porthole, chilling the occupants residing in the lower deck prison. A young man, Doyoung, who sat closest to the window, shivered thanks to his fagged and torn clothing that did little to protect him from the harsh environment. He drew his knees to his chest, rattling the freezing shackles locked around his ankles. He wrapped his arms around his knees in an attempt to capture warmth, the handcuffs tightly chained around his wrists restricting his movement. He curled himself into a small ball against the wall of the ship hull, head resting against the porthole bolted into the frame.

“Do you want a blanket?” a kind voice asked in a whisper.

Doyoung looked up to see a boy, no older than fourteen, offering him a smelly, rat-gnawed blanket. Doyoung would like the blanket. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be more than he had. However, as he glanced around the prison where he and fifteen other people had been forced into, he couldn’t bring himself to take the blanket. Mothers with young children were already struggling to keep them warm against the cold, half of them holding their children to their breasts with blue lips. He couldn’t accept a blanket for warmth when so many others were freezing. A blanket, torn or not, could mean the difference between life and death for some of them.

“Give it to someone else,” Doyoung answered.

As he spoke, another gust of wind blew through the porthole, immediately illiceting a shiver from him.

The boy gave him a sympathetic glance but nodded and turned to drape the blanket of a mother who held a bundled up two year old against her body. She smiled at the boy gratefully and snuggled into the blanket. It wasn’t much, but it’d keep her warm for a little longer.

“Who do these people think they are,” Doyoung mumbled to himself.

He must have been too loud, or perhaps he just had rotten luck, because a moment later, the metal door burst open and a bulky man wearing stained brown pants, a ripping white shirt, and a velvet red coat stormed in. He had a mop of long, greasy hair and a black pirate hat perched atop.

“I’d watch your mouth if I were you!” he sneered.

Doyoung couldn’t help but to roll his eyes at the man. It wasn’t their fault that they were in this situation and hated it. Most of them were there for no reason. Sure, some of them had been previous thieves, including the boy who’d offered him a blanket, but the rest of them? They were just random people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Doyoung amongst them.

“Why don’t you just let us go? We’re not animals. You can’t keep us caged up down here like animals!” he snapped.

He knew it was the wrong thing to say before he said it, but he couldn’t help it. He had held his tongue for long enough. These pirates had kept all of them down here until selling certain ones off to slave traders or until one of them died from hypothermia or malnourishment. He was sick of watching them die.

The pirate stepped into the room, a glare sharp across his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Doyoung saw a mother draw her child closer, protectively. He felt sorry for her. He had caused this with his mouth, but something had to be said.

“We can keep you here for as long as we see fit. No one even knows you rats are missing!” The pirate venomously tongued.

A growl made its way from Doyoung’s mouth.

“You’re a bunch of dirty rotten pirates and one day, you’ll pay for the torment you put these people through!” He yelled.

The second the words were out of his mouth, he knew he’d messed up. His eyes grew wide and he put his hands over his mouth.

“N-no! I didn’t-”

But the damage was already done. Before Doyoung could comprehend what was happening, a fist was colliding against his nose, knocking him back against the wall. As his head hit it, his jaw clenched and he bit down on his tongue. Blood pooled into his mouth, dripping down his jaw. He let out a loud whimper, but he didn’t have time to check the damage done to his tongue before his shackles were yanked. Pain sprouted through his body.

“Doyoung!” he heard someone yell.

“Shut up!” the captain yelled.

The sound of a body hitting the floor and Doyoung wanted to object. To tell them to let him get whatever brutal punishment awaited him, but he gurgled on his own blood, the thick liquid dripping down his throat.

It didn’t matter anyway. He was yanked from the prison faster than anyone else could intervene. As soon as he was out of the door, his head smacked against the metal frame and his vision tunneled before going black.

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

The sun beat down on his face, bringing a small smile to his face. Freedom. They must have set him free. Finally.

“Look at this! The boys’ smiling!” a wicked voice spoke near his head.

His eyes slowly cracked open, the first thing his eyes catching being the black sail of the ship. So, he wasn’t free…

His heart sank. There was no telling what they were going to do with him now, but he doubted he’d be allowed back with the other prisoners. He never considered being down there with them was a blessing.

“You’ve got a big mouth boy,” another voice sneered.

Doyoung closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see what they had in store for him. Maybe they’d have mercy. Perhaps he’d made them angry enough they’d just slit his throat and be done with it.

He was never that lucky.

One of the greasy pirates grabbed his forearm tightly, too tightly for comfort, but even as he grimaced, the hold didn’t loosen. Instead, he was dragged up from the ground roughly. He let out a yelp as he was tugged a little too hard, his jelly legs too weak to balance himself, but the pirates showed no mercy.

It was only when he was standing that Doyoung realized his once shackled feet were now bound by a thick, irritating rope tied so tightly around his ankles he couldn’t even shuffle.

“Normally, with someone as loud and irritating as you, we’d hand them over to the captain, let him teach ya lessons the hard way,” one pirate spoke, his voice low and gravely.

“But, he’s too busy right now, with us closing in on land and all, so he doesn’t have time to teach ya the lesson below your belt,” another sneered.

Doyoung felt his stomach tie in knots. Below the belt…? They didn’t mean…?

“So we’ll just have to dispose of you the good ole fashion way!” another spoke, a wicked grin plastered on his face.

Before Doyoung had time to process what this meant, the pirate holding his arm yanked him forward. He went tumbling down, unable to move his feet to compensate for the sudden lurch. Laughter erupted around him and Doyoung’s face burned, although he wasn’t sure if it was more from embarrassment or anger.

Another hand gripped his other arm just as tightly as the first and the two arms hauled him into his feet again before dragging him across the spintery deck, his bare feet catching on raised pieces of wood that sliced his feet open. He was dragged up two steps, toes crashing against the edges of the steps, making him wince, until finally, he knew what was about to happen. Tears sprang to his eyes as he struggled, but it was no use. The pirates simply laughed at him as the two holding him pushed him out onto a short board dangling over the water.

“You should have kept your mouth shut boy,” one of the pirates sneered at him.

Doyoung stared down at the roaring waves splashing below him. He didn’t know how to swim! Even if he did, his feet were bound so tightly, he wouldn’t be able to anyway!

“No! Please!” he begged.

Hot tears burned liquidated lines down his cheeks as he begged for his life, but the laughter of the pirates only grew.

“See you in Hell, boy,” the same voice said darkly.

A hard, sharp object was plunged into his back, opening up a large, gaping wound that immediately began pouring blood even before he went plunging into the water.

Doyoung didn’t have time to take a breath before being submerged under the salty ocean waters. He had no stored up air and the pain in his back was nearly unbearable. He struggled to get his feet free, to at least make them move, desperately reaching for the surface, praying for just a bit of oxygen, but as his blood stained the water red, his body sank deeper. His eyes locked on the ship sailing above water. The ship full of hateful pirates who, as he struggled not to fill his lungs with water, would pay for their transgressions.

He lost the battle with his body, his eyes already closing from blood loss, his mind fizzing in and out of consciousness. He inhaled the salty water, filling his lungs and choking.

His body flailed, rejecting the insufficient oxygen, desperately seeking air that would never come. His heartbeat hammered in his ears and, here in the silence of the ocean, suffering his death, he swore he saw movement rapidly moving toward him.

His eyes closed. A shark must have smelt his body and come for dinner, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care any longer as his mind finally stopped responding and his body stopped struggling.

Kim Doyoung was completely unaware of the arms wrapping around his body or the journey he was about to embark upon.

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

When Doyoung opened his eyes, he was laying flat on his back. The first thing he noticed was that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. The second was the thin stretch of decorative twine across his chest, tying him to the surface which seemed too hard to be a bed. The third happened when he let out a scream and thrashed about for freedom, bubbles rising from his scream that told him he was most likely underwater.

Confused, Doyoung opened his mouth to take a breath, sure he was dreaming or in some weird state of mind, but as he swallowed in a mouthful of water, his body expelling the liquid, filtrating it out of holes in his neck and keeping the oxygen, he let out a yelp. He could breathe? Underwater?

He was beyond confused, but as he looked around the area he was in, his eyes caught something right below him. A long, scaly, blue-grey tail.

His eyes narrowed. Who did the tail belong to?

He reached out a leg to touch it, however, as he did this, he realized two things. One, he couldn’t feel his own leg and two, when he’d attempted to make a leg work, the tail itself had flexed.

“What the hell?!” Doyoung screeched.

He shook his shoulders hard, hard enough he was able to free an arm from the twine tying him to the surface. He brought his hand down around the twine to pull it free from his body, but as he did this, his gaze fixed on his arm. His skin was there, but on several parts of his skin, skin that was close to the bone, there were blue-grey scales shimmering in a dim light. But that wasn’t the only freaky thing. His nails were also an inch longer, pushing way past the end of his finger. They were sharpened to a point and the same, blue-grey color as the scales.

What the hell was happening to him?! Was this some prank? Or some lucid dream as he dies?!

Regardless of his confusion, his first need was to free himself from this twine. Once he was free, then he could worry about what the hell was going on.

He grabbed his hand around the twine and yanked, surprising himself with the amount of strength he had. The twine broke free from his body.

As soon as he was free, he pushed himself off the bed, but, as soon as he lifted, a sharp pain from his back shot through him, forcing him back down as he thrashed and whined.

“Careful. You aren’t healed yet,” a voice he didn’t recognize spoke.

This immediately caught his attention. He flashed up and looked around the room his was in frantically before finally, his eyes caught sight of long, brown hair floating aimlessly in the water. He narrowed his eyes and, as if coming out of her hiding place, a woman emerged.

She had piercing blue eyes and a slender body. She had a seashell bra that seemed to just barely cover her breasts. Doyoung blushed but he couldn’t look away, his eyes trailing lower, questioning what was going on. His eyes caught scales similar to his own on her arms and, with that, his eyes traveled below her waist where he gaped at her long, shimmering, green fish tail.

“What- how- huh-?” he stammered.

The woman smiled softly at him and moved… swam closer.

“My name is Magnolia, but everyone calls me Maggie,” she spoke, her voice sounding crystal clear in his head, not at all gurgled by the water.

Actually, looking at her, there were no bubbles coming from her mouth that wasn’t even moving.

“I am a Siren. I heard your cry for revenge on the pirates that hurt you, and I granted your wish,” she said.

Doyoung gaped at her.

“How- How can I hear you?” he stammered.

Bubbles flew from his mouth as he spoke.

“Don’t try to speak underwater. It is quite difficult. All of us have a telepathic link that, while in range, allows us to communicate,” she said.

Doyoung didn’t really understand, but he tried to.

“How did you grant my wish? Are the pirates dead?” he thought.

It seems he’d accomplished his goal when the woman gave him a small nod and a smile.

“No. They are responsible for your death. It is your choice to punish them as you wish,” she said.

Death? But… that wasn’t possible! He was alive! Unless this was Heaven, which he highly doubted.

“Don’t be alarmed. You did die. Your body bled out and you succumbed to the water, but, due to the violence of your death and your prayer for revenge, you were born again as a Siren.”

Doyoung stared at her, stunned and overwhelmed. A Siren? But they didn’t exist! Now she was telling him he was one!

“I-I…”

His vision tunneled and his body stopped responding as he lost consciousness once more.

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

When Doyoung came to again, he could feel the warmth of the sun on his face, bringing a smile to his lips. He took in a deep breath that, at first, he expected to be full of water, but when he gulped down a mouth full of oxygen, his eyes flew open.

His back was pressed against the shore of a sandy beach. Waves lolled against the sand, keeping Doyoung from ever being completely dry.

It all must have been a dream. He must have somehow swam to the shore and washed up on the beach.

His body felt sore and stiff from laying in one spot for so long, but as he shuffled, he was able to sit himself upright. As he sat up, he took in his surroundings. The island was small and rocky. Jagged rocks plunged from the water around the shore of the island. The rocks were splattered with blood and surrounded by pieces of ships that had no doubt run onto the rocks. How in the world had he floated onto the island without being ripped to shreds by the rocks?! Had someone carried him?

As he looked down, he had his answer. A long, blue-grey tail shimmered in the sunlight. The scales were mostly dry, but the waves crashing onto the shore kept it moist enough.

So it wasn’t a dream.

“Oh good, you're awake,” a voice spoke near him.

He turned around to catch sight of the same brunette woman he’d seen below water.

“What am I doing here?” he asked.

His eyes trailed over her. The first thing he noticed about her was that she was walking, with human legs! Her fishtail nowhere in sight!

“This is one of the islands we populate. This one is a newer one, so the elders thought to bring you here,” she explained.

This boggled Doyoung’s brain. We? Elders? Just how big was this group of Sirens.

As if reading his mind, the woman, whom he remembered as Maggie, answered.

“There are more Sirens in the world than you might think. Some live deeper in the ocean, choosing not to be a part of our life while others choose to live on land with humans,” she explained.

“So… I’m a Siren now too… So what will I do?” he asked.

“That’s up to you. You may live on this island with the few of us that live here too and learn the way of the Sirens, luring sailors to our island and devouring them, you may choose to live far beneath the sea, or you may choose to roam with the humans,” she explained.

Doyoung’s head was spinning. So many choices to make!

“If I decide to stay on this island, can I change my mind later?” he asked.

“Of course! We’ll always be your family, but you are free to go as you please,” she answered.

This forced a breath out of Doyoung’s chest. At least he wouldn’t be forced into sticking with whatever decision he made now.

“What exactly do Sirens do?”

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

Unbeknownst to him at the time, this question opened a large can of worms that led him into spending the next 50 years projecting his newly acquired angelic voice off the island, luring in unsuspecting pirates and sailors. As their ships crashed into the rocks and the dazzled humans made their way onto the island, Doyoung and the rest of his kin ripped open their throats with their razor-like claws and drank in the sweet blood that tasted of wine on their tongues.

Doyoung even had the pleasure of ripping the heart out of the captain that had captured him all those years ago. Actually, it was the captain and the events thereafter that had him where he was today, sitting in a long, porcelain bathtub with his tail stretching over the side.

Doyoung had first become a Siren for revenge. Revenge on the pirates that had killed him. He had lost sight of that over the years until he and his kinfolk had lured the ship onto the rocky shore.

Everyone that Doyoung had known were long since gone, but there were new prisoners aboard, prisoners that had begged for their lives while Doyoung’s bloodthirsty, revengeful mind tore the captain apart.

He felt no remorse for the captain. It was his fault Doyoung had even become a Siren, but as he sat up and watched his fellow kinfolk rip the prisoners who hadn’t done anything wrong to shreds, he couldn’t take the life any longer.

They were innocent, yet, because they were human, their blood spilled on the rocks, even the blood of the purest human of them all, a small, three year old child who died at the hands of the man Doyoung had come to trust. The man Doyoung had fallen hard for, only to be let down at the males intolerance for humanity.

“I want to leave,” he’d told Maggie a few nights later.

And, with that, Doyoung packed away his few belongings and dived into the sea, leaving everyone he’d come to know and love behind.

He’d swum to another land mass, a mass he recognized slightly, but after so many years, a lot had changed.

He pulled himself out of the harbor and began a new life pretending to be human, only feeding when absolutely necessary and, even then, only on the fish he caught during a swim.

Present Day

A knock on the bathroom door tore Doyoung from his reverie. His body jolted, splashing water onto the floor.

“Babe? Is everything ok? You’ve been in there a while!” his boyfriend's voice spoke on the other side.

Doyoung exhaled.

He had wandered from place to place on the Asian continent for about 3 years before finally making his way back to his hometown. There, he had met a man by the name of Qian Kun, a Chinese male who had relocated to South Korea many years before. The two became fast friends and Kun became the only “human” that knew Doyoung’s secret.

Turns out, Kun himself wasn’t human either, but a vampire that had actually been born a century before Doyoung.

Kun offered Doyoung a place to stay in his mansion along with a few other people, some human, some not.

It was there that Doyoung met Jung Jaehyun, the human that would thaw his frozen heart and teach him the goodness of the world again.

Jaehyun was human when they’d met, but it wasn’t long after Jaehyun, a broke college student, had moved in, that an unfortunate accident involving a rogue werewolf in the woods.

Jaehyun was bitten by a newly turned wolf and became a wolf himself. A wolf that had broken up with Doyoung for about a year until Johnny and Yukhei had come to live at the house, Johnny an alpha werewolf and Yukhei, his best friend and beta.

Johnny and Jaehyun had hated each other at first, Jaehyun presenting as an alpha, but after a huge fight in the backyard that ended with Doyoung and Taeyong nursing Jaehyun’s wounds, Jaehyun joined the small “pack” between Yukhei and Johnny.

There was never another issue. Except for the small fact that Doyoung had never told anyone but Kun and Taeyong the truth about his past, or the true creature he was, too ashamed to admit the awful things he had done.

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

The door handle jiggled, causing Doyoung to jump again.

“Doie! Are you ok?” Jaehyun spoke, voice dripped in concern.

Doyoung’s stomach dropped in guilt. Jaehyun had always been open with him about what he was, granted, Doyoung was there when he became what he was, but still, Jaehyun was always open. Doyoung hadn’t returned the courtesy.

“I’m fine Jae! I just got lost in my thoughts!” he responded.

It wasn’t completely a lie.

“Come to my room when you get out, ok? I want to talk to you about something.”

Doyoung didn’t respond as he heard Jaehyun walk away. What was he going to do? Could he tell Jaehyun now and let everything be ok? Could they survive the truth after Doyoung had hid it for so long.

He pulled the plug holding the water in the tub. The water had long since grown cold, something Doyoung hardly noticed anymore.

As the water drained, he pulled himself off the bathtub floor and held himself up until he was sitting on the edge.

Learning how to bathe without leaving the room with a shredded bathroom had been a challenge, but he’d eventually learned.

He lifted his dripping tail from the water, flicking water off his scales before sliding it gently onto the tiled bathroom floor. He shivered at the contact as he reached for a towel hanging nearby, careful not to shred it with his long fingernails.

He dried his upper body first before getting a fresh towel and running it down his tail, drying the scales and his flipper.

Once dry, he rested his tail on a dry towel laying in the floor and waited for his tail to disappear back into two legs.

He didn’t have to wait long before he was able to push himself off the side of the bathtub and walk out the door. Usually, he liked to double check the bathtub and scoop out any scales that had fallen from his tail. In his haste to get to Jaehyun’s room, he had forgotten.

As he stepped into Jaehyun’s room, the younger male instantly gave him a smile and trotted over. He looked like a puppy excited to see its owner and, had Jaehyun been in wolf form, he was sure the males tail would be wagging.

“What did you want?” Doyoung asked.

His question immediately brought a pout to Jaehyun’s lips. Doyoung shook his head with a little laugh and moved closer. He pressed a soft kiss to Jaehyun’s lips.

“I just wanted to talk. To hang out. We never do that anymore,” Jaehyun said.

Instantly, Doyoung felt bad. He hadn’t intended to ignore his boyfriend. Fact was, he just didn’t know how to tell Jaehyun the truth after he’d been hiding it for so long.

“I’m sorry baby. Let’s talk,” he said.

He made his way over to Jaehyun’s bed. He laid down on one side, immediately pressing his face into Jaehyun’s pillow that always smelled like the woods and Jaehyun’s Old Spice shampoo.

