#when she accuses him of killing her family he could be angry or defiant

[majimassqueaktoy]

I've been watching kenzan again and Kiryu's affection for Haruka has me so fucked up... he's really destined to be her dad throughout all of time and space 🥺

[kittenshift-17]

73 Gendrya

73. Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?

Lord Gendry Baratheon strode into his chambers in the highest tower of Storm’s End after a long and trying day of wrangling the small folk and handling the many issues that came with running a kingdom. He was tired, and cranky, and had half a mind to drink himself into a stupor. Nights like tonight, he rather wished he wasn’t such a stubborn fool and that he’d taken a wife by now, rather than waiting endlessly for a girl who’d turned him down and long forgotten him or perished at sea. He could do with a good, hard fuck to relieve the knots of tension in his shoulders and the foul mood he’d thought himself into.

Gendry ripped off his cloak, followed by his shirt, pacing toward the fireplace, and stoking it up quickly. When he rose once more, he turned toward the large featherbed and froze immediately. 

There, lying in the middle of it, stark naked and looking rather amused by his shocked cry was none other than the self-same bitch who’d turned him down the first time he’d asked her to marry him. 

“Arya?” he asked, frowning in confusion at the small, dark haired woman on the bed. 

“Hello, Gendry,” Arya replied evenly, making no move to cover her nudity from his hungry gaze as his eyes strayed from her face to drink in the changes wrought by almost a decade since their last encounter.

Gendry’s frown deepened at her mild tone, and he forced his eyes from her round breasts and back to her tanned face.

“Is there a reason you’re naked in my bed?” he asked, trying for the same evenness of tone she’d offered him. 

Arya Stark raised one eyebrow at him, and her mouth twitched like she might smile that smile of hers that suggested she thought him ten types of stupid.

“If you don’t know, perhaps I ought to leave,” she said, making like she might get up and leave, sitting up and shuffling toward the edge of the bed. 

Gendry thought about arguing with her, about having a go at her for turning him down when’d he’d asked her to marry him ten years ago before running away. He thought about suggesting they should talk about this. But she’d obviously anticipated those moves and wasn’t interested in them. She was a smart one, his Arya. She didn’t want the awkward fight they needed to have to be their reunion. And so, rather than suggesting any of those things, Gendry waited. When she rose to her feet, he rounded the bed in long strides, reaching for her hungrily and curling his arms around her waist, lifting her as he stooped to capture her lips for a searing kiss. 

She smiled into his kiss, her arms going around his neck and hooking at the elbows so she could pull herself up his front until she got her legs around him, too. Gendry kissed her hard, holding her to him with one arm, and fumbling under her for the laces of his britches with the other. When he lowered her to the bed, he broke their kiss, trailing his lips down her neck and across her body while his hand made its way between her creamy thighs. Gods, she smelled like the sea, salty and sandy, nothing like the last time he’d had her when she’d smelled of fear and snow and fur. 

Arya moaned under his attentions, her hands wandering through his black hair and over his massive shoulders, her head tossing from side to side as she grew wetter with each pass of his thumb over the bud of pleasure at her apex. She was breathing hard beneath him by the time Gendry got his pants open and shucked off, stretched on the bed, wanton and watching him, a dare in those grey eyes. 

“By the Seven, you’re a shit,” he told her huskily, shaking his head before aligning himself at her centre and thrusting home. And fuck, she felt like home. 

Arya cried out under him, moaning softly, her legs curling around him and her hands reaching for him. He kissed her again, withdrawing to thrust, and repeating the motion until he was dizzy. 

“I missed you too,” Arya answered his accusation when she broke their kiss to nip at his shoulder as he quickened his pace. 

“Fuck,” Gendry cursed, forgetting the lordly manners that’d been drummed into him since he’d been crowned Lord of Storm’s End.

Arya laughed breathlessly, each of them scaling the peak of pleasure until they crested it, her accompanying the release with another sharp bite to his shoulder and a rake of her nails across his back as she clung to him, whimpering softly.

When it was over, Gendry collapsed on top of her, knowing he’d likely be crushing her, but knowing that if he didn’t pin her down, she’d be up and gone from the room before he could stop her again. Last time he’d bedded her, he’d awoken alone, and he wasn’t about to let her get away when she’d only just arrived. 