Jaehyun slid onto the bed on the other side and wrapped an arm around Doyoung’s waist, drawing a smile from the male in question as he snuggled closer against his boyfriends broad chest. This was probably his favorite place. A place where nothing else in the world mattered besides the two of them.

“You know I love you,” Jaehyun spoke.

His voice vibrated in his chest, causing Doyoung to shudder as chills sprouted up his arms.

“I love you too,” he whispered.

He didn’t realize until Jaehyun smirked how breathless he had sounded.

He blushed and curled closer to hide his face in Jaehyun’s chest, but the werewolf seemed to have another plan, cupping Doyoung’s face and drawing him to his mouth. Minty breath brushed against Doyoung’s lips as they grew closer. He closed his eyes and parted his lips slightly.

Jaehyun moved slowly. He was teasing him, and Doyoung loved every minute of it, because, the second Jaehyun’s warm lips pressed against his own, Doyoung melted into the males arms, butterflies erupting in his stomach and heart pounding in his chest.

The two had kissed before, of course, but Doyoung could’t get over the feeling every time his boyfriend kissed him. It always felt like the first kiss. And Doyoung wouldn’t have it any other way.

One of Jaehyun’s arms stayed securely wrapped around Doyoung’s waist, keeping him pressed flush against his chest while the other wound into Doyoung’s hair, tugging slightly and eliciting a small groan from Doyoung’s throat.

Doyoung’s hands gripped onto Jaehyun’s shirts, holding on for dear life, as if he’d lose Jaehyun in an abyss if he let go.

Oh how right he was.

Jaehyun’s hand had just slipped under the bottom of Doyoung’s shirt, fingers tracing delicately over the skin, when the door burst open.

The two quickly pulled away, fixing their eyes on the door where Donghyuck stood, hand slapped over his eyes.

“Geez! It’s 6 in the evening! At least wait until everyone's asleep!” the male complained.

Doyoung groaned and shot the younger a glare. It wasn’t harsh, but not soft either.

“What do you want Hyuckie?” Jaehyun asked.

Donghyuck walked into the room, making himself at home, much to Doyoung’s annoyance.

“I was just in the bathroom,” Donghyuck began.

“Congratulations,” Doyoung retorted sarcastically.

Donghyuck shot Doyoung a smirk and, almost instantly, his annoyance at the male turned to fear.

“Hyuckie-?” Doyoung questioned nervously.

“I found these in the bathroom after Doyoung hyungs shower!”

Donghyuck presented two blue-gray fish scales.

Doyoung paled and reached up to snatch the scales, but Jaehyun was faster.

“Oh, fish scales! Doyoung must have been cleaning his fish tank,” Jaehyun responded with a shrug, taking the scales from Donghyuck’s palm.

Donghyuck stared at him incredulously.

“Hyung doesn’t have a fish tank…”

“Thank you for getting them out of the drain, hyuckie! You have really saved Taeyong hyung some trouble cleaning! He already has enough to deal with in the drains with the way Johnny, Yukhei, and I all shed,” Jaehyun said.

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Donghyuck who stood there flabbergasted before turning around and leaving the room.

Doyoung slid himself away from Jaehyun slightly to look at the man who had covered for him. He didn’t have a fish tank. Jaehyun had acted so cool about the whole thing. Did he suspect Doyoung had gone fishing or something? No. He was way too chill for that. He hadn’t questioned Doyoung at all. But that could only mean…

“How’d you find out,” Doyoung muttered.

He hung his head and sat up, expecting to be kicked out of the room at any second.

“You’re not as stealthy as you like to think,��� Jaehyun spoke.

Doyoung flinched at his voice and closed his eyes.

“You were stressed and upset about a month ago because of so much chaos in the house. That night, you ran from the house. Do you remember?”

Doyoung nodded. He remembered that night like it was yesterday. He had bolted from the house and through the city, never stopping until he got to the empty harbor on the other edge of town. He’d jumped into the water and as soon as the water had closed over his head, encasing him in silence, he’d instantly felt better.

He’d swum for a while, debating on whether or not to go back. Part of him wanted to just disappear. But they were his family and no matter how chaotic they got, Doyoung would always go back.

The second he’d slipped back onto the dock, Kun had been waiting for him with a towel. They’d sat out there drying Doyoung off for an hour where Kun comforted him.

“I followed you. Or rather, I followed your scent to the harbor. I was worried but I watched Kun talk to you. I saw your secret. At first, I was angry that you didn’t tell me. But I talked to Kun and I understood. So, I decided to wait for you to tell me. Did you not trust me enough sooner?” he asked.

There was a hint of pain in his voice that brought tears to Doyoung eyes.

“No I do… It was just… I waited to tell you at first. Then I kept pushing it off out of fear. I was afraid you’d think I was a freak…”

The tears dripped down his face now, droplets hitting the soft blankets before Jaehyun wrapped his arms around him and pulled him back into his chest.

“Baby, you know I love you, right?”

Doyoung looked up at him, eyes still glassy. He turned around and buried his face back in his boyfriend's chest.

It felt so nice to be accepted.

“I love you too.”

[humanoidmindbox]

Us Vs. Them

Abstract

In this essay, I will be assessing my personal feelings and attitudes toward different and defined groups. During this analysis, I will be breaking up the population into four groups: Us, Them, Allies, and Enemies. These groups have been formulated by and based on the workings and fields of psychology, psychiatry, individuals with mental illnesses (including me) and how societal norms fit into issues raised in this paper. I hope you find this to be worthwhile and I hope this sparks the fire of your intellectual flame.

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The American population, in the terms of mental illness, psychology, and sociology, fall into one of four categories which are detailed below:

US

This group of people are those who suffer from profound mental illness. The affliction must be (Your illness doesn't have to be all of these things, but it must be most of them):

Chronic; recurring; cause suffering; affect your relationships with others; make it so you cannot keep a job; make it so you cannot function in society; possibly get government compensation for your illness; *been hospitalized in the psych ward; been arrested when your symptoms were active; reckless and/or impulsive behaviors; suicide attempt(s); and became violent when your symptoms were active. 

Them

These people are the majority of the population. They blindly follow pop culture and buy into what the masses are doing, believing, and saying. They do not have severe mental illness although they may be diagnosed with the garden-variety depression and anxiety. They have never been to inpatient for mental disorders, except maybe once, a long time ago. They will try to relate to you when it comes to mental health but they are just regurgitating what the trendy treatments and hardships are (the commonplace “social anxiety” is on the rage right now). In the inpatient hospital, the Them are the hospital staff. Especially the ones who give you the shot and put you in isolation. They are the ones who pink slip you and call the police. They think drugs are bad. You can’t truly trust Them. They don’t understand you and they probably never will. Most of Them are not hateful or mean. They are just ignorant, inexperienced, and constantly lecturing you or preaching to you. Most of Them view you as less-than, whether it is intended or not. 

Allies

Imagine a straight line down the middle of a square. This divides the “Us” and “Them” that we already went over. But directly on that line, not leaning to one side or the other, sits the “Allies.” The Us’s allies have most likely not gone to the mental hospital except maybe once, long ago. But they have a mental illness that brings them suffering. They may be in mental health treatment. They struggle almost every day and their behaviors reflect that. They are a part of society and will never and have never been deemed unfit to be a working part of society. They get along with others although they feel like no one completely understands them. They do not blindly follow all of pop culture’s rules and trends. They support the Us. We can trust them somewhat. They are our allies. 

Enemies 

The Enemies only exist within the “Them” group. They are the ones we must watch the most carefully and never trust. Most of “Us'' do not have many Enemies on the outside but we have plenty of Enemies on the inside (inpatient). The Enemies at the hospital are those who give you the shot after they have to hold you down when you’re screaming and thrashing around because you’re so fucking freaked out. They are the ones who put you in four point restraints and let you “tire yourself out.” On the outside, the police are the Enemy for apprehending you while they get a pink slip. They are anyone who pink slips you. The Enemy tells you that you’re crazy when you know you are doing well. They threaten the hospital and hang it over your head. The Enemy treats you unfairly because something that you cannot control or help is wrong with you. The reason why Them can never be fully trusted is because any one of Them could become the Enemy at any time.

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I first felt the “Us Vs. Them” divide when I started frequenting mental hospitals. And when I started showing signs of severe  symptoms of mental illness. In the hospital, you are a “rat in a cage” (Smashing Pumpkins song) with the staff holding the only key to get out. A drastic power imbalance exists between the staff and the patient: we are the prisoners and they are the guards. All we want to do is get out. All we want to do is go home. And if not home, then at least to a different, free place. 

When I had my major mental breakdown/manic episode of winter 2019, I had been taking my medications- they were just the wrong ones. In the cage, you must take your medications, whether you want to or not. Whether you trust Them or not. If you refuse medication, They take you to court and get a court order forcing you to take your medication while you are inpatient. 

There are some key ways that the “Us” and the “Them” are different in the mental hospital dynamic. They own your body: you are forced to take medications, you are locked in a box (hopefully not isolation). You can’t hurt yourself and if you do, you will stay longer (same goes for violence against others). They control your behaviors: They deem what is “appropriate” and “inappropriate” behaviors. If you break the rules surrounding these behaviors, you will get the shot, isolation, moved to a worse ward (for the more violent and disruptive patients), restraint holds, staying longer, or any combination of these events. The worst one I can think of is moving wards up a number. They try to brain-wash you: They say: “There is only one way to live life and we know the correct way to live it.” “The correct way to live is only what we arbitrarily and subjectively call “healthy coping mechanisms” and you must abandon all “unhealthy” ones in order to live life correctly and avoid being society’s pariah.” “Your only hope to be a functioning person is to abide by the teachings of CBT and DBT. All other methods will not work.” They have the opinion that their methods of recovery always  work and if you are not having positive effects from their treatments, you must be doing it wrong- they deny that their treatments do not work for everybody and fail to recognize that the “bad” coping mechanisms are the only way that certain people can get by.

When you are mandated as an inpatient in the hospital, you have no rights. They take away your rights as a person. They tell you where to go, what to eat, and they control how long you are in there, what medication you take, and worst of all- when you get put down like a dog with a shot or when you switch to a more severe level. You are treated like an animal in a cage, and there is nothing that you can do about it. Losing control of your own body to this degree leads to something inside of you breaking  and you turning into a feral animal (hospital song). After that happens (especially if it happens multiple times), you are never the same. 

There are laws to keep other people from harming you or your property. I believe that it is a good thing that these laws are in place and that they should be upheld. But there are also laws that are made to prevent you from harming yourself and I don’t think such laws should exist. Once again, I question what the authorities, our working society (Them) and the masses (Them) deem “harmful” and ultimately illegal.

Most people in society simply follow popular culture. They just look to what the majority of others do and follow suit. But they have blinders on: they don’t see that they come up with justifications and sorry attempts at reasons to back-up their choice to blindly follow the majority.

The authorities and society says:

Drugs = Bad→ Laws against it.

Self-harm = Bad→ No laws against it but there is intense societal disapproval and shaming connected to it.

*It is the least harmful on this list because it does not alter your mood or drastically change your brain chemistry for prolonged periods of time. But, apparently, it is the most shocking and the most taboo. 

Medication = Good→ Sometimes there are laws enforcing it.  

I believe all of these things can be good or bad depending on the specific person that it affects. Everyone is different and if you simply follow what pop culture’s opinion is on these issues without looking into them further, it shows ignorance, a lack of curiosity and exploration, rigidity, and a propensity towards the judgement of others. It often signifies that the “Them” in question is too weak to think for themselves and to withstand society’s brainwashing. 

I will never think of cutting or drugs as “bad coping skills.” “Good coping skills” consist of talking about your issues and crying according to the “Them.” And according to the hospitals, CBT, and DBT, good coping skills include activities like aroma therapy and drawing. But what do these things do? Nothing. You need a release or a change in the state of mind. Talking about what upsets you is just reliving it all over again. Plus, what if you do not trust anyone enough to tell them what's on your mind? Crying is bullshit. I feel that it is pathetic for me to cry. That’s just how I feel. I have trained myself not to. So why should I do something detrimental to myself when I am already in distress? “Good” coping skills don’t really work and only the simple-minded buy into them. “Bad” coping skills shouldn’t be judged as bad or taboo just because others have all-or-none thinking about them when it's the only thing that helps some people.

Medication: Taking medication should be the mentally ill’s choice. Medication is not right for everybody; it is not always the best thing to do. Not everyone likes themselves on medication. Who are we to judge if a person is the “correct” version of themselves or not? Forcing someone to take psychiatric medications is rooted in a power and control structure that overshadows others. I believe that we should leave others alone when it comes to this and let them live how they want to live. Just because we’re mentally ill, doesn't mean we have to do what you want with our bodies anymore.

In conclusion, I believe individuals and society as a whole should look beyond the systems of the law, procedures in mental health facilities, standard practices of therapies, pop culture trends/rules , and societal norms to find each of our unique spots in this society. We need to rethink what is considered “unhealthy” and what is “healthy” and why we put actions into those categories. We need to be more open and steer clear of letting others dictate what we believe. I’m tired of being lectured and shamed. Let's move on together. 

[greensaplinggrace]

Clerifa in lockup >:) feral bastards all trapped together until they can get bailed out. First meetings preferred! And all of them in there for going waaay too hard at whatever crimes they got arrested for. Also I like your Cloud hurt/comfort fics a lot, so maybe some of that as well? Sorry lol, this is a bit of a convoluted ask, but I just can't get the idea of Cloud/Tifa/Aerith all locked in a cell together out of my head.

Here it is! Clerifa trapped in a jail cell together XD. They’re all feral, but what’s new. I hope it’s in character 😅. Please enjoy!

*TW for mild violence, abuse of authority, police brutality, and heavy cursing

- If you want to send in a prompt, the guidelines are HERE and HERE!

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In a room full of empty cells, Tifa and Cloud are jailed together. The cop placing them behind the bars had said it was to preserve resources, but Cloud’s not entirely sure how sound his logic is when the resources they have seem to be in excess. Not to mention the fact that breaking out will now be twice as easy.

The cop had been a bit dim, he concludes, though not at all like the vicious bastard who’d cuffed them in the first place. That one had been big and mean and surrounded by an entourage of equally cruel sycophants, and if Cloud never sees the man again it will be too damned soon.

He stretches out on the cool metal bench, eyeing Tifa’s agitated slouch against the wall across from him. She’s making an effort not to fidget or bite her nails, but the furrow of her brow is enough to let him know she’s worried. She’d been incensed when they were first brought in, red with rage and utterly willing to deck the bastard cop for a second time if he so much as spoke out of turn, but now she simmers and frets in a silent panic. It’s distracting, to say the least, and Cloud dangles his hand over the side of the bench, dropping his head onto hard metal and staring at the ceiling.

“Tifa,” he sighs, and her responding huff is immediate.

“This is outrageous. I can’t believe they would do this.”

“You can’t?” Just last week, she’d gotten drunk with Barret and stood on his shoulders in the middle of a walmart to tell the world exactly how bastardous cops are. In very bright, explicit, colorful language that had forced every mother within a one mile radius to cover their child’s ears. 

Come to think of it, that’s probably what had drawn a dozen of them to Tifa’s door. Armed to the teeth and high on that heedy sense of power all cops seem to possess.

“The way they treated Marlene…” she grinds out angrily, tensing as if preparing for a fight all over again, and this time Cloud can’t help but agree with her. He doesn’t think he’s ever been as enraged as he was when the cop had laid a hand on Marlene. The intense interrogation was already too much for a child, let alone an adult, and Cloud wonders how anybody had expected either of them to remain calm in the face of such despicable violence.

They probably hadn’t, he realizes with a scowl. 

“Assholes,” he chuffs, and like the devil they appear. The thick steel door leading out of the cell block clangs open, voices spilling into the room as footsteps clomp inside. Tifa pushes off the wall to get a better look at the newcomers, and when her eyes widen in shock Cloud reluctantly follows her gaze. He has to tilt his head back to see them, barring his throat and bracing his boot against the bench to lift his hips, but it’s absolutely worth it for the sight that beholds him.

Two massive men flank a petite woman as they march her inside, gripping her arms as if at any moment she’ll break away and flee into the night, and the image would be hilariously out of touch if she wasn’t currently struggling furiously against her captors. Her brown boots scrape across the ground as she kicks out, arms straining like pale twigs in their grips.

“I didn’t do it!” she snaps, brown bangs whipping around and catching one of the men in the shoulder as she whirls to glare at him viciously, “this is wrongful imprisonment.”

“Look, miss-” one of the cops tries, and she growls him into silence. Cloud feels a number things at that, none of which are particularly appropriate for somebody currently trapped in a prison cell, and he’s only mildly comforted by Tifa’s own breathless shift in response.

“You have no evidence against me,” the woman huffs, digging her toes into the ground and going limp in their grips. The men drag her a few feet before struggling to get her moving, and Cloud has to choke back an astonished laugh at the sight of it all.

“Ma’am, we saw you walking away from the scene of the crime.”

“Anybody could have been hanging out in that alley.”

“But nobody else was.”

“That’s not even a lick of of proof. I’m allowed to wander where I please. This is a deceptively free country!” 

Tifa puffs out a laugh at that, stifling it behind her fingers and ducking her head with a blush. The cops don’t answer except to finally lift the woman's feet entirely clear of the ground. She struggles with in a ferocious protest when they haul her further into the cell block, and as they reach the end of the room, the larger one waves a hand in Cloud and Tifa’s direction. He opens his mouth to speak, but the woman slides like an eel from his grasp and forces his mouth shut with a clack. For minutes, the two cops wrestle to regain control, and Cloud wonders why the hell they hadn't put any cuffs on the woman, if she's such trouble.

"I thought you said she was safe!" The smaller cop barks at his partner, and the other man scowls.

"She was actin' all nice and friendly when I brought her inside. How was I supposed to know?"

"That was before I realized you were jailing me," the woman argues, "It's unlawful. You have no proof!"

The smaller one lets out a noise of frustration, but they both eventually manage to wrangle her back onto the ground. The scene almost has Cloud grinning, right up until the bigger cop moves resumes speaking to them. He's got a big, smug looks painted across his face, and Cloud can already feel whatever joy he'd gotten out of the situation disappear.

“Lighten up, lovebirds! You’ve got company.”

“You can’t be serious,” Cloud deadpans, narrowing his eyes at them.

The smaller cop only snickers. “I’m sure you’ll get along great. This one’s a fighter, just like you headcases. So at least you’ve got assaultin’ cops in common.”

Cloud scoffs in disbelief. “There are a dozen empty cells around us. There’s no reason she should be put in here with us.”

Tifa casts him a scolding look, but Cloud isn’t about to share his cell with a violent stranger, no matter how impressed he’d been only a few seconds earlier. It’s one thing to see it happen to other people, but he and Tifa had been just fine here on their own without some suspicious woman sharing their space.

“Guess you should’a thought of that before punching a cop, kid.”

“I ain’t a kid.”

“Really? And here I thought it was only children that threw tantrums in public.” The man sneers at him, and Cloud's stomach drops at the words. He fights viciously to keep his expression neutral through the rush of shame, determined not to let them see him affected.

Tifa, on the other hand, has no such qualms. She instantly light up in a burning rage, stalking over to the bars and clenching her hands into furious fists at her sides. “Don’t ever speak to him like that,” she snaps, “It was your people that escalated the situation, not Cloud.”

The big cop barks out a mocking laugh. “That’s not how the reports are gonna tell it," he says, and the woman in his grasp makes a noise of disgust.

“You liar! Are you going to do that to my case as well? You can’t falsify evidence!” 

“Aw, what are you gonna do about it? Cry to mommy?” 

“Ex cuse you?” The woman stomps and yanks her arm away from him, but the man is quick to catch her by the wrist again. He mercilessly wrenches her away from the cell door with brutal force, nodding sharply to indicate that his partner should head forward with the ring of keys. The sight has Cloud’s blood boiling, Tifa practically vibrating in a barely contained inferno of rage before him, and he has to clench his teeth to keep calm - to remind himself that there’s nothing he can do. That he doesn’t even know this woman.

“Hey! Watch it!” The woman protests, but it’s a fruitless effort; her cries fall on deaf ears. She doesn't even think to let it get to her, though. Letting out a strangled yell of frustration, she twists in the cop’s hold, attempting to break his grip, and lands a solid kick to his shin. Cloud almost winces at the force of it, impressed when her eyes narrow in a glower that promises violence. “Don’t touch me like that!”

“Ugh, aren’t you a bossy one," the man complains, not even deigning to face her as he speaks, and Cloud’s anger almost boils over. Stranger or not, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. “Could we get her in the cell already?”

The smaller cop finally jumps to attention, working up the courage to edge toward their cell with small, fearful steps. Tifa remains pressed dangerously close to the bars, fiery red eyes tracking the man’s every movement with a pointed fury, and Cloud can see the sweat dripping down the man’s brow beneath her glare. When the cop reaches their cell at last, he fumbles with his keys for a solid thirty seconds before he finally finds the right one.

His buddy groans obnoxiously. “Hurry the fuck up, Gallows. I don’t have all day.”

“And yet you’ll leave us in here for just as long,” the woman huffs, expression still thunderous as her green eyes roil in stormy indignation, “I demand that you let me go! You have no right to keep me here. I haven’t committed a single crime ever, in my entire life.”

It’s Cloud’s turn to hide his smirk this time around, lips twitching with amusement.

“Somehow I doubt that.”

Then a loud click sounds throughout the room, and the door to their cage is unlocked. Cloud and Tifa both tense, but before they can so much as breathe the door is being yanked open with unerring speed. The larger cop doesn’t hesitate for a second before tossing his prisoner inside, and she stumbles with a yelp of surprise, falling into Tifa’s arms as the other woman rushes to catch her. Cloud rockets into a sitting position, muscles coiling in case of an attack, but the door slams closed just as quickly as it had opened, the cop instantly retreating to wipe his shaky palms on his pants.

Cowards, Cloud thinks, snorting.

The two cops level him with threatening glares when they hear the sound, but Cloud has better things to do than cower. He meets their eyes head on with a stoic expression, mouth curling only faintly in the mocking hint of a smile. The big one flushes with anger, clenching his fists and charging forward like a rabid animal, and his partner has to drag him back by the shoulder before he can do something he’ll regret.

Cloud doesn’t even watch them go.

“Thanks,” their new prisoner says breathlessly, pulling back to brush her bangs from her eyes as she smiles, “you caught me.” 

Cloud hadn’t thought it at all possible for Tifa’s blush to get deeper, but the red on the back of her neck looks like something caused by a burn, and she brings a hand up to rub at it as she returns the smile. “It’s no problem at all. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

The woman huffs. “No thanks to those... men.”

“You've got that right,” Cloud agrees tonelessly, turning to lay back down on the bench. He gathers his hand beneath his head this time around, letting one of his legs fall over the edge while he peers over at their new arrival. 

“My name is Aerith, by the way.”

“Uh, Tifa.”

“Tifa,” the name rolls smoothly across Aerith’s tongue, drawn out with reverent fascination, “it is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh! Uh, you...you too.” Tifa clears her throat and ducks her head shyly. She’s quick to retreat and resume leaning against the far wall, smiling crookedly as she avoids Aerith’s eyes. “This- this is my partner.”

“Cloud,” he offers succinctly.

He half expects her enthusiasm to die down with the word partner in play, and is instead completely caught off guard when Aerith doesn’t even falter, turning to give him a small wave as the corners of her eyes crinkle in a smile.

“Hello, Cloud!” she says, “it’s nice to meet you!”

He almost squints against the brightness of her smile, swallowing when he catches sight of the light dusting of freckles across her cheeks. They’re a light pink, rosy from exertion or embarrassment, he doesn’t know, and her lips look incredibly soft. “Uh…” He licks his lips. “Yeah.” 

Fuck.

His chest heats with a rising blush, heart thundering wildly, and he turns his head to stare up at the ceiling before he can make an even bigger fool of himself. Thankfully, neither of the women in the cell comments on his fumble. After a time, there’s a rustle of fabric that draws Cloud’s eyes to Aerith again, and he watches as she moves to the opposite side of the bench. He bends his knee to give her more room, glancing away from her grateful smile with a light cough. 

Then she hops up onto the metal, sitting cross legged despite her dress, boots drawn up under her. She extends her arms to wrap her hands around the place where her legs cross, rocking with an excited energy.

“So,” she exclaims brightly, as if she isn’t surrounded by two dangerous criminals in a room devoid of witnesses, “you hit a cop, huh?” 

Tifa’s eyes widen at the question, and Cloud feels a tinge of his earlier wariness return. He frowns. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I did too!” The words sound so surreal, spoken loudly and happily by a tiny woman in a pink dress. Despite his misgivings, Cloud feels a distinct curiosity about their new cellmate form. He can see Tifa leaning forward with interest as well, eyeing Aerith up with equal parts wonder and skepticism. “Why are you acting so suspicious? They already know you did it.”

The interrogation that was the cause of the whole situation had been about other crimes, though. Ones that they don’t have any evidence of. Cloud decides not to mention that. “Who did you hit?”

“Well, aside from kicking and scratching the one that brought me in…” She tilts her head consideringly, raising a finger in the air. Cloud and Tifa both stare at her incredulously as she actually takes the time to think. “...I guess his partner, who wasn’t really my fault. I mean, how was I supposed to know that pushing him would make him hit his head on the doorframe? Plus the cop who ran over my flowerbed with his car. Oh! And the one from last week, who tried to grab me when I was climbing onto a roof. So rude! Can you believe it?” She sounds honestly, earnestly offended by the action, and Cloud blinks in wordless bewilderment.

“Um…”

“You have quite a history with the law,” Tifa fills in, smiling uncertainly. She repeats her earlier motion, rubbing at the back of her neck, and Cloud resists the urge to take her hands in comfort. They don’t usually hold hands in public, but he doesn’t like to see her so upset.

“It sounds a bit far fetched,” he offers instead, for lack of a better way to help her, "we don't know if you're telling the truth."

Aerith doesn’t get affronted, which is a good sign, laughing and taking the time to cast the both of them incredulous looks. “Wow. You two are a bit distrustful, huh?”

Tifa hunches over in the beginnings of shame, and Cloud isn’t having it. “Cops have a habit of using plants.”

“Well, I can assure you that I am one hundred percent plant free! Except for my garden, of course.”

“Garden?” Tifa asks.

“Mhm! I’m a florist. So, not necessarily... plant free. But the cops definitely do not like me.”

Cloud bites back a smirk, vividly remembering the way she’d fought against her captors. They certainly hadn’t been fond of her, that’s for sure. He doubts that kind of animosity can be faked. Though she seems so pleasant now, not even a lick of her earlier anger to be seen. Merely an impossibly upbeat attitude and a playful demeanor.

Tifa smiles as well. Another point in Aerith’s favor, considering how reserved Tifa is around most people. She shifts to get more comfortable and folds her hands together behind her back, humming and sharing a knowing grin with Cloud. He nods lightly in response, and she turns her full attention to Aerith.

“What did you do to get on their bad side?”

“Florists aren’t exactly known for their rebellious behavior.”

Aerith giggles, which Cloud thinks doesn’t exactly speak for her innocence. “They believe I graffitied the precinct.”

“Graffiti?”

“What would anybody even paint on a police building?”

“Oh, just a bunch of flowers…” Aerith twirls her hair around her fingers and grins deviously. “Surrounding a beautiful message of the people.” She raises a finger and winks. “‘Fuck the police’.”

A laugh escapes Cloud before he can catch it, short and strangled as he bites his lip to muffle the tail end of it. Tifa covers a giggle with her hand, eyes creasing in a smile and shoulders shaking. Cloud grins.

“Sounds fitting,” he says, and Aerith nods enthusiastically.

“It’s a shame they’ll never know who did it.”

“I’m sure.”

There's a short silence, then: “So what are you in for?”

The question is spoken innocently enough, but Cloud’s humor instantly evaporates with the words. Tifa’s smile dies and a frown settles on her face again, worry and anger and a dozen other things. The memory isn't exactly pleasant for either of them, and he can tell Aerith's already regretting asking. 

“The police came to ask some questions and things got...physical,” Tifa offers hesitantly, voice low. Then she scowls, shoulders stiffening and eyes blazing. “They attacked Cloud!”

Aerith’s brows raise in shock, but her smile is one of pure awe. “So you hit them?”

“Oh yeah.” Tifa says it as if she’d never think to do a thing differently, and Cloud has to fight off an overwhelming bout of fondness.

“But what happened? I mean, why did they attack you?”

“They were...harassing a friend of ours,” Cloud says, “and I stepped in, but…” He’d been too weak. Too out of it, still suffering from the aftereffects of his most recent therapy session. “I wasn’t in a good place.” Mentally, he adds, but the word won’t come out. 

He stops speaking and flits his eyes over to Aerith, hoping to gauge her reaction, and the riled cross of her arms is not at all what he’s expecting. Tifa shares the same expression of protective rage, and for a second he fears that the both of them are about to bust out of the prison cells themselves just to track his attackers down.

“What, so they thought they could just bait you and get away with it? Who do they think they are?”

“The police,” Cloud offers mildly, but Tifa only nods vigorously in righteous agreement.

“They acted like a bunch of animals!”

“They were investigating a crime.” At Aerith’s questioning looks he shrugs, carefully picking out his next words. “Our friend was suspected of stealing and leaking some very important documents.”

“Documents?” Aerith’s demeanor drops into one of pure curiosity.

Tifa nods. “Some stuff about the things they’d been doing recently was leaked, and they immediately assumed it was Barret.”

“Stealing evidence from a precinct? That’s pretty impressive.”

Cloud knows. Zack had been the loudest person he’s ever had the misfortune of sneaking into a building with, and the entire mission had almost ended in a spectacular disaster. Although their near escape was absolutely worth the dirt they had dug up on the local police. His only regret is that Barret was caught in the crossfire, not that the man hasn’t committed a number of crimes himself. One of which had involved him and Tifa infiltrating one of the largest Shinra buildings in the city.

Perhaps the cops had been there for more than just the information leak. It's definitely a possibility. The subsequent fight had left both him and Tifa lacking any crucial information on the situation. They hadn’t really had the time to ask questions.

In retrospect, maybe they should have acted with a bit more caution.

“Yeah,” Tifa says, “but they don’t have any evidence about their suspect. They were throwing stones and happened to hit Seventh Heaven. It was all purely coincidental.”

Cloud nods in agreement, but it doesn’t take a genius to see Aerith isn’t convinced. Not that either of them had expected her to be. Fortunately, she doesn’t press the issue.

She makes the right call and inquires about a different matter, instead. One that has Tifa perking up in excitement. And Cloud would be worried a bit more about her instant attachment to Aerith if he wasn’t suffering the same. She’s...surprisingly easy to talk to. Usually, Cloud takes a while to warm up to people, and Tifa’s either too closed off or too shy to get to know them. Yet with Aerith...the words just spill out, and even the silences are comfortable. Easy and featherlight in their simplicity.

Aerith asks about Seventh Heaven. And Tifa opens up. Not about emotions, of course, because Aerith is still new and the terrain is unsafe. But about her people and her place and their life. A life so intertwined with Cloud’s that he should find himself upset with her sharing it. 

Except that he doesn’t.

It’s strange, meeting somebody in lockup, of all places. Somebody so bright as Aerith, trapped in here with the best woman he knows. They’re both more talkative than him. Gathering a frisson in the air around them that’s filled with tension and delight. Aerith looks into Tifa’s eyes as if she’s seeing the stars for the very first time, and Tifa looks at Aerith like she’s never seen anything so beautiful. 

They both look at Cloud, too. Despite the fact that he doesn’t talk as much as the both of them. Silent and listening and watching in a peaceful sort of complacency. But every time he speaks they listen, and every time they engage in a back and forth he doesn’t at all feel left out or abandoned, but rather included in a strange sort of camaraderie. A bond between just the three of them.

He eventually sits up to lean back against the corner of the cell, an uncomfortable junction between the bars and the concrete wall. It’s worth it to be able to see the two of them, even if he doesn’t ever tell them that’s the reason why, and the conversation shifts from Aerith’s flower shop and Tifa’s bar to their families. Then it changes again as they do, with Aerith letting her legs fall over the edge of the bench and Tifa coming to sit between them through conversations about martial arts and staves and swords thes ize of a man.

After a couple more hours, the conversation lulls. Cloud appreciates the silence, if only because his voice is growing tired from so much use. He can’t even imagine how Aerith and Tifa are feeling right now.

Then Tifa yawns, hands stretching above her head as she arches her back. And within seconds she’s falling sideways to lay her head in Cloud’s lap.

He blushes at the level of physical affection. It isn’t exactly public, but Aerith is right there. Of course, she shouldn’t have any qualms about it herself when Tifa’s feet are in her lap. When Cloud glances over to check on her, he notices that she doesn’t even pause in surprise at Tifa’s sudden touch. Tifa’s shoes must be dirty, Cloud knows, and Aerith’s dress is light enough pink to get stained, but Aerith only hums and lays a gentle hand on Tifa’s calf. She leans her own head back, closing her eyes.

And the cell is bathed in silence.

[fymagnificentwomcn]

Farya was not only a bad and unnecessary character, but was also sooo annoying, not only for me?

I mean…

outside how her character was out of the place, she wasn’t even likeable? My mum knew nothing of Ottoman history & how her character is so ahistorical and she hated Floprya so much, you cannot imagine.

Her ranting that if Mu/rat does not kill Ayşe, she will do it herself & being all “Damn ilahtar and Kösem, they will try to convince Murad not to kill Ayşe, and otherwise he’s so merciless DANG”.

Her feeling of superiority and being special truly shows you why she had best relations with

Mu/rat and Atike in the palace lmao.

She’s also repeatedly completely ignorant of Ottoman system & yet thinks she can be Valide (ater)?

Kösem, Gevherhan, and Ayşe told her multiple times how it works and what might ultimately befall her. Of course Ayşe wanted to just piss her off, but she actually told her truth – Murad was keeping her as his mistress closed in golden cage and just waiting when he decides to grace her with his presence, mostly at night to have some fun ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) . Living outside harem meant that (surprise!) She had a worse situation than slave Ayşe, who had an acknowledged & legitimate position as haseki and mother of princes. Being a foreign princess meant nothing there – she was kept in hiding, had no clear position in Murad’s life, and was actually living in sin with Mu/rat (yes, Murad was so mad about Kasim breaking the rules, but he was doing something far more scandalising himself when it came to sexual propriety & he was the ruling padişah). Her being so happy about not being placed in harem initially & thinking how she was so special she was given a separate palace.. shows precisely how ignorant she was of the system she CHOSE to live in.

Kösem and Gevherhan warned her how not having a kids meant she would later fade into obscurity & even legal marriage could not change it – she completely dismissed it because of “their great luv” & stuff.

Kösem knew Murad much better than Floprya did LBR and when she said his “great luv” would pass, she knew what she was talking about – she was even shocked when Mu/rat gifted Farya with necklace because it wasn’t in his nature to do romantic gestures and caring about giving his women gifts. And even if you don’t trust these women because they don’t like you much, look at how this man is truly behaving towards you (if you ignore his behaviour towards Ayşe because yes we know you are a special snowflake).

Ignoring stuff such as period-appropriate behaviour (Murad laughing at Farya wanting to command an Ottoman army, I guess even less misogynistic men would laugh her off), he calls her his prisoner even before the pig incident, and afterwards…. 1) he hits her without even asking her why she put a freakin’ pig in; 2) keeps her wounded and bleeding in cell while making his decision, at the same time being all emo about how poor HE is because he loves this woman and she hurt HIM so; 3) when he (graciously, please everyone clap) decides to spare her, he doesn’t just let her go, he makes a show in which he scares her and “shows her her rightful place” aka on her knees before him; 3) continues to be offended and passive aggressive towards her afterwards; 4) gives her throne away behind her back without even asking her if she wants to stay with him; 5) rides after her, tells her “you slept with me, so you are my woman & you belong in my harem” & takes her on his horse forcefully (it doesn’t matter if she secretly wanted it inside); 6) didn’t explain why he gave her family’s throne to someone else even after he took her back to the palace, Atike had to do it; 7) yes, kept her without any status and intention to change it hidden in another palace, without any participation in his daily life and only visiting her when it suited him, not even sticking to any promises to come if he decided so, only the terrible incident with Farya’s miscarriage made him marry her and seeing how his “great luv” began to die after it, one does question whether it was out of love or him simply wanting to show everyone (both his mother and subjects) that he could do as he pleased, even against any rules; 6) he actually never promised her he would marry her and not have other women, it was only Farya always saying this – conversely, in MY Suleiman DID actually promise this to Hürrem and then did not keep it [doesn’t make Murad less of a dick, but shows how delusional Farya might be because he never actually said so himself or agreed to it].

And I said in one of my previous posts how Hürrem (and any harem women) weren’t homewreckers because it was indeed their only chance to have a family & love, but damn Floprya is a homewrecker because she truly didn’t have to stay with Mu/rat – she had her family, her throne, friends to come back to… please you knew what mess you created by coming there, and you had all the signs how violent this guy was and about his attitude to women… you could truly do a lot better, honey.

Murad never saw her as a consort of importance either. He never asked for her opinion on anything (he’d sooner even ask his mother) and when she got an accidental chance to say something (pleading with him not to execute a poor guy who forgot his lamp to bring his dad dinner, nota bene an incident described by Ottoman historian Mustafa Naima, just without Farya in the picture obviously), he completely ignored her and looked pissed she even dared to do so. It was frankly the only instance Floprya tried to talk Mu/rat out of something bad – even when he executed people who simply had been on the market during the attack on her (and even completely unrelated ones as later turned out), even though Kosem had already punished the actual attackers, our “kind-hearted” Floprya did nothing…. I’m not surprised he didn’t consult her before because he never does & well… talking sense to him never works because Kösem tried to reason with him it’s wrong, even for him because it provides people who want to go between him and ordinary people with great opportunity… and he didn’t give a fuck as always, but Farya never said anything, even following this? It was a matter closely connected with her and we never even see them talking about this or Floprya’s reaction to it? I can’t believe she didn’t hear about this… she likely just didn’t care.

Kösem also told her that marrying a sultan is not enough, and (since we know she couldn’t have kids) she should at least drag her ass and do something useful, like take care of people? Well, it was the only time we saw Floprya doing charity.

 Following the wedding, Mu/rat began to gradually lose interest in Farya, including going after Sanavber after he saw her with dagger pointed at him because it seems he has a dagger-fetish & now Floprya  even stopped wielding his favourite toy to have his attention… And again never forget Atike’s “Murad finally met a woman worthy of him, she can wield a sword like A MAN!” (STFU ALREADY ATIKE).