“You’re squashing me,” she complained against his shoulder, though her arms remained around him, rather than trying to push him off her. 

“Good,” he said. “Means you can’t run off.”

She huffed a breathless laugh. 

“Who says I’d run?” she asked. 

“You always run,” he told her. “Ran from the Brotherhood and left me behind. Ran from my bed at Winterfell before the fight. Ran from my proposal, ditching the bloody castle before we could bloody well discuss it. If there’s anything I know about you, Stark, it’s that if I don’t pin you down until you’re half dead, you’ll run again, like you always do.”

“Ever consider that it’s you?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he grumbled. “For the past ten years, in fact. Reckon you wouldn’t have said no if it wasn’t me you took issue with. Dunno why you fucked me in the first place, though, if I’m the problem.”

Arya snorted. 

“Ever consider that I wanted to be your family, not your lady?” she wanted to know, and Gendry sighed heavily.

“Yeah,” he said again, propping himself up far enough that he could meet her gaze. “Every day since I told you I planned to stay on with the Brotherhood. You wanted to run off to your family, so I thought you wanted to return to your riches and your title.”

“Never had much use for either,” she said.

“So I learned,” he said. “What are you doing here, Arya? Come to find out if I’d taken another to be Lady of Storm’s End, since you don’t want the title?”

“Have you?” she asked.

“You think I’d have bedded you if I had?” he frowned at her.

Arya shrugged her shoulders. “Probably.”

“I have a bit more honour than that,” he scowled at her. 

“Mmm,” she hummed, though she didn’t look wholly convinced.

“And now that you know I haven’t taken a wife since you spurned me?” he raised his eyebrows, refusing to move off her or let her wriggle away from the discussion they needed to have. “If I let you up, are you going to run for the door and disappear into the night again?”

“What if I do?” she asked.

“Then I won’t bloody well let you up,” Gendry admitted, narrowing his eyes on her. 

“I could kill you right here,” she reminded him.

“Aye, but you won’t,” he said.

“Sure of that, are you?”

Gendry stared into her face seriously. 

“Positive,” he answered. 

She stared back at him with that defiant look she’d worn since they’d been dumb kids on the road out of King’s Landing and Gendry stared back stoically, unmoved by her annoyance or her scorn. 

“Stubborn, stupid shit,” she accused, muttering viciously and looking away.

“Cold-hearted, defiant bitch,” he retorted. “I’m a lot more stubborn than you are cold-hearted, Stark. Might be I won’t let you out of this bed until you agree to be my wife.”

“Might be I’ll gut you the next time you fall asleep,” she argued.

“You won’t,” he repeated, assured of that fact. “You didn’t come back a decade on, just to cut my throat, m’lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically.

“You’ll have to get used to hearing it,” he argued, digging his arms under her slender frame and rolling the two of them until she was sprawled over him like a rather wriggly blanket. “You’re not leaving this bed until you agree to carry the title for the rest of your wretched life, you little shit.”

“Gendry,” she huffed, writhing on top of him until she managed to straddle him. He sat up along with her, refusing to release her from his arms, holding her captive, still buried within her.

“Arya,” he huffed in the same tone, trying to keep his foul temper under wraps that she had to be so fucking stubborn all the seven-cursed time.

“I don’t want to be a lady,” she complained like she was still a disagreeable, spoiled child.

“Yes, you do,” he said knowingly. “You wouldn’t have come back here and invited yourself into my bed if you weren’t ready for what it’ll mean.”

“It means nothing,” she told him.

“Fuck that,” Gendry said. “It’ll mean something when I get your pregnant. I’ll hold you captive here until I do if you’re going to be a shit about it.”

“You think you could?”

“Impregnate you?” Gendry smirked. “I’m a Baratheon, remember? The seed is strong.”

“Got a lot of little bastards running around to prove that, do you?” she scowled at him, still wriggling.

“Not unless you left Winterfell with my bastard in your belly a decade ago,” he shook his head.

“What if I did?” Arya asked, raising her eyebrows at him in challenge.

Gendry froze, his arms tightening around her until she made a pained sound.