Speaking of Atike… Floprya encouraging Atike to pursue Silahtar even if it’s clear from Atike’s words he isn’t responsive to her, bah, even after it’s known he loves someone else… how stupid you can be to encourage Atike to get the guy who loves someone else and keep telling her again how special & daring she is, so go on and take what you want? Or Floprya threatening Silahtar to expose it was Gevherhan because he called her out on threatening Ayse at night with knife (yes, Ayşe was guilty, but there was no evidence at that point & it was not for her to go and punish somebody without evidence like that). He was just doing his job.

Farya later begins to openly mention her frustrations and how she’s now sidelined because she cannot have children… which of course makes her more the bitter and angry at Ayşe & striving towards revenge so bad – she  isn’t satisfied that Ayşe got exposed and would be punished, she wants her DEAD & would not accept any other option (never mind that poor, innocent children would be orphaned in such a case).

Even after  the matter is revealed and she does regret what she did, she’s as defensive as ever and tries to put all blame on depressed, abused woman aka Ayşe… she sees no fault of Mura/t’s there.

Still, she didn’t deserve execution for that, especially from hands of person who was chiefly responsible for the tragedy aka her husband… and her being pregnant saving her was meaningful.

Yet she continues to be ignorant about Ottoman system – now that Mura/t continues to pay her little attention even though she gave birth to two sons and instead spends time on drinking parties with Yusuf & other male buddies, she wants to be Valide and supports changing succession law back to the one involving fratricide… Okay, she doesn’t care about Murad’s brothers, but her own sons? Mu/rat being all “I don’t give a fuck” to Kösem pointing out one of his sons will kill the other is… well, him being himself, but Floprya should get worried about implications for her sons, right?

The scene with Sinan is SO indicative of Farya later on – she sits on balcony frustrated because she sits at palace all alone with her sons, while her hubby spends time on one of his parties & watching some (sexy!) dancer after promising her he would be now focused on his family (and even in that scene she still looked so scared of him), Sinan comes, calls her future "Valide Sultan”, she smirks, brightens up & already feels relevant and in better mood, so immediately does what he wants her to do and sends message to Mura/t about Kösem holding meeting with statesmen and ulema about changes in succession law.

Yet another win for Sinan!😂

Farya and Mu*rya stans claiming she was sooo "good-hearted” and they were equals.. were we watching the same show, eh? He didn’t treat her as her “equal” or whatever, even in “their best days”. The relationship was a disaster WAY before he tried to kill her.

I really never hated MY/K ship as much as I hated Mu*ya, a total disaster that really had nothing appealing to me – it was straight-up abusive plus it wasn’t even interesting. I swear even Mihrimah and Rüstem, while thouroughly dysfunctional, were more interesting to watch as a totally fucked up, toxic couple ugh.

- Joanna

Tagging @onlythelonelysurvive because it might be of interest to you and maybe take your mind off your worries :)

[emospritelet]

Key to the Cell - chapter 5

[1] [2] [3] [4] [AO3 link]

Once breakfast was over, and the men had ridden out for the hunt with a cacophony of shouts and baying hounds, Belle retreated to the library to read the remaining chapters of the book. It told her nothing she didn’t already know, and squinting at the drawing of the ornamental dagger in the light of day still didn’t reveal what was written on it. She noticed that the drops of her blood had disappeared, though, sucked into the paper by the book’s own magic, no doubt. It was tempting to try the spell again, but she had nothing more to bargain with, and no desire to make any more demands on the Dark One’s time than she had already dealt for.

She put the book back on its shelf and sat back in her chair, thinking. It wasn’t the only book on the Dark One that existed, to be sure, but a search of the shelves before she sat down had yielded nothing further on the subject. Belle smiled to herself as she reached a decision. In the months that she and her father had been coming to Sir Gaston’s lands, she had made a friend of sorts. A purveyor of hard to find objects, he called himself, but he specialised in old books. If anyone would know where she could find out about the Dark One, it would be Jefferson.

x

Half an hour later she was taking the carriage into town, a tall, silent footman named Marcel and one of the maids, Celine, accompanying her. She knew it was for reasons of safety and propriety, but she missed the freedom of being in her own lands, with her own people. Here she was followed wherever she went, which was why she had begun sneaking down to the library at night for a brief taste of freedom. It felt as though Gaston’s servants were spying on her. As though she were a beautiful bird in a gilded cage, too valuable to be allowed to fly free, however briefly.

On this occasion, however, Marcel seemed more interested in the pretty maid than in her, the two of them sneaking glances at each other as the carriage rolled along, and a plan began to form in Belle’s mind. She kept a sharp eye out as they reached the market place, and once she spotted the shop she sought, she tapped on the roof of the carriage to stop and rummaged in her purse for some coins.

“Here,” she said, handing them to Marcel. “It’s a warm day and the road was dusty. Why don’t you both go to the tavern and have a cup of something while I visit the bookshop? It’s right across the street, you’ll be able to keep an eye on me.”

“We’re supposed to stay with you, milady,” said Celine automatically, but her eyes flicked to the footman again.

“I’ll only be ten minutes,” Belle assured her. “I want to enquire after some books I ordered. Once that’s done we’ll go to the haberdasher’s and the apothecary. You may both accompany me once you’ve quenched your thirst.”

Marcel and Celine shared a smile.

“Thank you, milady,” they said as one, and Marcel got out to hand Belle down.

She shook out her skirts, eyeing the shop she sought. The door was closed, but a bell above tinkled merrily when she pushed it open. The shelves inside lined every wall, and were filled with books, with cabinets holding ornaments and nautical navigation aids. There was a pleasing, familiar scent of parchment and leather and old paper, and Belle smiled as she glanced around, a sense of peace flowing over her.

She started as the proprietor bounced up from behind the counter, dressed in a russet-coloured coat over leather breeches and knee boots, a patterned cravat at his throat and a somewhat battered top hat on his head. Jefferson was a handsome man, with a ready grin and a glint in his eye, and from what she could tell, had a good heart and a keen sense of fun. He also had a young daughter named Grace, who liked to read as much as Belle had at her age, and Belle had given her some of her old books to borrow, much to Grace’s delight. Jefferson beamed at the sight of her.

“My Lady Belle!” he declared, sweeping a dramatic bow that was somewhat curtailed by the shop counter. “I’m delighted to see you! It’s been too long.”

“An entire week, at least,” she said, amused.

“Yes indeed.” He clasped his hands behind his back, bouncing on his toes. “Your frequent visits to my humble shop have not gone unnoticed. Why, only two days ago I had Sir Gaston’s steward come to visit me to enquire about them. Imagine my delight at such esteemed patronage.”

Belle’s blood ran cold.

“He was asking about me?” she said. “Why?”

“Oh, I’m sure your noble intended only wishes to ensure your safety,” said Jefferson cheerfully. “I’m to report back to him what you purchase from me. Romantic, no?”

Anger flared in her, and she felt her jaw protrude, as though straining against an invisible leash. She tried to relax, and smiled at Jefferson.

“It’s a good thing I seek only appropriate reading material for an innocent and fairly stupid woman, then,” she said dryly.

“It’s not as though I would sell you anything else,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart in mock horror. “This is a respectable bookshop.”

“Good,” said Belle seriously. “In that case I want to ask about the books you most definitely are not holding in this shop. In order to ensure - public decency.”

“Public decency has always been a passion of mine, my Lady,” he said gravely. “Tell me of these terrible tomes.”

She felt her lips twitch, but tried to maintain her concerned expression.

“I have heard tales of a sorcerer known as the Dark One,” she said. “No doubt there are books that cover his history, his origins. It would be dreadful if they were to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You won’t find such distasteful books on any of the shelves in this shop,” he said promptly, pointing under the desk and winking at her.

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve also heard that there are books on magical prisons, and the breaking of curses.”

“A terrible rumour, if true,” he said. “I have no such books for sale.”

He mouthed you can borrow them behind his hand, and she wanted to giggle.

“Thank goodness,” she said. “You’ve put my mind at rest.”

“I should probably check, though,” he added. “Just to make sure. If you return in half an hour, I’ll be able to confirm it.”

“Good.” She hesitated. “While I’m at it, there may be something you could sell to me.  Do you have anything on the Blue Fairy? Or on light magic in general? I’m sure there could be no objections to me reading something like that.”

“Let me see what I can dig out,” he said, tipping his hat to her.

“And I suppose I’d better add in something about proper wifely duties, as well,” she said. “That should put Sir Gaston’s mind at ease.”

Jefferson grinned, wiggling his eyebrows.

“For managing a new estate or for managing a new husband?” he asked, and she sent him a dry look.

“I’ll leave that up to you.”

His grin widened, and he lifted a finger.

“I have just the thing.”

x

When Belle left the shop, she took a moment to straighten her gloves, irritation with Gaston warring with satisfaction at having obtained more information on the Dark One. So. She was being spied on. No doubt to ensure she was suitable, the picture of a subservient, dutiful wife. The nerve of the man!

“Milady?”

Marcel and Celine had hurried over to her, and Belle nodded curtly, smoothing her features.

“I’ll call back for my books in half an hour, once they have been wrapped,” she said. “The apothecary next, I think.”

She walked swiftly enough that Celine had to trot to keep up, and made the rounds of the shops in less time than she had anticipated, but the exercise helped to ease her anger, and by the time they had left the haberdashery, she was calm again. She slowed the pace as they turned into the street leading back to the bookshop, and Celine sighed in relief, hefting the basket of her purchases.

“Alms for the poor, milady?”

A woman reached out to her with a pleading tone, blonde hair tied back from a face reddened by the sun, and Belle drew to a halt, biting her lip in distress. She imagined the woman had once been plump and pretty, but now looked gaunt and exhausted, her faded dress hanging from her, her hand a claw extended on a thin wrist. Two skinny, big-eyed children watched from the shadows, brother and sister, clutching at one another. The girl had a bracelet on her thin wrist, woven from brightly coloured woollen threads, no doubt scavenged from weavers' scraps. It made a strange contrast to her dirty smock and tangled hair.

“Get out of here, go on!” said Marcel roughly, aiming a kick at the woman, and she shied away. Belle rounded on him.

“Do that again and there will be consequences!” she snapped.

“I’m charged with protecting you, milady,” he said. “You don’t have to deal with these vermin.”

“When I marry your lord, these will be my people!” said Belle, frowning. She turned back to the woman. "What's your name?"

"Gerta, milady."

“And what has brought you to this sad state? Have you no work?”

“Not since the clearances, milady,” she said, eyeing Marcel warily.

“Clearances?”

“We had a strip of land down by the river," said Gerta. "A herd of goats and some vegetable plots. The Lord’s men drove us off two winters gone. Us and all the other smallholders. Beat our men when they protested, killed some. Killed my husband. The fields have gone to barley for the brewers, the goats slaughtered.”

Belle shook her head, and reached into her purse for some money.

“Milady, you shouldn’t—” began Marcel.

“I’ll do as I please with my own coin!” snapped Belle. She pressed some silver into Gerta’s hand, followed by a gold piece. “Here. That should feed and clothe you all for a little while, at least. Once you feel able, come to the castle and ask for me: I'll speak to the steward about finding some work for you."

"Oh thank you, thank you!" Tears pricked the woman's eyes.

"No need to thank me," said Belle.  "You shouldn't be in this situation. I shall speak to Sir Gaston about what has happened to you.”

“It won’t do any good,” said Gerta wearily. “But bless your kind heart, milady.”

She clasped Belle’s hand between her own, smiling a little, and slunk away, the children following. Belle noticed that the boy was limping badly, his lower leg twisted and useless as he shuffled along, supported by his sister.

“They’ll probably just spend it on ale, milady,” said Celine.

“They look too hungry to want to bother with the tavern,” said Belle shortly. “Have many families been driven off their lands?”

The servants shrugged, and she clicked her tongue in irritation.

“What provision has been made for their welfare?” she asked. “Are there soup kitchens? Anything?”

“The brewers set up a soup kitchen,” said Celine. “They were told to take it down, because it just encouraged the beggars.”

“Well of course it encouraged them, how would they eat otherwise?” snapped Belle, and shook her head with a sigh. “Still, this is a matter for Sir Gaston, not you. I need to pick up my books, and then we’ll take the carriage home.”

She stomped off, seething with anger. What sort of lord would let his people starve?

Jefferson seemed to catch her mood when she returned, and made no quips as he handed Marcel a pile of books wrapped in paper and tied with string. Belle paid him, smiling slightly to show that her bad mood had not been caused by him. He was far more reserved in front of the servants, and she imagined it was just as well. No doubt an account of their day in town would reach Gaston before long, and she didn’t want Jefferson singled out for any special attention from the steward.

The ride home was subdued, and once the servants had carried the books and other purchases up to Belle’s room, she announced that she had a headache, and would be lying down until it passed. Celine drew the curtains and helped her off with her gown, and Belle lay down with a damp cloth over her eyes. The sound of the door closing softly made her sigh in relief, but she still waited a few minutes before tearing off the damp cloth and sitting up, reaching for the parcel of books. There had to be answers in there somewhere.

Jefferson had wrapped up five books in total, the top one being a very proper treatise on the management of estates from a noblewoman’s perspective. Belle tossed that aside with a curl of her lip, but after a moment, placed it on her nightstand. If Gaston wanted to hear about what she was reading, let him hear about that.

The second book was infamous, and made her blush fiercely and glance around before turning back to it. The Lady’s Boudoir by An Anonymous Gentlewoman of Note was rumoured to be the most complete compendium of detailed intimate relations between husband and wife. Along with illustrations. After suppressing a giggle at the look on Gaston’s face if he were to find such a book in her possession, Belle resolved to hide it somewhere safe until she could take it back to Jefferson. She had already read it, anyway.

The third book had an embossed illustration of a fairy on the cover, wand lifted high with a blue star at its tip. A Study of Fairies and Their Use of Light Magic, read the title page, and Belle pursed her lips thoughtfully and set the book aside on the nightstand before reaching for the next. It was a heavier volume, bound in battered blood-red leather with gilt letters on the spine: First Steps in Curse-Breaking.

She was almost trembling with excitement, eager to open up the book and pore over its contents, but the final book in the paper package had already drawn her eye.  It was the slimmest by far, perhaps two hundred pages if that, with a plain black leather binding. Opening it up, Belle ran her eyes over the title page: The Dark One: His Origins and Powers.

Belle clutched the book to her chest, heart thumping, and sent up a prayer to the gods that the information she sought would be contained within. Then she got back onto the bed, wriggling against the pillows to get comfortable, and began to read.

[class-wom]

Pretty good points arising on all sides, although I’m still not as ready to view Farouk with as an objective, sympathetic eye as this writer is.  I guess the implication of David’s intrusion “turning Farouk unfriendly and menacing” is worth noting, but wouldn’t he be exposing his dark side rather than triggering it?  I’ll be fair and admit that the door may swing both ways for David, since his realization of what Farouk did to Amy in Chapter 13 pushed him past the point of no return in the darkness department.  That being said, David had absolutely nothing to do with Farouk’s decision to taken an entire country and king prisoner and trap them in the bodies of orphans and a monkey, the latter of whom is trapped in a physical cage as well for good measure!

How does time work on Legion?

It’s a question I don’t think we’ll be fully able to answer until after the finale next week, and even then I doubt things are going to feel straightforward. But if the claim that time is a jungle from Switch’s time travel tapes struck me as significant before, it does even more so now.

David’s plan of going back to the past to prevent his possession by Farouk failed, so his new plan appears to be to team up with his father to kill Farouk instead of just dispelling him from his body. But this not only causes Switch to lose more teeth—and worse—it brings the time demons back in a big way.

They, at least, can change time. This was established in my mind by what happened with Lenny and her daughter, amongst other things. However it works exactly (given that time itself is presented as not exactly linear), it would seem that they ate that part of Lenny’s life, and it’s just gone now.

But, then, did it ever really exist? Ostensibly on Legion, it did. Apparently on Legion, David’s attempt to go back in time caused this. Evidently on Legion, time travel can awaken these demons that eat time and alter it.

But it remains possible that this was what always happened.

This is a big question that runs through all time travel narratives. Can attempts to change things actually do so, or will they inevitably lead to the very events they are intended to prevent?

We won’t know where Legion will come down on this until after the finale, but certain elements seem to foreshadow that it will be in line with the latter option.

Farouk seems friendly before David intervenes and alters Charles’ perspective. And though Charles seems a bit skeptical and hesitant in his judgment of Farouk from the get-go, it really does seem to be David that pushes him towards the decision that Farouk needs to be stopped.

David insists that they will have the upper hand because it will be two against one, but then the episode ends with the older Farouk coming out of a painting on the wall to greet his younger self. And so it seems all too likely that we are gearing up for a battle with Charles and David on the one side and two Farouks on the other.

Is this, perhaps, always what happened in Morocco?

Of course, we’ve also got Charles’ assessment of David to grapple with, as he encounters the various versions of self that constitute Legion. It’s hard to imagine him feeling fine and dandy about what he witnessed in his son’s psyche.

That may contribute to a desire to defeat Farouk, along with the fact that he is clearly disturbed by the mind of the “tyrant” being trapped in a monkey, and those of his followers being stored in a little girl.

But if Charles and David succeed in killing Farouk, we’ll have a Grandfather paradox, insofar as it would be the David that resulted from Farouk’s possession that resulted in Farouk’s demise. If they fail, however, we’ll have a Bootstrap paradox, where an event from the future causes an event in the past, which in turn causes the events of the future.

We won’t know how that plays out until next week, but the time demons do strike me as a wrinkle that will be worth thinking about. Of course, their actions could fit into either of those paradoxical structures as well, but they also seem to be so chaotic that it’s hard to predict what will happen.

I don’t really like speculating about what will occur in the finale of a TV show (though I stand behind my Game of Thrones finale prediction as what I wish had happened), so let’s move to discuss some things pertaining to the main characters in Legion.

Kerry

Kerry seems pretty nonchalantly OK with the idea of killing the baby David. It’s humorous, but this is a debate that some have had with a degree of seriousness, usually about Hitler.

If you could travel back to the past and kill baby Hitler, would you? Should you?

The morality here is a bit tough, as the thought of preventing something very bad from happening certainly holds some weight. Though, at the same time, you’d be killing a child that at that point had not yet done the very bad things.

So, is it right to kill someone who is innocent now in order to prevent them from doing something heinous in the future?

Or maybe is it a better plan to work on making Hitler a successful artist?

But it’s pretty clear that Kerry wants to kill the baby.

Syd

Syd seems to be in line with that second thought about trying to change the past in less violent ways. She doesn’t think the adult David can be saved, but she has to believe that the baby one can, and the second childhood we saw her experience seems to be play a role in how she comes to this position.

She devotes herself to trying to help Gabrielle be a better mother, and perhaps not give David up, and so on. If only she can make his childhood better, maybe that’ll do the trick. (Of course this largely ignores the influence of the Shadow King, and some things Syd says indicate that she may be putting more blame on David than is appropriate.)

But it’s not clear that this is going to have any effect. After spending some time chopping wood for some reason and giving Gabrielle advice, the latter asks Syd if she is really there, and all of the wood is suddenly no longer chopped.

The time demons are to blame, it would seem, but we also see Gabrielle’s concerns about her own mental state arising again here. She’s not sure that she is sane, and not sure that it matters. This would seem to explain how unfazed she is when Syd, Kerry, and Cary appear outside of her home.

Charles

We don’t have a lot to work with when it comes to Charles Xavier still, and it’s not clear how much it is appropriate to bring in from other sources.

As he’s been presented here so far, he seems like a decent man, who loves his wife and child. And it seems that he did indeed seek out Farouk in the spirit of friendship.

But this makes it rather unclear how certain scenes are supposed to fit in. Did he see what we did in Episode 3? And what about the scene early on here in Episode 7 in the theater?

Further, his interaction with Legion should make him suspicious of David, but it’s not clear how much it does so. Certainly he realizes that he is dealing with an unstable mind?

Finding a man’s consciousness trapped in a monkey must be disturbing. And discovering multiple other minds within that of a little girl has to be pretty disconcerting. But do we know that this wasn’t a tyrant and his followers?

One question worth asking is whether it matters. After all, even if we buy Farouk’s line on the matter, one could argue that what he has done is considerably worse than just killing the people in question.

But then there is Farouk’s previous characterization of Charles as a colonialist interfering with a culture he didn’t understand how to grapple with.

Maybe he should have left well enough alone? Perhaps he should never have come?

Farouk

Farouk seems really friendly when Charles arrives, and like he is genuinely happy to have found a compatriot in the world who shares powers similar to his. Maybe it is weird to greet the man with a driver holding a painted portrait of him, but still, Farouk’s exuberance doesn’t seem to me to be feigned.

What a privilege it is to see and be seen!

It’s at least tempting to believe that he was being genuine, until David arrives and disrupts him. He reads David’s mind and keeps getting images of his hippie cult. The Caption Sensible song we previously heard when David broke through to the past gets a recurrence, and it’s hard to say what all exactly Farouk may have intuited. All we know for sure is that it was enough for him to excuse himself.

So, if we put things like the man trapped in a monkey aside, how malicious was Farouk prior to David’s intervention? Was this a trap that he’d laid for Charles, as David suggests, or was he perhaps truly looking for a buddy?

I have to say it struck me as the latter, but given what occurred over the rest of the hour, we’re never going to really know.

Is he the prince of lies, or does the name “Shadow King” merely derive from the way he puts on shadow plays for the children? Is he a force of evil, or did he just go too far, or in a suspect way, when he deposed a man who really was a tyrant?

If we look back to Season 1, the version that has him evil all along makes sense, but those events also occurred after what we’ve seen here in Season 3 Episode 7. And this is not in any way to suggest he should be excused for anything; it is just to note that Farouk’s character has become increasingly complex.

But then again, there are the scenes like the one I mentioned before, where he tells Charles he shouldn’t have come. And we have to ask where and how exactly these fit in.

David

I know there are those who have remained pretty squarely on David’s side throughout the course of this season, but his hubris and narcissism are on full display in this episode.

We can understand it. Convinced that Farouk is a malevolent force (and he probably is) responsible for all his problems, David wants to go back and fix it. He effectively wants to erase his own existence, or get a do-over.

But this is worth thinking about: the David we know would not exist if he succeeds. Not only would all of the death and destruction he has wrought be undone, he himself would be. And this is what he wants.

In this regard, whether or not Farouk was the cause of David’s mental illness becomes a bit irrelevant. You’re not responsible for the illness, but you are for how you deal with it. And to treat it as an excuse is to shirk that responsibility.

Worse, David seems to think that if he can only change the past, it won’t matter what he’s done. And while in the real world we don’t tend to encounter the alteration of past events as a live possibility, this structure of thinking that one is justified in using whatever means necessary to achieve a goal is something we can point to all over the place.

And, so, it is how he treats Switch in this episode that leads me to my deepest condemnation of David yet.

She’s a great character. Her dedication to David might have been a little under-justified in terms of the text of the show (as she does seem to have followed him freely, as opposed to having been psychically swayed to do so), but it’s been there and it hasn’t really felt forced. For whatever reason, our time traveler has decided to be on his side.

She loses teeth to help him go back to the past—more and more teeth—and ultimately collapses from the strain of the whole thing. And yet, when Charles asks about her, David says she is no one: a means to an end.

David’s narcissism and obsession with changing the past have become all-encompassing. And, again, this is somewhat understandable. Legion has done a great job of doing this in a way we can understand where David is coming from, leaving the space open where he might possibly even be right.

But even if he is right about the Shadow King, and even if he is able to change the past, the way he has acted is unjustifiable, and mental illness only goes so far as an excuse.

Presumably on Legion, we’ll see next week how this all pans out.

[overdrivels]

The Way to a Heart (12)

<<Chapter 11

Hanzo, despite his less-than-stellar display of maturity, was surprisingly granted a mission, and he had taken it with such speed, there was no time for anyone to protest (or for you to have made an appropriate lunchbox). It was merely surveillance around Gibraltar, but that must have been more appealing than remaining in the incredible awkwardness at the base.

His absence, however, did little to alleviate the oppressive air in the sparsely occupied Watchpoint. Genji had made himself scarce, and when he was available, was noticeably more distant. Zenyatta’s presence probably did a lot to ease the uncertainty that weighs on the cyborg.

Though, McCree did not know who he felt worse for: Genji or you.

The others had a lot of say about the matter, but McCree cannot consider himself so morally superior that he allowed himself to gripe. The feelings of the Shimada brothers’ are sticky in ways that even those on moral high ground should not comment on—the deed was done and over with, the main thing now is how they feel now and how they’re going to go about handling it. It’s one thing if it’s between themselves, it’s another if they’re going to drag innocent people in their cautious yet reckless game of feelings and painful memories.

You, especially.

After that fiasco, you confined yourself to the kitchens, making quick work of small talk and any attempts to coax you to come out.

McCree tsk’s to himself. You had made such good progress, too. Ana, if she hadn't been away on a mission, would’ve been proud.

It’d be a lie to say the kitchen is the most welcoming place on base. Head Chef Richard was quite generous and lavish in his own way, feeding people just the right amount (neither left wanting nor bursting) with just the right foods—but despite his creed for serving and loving his customers, his priority would always fall on the chefs he kept under his wing. Through his numerous escapades, McCree had long suspected the kitchens were built in such a way that the entire place was both a fortress and a prison, keeping out intruders and holding them in to be dealt with when the time came even without chefs inside. In some ways, this place was better safeguarded than other places in the Watchpoint.

If you really wanted to lock yourself in there, you could and no one would be able to get you out. Similarly, if you truly wanted to keep people out, the kitchen could be on lockdown faster than most would be able to react. The reason for it was assumed to be because of the ‘treasure’, but McCree isn’t so sure.

“Ain’t like you t’ be standin’ still, Chef,” McCree says as he walks into the darkened mess hall and toward the service window where you stood. If he wasn’t expecting it, it would be a creepy sight to behold: a single, unmoving figure in the middle of the brightest light in the entire cafeteria, finer features obscured by shadows. “Head Chef would throw a fit if he saw you doin’ nothin’.”

Instead of the flustered outburst he expects, you remain quiet, hands folded neatly on the counter as though waiting for something. He could fathom a guess for what—or whom.

He drags a stool to the window and sits. From this spot, he can almost see the washing station and a shocking amount of dishes stacked. They don’t seem dirty, but it just looks like they were left there after being cleaned. A troubling sign.

Gently, he tries again. “Hour’s late, Chef. Whatcha doin’ up?”

“...I’m just thinking,” you reply slowly, voice lacking in any energy or enthusiasm.

He makes a noise in his throat. “That so?”

“...yeah.”

The silence settles uncomfortably between you both. He sighs internally and decides to cut to—what he believes to be—the chase. “He doesn’t hate you.”

Your fingers twitch and your hands curl into fists before unfurling and curling again. “...how are you so sure?”

Because you’re obvious and Hanzo is not as unreadable as he believes himself to be.

“Callin’ me a liar now? Mighty bold of ya.”

Jesse expects a laugh or some sort of reaction, not the deafening silence that sounds of guilt and something all too familiar.

“It’s between him and Genji. It ain’t your fault you got caught up in it.”

“If I didn’t decide to make a group meal then…”

“It wasn’t about your cookin’ or how you did it.” It was a fine set-up and wonderfully alive. If it weren’t for the Shimadas’ issues, it would have been an excellent affair that was reminiscent of the old, old Overwatch. The stew was spicy and if McCree was being honest, he’d really rather eat that combination that reminds him of his time on the road rather than the neatly arranged meals you normally make. (Not that they’re not delicious, but there’s just something charming about eating food that is more...appropriate for his person.)

“But he didn’t even take a lunchbox when he left.” Despite how distressed you sound, he couldn’t help a smile.

“Bet you cried yourself to sleep over that.”

“Did not.”

He raises an eyebrow and the silence, a little more bearable, seems to unnerve you and eventually you concede with a huff, “I didn’t cry.”

“...but you’re still feelin’ responsible.”

You throw up your hands and begin to pace as though you’ve meant to do it for a long time. “I should have known! I—”

“Known what? That everyone was goin’ to leave that seat open? That Hanzo would react like that? That we’d have to practically tackle Genji to the ground? You almost got clocked in th’ head with a flyin’ bottle and you still feel like it’s your fault?” He scoffs. “You ain’t psychic and it ain’t your responsibility to keep track of all that.”

“But it is,” you insist. “It’s the least I can do.”

He wants to groan and slap his face and barely manages to resist doing either. “Not this again.”

“It’s true!” You stop right in front of him, slamming your hands somewhere above the partition. “I'm not a hero like you!”

“Ain't never claimed t’be one neither.”

“But you're out there”—and you gesture wide toward some unseen horizon or an imagined place that McCree is sure does not exist—“fighting and risking yourselves and I'm…”

Your hands and your whole body just slumps.  

“And I'm in here.”

The silence that follows is almost damning.

There’s always been some sense of self-imposed responsibility from the support-type staff. Well, he can’t say that he was innocent in the matter—long ago, he loathed the easy-going pace of the desk-job people and paper-pushers and those who work with Overwatch but never ever see battle. Why did they get to complain when he’s out risking his hide? Why should people get to live because they’ve got money? Why do those people get to boss them around? (It’s one of the reasons why he liked Reyes so much more than Jack. The former got his hands dirty with the rest of his crew, the latter locked himself up in his offices and meetings. Jesse didn’t care about the heroic stories he was told, he just knows what he saw and what he saw was Jack being a damn sellout.)

But meeting people like you, who are too attached to the idea of ‘responsibility’, he can’t bring himself to be upset. Everyone has their own role to fill, their own troubles, and McCree learned after several years here that people like you probably take it harder than them. He can lose himself in the adrenaline and the missions, but you can only do your best, cooking for agents who are too strung out to appreciate the power of a decent meal and fling it back in your face. It’s too easy to think of the agents’ problems as your fault when it’s their fault for not managing themselves properly.

“It ain’t like you t’ get so worked up over one person. Other people lost their minds over the food before and you didn’t act like this.”

“But that was…”

That was long ago, when you weren’t alone to bear the burden of a discarded meal, when you did not feel so directly responsible, when you had the Head Chef to buffer you. Or is it because of something else?

He knows, vaguely, what you had been doing before you came back to Overwatch. He would have guessed that your skin would’ve been thicker after your ordeals. But for a single person to rattle your cage—

“If it’ll make y’feel better, I’ll hunt him down for you, make ‘im apologize,” he offers.

You snort like you don’t think he is serious—oh, but he’s very serious, no matter how nonchalant he had tried to make the offer seem. It’d be interesting to get Hanzo speaking heartfelt apologies with Peacekeeper against his temple. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’s contemplated it (but for different reasons). Jesse wonders if Genji would help, but banishes the idea quick. That might just make things more grisly than it had to.

“I think you should be the one apologizing, too.”

He starts and tries to look at you through the wall. “Me? What’d I ever do?”

“You told Agent Hanzo about the Cellar!”

“And who told you I told him?”

“Agent Genji, of course.”

That son of a—

Jesse smacks himself in the back of the neck and rubs it twice. Well, it wasn’t that much of a secret anyway. He supposes it’s his just deserts—or in this case, just desserts?  

“Guess I have two Shimadas to go after,” he says wryly, leaning against his palm, directing a smile up at you that he forgets that you cannot see. “Gotta get justice for the both of us.”

“I don’t think it’s really getting ‘justice’, Jesse.”

He shrugs. “Someone wronged you, so it’s only proper t’get even, ain’t it?”

“I don’t—That’s not right.”

“It ain’t like it’s the first time you’ve got into a tiff with somebody. ‘Member the first time you ‘nd I fought? You kicked me and threw the whole tray at me.”

“You slapped it out of my hands!”

“And we both got a helluva lecture from your boss for wastin’ food.”

He gets something like a cross between a choked laugh and a noise of anguish. It’s not what he’s aiming for, but the night’s young.

“You don’t know it, but Reyes chewed my ass out after.”

“And Head Chef put my on cleaning duty for a week since the extra food was unauthorized.”

“Hey, I put it in the terminal all good and proper. It was one of you messin’ with me that caused all of that.”

“That’s because you tried to disguise yourself as a chef!”

The cowboy pulls out his pack of cigarillos and lights one, much to your horror. He grins to himself. Good.

“Good times.”

“Don’t smoke,” you chide with no real malice. “You’ll ruin your tastebuds.”

“Ain’t nothin’ that can ruin how I taste your cookin’, it’s just that good,” he quips, taking a loud and overly obnoxious drag just to hear you groan in frustration and embarrassment. He smirks to himself. That’s a better reaction.

You wave your hand at the smoke, trying to push it back in his direction to very little avail. For good measure, he even blows a stream in your direction, delighting in the way you swat at it. “Stop that. It’ll get into the kitchen.”

“I’ll help you clean it.”

“Oh? That’s very generous.”

“What can I say?” He shrugs and tips his hat with a grin. “I’m a gentleman.”

Grumbling, you ask to yourself, “What sort of gentleman smokes in a kitchen?” You cross your arms and he can swear you are looking down at him. “I remember when you used to use that trick to try to get in here.”

“Did I now? Can’t remember. Old age must be gettin’ to me.” Even though he clearly recalls having offered his help just so he could get one step closer to the phantasmal treasure that the members of Blackwatch kept conspiring about. It did not succeed, of course.

You make some noise of disbelief and pull out an ashtray from somewhere below the window, slipping it onto the table with a loud ‘clack’. Your message is clear, but he just waits.

And waits, and waits.

Until you cave. “I’m going to make Meatloaf Surprise,” you warn sternly. “And I’ll have Gen—Captain Amari help me.”

He can’t contain his grimace. “Please don’t.” The meatloaf is enough of a threat, but throwing Ana into the mix was just unfair even if she isn’t on base. Taking in one last delicious pull, he snuffs out the end. (Though he can’t say he’s completely displeased with the results—you are coming back out of your imposed silence.)

Seemingly satisfied with his actions, you say, “Thank you.”

He stares  forlornly at his snuffed-out cigarillo, itching to put it back between his lips now that he’s had a taste. He's sure you would actually serve him meatloaf if he did. And he would eat it.

“Chef, can I get some coffee then?”

“Use the terminal, please.” But even as you say that, you’re already moving around inside the kitchen. He grumbles a bit as he leans over the length of the counter to punch in his order. “Let me guess, a red-eye for this late hour?”

His finger hovers over the submit button. “Nah.” Beep. “‘s a dead-eye kind of night.”

You choke on a laugh, and already, the kitchen seems a little brighter with the echo of it. “Did you just—”

“E-yep.”

Then the laughter pours out as though it’s been waiting to come out this whole time.

As long as you were feeling better, he could honestly say he’s done his good deed for the day. (The day’s still early, too.) 

The days pass by in a haze. Jesse drops by often, insisting on talking with you and being a general nuisance. (Though, you can’t say you’re upset about it. The former Blackwatch agent always had a way of making you talk.)

Jesse was right, regardless. You have other priorities to worry about—you’ve never worried so much about another agent before.

But it’s also the first time—second time after a younger Jesse—you were able to be so close with your customers. Back in the day, you would be taking the orders and making them without truly knowing the faces of the people you served. You’d see their name, look them up in the kitchen’s database if you did not know their habits, and cook. There was still that gap that never truly allowed you to connect with them.   

Now, it’s different. You could actually ask them, talk to them, see their reactions, share their joy.

It’s not something you really ever thought of before, but it’s truly a truly precious feeling to have someone’s eyes and face light up when they take that very first bite. Even more so when they finish everything and ask for seconds.

—“We chefs exist for them.”—

It always sounded a little asinine, but with each day here, you think you’re getting closer to what the Head Chef once meant. You’re sure that if you never saw their expressions or received their thanks, you’d still think of food and cooking more shallowly.

Seeing Agent Junkrat lose his mind over something simple like fruit salad—or any fruit in general—was beyond endearing. You couldn’t help but indulge him if only just to see him happy (even if it did eat at your limited inventory). Agent Roadhog, as silent as he was, always seemed to take special care to eat everything clean, thanking you. Mock arguing with Agent Reinhardt about his diet was also fun. He always insisted on bratwurst and fatty substances for his physique only to concede and laugh the exchange off after a few words, leaving with less than you would’ve expected.

Agent Hanzo, though unexpected, definitely caught your attention the most. His sharp features softening into something warmer, younger when eating sweets. It was comforting to watch, strange as it sounds, to see him enjoy himself especially when he always seemed to hold the world at arm’s length.

The nights where Agent Hanzo comes down to drink tea or to eat really puts into perspective the Head Chef’s words. Just by serving him and seeing him eat so earnestly really makes you think that perhaps being a chef was a worthy cause in life if only to help these heroes through the day.

Long ago, the Head Chef would lecture about the agents. How the food you (and every other chef makes) becomes a part of them and that their bodies are made from the food you made. As such, all that they eat must be filled with love. For these agents—these heroes—miles away from home and fighting a war that most people only see through a holoscreen, can easily lose faith and forget the feeling of humanity, and therefore must be loved and nurtured lest they become nothing more than beasts.

—“Love them with all our being.”—

Though, you couldn’t say that you loved every agent.

Deadpan, you stare at the tray Agent Soldier: 76 dropped off. Even from this distance, you can see the food piled up on it, scarcely touched as always. You scrub at your face with your sleeve.

He likes nothing. Indian, Mediterranean, Chinese, French, German, Italian—none of those cuisines have ever caught his fancy, none of those foods have ever received anything more than a nibble despite having one of the highest calorie requirements among all of the agents here. How can you give anyone love if they refuse to have it? What use was pouring in effort if it’s rebuffed?

What does he even eat?

You bite back a groan of frustration even as it claws at you, begging you to voice you discontent and perhaps find Agent Soldier: 76 and give him a good shake or a whack with a ladle or maybe (as unlikely as it is) knock him out and shove food down his throat.

The thought is waved away just as quickly as it comes. No, it's likely not any fault of his own. Maybe he just doesn't like your cooking.

It’s a painful reality to admit, but it’s a humbling one.

It'd be wonderful if he could give a critique or just let you know what he likes—you can't take requests immediately, but the next shipment can be tailored to accommodate him—yet the radio silence he gives you is woefully inadequate in helping you move forward. Each week produces different types of food, but each time produces nothing but a barely touched tray. It’s past the point of being a challenge and stepping dangerously into the realm of making you throw down your apron and leaving the Watchpoint for good.