“You better hope you fucking didn’t,” he said, his voice low and angry at the very idea. “If you turned down my proposal and slunk away with my son in your belly, and stayed gone for a fucking decade... it might be me who’ll gut you, m’lady”

Arya rolled her eyes.

“Even if I had, after being trampled in King’s Landing, I’d have lost it,” she sighed, some of the fight leaving her. “Stop crushing me, please. It hurts.”

“You don’t have a kid you’re going to surprise me with?” he confirmed. 

“I don’t,” she shook her head. 

Gendry sighed out a relieved breath, too, loosening his hold on her enough not to hurt her, but not about to let his guard down or let her go. “Might put one in you before I let you up,” he said, rocking his hip under her, rolling up into her, hardening inside her all over again.

“I’m not marrying you,” Arya argued, though she rolled her hips in a circle to meet him. 

Gendry smirked as he stretched up to capture her lips in another searing kiss, only breaking it when he managed to wring a low moan from her.

“Like hell you’re not,” he said, ravishing her all over again. 

Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25628095

[edharrisdaily]

What It Means to Stage To Kill a Mockingbird in 2019

The Broadway adaptation’s writer and star—Aaron Sorkin and Ed Harris, respectively—talk about updating and paying homage to Harper Lee’s American classic today. 

The first line of Aaron Sorkin’s stage adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird is one of quiet confusion. “Something didn’t make sense,” Scout Finch tells the audience of the tale that’s about to unfold. Sorkin’s dramatization of Harper Lee’s novel, which opened on Broadway last December, is an unexpectedly probing work that refuses to let an American classic go unchallenged. Instead it stages two trials: One is from the book, where Scout’s attorney father Atticus Finch defends Tom Robinson, an African American man accused of rape in 1930s Alabama, and tries to combat the community’s entrenched racism.

In Sorkin’s play, the other trial is of Atticus’s own nobility, and how it doesn’t always square with his grander vision of justice. Though the adaptation broadly follows the narrative arc of Lee’s novel, it uses Scout, her brother Jem, and her friend Dill (all played by adult actors) to cast a wary eye over some of the book’s more idealistic details. That framing encourages the audience to ponder the limits of Atticus’s impulse to empathize even with vile racists like Bob Ewell, a man who’s trying to pin his own assault of his daughter Mayella on Tom. The play beefs up the relatively anonymous parts given to black characters in Lee’s work, gives Atticus’s kids a more argumentative nature, and sheds harsher light on the book’s somewhat pat ending.

The stage adaptation is nonetheless made with appreciation for Lee’s novel, and that mix of homage and update has translated into a family-friendly Broadway hit. The production, directed by Bartlett Sher, premiered last year with Jeff Daniels headlining a seasoned cast and has now turned over with Ed Harris in the lead role. I was fascinated by the prospect of Harris, who brings an edge to even his most warm-hearted roles, playing one of the most heralded characters in the American literary canon, and he didn’t disappoint. There’s a sweetness and a sadness to his Atticus, a perfect match to the melancholy backward glance of Sorkin’s text. I talked to Harris and Sorkin together about their approach to the revival, Atticus’s status as a hero, and recasting the classics for a modern audience. This conversation has been edited.

David Sims: The show surprised me. I knew the book, and I had seen the film multiple times, so I was not expecting to be surprised.

Aaron Sorkin: I’m glad to hear that. From the moment the curtain goes up, we try to knock you off your pins a little bit. Scout spends the play trying to solve [the mystery of Bob Ewell’s death], but broadly what we’re doing is having a new conversation about the book, the story we all learned in seventh grade and thought we knew.

Sims: The industrial warehouse look of the set—it’s like a space that’s been there for a long time but has been standing empty.

Sorkin: That’s right. The curtain goes up and it’s not what you were expecting to see. And what the three characters—Scout, Jem, and Dill, are questioning is something from the book.

Sims: The ending, specifically. But also the entire tale.

Sorkin: When I started out [with this play], I thought it was a suicide mission, but I said yes right away cause I wanted to do a play so badly. My first draft was terrible because I tried to gently swaddle the book in bubble wrap and transfer it to the stage. It felt like a greatest-hits album done by a cover band, just somebody trying to imitate Harper Lee and standing up the most famous scenes from the book. I realized that Atticus, as the protagonist [of the stage version of the] story, has to change. And if he’s gonna be the protagonist he has to have a flaw.

How did Harper Lee get away with having a protagonist who doesn’t change? Because Atticus isn’t the protagonist in the book or the movie, Scout is—her flaw is that she’s young, and the change is that she loses some of her innocence. While I wanted to explore Scout, I absolutely wanted Atticus to be a traditional protagonist, so he needed to change and have a flaw … It turned out that Harper Lee had [already] given him one, it’s just that when we all learned the book it was taught as a virtue. It’s that Atticus believes that goodness can be found in everyone.

Sims: He excuses things [like bigotry and cruelty].

Sorkin: By the end of the play, he realizes he doesn’t know his friends and neighbors as well as he thought he did. That it may not be true that goodness can be found in everyone.

Sims: Ed, how did you get involved with the show?

Sorkin: How do you win the lottery!

Ed Harris: I was in San Francisco. I woke up in a hotel in the morning and I had an email from [the producer Scott Rudin] asking, “Do you want to play Atticus.” Period. How could I say no?

Sims: Aside from the thrill of playing Atticus, was there also the appeal of doing a big Broadway show again?

Harris: I knew Jeff [Daniels] had been doing it, but I hadn’t seen it—I’m glad I hadn’t and didn’t want to, just not to be influenced. I didn’t know what to expect in terms of whether they’d just paste us into a thing that already had its wheels turning. And it was very encouraging during rehearsal that [the director Bartlett Sher] realized this was a new cast. Yes, the play has been running for a year; yes, there are certain things you have to retain in terms of blocking. But within the themes and relationships, he was very open to us exploring stuff.

Sorkin: What Ed is describing is a big deal. To have four weeks of rehearsal, essentially just do the play all over again with a new group of people, is something you don’t find a lot. What happened on my end was, Scott called and said, “We have a chance to get Ed Harris.” So I talked to Bart about it. It’s a whole new cast, with someone like Ed Harris, you can’t just have the stage manager show them their blocking. So we started from the beginning. The result is even more thrilling because the quality hasn’t diminished at all. In fact, both Bart and I make a strong argument that the play has gotten better as a result of rehearsing it again.

Sims: For playing Atticus, how long had it been since you’d thought about the novel or Gregory Peck’s performance in the film?

Harris: I love the film. I think Peck’s portrayal in terms of that story and that script is just indelible. There are little things that happen on the stage even now, just a head move or something, that feels like Gregory Peck! But the inner life of this man I’m playing is so different [than Peck’s character]. He’s trying to hold onto a belief that’s being eroded slowly but surely. It’s really interesting to play. I’m not one of those people who finds a way to do it and is gonna do that same thing for six months. It’s always new. I try to stay open to allowing it to affect me every night.

Sims: The show is interrogating Atticus’s passivity and his nobility. How do you want to communicate that passivity, and the anger within him, as well?

Harris: Early on in the play, Bob Ewell comes by [to the Finch house] and threatens Atticus, saying “We’ve got two ropes.” And Jem, Atticus’s son, comes out and says, “You want me to respect Bob Ewell?” And he says, “Yeah, there’s good in everyone.” That statement in itself does not betray who Atticus is and how he behaves. The first clue [of Atticus’s inner anger] to me, at least, is when Atticus goes off on Mayella [in the courthouse].

Sims: That’s a fascinating scene, where Atticus yells at Mayella Ewell for falsely accusing Tom Robinson and refusing to admit the truth under oath. His frustration is very understandable; as Atticus acknowledges, she’s a victim who’s obviously suffering, but when she rejects his empathetic gesture, he loses his cool slightly. Aaron, did you want that moment to be played that frighteningly?

Sorkin: This may be weird for Ed to hear, but when I’m writing, I’m playing all the parts. I’m very physical; I’m up, I’m down, I’m talking to myself. It was easy for me to get angry at that moment and to write the line, “I want to make the truth known to this court, if I have to go through you to do it.” There’s a great tension there—we’re in the time of MeToo, and we’re doing a play about a woman falsely accusing a man of rape. And Mayella is a victim, and she does deserve pity. But Tom Robinson doesn’t have a choice, and Mayella does.  