It was a dangerous balancing act where even the greatest thanks from all agents could be negated simply by Agent Soldier: 76’s apparent refusal to eat anything you make. You cannot give up just because of one person. Your mission is more than just cooking for one person, more than just cooking for a group of agents, and so you remind yourself that you must remain strong.

Resigning yourself to life’s occasional hiccups, you pick up the tray when you pause.

Curiously enough, one plate remained among the different dishes. It’s rectangular, a little smaller and half-hidden among the others, but even more striking is that it’s the only empty plate among other partially eaten dishes.

Hastily, you pick up it up, looking it over, turning it in your hands.

Just what did you…?

Apple pie. There was apple pie on this plate. A few crumbs of flaky crust left behind, but the pie itself is nowhere to be found, a clearing through a dollop of sauce that looks suspiciously like someone wiped a finger through it.

Finally.

A happiness you haven’t felt in a while bubbles up rapidly inside you, pressing up against your chest, blooming, warming everything in its path until it reaches your face.

“Are you kidding me?” you ask no one, half-hysterical.

He ate something you made. Completely.

You press a hand to your mouth, choking on emotion and a victory hard won, breath stuttering and your eyes entirely too warm.

He ate the pie.

You should make more.

Abandoning cleaning duty, you rush across the kitchen and tear into the walk-in freezer, the crisp and chilly air does nothing to dampen your newfound spirits. How many more pies can you make? Should you adjust the recipe? Oh, but you don’t know his preferences, what about the pie did he like? The flakiness? The way the apples were sliced? The types of apples that were used?

Just what did he like so much about the pie?

The fruit make their way into your arms as your mind furiously burns through the options.

If even Agent Soldier: 76 liked these, then this would surely please Agent Hanzo—

The thought of the archer makes you stop in your tracks.

Agent Hanzo would have enjoyed this, would have taken a bite that’s almost too big for his mouth and maybe smiled that secretive smile when he tastes something he enjoys, may have even closed his eyes and breathed in and sighed a little. A bitter smile crosses your face. If only he were here. You’re sure he would’ve loved this.

You shake your head. No, you have other customers to focus on.

What expression did Agent Soldier: 76 make when he ate this? Was it just as soft? Did he smile? Would he have taken a pause to savor it after the first bite?

You couldn’t help but smile wide, shouldering your way back into the kitchen with ingredients nearly spilling out of your arms. It wouldn’t hurt to make more or to go astray from your menu. Just once.

Just this once.

Nothing could bring down your mood as you began to measure your ingredients, all else forgotten.

You’re in the middle of putting the rolled out crusts into the freezer when your communicator rings. It takes a moment until your hands are free, but you light up when you see who’s calling.

“...boss?”

“Asim, good to hear from—”

“Boss.” His tone, cold and curt, makes you stop in your tracks. “We need you back here.”

“Wh—”

“Auditors.”

Your breath comes up short and the dread seeps into your bones, freezing them with full-bodied fear, and your previous elation comes crashing down.

Auditors? From what organization? And why now? The fiscal year isn’t even over yet and you’re sure that last year’s documents were submitted properly—

“They’re asking for all our documents, our ledgers, our—” He takes a shuddering breath. “Boss, you have to come back.”

Without even thinking, you utter, “Asim, don’t—don’t let them take more than they already have. Tell Argus—hold them off while I…”

You brain struggles to form words as plans and concerns flying through them at rapid-fire speed.

You need to go to them—what about your data—how long have they been there—no, you need to let Winston know—but it could be too late—you need to—but Overwatch—but the auditors—how did—

Your feet sway and you cannot decide what you need to do first.

Asim hisses, loud and insistent in your ear, “Boss! We don’t have time! We need you. Now!”

But—

You suck a hard breath through your teeth.

“I’ll be right over.”

And the communications cut off.

The freezer door rattles loudly as you slam it shut, and you almost jam your wrist trying to get the Cellar door open. The door opens then closes after you, lights flickering on automatically after you have already ran past them.

It’s irresponsible to leave Overwatch hanging, but this took precedence. You must see the extent of what the auditors have seen, what they have. If they find out about your operations, Overwatch would be in terrible danger and everything you would have done—all your sacrifices—would have been for nothing.

You could only hope that you’re not too late.

Chapter 13>>

[robmacz]

The Business Trip of a Lifetime - Part 7

I didn’t get much sleep at all. The noise of the cellblock never completely stopped. In a city of steel cages, something is always clattering or coughing or suddenly exclaiming something. I wondered how many bunks had more than one man in them that night, and how many of the sounds came from those bunks. How much could the guards see from outside? The security lights were enough to keep anyone awake. . . But I did eventually drop off to sleep. Then the bell rang and I saw that light was streaming in from the tall narrow windows that were cut, every 30 feet or so, into the opposite wall. The windows were too thick with bars to allow you to see much, but it looked like a beautiful day. Only I was in HERE!

“You awake?” my cellmate said, banging on the underside of my bunk. He got up and walked across to the toilet. I say walked across, but it was more like stepped across, such was the proximity. He got his dick out and took a piss, then he sat down to take a shit. I rolled over to look at the wall as I listened to him dropping his load into the bowl. Then quickly, as he seemed to have a routine, he was washed and shaved and putting on his uniform. “Your turn, cellie,” he said. “And hurry up. Count starts in a couple of minutes.” I managed to take a piss and then washed, using the hard brown soap and the tiny rag of cloth I found by the sink. But I couldn’t shit in front of him. I knew I would have to eventually, but right now it wasn’t going to happen.

As I fastened up my uniform, I heard the bell, this time short and sharp. I heard men in the nearby cells move to the bars, as did my cellmate. As happened the previous night, a guard walked down each tier and counted the number of inmates in each cell. I’m not sure where they thought they might have gone between last night and this morning. This wasn’t a prison film; there was nowhere anyone could escape to. Each of the guards then called in his numbers, and if the count was correct this was followed by a series of loud buzzers and the huge noise of the cell doors on each balcony grinding open. It was like hundreds of iron junk heaps had been set in motion all at once. Each of those piles of junk was a cage for two men.

It was startling to see the bars of our cage starting to slide open. Controlled from some distant point, the steel wall that confined us parted with the kind of slow, reluctant motion that made you wonder, automatically, “What if some day they can’t get them open?” There were convicts marching past us in their striped uniforms. Anybody looks scary in stripes. Except me. I knew that I looked like a clown. “Follow me,” my cellmate said, and I followed him into the black and white army.

As we walked along the tier and down the three flights of steel stairs, no one said anything. There were guards placed at strategic points with their batons in hand, and guards with rifles looking down from a perch up above. There was also, obviously, a rule of silence on the march. The only sound was the clomp of those heavy boots we had to wear.

Once we were on the ground floor we were channeled to the mess hall. This was like being at school and going to the canteen—with a few important differences. The first was the size of the place. It was massive, half the size of a football field, with a roof as high as the Royal Albert Hall. Second, everyone looked exactly the same. Same clothes – black and white stripes. Same hair style – bald. Third, everyone got the same food; there was no choice at this canteen.

I didn’t quite know what it was, it looked disgusting. I followed my cellmate through the process, getting a tray – not a normal tray that you use to carry plates, but a steel tray split into sections. As we queued up to be given our food I could see why. There were no plates. The slop that was called food – chow, as I soon realized it was called inside – was just dropped directly into the tray. You passed through the line—quick, no reason to stop—and a convict dumped something onto your steel substitute for a table setting. Then another convict dumped something else. At the end of the line I followed my cellmate to the table allotted to our bit of the tier—a long steel table with twelve backless steel stools for the occupants of the four cells immediately to the left of ours and the one immediately to the right.

This was not a table constructed for conversation. We all faced one way, so that the guards with rifles in the little balcony above would be able to see at one glance what our hands were doing. But JR quickly introduced me to the others. Most had been resident for a while, but one was a new boy like me. I didn’t recognize him at first, but he was the young DUI guy who had been on the bus to the pen with me. It turned out that his name was Paul. He was bald now, and looked completely different from the hot young guy I had seen earlier. And yet, there was still something horny about him. I felt my dick begin to twitch again.

We were not long in the mess hall. A leisurely breakfast was not something they went in for here. As soon as we could be expected to scarf down the “food” we were marched out into the yard. The sun was getting up and you could tell that it would be a hot day. As usual I followed my cellmate, but one of the guards pulled me aside. Paul was culled from the herd too, as were a number of other guys. It was soon apparent that we were the new boys. The rest of the population lined up in groups.

The group of new boys were each given a card stating their labor detail and told to join the appropriately numbered line in the yard. Both Paul and I were given Cleaning Services – whatever that meant. And this was line 2. We joined the line and were marched off to begin our day’s labor.

It turns out that Cleaning Services means scrubbing floors, washing down walls, cleaning windows, etc. So essentially I had gone from being an executive in a nice suit to a cleaner in prison stripes. What a come down! No more people to boss around, no more expensive lunches and dinners, no more fancy clothes and nice shoes. I was now one of those people you hardly notice, the ones who come and empty your bin when you are working late at the office, or one of those who clean the office bathroom several times a day. You see these guys around, but you don’t notice their faces, you don’t see them as people. I was now one of those guys. Even worse, I was a convict.

Paul and I were sent, with five or six other guys, to scrub down the floor of the mess hall. No mops, just buckets and brushes. This was back breaking work, squatting and crawling and reaching. I’d never done so much physical labor. But having said that, there was an honesty to this work. It was a job that needed doing. Not like the business world I had hitherto inhabited, where there was a lot of pointless stuff that I ended up doing with no real purpose. This was simple. The purpose was to have a clean floor, and that was what we were doing.

It also gave me a chance to get to know Paul better. He was still in a mess, and even though Prison had been a shock to my system, I think I was holding up better than he was. He told me that he should have been back in college this week, but he had now lost his place and thought he had ruined his life, At least that’s what his dad had told him. His girlfriend had also dumped him. She had come from a well to do family and she could not be seen visiting a state penitentiary. She would go back to college with the other rich kids and laugh about him in prison. Then they would forget about him.

“So what do you care?” I said. “If they think that little of you they aren’t worth having as friends anyway.” He nodded, but he knew he had thrown away his dreams of a college education and would now end up in some dead end job once he got out of here. If, in view of what J R told me, he ever got out. “Who will employ an ex-con?” he asked.

That hit me. I hadn’t thought about what would happen when I got out. Naturally, I’d be fired right away from my current job, as soon as my boss figured out what had happened. I imagined what the reaction would be, and I winced. And would having a record in the States get picked up by the authorities in Britain? Of course it would. Then would I have to declare that I had been in prison? If so, I would have to start thinking about a very different career to the one I’d had. But perhaps that would not be a bad thing. After all, I didn’t like my job.

As soon as I thought that, I added, “What the hell! I’m already thinking like a convict!” And yeah, it was bewildering. The change from what I had been in the UK to what I was right now. The change from suit to stripes. The change from colleague to cellmate. The change from, “Yes, my job is good. It pays well, and it’s appropriate to my skills. I’m getting on well enough, thank you” to “I didn’t like my job.” Actually, I hated my job. Worse than I hated squatting on the floor of the penitentiary and trying to wash it off. When my new cellmate talked about a sentence of Life, I wondered which one he meant.

We finished cleaning the mess hall at just after 10:00 and started on the guards’ mess room. “Hey boy; you missed a spot” was heard, and we tried to clean that spot. Once finished there we were lined up again for a roll call, out in the yard. Then it was back to the mess hall for lunch – more slop, but as I sat at the table I began to feel one of the guys—one of the guys in the Cleaning detail. I was less nervous than at breakfast and the routine of the day seemed easy to follow. Just as I started to relax the bell went again and we were back to work.

The afternoon consisted of cleaning the guards’ changing room and toilet facilities. Not a nice task, and the guards overseeing us were especially keen that we did a good job, much more than when cleaning an area for prisoners.

About 3:00 a guard stomped in and gave me a card that had LAUNDRY printed across the top and then my number stamped on it and the current time. He gave one to Paul as well. “Be back on the yard by 4 o’clock and report for Count. Move it.”

We wandered for a while, not knowing where the Laundry was, then finally got enough courage to ask another convict – fuck! there it was again--“another” convict; I was a convict now myself! – to show us where it was. He pointed to a squat, ugly building with a peaked roof and a pair of big steel doors, like the mess hall. Inside was a long hallway, with deep scuff marks on the floor, as if thousands of boots had been waiting there impatiently. There was a counter at the end of the hallway with steel bars closed across it and a sign above saying WAIT HERE. I had plenty of time to wonder why we were there and whether it had anything to do with JR, who’d told me that this is where he worked. And sure enough, when the bars opened, the face I saw was JR’s.

(JR continues:)

I don’t mind working the Laundry detail. You wouldn’t either, if you didn’t mind spending your days watching dirty stripes turn into wet stripes turn into dry stripes turn into stripes packaged for pickup. If there’s anything that says Prison, it’s the stripes we’ve gotta wear. When I was on the Outside, I never really knew whether I was fitting in. A lotta gay boys feel like that—LOL! But now I did fit in. I was wearing stripes, so I was a convict, same as everybody else. You wanta fit in, kid—go to the Pen! Also, it gives you a sense of order. Six days a week, a gang of us go out and pick up the laundry bags that the cons hang from their cages. You’ve got your number on your laundry bag; you’ve got your number on every jumpsuit, sock, or pair of shorts inside it; your outfit’s not gettin lost. You’re not gonna escape from your stripes. So after we’ve washed em, we sort em and bag em, and once a week, on pickup day, you line up right here and you get em back.

You see what I mean—it’s a sense of order. You’re issued three outfits, total. And let’s say your laundry day is Monday. You put two outfits in the bag and you’re wearing the third one. Then on pickup day, which in your case would be Wednesday, you come to the window and you grab your bag. You’re pretty well taken care of. And I’m pretty well taken care of too. True, I’m not dressed up in two-thousand-dollar clothes, the way I used to be; this suit I’ve got on, it costs the state about ten. But I’m not here to drag in business for the firm, the way I used to be. Which means that I don’t have to make up a new business plan every three months. Which means that I can’t get fired. Which means that I can’t get out. OK, not a bad bargain.

And right now, I’m feelin like it might be a pretty good one, if my new cellie turns out to be as hot as I think he is. I mean, as hot as I think he could be. He’s still stumblin around like a new colt. But he might shape up. And hey, why do you think I caught desk assignment today? Because the new fish have to come in and pick up the rest of their outfits, and my cellie’s a fish, so I wanted to be on the spot. Help him out. Give him some encouragement, you know. I seem to remember stamping his card for 3:00. Which means he might have found the way to the Laundry . . . right about 15 minutes before now.

So I open the bars and, yeah, there he is. Standin exactly the way I expected—like, Am I in the right place? Why isn’t this counter OPEN? What’s the MATTER with these people? He’s got that Outside look all over him. Pretty funny. I was expecting another dude too, and there he is. Lookin a lot less keyed up. Lookin pretty hot, actually. Sad and confused, but hot. My cellie, I know he’s gay. This one—not so sure.

“Complaint Department,” I say, just to beat down that serve-me-first look on the cellie’s face. “But I’ll bet you’re wondering why you’re here, fish.”

“Uh, yes, I mean . . . yeah,” Mike says, not knowing whether to cop an attitude or not. I mean, I only let him stand there for about 15.

“This,” I say, “is where you are issued the rest of your uniforms: two jumpsuits, two shorts, two tees, two pairs of socks, one cap, one laundry bag. You get your coats when it gets cold. Gimmee your cards, I’ll find your shit for you.” Then I banged the counter shut.

Of course, I let them stand there for another 15. Then I opened up again and threw their laundry bags at em. “Here’s your shit. Don’t worry—it’s all numbered. Won’t get away from you. Or vice versa. Any questions, you can ask your cellie. Now go to the yard and report for count. Here’s your cards; I stamped em.”

[robininthelabyrinth]

Would you be willing to write an alpha/omega Coldflash fic- where Barry's an alpha and Len's an omega & for some reason they are overcome by instincts (some external thing causing it, maybe a meta), sleep together, & then deal with the aftermath (i.e. not knowing the others' orientation, not realizing their feelings for each other/thinking it's unrequited, Barry hating the perceived aggression of alphas / Len hating the so called "weakness" of omegas? Btw love your stories! Thanks for everything

It’s a short one, but this is so incredibly belated that I hope you enjoy anyway. This is a fill both for this prompt, and the one that reads: Would you be willing to write an alpha/omega Coldflash fic- where Barry’s an alpha and Len’s an omega & for some reason they are overcome by instincts (some external thing causing it, maybe a meta), sleep together, & then deal with the aftermath (i.e. not knowing the others’ orientation, not realizing their feelings for each other/thinking it’s unrequited, Barry hating the perceived aggression of alphas / Len hating the so called “weakness” of omegas?

For the Coldflashweeks 2018: Prison AU (only very technically)

ao3 link

—————————————

It’s not –

They didn’t –

It wasn’t on purpose.

They’re in prison, of all the stupid things.

Barry got sent up the river, framed for murder, and Iris asked Len to go in and keep an eye on him while they were working on proving his innocence, and Len agreed. It wouldn’t have been a big deal – he practically has his own suite set up there any time he needs a place to crash at Central City’s cheapest hotel – except there was one tiny little miscalculation, which is that apparently the new warden, Wolfe, has a particular hard-on about punishing supervillain inmates who don’t have meta powers because they’re not profit-producing for him.

Nasty guy.

Len’s going to have to murder him one day.

Or possibly put him in Barry’s newest secret prison outlet, whatever; Len doesn’t actually believe Barry when he says there isn’t one anymore.

Either way, they’re both in there.

Quite literally: they’re roommates.

To be fair, they’re mostly roommates because Len had gotten Wolfe’s measure by the time they decided that everyone in the meta wing was going to be grouped together in order to stuff more (usually innocent) metas into little glass cages so that they could be more easily displayed like products put on sale, and so when the announcement came in he turned to Barry and slugged him once in the face, shouting, “I wouldn’t be stuck with you if you were the last fucker alive, Allen!”

Naturally, Wolfe put them together.

Presumably he thought it’d be funny to see them fight.

Of course, after all that effort assigning them out, when it turned out that Len and Barry didn’t fight, Wolfe just got pissed off at Len’s excellent skills at personality reading and manipulation.

Len’d figured that he’d order a few beatings by the guards, maybe some food shortages, something petty like that.

He’d underestimated the guy.

It’d never even occurred to him to worry about the guy replacing his suppressants with sugar pills.

Or rather, given the suddenness by which the heat came on him, replacing them with sugar pills spiked with heat inducers.

Neither of them had been prepared for it, of course. Len’s on record as an omega – thereby technically making it illegal for him to share a room with an alpha, but since when has anyone given a damn about that? – but for someone like Barry, who’s either polite enough not to check or maybe he just sped-read it and forgot about it, well, it never came up as a possibility.

And well, when you’re in heat…

It’s not that Len didn’t already think Barry was cute, you know? He did. Cute as a goddamn button. And he likes a lot about him: his unshakable faith in people, his cheerful optimism, his energy, his (frankly terrible) way of handling depression…

Len didn’t mean to take advantage.

And, more to the point, neither did Barry.

An unregulated heat while being forced into close quarters in one of ye old six-by-eights?

Poor kid never stood a chance.

(Neither did Len, of course, but he’s a goddamn adult and this is far from the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, so he’s going to deal with the fallout of this like an adult.)

(Unlike some people.)

Now, of course, everything’s ruined.

Barry won’t even look at him.

Goddamn heat.

Maybe it would’ve been better if they’d talked about it immediately afterwards, but they didn’t because Len is a vengeful asshole whose first thought (once his mind cleared enough to think about it) was revenge.

Specifically, making Wolfe realize that going up against Len was a bad idea.

Len wasn’t even fully free of the final stages of heat – and Barry was still cross-eyed with exhaustion – before he was on the phone with his lawyer filing a suit against the CCPD and Wolfe in particular.

Since Len always skips and saves one of his pills every week, an old habit from when he never knew that there would be enough, proving that the pills were tampered with is easy stuff.

They offer to release him early.

He demands that they release Barry early, instead.

(He batted his eyelashes and made out like he was in looooove now, and they agreed in the hope that they could convince him to drop his lawsuit through Barry, which was a dumb idea to begin with and obviously never went anywhere because Barry’s avoiding him like the plague now.)

It took Barry less than a week of being out on parole to prove his innocence.

Once Barry was proven innocent, well, there was no reason for Len to stay, and he was out within a few days. He knows how to pull the strings in Central City’s system.

Wolfe glared death at Len the whole time he was walking out the front door a free man.

Len blew him a kiss.

But for all of Len’s smarts, he somehow hadn’t realized that that wouldn’t be the end of the fallout.

As he said, everything’s ruined. Barry’s staying away from him now.

They barely see each other – usually when there’s work stuff, and by work stuff Len’s explicitly limiting it to saving-Central-City-related stuff, because if he just tries to steal something Barry either won’t show up at all or, if Len gets sneaky and doesn’t use his cold gun, he’ll turn tail and leave the second he sees that Len’s there. Even then, Barry doesn’t look at him, doesn’t talk to him about anything, makes sure they’re not in the same room…

See, if Len just thought that this was Barry reacting to being assaulted, fine. It’s not Len’s fault – Len would never have done it on purpose – but Len can handle it if Barry can’t deal with him right now, or maybe ever. He’s sympathetic to that. He understands that.

But Len has the distinct suspicion that Barry’s staying away for his benefit.

Goddamn fucking omega stereotypes.

Oh, omegas are weak, omegas are clingy, they’re helpless before the big bad aggressive alphas, and once you’ve fucked an omega they start taking it so personally, but oh, no, you can’t actually trust them to know what they’re doing, no, it’s just their hormones, you know the ones, the ones that get formed during the heat, that’s what makes them want you, so you can just ignore anything that comes out of their obviously brainless mouths.

The popular rumor says that it takes three months for the binding hormones of a heat to go away.

Well, Len’s about two months in and he feels fine, and much more like murdering Barry Allen than romancing him.

He just wants to make peace, damnit. He likes being the random quasi-villainous anti-hero wild card, but this whole game is no damn fun without Barry snarking back the way he should be.

But no.

Apparently, the first goddamn second Barry Allen finds out that Leonard Snart is an omega, everything changes.

It can’t be that they were both taken advantage of, oh, no. Barry has to put it all on his shoulders. It’s clearly Barry’s fault that he, the big strong alpha, assaulted Len; he should have done the biologically almost impossible and resisted. Never mind that Len’s twice his age and has twice his willpower and Len couldn’t do shit about it. No, it’s Barry that should be doing penance, and part of that penance is going to be staying away for Len’s own good, because apparently Barry doesn’t trust Len to handle this properly until the appropriate three month period has passed.

Since whoever invented those fucking stereotypes is unavailable, he’s going to take it out on Barry goddamn Allen.

The second he can get his hands on him.

Well, luckily for Len, he’s got himself a cold gun that freezes speedsters in their tracks, a hell of a lot of patience, and a very good friend who is willing to play decoy for him.

Barry buzzes into the room that Mick is tearing up with his heat gun, hands on his hips and saying, “Rory, what in the world has gotten into you? Did something happen to the Legends or -?”

He never finishes the sentence because Len ices his legs.

“- oh,” he squeaks.

“Oh indeed,” Mick says, holstering his heat gun. “Have fun.”

“We can’t have fun!” Barry squawks.

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said,” Mick informs him on his way out the door.

“It really is,” Len drawls.

Barry averts his eyes. He looks supremely awkward.

He looks –

He looks young.

All the fight goes out of Len all at once.

“Listen, Scarlet,” he says, then corrects himself to, “Barry. If you’re avoiding me because you don’t want to think about it, because it bothers you, just tell me, and I’ll leave you be. Don’t think I don’t know that I was forcing myself on you just as much as the other way around.”

Barry’s head snaps up and he gapes at Len in surprise.

“Everyone reacts to this sorta thing differently,” Len continues. “I thought - I only kept chasing you to try to talk ‘cause I thought you were hung up on that stupid three month rule, which isn’t even true -”

“It isn’t?”

“No! The research behind it’s a goddamn fraud, right up there with the annals of scientific stupidity next to the guy who claimed vaccines were linked with autism.” Len hates that guy, and anyone who follows him. Not only is being anti-vaccines dumb as fuck from both a science and survivalist perspective, Mick’s autistic and Len is holding no truck with anyone who thinks that being dead’s better than being Mick. “The binding hormone isn’t activated without some measure of consent or constant re-affirmance, anyway. You have to be happy and in love for it to actually work - the hormone mix you pump out for happiness is literally a prerequisite for activating the binding hormone - and I’m not in love with you!”

Barry’s blinking at him. “You’re…not? I thought - well - some of our interactions -”

“Flirting isn’t love,” Len says flatly.

“Oh. So you weren’t serious?”

“Oh, I’d date you in a heartbeat, but binding hormones don’t have shit to do with that,” Len says. “So if you want me to buzz off because that’s how you feel, fine. But if it’s because you’re trying to be noble, cut it the fuck out.”

“Wait,” Barry says. “You’d date me? Not just sleep with?”

Len feels his eye twitch. “No shit, you idiot. But putting that aside, the fact that I like you has nothing to do with –”

Barry’s broken out of the ice and disappeared into a whirl of lightning.

Great.

Len sighs and rubs at his face.

The whirl of lightning returns, which Len was not expecting.

Barry’s holding a box of Len’s absolute favorite cookies and stuffed Captain Cold figure (they make those?) and he’s got a bashful smile. “I’m sorry for being a dumbass,” he says. “Please go on a date with me.”

Len would object to the stupid gifts – the fact that he’s an omega doesn’t mean he likes touchy-feely crap – except…

“How’d you know that I like those cookies?” he asks suspiciously.

“I asked Cisco to ask Lisa,” Barry replies promptly. “And Rory told me that you collect Captain Cold memorabilia, thus the doll. He also told me that you’d throw flowers or chocolate in my face, so if I really felt like I had to get you something, to err on the side of stuff you liked.”

Mick’s playing matchmaker on both sides, the sneaky fucker.

And the worst part of it is that it’s going to work, too.

“Fine,” Len says, scowling at Barry. “We can go on a date. But you’re going to stop avoiding me.”

“I promise!”

“And no more running away when I’m pulling a heist.”

“I thought you’d like being able to steal all of those things!”

“It’s no fun without a challenge.”

Barry’s grinning. “You missed me,” he declares.

“What,” Len says. “The stalking and ambush and all that didn’t give it away?”

[rustandyearnings]

Calling In, Take 2: Power, Accountability, Movement, and the State

In the winter of 2013, I wrote a piece titled, “Calling IN: A Less Disposable Way of Holding Each Other Accountable.” Over the next four years or so, this piece would become the bane of my existence. Let me explain.

This piece sort of exploded – I was receiving emails and messages that the piece was really resonating with folks doing justice work across all types of communities. It was true and probably is still true how tired we all are of the constant worry that we cannot make mistakes – not even among those who we call friends, family, and/or comrades.

There have been numerous challenges that have arisen since the publication of this piece. The first is that it was so wildly appropriated by white people to rationalize or justify their own racist behavior. It’s been wildly appropriated to push away valid critique of racist or otherwise oppressive behavior. I remember as Ani DiFranco was being called out for playing music at a slave plantation, that white lesbians were quoting “Calling In” to tell Black women and women of color that they shouldn’t be critiquing Ani (or other white people) in such a harsh way. I don’t think I need to offer any more examples on how this piece or this concept has been misconstrued to mean, “I can do whatever I want and you have to be nice to me.”

The second challenge actually has a lot more to do with my own political development than external factors—how it was being read by my community or how it was being used by those inside and outside of my community. In the four years since writing this piece, I regret to some extent not writing more about the relationship we have to each other in movement versus our relationship to each other and that relationship to the state – the apparatus which seeks to and often succeeds at dividing, repressing, and conquering (literally and metaphorically) us.

I have become regularly frustrated by some of the contexts in which “calling in” has been used or named. It’s less about people annoying me (because people annoy me a lot) or some idea that I am the arbitrator of what “calling in” as an accountability practice or process actually means. It is actually more about the individualistic ways we think of accountability, power, and our relationships to each other. In many ways it is not surprising that we conceptualize ourselves as simply individuals. We are born into this world by ourselves (unless we’re a twin or a triplet, or something, but you get my point), we experience much of the world with only ourselves (even if many of our experiences involve others), at night we fall asleep and wander into the dream world on our own, and when we die – and we all die – we die alone.

We take the reality of the human experience as being both terrifyingly and rewardingly lonely and compound it with the deadliest economic, political, and social system in existence, capitalism, and most of us end up having a lot of shit to unpack around our individualism, and specific to this context, our understanding of harm and repair.

So what does it mean to hold each other accountable in a world that is incredibly messy? In a world where we don’t have much to rely on but the reality that things are incredibly messiness? That isn’t to say that there aren’t topics or issues where we are capable of drawing a clear line. We know how to do that – that’s why we have vibrant social movements.

But we have to start figuring out the space that exists between ourselves and our communities, our communities and the movement, and the movement and the state. Not only do we have to start figuring out that space, we have to do this in a way that is honest, transformative, and real.

I don’t think that I can say this enough: we are human beings and we have our shit. We carry with us the traumas we experience from early ages, that we don’t start developing different coping mechanisms for until later in life. For some of us, it is much later in life or it is never actually dealt with at all.

Being in movement has taught me that movement brings together the maladjusted weirdos of society who have decided or have been led to doing something about their own and others’ maladjustment. When I say “maladjusted” I am capturing a pretty broad stroke of people who are, by the standards of this system and society, not fit to be a part of this system and society. We are rightfully upset, uncomfortable, and angry. In most aspects of our lives – at our jobs, in our classrooms, in our neighborhoods, and most public spaces, including those that are allegedly democratically elected to represent us, we do not belong nor do we have power.

Movement is where we have power. Movement is where those of us who have seen the most fucked up shit; have made a whole lot out of the nothing slapped to us by capitalism; have had to endure the incredulous crimes against humanity, whether it be gentrification or police brutality, homelessness or addiction, incarceration or unemployment; have once believed that we might not survive another day have managed to find others, to find a way, and to fight for our right to life every day.

The power we have in movement spaces is beautiful, transformative, and sometimes (and increasingly so) threatening to those who have power over us. But the power we have can sometimes fuck us up. Let’s be real. Sometimes we get power and suddenly no one is a friend, it’s only foes. And it’s especially foes if not everyone agrees with us. Sometimes we get power and we become stagnant, we start operating in the interest of preserving our own power, instead of remembering why people’s power means anything to begin with: we have to build with other people to win. Our fingers tight as a fist are much stronger than they are a part. Our arms linked are a much stronger barricade than our shoulders alone in the cold. The harmony of many voices is much louder than just one.

The movement gives us power and we start acting like calling out greedy politicians and corporate profiteers or politicians who want to rid the world of queer and trans people is the same as calling out our cousin who makes sexist jokes at the family reunion or even a fellow organizer who takes up a lot of space as a white person. These are fundamentally different relationships. Our relationships to capitalism, white supremacy, and patriarchy as pillars holding up a destructive and deadly system is fundamentally different than our relationships to the human beings who have to survive these systems. 

The state is an oppressive force that seeks to cultivate division and thrives on our disconnection and alienation from each other. Let’s try our best to not feed it with our harms and grievances as if it could help us resolve them.

Our movement is, in many ways, fighting to confront the state. We are disrupting the institutions and systems harming our people. Our movement is not mechanized with an oppressive ideology; we are not weaponizing ourselves toward profit; we are not propping up fake democracy to make the rich more comfortable; we are not fighting to dispose of our people, leave our people behind or for dead. If we are truly building our movement to confront the state, we’ve got to stop treating each other like the mistakes we commit are the same heinous crimes that the state commits against our people. We are all capable of causing harm but we can’t operate as if the harm we cause to each other is the same as what we experience from the state. Often, the harm we cause to each other happens in the process of trying to build a different world.

Somewhere along the lines, the idea of “calling in” was put in opposition to “calling out.” I don’t believe that such dichotomy exists, since I think that our accountability should be more rooted in our understanding of power, to each other and to the forces that seek to exert power over us, than rooted in our individualism and selfishness about who gets to be right and who is wrong.

But ultimately, whether you want to call in or call out, let’s all try to be on the same page about who our shared enemy is – and it is not each other. I stick by a lot of what I originally wrote in that piece in 2013. Movement building is about relationship building. And it’s also about nuance. In the piece I elaborated on how we use our relationships as the basis for determining whether we "call in" or "call out." I’m still less interested in how we label our processes for holding each other accountable and more interested in the process itself. Some questions that I would pose to folks when they are deciding how they want to deal with an oppressive situation are: what is the depth of the relationship I have with this person? Are they someone I consider an acquaintance? A friend? A comrade? What values do we share (if any) and what are they? 

There are deeper political questions that should inform how to hold people accountable, too -- because everything is political and more importantly, because everything requires us to think of ourselves within the context of a broader society. Our society necessitates harm in order to thrive and it can either continue to thrive or be delegitimized based on our responses to harm. We live in a real society of disposability. We talk about it a lot but I think sometimes we forget how entrenched we are in it. When we talk about the prison industrial complex, we are talking about a world that puts people in cages for the rest of their lives because of an accountability system where the state arbitrates who gets to make mistakes and who doesn't. The structural violence carried out by the state shapes and informs how we relate to each other interpersonally.

Lately I’ve been returning to the fact that we are human beings. This kind of statement is obviously a little oversimplifying. We are human beings who are greedy, selfish, cruel, unforgiving, vengeful and also deeply feeling, compassionate, remorseful, creative, apologetic, loving, and caring. Some of the human beings on this earth commit viler nastiness than just being human – we know that this shows up in our communities and in the broader world as sexual, emotional, and physical violence, all tied and connected to capitalist exploitation and oppression: white supremacy and anti-blackness, transmisogyny and homophobia, islamophobia and xenophobia, Zionism and anti-Semitism and more.

I'm not saying that there is never harm nor that we should martyrize ourselves to minimize the harm we experience. I'm saying we should remember we have all caused harm, have the propensity to cause harm and if causing harm or making mistakes were the basis for whether or not we maintain community with each other instead of our humanity, our dignity, our aptitude for change, and our belief in a radically different and better world, we'd have no community. And probably just as scary, if not more, we’d have no movement.

There is no perfect way to deal with harm or conflict. We are trying our best to maintain our relationship to each other and ourselves in a world that is routinely dehumanizing, under a system that doesn’t care about what we mean to each other. But we should care about what we mean to each other.

As a queer and gender non-conforming person of color, a migrant from Viet Nam, and a communist, what keeps me alive is the fact that everything changes – that in fact, everything must change. When something has stopped changing, it’s dead. If there’s nothing that is useful from this piece, any of my (largely unoriginal) musings on power, accountability, movement, and the state – I hope at least that we can all remember and respect that everything changes. That this be a gift we do not take for granted, that this be a gift we give to each other in service of a better world, a world where not only are we capable of transforming but one that our transformation made possible.

In the spirit of change, I acknowledge that four years from now I might write a totally different piece, depending on where the forces of this gruesome planet are, depending on the tenacity and resilience of humanity, I might write a take three. But for now, I hope that I’ve done some justice to those who I am fighting alongside with each and every day, whose mistakes I share in, whose vision I believe in and co-create, whose wisdom, commitment, and revolutionary optimism reminds me that healing, being free, and almost anything is possible.

[kreetthekobold]

3 - Ka’Plo

Kreet slept for a long time. It had been a long since last she’d slept. She vaguely wondered why her mother hadn’t woken her by now, but the rocking of her bed was too soothing, so she remained sleeping.

But then the rocking stopped, and she opened her eyes., Then she remembered her circumstances, and began to cry quietly.

“Kreet? Are you awake?”

“I am awake, Ka'Plo. I am sad.”

“I know Kreet. I’m going to take the cover off your cage. It’s night now, and we’re outside.”

The darkness was lifted, but the light wasn’t too bright now. Kreet looked at the man she knew as Ka'Plo. He wore plain pale cloth that was wrapped with a similarly colored belt. He looked nothing like the other Adventurers she had seen.

“I have to pee,” she said to him.

“That may be a problem, Kreet. I’ll need to let you out of your cage. Will you run away if I let you out?”

Kreet looked around her. They were on a hill beside a large boulder. There were woods not far away, and a road ran by them in front of the woods. She considered if she should run away.

“No. I have nowhere to go. You haven’t hurt me yet. I’ll stay with you.”

“Okay, Kreet. I don’t want to keep you as a prisoner, nor as a pet. If you don’t want to stay with me, you don’t have to. But you will probably die if you leave me, Kreet. I don’t want you to die, and I don’t think you do either. So please, don’t run away.”

“I will run away if I want to, Ka'Plo. But I don’t want to now. I want to pee.”

He laughed at her again. “Okay Kreet. You go do your business and come back when you’re done. I’m tired though, and need to sleep soon.”

The door of the cage lifted and she looked around, then up at Ka'Plo. She noticed then that he had white hair, both in his beard and on his head. “You’re old,” she said, then looked around for an appropriate place.

“Yes, Kreet. I’m old. Does that bother you?”

Kreet found a suitable place nearby and relieved herself. “Yes. You are easy to kill. If someone wants to kill Kreet, you won’t stop them.”

“Fair enough,” he said, turning away. “But I will try not to let that happen. Also, you really shouldn’t pee in front of other people, Kreet.”

“No,” she agreed. “It is a vulnerable position. But you are my friend, right? You won’t kill me, so it’s okay.”

“I suppose so,” Ka'Plo said as she finished and stepped back into the cage.

“Kreet, you don’t have to go back in the cage.”

“No? Where should I go?”

“I meant what I said before, Kreet. You can leave, if you want. I’m hoping you won’t want to leave, but you can. I can’t be guarding you day and night.”

“I don’t want to leave. But where should I go if not back in the cage?”

“Well, anywhere you want, really. Are you hungry?”

At this Kreet’s eyes lit up - quite literally - in the dark.

“Food! Do you have food? I am very hungry!”

“Sure,” said the man, pulling some things out of his pack. “Here, I’ve got a lot of jerky, and I picked some mushrooms and moss while you were sleeping. When we get back to my home tomorrow, I have much more.”