Sims: You give a lot of that anger to the kids. In the novel, I don’t remember them ever challenging their father; they’re more like observers who are invested in childish obsessions like [their mysterious neighbor] Boo Radley. But you’ve given them, especially Jem, a more defiant dynamic with Atticus.

Sorkin: Well, if Atticus is going to have all the answers, let’s ask him tougher questions.

Sims: Calpurnia [the Finch family’s black housekeeper] has more to do as well, and she’s a much more passive figure in the book.

Sorkin: I returned to the book and was surprised to find that in a story about racial tension, there were really only two significant African American characters, neither of whom had much to say. I want to be careful—this play is in no way meant to correct what I feel were mistakes that Harper Lee made. It’s a conversation. And I couldn’t do a Harper Lee impersonation or pretend like I was writing the play in 1960. But Calpurnia in the book is mostly concerned with whether Scout’s going to wear overalls or a dress; Tom Robinson pleads for his life, but we don’t know much more about him. In 1960, using African American characters mostly as atmosphere is something that probably would have gone unnoticed by a mostly white audience. But it would be noticeable today, and it’s a really big missed opportunity. You want their point of view in this.

Harris: One of my favorite things that Aaron did is the tension between Atticus and Calpurnia. And the reason for that tension is that when Atticus tells her he’s going to defend Tom Robinson, she isn’t “grateful” enough, and he says “you’re welcome” under his breath. And she calls him on it! That scene really resonates for me, because it says so much about Atticus, and his real motivations.

Sorkin: There’s a scene in the book and in the movie. For a lot of people it’s their favorite scene, it had always been mine. My father passed away a few years ago, it was his favorite, too. At the end of the trial, Atticus has lost, he’s putting stuff back in his briefcase, and the whole courtroom has cleared out, except for what they call the “colored section” up in the balcony. Atticus turns around to see that they’re all standing silently out of respect for him, and Calpurnia says [to Scout], “Stand up, Miss Jean Louise, your daddy’s passing.” It’s a good movie scene.

Sims: Of course, it gives you a chill.

Sorkin: But the people in the balcony should be burning the courthouse down. They should be out in the street chanting, “No justice, no peace.” Instead they are [written as] docile, they are quietly respecting the guy who I most identify with in the story, the guy who seems like my father, the white liberal guy. We all want to be identified as one of the good ones, and that’s what they’re saying to Atticus. And I do think Atticus is one of the good ones—it’s just a little harder than that, and it’s where Calpurnia’s dynamic with him comes from in the play.

Sims: It’s an ongoing conversation in 2019—what the limits of empathy should be.

Sorkin: And I’m not sure that there’s an answer to that, but I know those questions are being asked very loudly, because of the monumental election we had three years ago and the one we’ll have 11 months from now.

Sims: Ed, are these things you’re thinking about, or are you more trying to inhabit the person?

Harris: I’m just trying to live it more and more every night. I’m trying to fill up this character with humanity.

Sims: Have either of you seen the recent Broadway revival of Oklahoma? I bring it up because that’s a musical that ends with a crime being covered up—the death of Jud—and a miscarriage of justice, and then the ensemble sings a song and everything’s happy. But this revival tries to interrogate that [ugliness] a little more. And then I had forgotten that To Kill a Mockingbird also ends with a crime—the [murder] of Bob Ewell [by Boo Radley, trying to protect Scout]—being covered up!

Sorkin: Isn’t it amazing? I had forgotten about it, too, and I couldn’t believe it!

Sims: It’s a story about the greatest lawyer of all time—Atticus—and he’s complicit in this crime!

Sorkin: This novel ends with, as Scout said, “The most honest and decent person in Maycomb” covering up murder with a judge and a sheriff. Why didn’t that ever come up in my eighth-grade class? I saw that and thought, well, I can tell this exact same story, but can’t that [tension] be part of it from the beginning? But that even raises new questions that people have talked to me about—that Boo Radley gets a different kind of justice than Tom Robinson gets. Never are the judge and the sheriff saying, “We gotta get Tom out of here!” [for his protection].