Kreet snatched up the food eagerly. She gobbled the moss instantly, though it wasn’t the sweet kind she liked best. The mushrooms, she picked through.

“You pick bad mushrooms, Ka'Plo; some of these would kill me. But it’s okay - I know the good kind from the bad kind.”

“I’m sorry, Kreet. I know kobolds, but I don’t know mushrooms, I’m afraid. Would it be okay if I light a fire? I’d like to make some soup.”

Kreet looked at the man’s eyes. “A small fire, right? I don’t like big fires.”

“A small fire, I promise,” he assured her, and set to work. Kreet nibbled some more mushroom and then crept up behind the man. She watched him work his flint until he managed to light some dry grass, then he stacked on some small sticks until they caught as well.

"You are a mage,” she said flatly.

The man coughed again, then said, “No Kreet. I’m no mage. I just know how to make fire. This kind of stone makes the sparks, see? Then I just make the sparks go into a little dry grass.”

“My father was a mage. He could make fire. Sometimes,” she said, watching the flickering flames as if entranced.

“Did he use stones like these?”

“No. He used a special stick. But it took longer. Big People do everything better.”

“I doubt that, Kreet.”

Later on, when the soup was ready, the man offered her some.

“Be careful, it’s very hot. Just sip it, like this…”

Kreet took the perfectly shaped bowl carefully, marveling at it’s craftsmanship.

“OW!” Kreet cried, unable to duplicate the sipping that the Big Person had done.

“Oh, I’m sorry Kreet! Just wait till it cools down.”

“My tongue hurts,” the little kobold cried.

“Here, have some cool water,” he said, offering her a cup. “There, does that help?”

Kreet nodded. But a few minutes later she was fine and tried the soup again. The taste was very strange, but also very good. Finally, when she’d had enough, she sat back against the rock they had sheltered by.

“What are those? Are they stars?” she asked while Ka'Plo doused the fire.

“Oh yes, they are! Do you know about stars?”

“My brothers used to tell me about them. They’re beautiful sparklies!”

Ka'plo laid out his bedroll and crawled inside while Kreet watched.

“You will sleep in there?” she asked, curious.

“I will. It gets cold outside at night. I have an extra blanket if you need one.”

Kreet crawled under the bedroll with the man. “I don’t need one. You are warm enough.”

The man seemed startled, but then carefully put his arm around her. Soon he was sleeping. She was surprised how much his snoring sounded like her clan's. She wasn’t sleepy herself, yet she was very warm and comfortable. She decided against killing Ka'Plo in his sleep after all. He was a good man, and, importantly, he wasn’t one of the murderous Adventurers that killed her clutch. Instead she wriggled all the way under the blanket with just her snout pointing out, and eventually, she went to sleep too.

She had a brief moment of panic when the man turned over in the middle of the night. She was afraid that he might crush her, but he shifted to make room for her, and she got her tail out from underneath him, finally managing to go back to sleep.

[sunlitroom]

Gotham - s3e19 - All Will Be Judged

As I watched it, and some random observations here and there.

Previously on Gotham:

Lee and Mario’s very short honeymoon at the cabin from the Godfather II. Mario could have lived a normal life!   Barnes wants to judge Jim.  The court has a virus.  Kathryn orders what must be the 100th hit on Jim Gordon.  Does she get a fabulous prize?  Bruce never left that alley.  Selina is defenestrated again.  Ed just doesn’t shut the fuck up.  Jim and Oswald have a tense conversation in an alley.

As always, long post will be long - reaaally long.  There are likely to be rambling digressions. Gobblepot may appear (although I welcome all shippers and non-shippers alike :)).  There will be naked favouritism and naked not-favouritism.  Broader comments at the end on plotlines and parallels and general direction.

Oswald and Ed in matching cages in a Court building.  

Oswald

Oswald turns slowly, rage making the turn of his head jerky.

You're alive

Oswald walks closer, and smiles briefly – before making a grab for Ed through the bars

Ed looks terrified, and lurches backward.  He sounds furious that Oswald dared to survive his punishment.  Oswald grins venomously – Ed gave him something to live for: revenge.

Ed -  being Ed – needs to check he’s real, and smacks his head. Oswald fulminates.

(An aside – this will pretty much set the tone for the rest of their interaction.  It’s virtually all played for comedy – squabbling children who hate each other)

Ed says that Oswald’s habit of survival makes him more cockroach than penguin.  He also tells Oswald:

Don't you dare call me Ed. I am the Riddler.  I became him when I killed you.

It sounds massively silly when he says it here – and I’d pay good money for Oswald to see a hallucination of Fish right now, waving one long fingernail and asking him what the hell he was thinking?

As it is – Oswald rolls his eyes.  He’s not dead, though.  Ed concedes this.  Oswald says he came back from dead to kill Ed – although Ed points out he wound up in prison. Oswald says he has him where he wants him.  Ed hits the bars of his cell - not for long

 Wayne Manor, where an alarm is sounding.  Selina has broken in.  Bruce2 smiles – it might sound strange, but he’s glad she’s alive –Selina says that is strange, but she came here to do one thing.  They brawl – and she calls him a freak – a cheap knock-off – and stabs him, but he won’t bleed.  Alfred tries to split this up as Selina screams that he’s not Bruce – but this temporarily gives Bruce 2 the advantage, and he hits Selina on the head with a poker.

Alfred goes to an unconscious Selina’s side and says they need a doctor.  Seeing Bruce 2’s weird non-bleeding wound – he realises the truth. Bruce2 says that Bruce is serving a greater purpose than himself, as is he.  He says Alfred was always kind to him - even when he thought he wasn't Bruce, and – despite his begging – wallops Alfred over the head.

Bruce is back in Gotham with dreary guru guy. Zzzzzz.

Lee sits dozing in front of a fire on a stormy night.  Mario wakes her.  She tells him she was having the worst dream.  There was a virus loose in city – that brought out the darkness in people, and he had it.  And there was this boring love triangle with Jim and Valerie Vale - and Ed and Oswald were trapped in a tedious ooc storyline totally disengaged from the main plot, and Victor Zsasz was hardly in it at all!  

Mario – though – is only interested in what darkness the virus brought to light in him.  Lee tells him he was jealous of Jim

But I'm taller than he is

(An aside – lol)

Lee continues – right up to Mario’s death on their wedding day.

He reassures here – I’m right here

He tells her to take her medicine and go to bed – voice soothing – before slitting his wrist, draining the blood into a glass.  Lee watches, and then says

I'm so sorry

Mario’s face is the virus face now – and his voice is distorted

I know - now drink

Lee wakes up for real, and knocks her wine glass from the table.

GCPD, where Jim is looking at the court's holdings to identify where the bomb is hidden.  He thinks he’s found a secret room in a secret house.  Harvey wants him to get information from Kathryn -who trusts him.

(An aside – right: I’m fucking mystified by that one.  Harvey thinks Kathryn still trusts Jim?  But...but - the dead talon?  The fact that Jim evacuated the hall where the bomb was detonated – and was seen doing so by several witnesses?  The fact that no-one was infected or hurt in their test detonation?  Why would she still trust Jim?  If anything – she has ample evidence of his treachery.  Has she just not looked yet?)

Harvey snarks a little about Lucius being smarter than him before they head to the secret house.

 At the Court safe house, Harvey grumbles about why these can’t ever be in places he’d like to go, like a brewery, stripjoint, or a casino?

(Another abandoned bike in this room – like outside Jim’s apartment.  Are bikes inherently sinister?)

Harvey lucks out at a control panel and opens a secret door to a room containing a glass owl.  They discover that when the light shines through it – it reveals a map with markers, which they hope denote similar safehouses – which might contain the bomb.

They’re interrupted by smashing glass and a grenade, and......

Oh, dear.  Barnes looks silly as hell

He knocks Harvey and Jim out, and reiterates his promise of punishment.

 Wayne Manor – where Alfred can’t get Jim on the phone.  Selina has related the whole story to him.  He tells her she should see a doctor – but quickly accepts her refusal and says she’s going to going to help him find him.  Selina says she won’t.  Alfred goads her, asking if she’s still angry at Bruce because her mother was a con-artist. He becomes irate – saying that Bruce is a good, loyal friend, and she won't lift a finger.

(An aside - did Alfred not listen very carefully when Selina presumably told him that Bruce 2 pushed her out a window specifically to stop her coming to tell him about Bruce’s abduction and the Court’s plans?)

Selina’s face is sullen

What good will it do me?

He rounds on her.  He tells her that she’s a disgrace, that’s she’s just like her mum – and that she should run away and never come back.

Selina doesn’t look at him as he leaves, her face hard.

(An aside – I know Alfred is panicked, but his lack of any understanding here seems glaring.  Selina would have been dead if not for Ivy. She’s probably hugely traumatised.)

 At the crime scene a very odd witness gives information on the van Barnes escaped in.  Harvey tells officers to look out for that van – and find Jim Gordon.

 Oswald is whittling a blade while Ed critiques it.  They snipe back and forth, Ed demanding that Oswald not call him by name – while Oswald does so repeatedly.  Ed snarls enough – and then calls Oswald pathetic.  At least he got here because he wanted to know who runs the city.  Oswald’s just here because Ed didn’t love him back.  Get over it, he spits.

Oswald acknowledges this – but says that’s not why he here.  He’s here because Ed destroyed his empire and shot him.  No-one does what you did and lives.  

They snipe some more. Ed attempts an escape, Oswald foils it, and then passes out – blissfully smiling at the sight of Ed being beaten by the guards

More of this new age stuff? Locking away pain again.  Bruce is to put his mother’s pearls in the safe – but can’t do it.  Boring guru says it’s time he knows the truth, his truth.

Jim is chained to a chair in an abandoned courtroom.  Barnes and Kathryn are very disappointed parents.  Jim made a fool of them, they had such high hopes.  How can he insult them both by lying to them? Kathryn wants to know who else Jim is working with.  She’s already figured out that Hugo played turncoat, and Harvey is obvious.

Jim sneers – and asks if this is an exit interview.  Kathryn pushes, but Jim reminds her that the Court ordered his father murdered and drove his uncle to suicide – trying to prod justice-obsessed Barnes into action. When it’s not enough – he pushes harder, calling him a lapdog, and telling him he used to stand for something – even still did, despite his lunacy

(An aside – Jim and Barnes had such an interesting relationship – but it’s really hard to fully get at the pathos of that relationship when Barnes is wearing smokey eyeshadow and has an axe on his arm)

Kathryn reiterates that Jim is an enemy of Gotham, and that Gordons were always stubborn.  She also repeats that this is the end – the city will fall – and leaves

Barnes sits at the bench and spouts the appropriate legal talk.  Jim’s trial will begin.

 Arkham, where Lee is visiting Jervis.  Jervis delivers an appropriately creepy and unpleasant rhyme, and waits for her to talk – with some glee – pointing out her tired appearance.  She wants to talk to him about something that seems funny to her – and Jervis does love funny things.  

She tells him that she never blamed him for Mario – because he’s insane.  She blamed Jim instead.  Jervis is disappointed.  He concedes that’s wise - but not funny.  Lee continues – and asks why her infected Mario – and not her – if he meant to hurt Jim.

Jervis tells her that it was apparent at their tea-party that she still loved Jim – and that love doomed Mario.  Jim Gordon does not deserve love, he doesn’t get love, and so he decided to turn Lee’s love to hate by infecting Mario, and making Jim seem blameworthy.

Lee looks ill

Jervis laughs – and tells her that was a funny thing.  His face turns venomous, and he continues, pointing out that poor Mario is cold in ground, and she blames Jim – but Lee is really to blame for everything

Now see - that's funny.

Lee agrees that she’s to blame, her face bleak, broken.

I am

 Oswald wakes - holding head. My hand hurts – so they snipe some more and agree to work together so they can escape and murder each other.

 More bullshit spiritual training.  We see guru guy’s truth.  We are in a room, where an Owl/talon/whatever is kneeling before past guru.  Apparently – the Court exceeded their authority in killing the Waynes.  They’re just a means to an end for us – although he refuses to explain who that is when Bruce asks.  He does – though – want Bruce to help make the Court pay.

 Jim is chained to a chair while Barnes reiterates his fatherly disapproval.  Jim points out the virus will infect innocent and guilty alike – but no dice, because Barnes thinks the virus is great.  He sneers at Jim’s disbelief – just like Lee Thompkins - and tells him the story of Lee’s visit.

He gets ready to pass sentence.  Jim pretends to want to die wearing his badge.

One soldier to another

That never really meant anything to Jim, though, and it doesn’t now either, as he pulls the pin on a grenade on Barnes’ belt as he leans in to pin the badge.

There’s an explosion, GCPD runs in, and Barnes leaps out the window

 At GCPD – Harvey asks if there’s word on Barnes

He’s a nutjob in a leather jumpsuit with an axe for an arm!  I know this is Gotham, but come on people!

Jim is planning to get to Kathryn before she realises he’s escaped, but she’s been arrested and is being brought in.

Alfred appears – he’s been looking for Jim all day: Bruce has been abducted.  Harvey groans.  They realise they’ve both been after the Court, and the clone story comes – and yes, why haven’t they talked in - like – forever?  Long story short – Alfred rushes off to fetch the broken crystal owl.

Back in the makeshift prison - Oswald wails: Ed has a knife to his throat.  It’s all a ruse and they escape.

GCPD, where Jim is interrogating Kathryn.  She’s alternately stony faced and smiling poisonously – especially when she tells Jim he knows nothing if he thinks that she runs the Court.

 Alfred brings the owl. Harvey says he can't even do a jigsaw puzzle – so they’ll ask the guy who makes moulds of the faces of murder victims.  He lets slip that Jim is interrogating Kathryn, and Alfred storms in as Harvey chases him – realising his mistake

Oh god no -  not that

(An aside – Harvey’s little moments of comic relief in the background are joy)

Kathryn is scornful at Alfred’s arrival – assuming a good cop/bad cop routine – but is less scornful when Alfred stabs her in the hand.

Meanwhile – Barnes has arrived outside.  Harvey hears the commotion, and goes to see what’s happening.

In the interrogation room, Kathryn writhes in pain.  Jim tells Alfred that’s enough – but he twists the blade, and Jim remonstrates again. When Harvey returns, he separates Jim and Alfred.  They head out – Kathryn at gunpoint.

You all corrupted this house with weakness and compromise.  This place was a church to me!

Kathryn calls Barnes for help.  Jim tells him they will take him in.  Barnes is livid.

You dare threaten me!  You destroyed the thing I care most about and -  for that - the sentence is death.

A fight ensures Barnes knocks Jim to the floor, and easily takes out Harvey and Alfred.  Kathryn screams at him – demanding protection – and oh my God I was not expecting the decapitation

Barnes tells Jim it’s fitting he should die here – a demonstration that no-one will escape sentence.  Jim turns and blows his hand off with a shotgun. Barnes screams that he will face judgment.  Jim tells him

This place is a church - mine.

He stands alone in the wreckage

 An alley, where Ed and Oswald emerge through a metal door, and face off – their 5 hour truce in place before they can attempt to kill each other again.

Ed smugly informs Oswald that Barbara runs the underworld and that they have the gangs of Gotham at his back - while Oswald only has himself - and this, this is where the flimsy plotting and world building really starts to become intrusive for me.

Barbara, Tabitha, and Butch murdering key family members like they did would have caused a turf war. A turf war that - really - I'm not remotely convinced they would have won.  Let's consider their respective c.vs:

Barbara has about 5 minutes of experience in the crime world and a reputation for insanity. Tabitha has a reputation for cruelty - but no real background in the underworld.  If anything, you can imagine them being dismissed as 'poor little rich girls', playing at crime.  Butch is known as an eternal second fiddle and worse - in the mindset of Gotham's gangs - second fiddle to a woman, a 'freakish little man', and then two women who don't even have Fish's experience or clout.

As for Ed, he's flashy, conspicuous, and erratic.  He has a compulsive need for the attention that organised criminals would strive to avoid. Gangs would see him as a liability. They're also not going to take kindly to his obvious contempt for anyone he deems less intelligent than himself - which is everyone.

So - the notion that Barbara and co apparently rule the underworld with an iron grip is just chronically unconvincing to me.  Even if you hypothesize that they murdered every member of the old families - we saw the younger set of gangsters at Oswald's meeting early in season two, who seemed to enjoy the prosperity and stability his brief reign had brought. They apparently just decided to do as they were told?  Why? Because Tabitha has a whip and Barbara has a great wardrobe?  Nope.  Not buying it.

As for telling Oswald that all he has is himself - well, we all know why that comment proves that Ed is much dumber than he'd like to think.  Oswald is tough, resilient and - unlike Ed - knows exactly who he is.

 In the wreckage of GCPD - Jim holds a bandage to his shoulder – eyes wide as Lee walks in.  He asks what she’s doing here.  She asks if he assumed that she came to help, and assures him that she didn’t actually know what had happened, and wouldn’t have helped even if she did.  She says that if Barnes wrecked this place he loved – maybe it’s because he discovered the truth: there’s no justice here, but she – Lee – is willing to pay for what she’s done.

Jim frowns, confused – and asks her what she’s done, but she brushes him off and walks away.  Harvey asks what she wanted – and Jim says he has no clue. They need to find the hiding places,  but who is above Kathryn?

 Bullshit meditation man - that's who – who induces Bruce to finally place the pearls in the safe. Bruce looks pained – like it’s a betrayal – but does it.

Tell me - how do you feel now when you think of your parents’ murder?

I feel - nothing

He tells a nasty story about how the Talons are taken from orphanages and trained like Bruce has been. He orders the Talon in the room to cut off a finger.  They feel no pain but – equally – this leaves their mind pliable, to be moulded by him - just like Bruce’s has been.  His face turns malevolent.  They will destroy the Court, but Bruce will do whatever he says. Bruce agrees – blank faced.

GCPD – where Jim and Harvey stare at the owl map, before calling in the strike force.  Alvarez interrupts them.  Not only is Barnes missing – but someone took the virus sample. Jim is momentarily confused – and then remembers that Lee has the combination.

 Lee sits alone at the dining table.  She holds up the syringe, and injects herself without hesitation.  She breathes fast for a few moments, then her eyes darken, and she smiles.

 You destroyed the thing I care most about and, for that, the sentence is death.

Barnes claims that Jim destroyed his notion of justice and faith in the law and, for that, Jim must die. Ed took away Oswald’s empire and power – his prize and drive since day one, his tribute to his mother’s faith in him, and he tried to take away Oswald’s life and – hard though that life might be – Oswald holds on to it tightly.  For this, Ed must die.  Oswald took Isabella away, and for that Ed deems the sentence to be death.  Selina seeks to kill Bruce2 – both for his attempted murder of her and his role in Bruce’s abduction.  Kathryn took Bruce from Alfred, and Alfred is certainly willing to kill her to get him back.  Jim seeks to destroy the Court because they murdered both his father and uncle, and threaten the city, which he loves.  Lee’s case is more complex.  Jervis has put the idea in her head that she is to blame for everything – and so she sentences her old self to death, infecting herself with the virus – an eye for an eye with Mario’s fate.

I don’t think there’s as much in the way of character development in this epsidoe - they’re largely setting the stage for the finale now.  Motivations are being clarified, and pieces are being put into place.

Sundries. 

Jervis Tetch plays a very long game. 

And still no Victor.

Thoughts?