Sims: And there’s infinite understanding for Boo.

Sorkin: Right. Now I have a defense for that, which is that Atticus and the judge, when they arrange for Tom Robinson to have a jury trial, sincerely believe that it’s going to be a good thing for Maycomb, that justice is going to be done. They do not anticipate [Tom being found guilty]. Atticus’s mantra is “there is nobody in this town so far gone that they would send an obviously innocent person to the electric chair.” And they do.

Sims: There’s mob justice at work—Bob Ewell is disgraced, and Atticus successfully proves the way [Bob is] treating his daughter, but the town’s reaction is just to excommunicate [Bob], not to make the leap forward of finding Tom innocent. It’s been an interesting year for these great American works getting interrogated on Broadway.

Sorkin: They’re not getting repainted. We’re just taking another look, given the times we’re living in.

[bclthczcros]

task : the interrogation 

mentioned: @ofhvney​, @the-great-and-wonderful-oz​, @ofzola​, @thcyer​, @divineangcl, @holdenwoodz

zar was shaking as soon as he got the message, and he hadn’t really stopped shaking since. he’d lied to the authorities plenty of times, why are you in this building? did you start this fight? where did you get that bruise? but it had been a while since he’d been sixteen. hopefully, he thought as he kissed honey goodbye and walked into the ashmont pd, it was like riding a bicycle. 

if possible, he was hoping even harder now, trying his best to seem... at least semi-casual sitting in front of officer grant and officer forrester. his usual go-to mode when speaking to authority figures was defiant, so he tried to seem a little more innocent, a little more wide-eyed. he didn’t know if he was successfully fooling anybody. 

Do you have any criminal history? Anything big or small that you want to make us aware of?

zar bit the inside of his lip, shifting a little bit in his chair and trying to maintain eye contact. his past was shameful, he could admit it, so it would make sense if he was a little embarrassed, right? “yeah, actually, um, from when i was a minor. assault, vandalism, illegal consumption of marijuana, underage drinking, trespassing, and breaking and entering.” 

he considered, for a split second, mentioning the fighting ring, but he very quickly decided that was the worst idea he’d ever had; he didn’t need anyone snooping in on that. even though, given the city-wide curfew and the increased police presence, the ring was kind of dying out on its own. instead, he presented his upturned hands, and said, “but that was all back in high school; i’ve been living pretty clean since i came to ashmont. oh, uh,” he bit his lip. “except for the puppy mill incident, but i wasn’t charged.” officer grant raised her eyebrows, and zar pretended like he hadn’t been planning out how to make the great puppy heist work since then. step one: don’t be drunk while doing it. he glanced down at his hands, somewhat embarrassed. “it should be in your records somewhere.” 

How have you spent the few weeks back at college? What have they been like?

he tried not to give too heavy of a sigh, but he still exhaled through his nose. “studying, working, volunteering. the usual, y’know? they’ve been... hectic. kinda hellish. i mean, a girl is dead. it’s pretty difficult to get through that.” and, of course, there was their little exposing murderer, but zar didn’t dare mention her to the cops. he really didn’t need them finding that blog. “and with the... the mural at the art exhibit... i don’t know, everyone’s been super paranoid.” he indicated himself. “i’ve been paranoid.” 

How did you know Miss. Rutherford? What was the nature of your relationship?

“i’m her family’s dog walker,” zar started, tip-toeing around this topic. “or, i was. the rutherfords have been letting a lot of staff go in the wake of their daughter’s death, which is understandable. they don’t want many people around their place right now.” he bit his lip; he supposed it would be best to be candid about this. “i... for a while, i was under the impression that her dogs were being abused.” he was still under that impression, but it would probably be better to pretend that was all in the past. “i volunteer at the humane society, y’know? so i thought i knew” i actually know “what abused dogs look and act like. i thought they were shelter dogs at first because of how jumpy they were, but they were quick to tell me they’ve had them since they were puppies, so.” 

he sighed, shook his head, and couldn’t help it; he crossed his arms. “i told daisey that- basically i threatened to contact the humane society, and i told other people i might take them there myself, which-.” he shrugged, sighing. “which was a dumb thing to say, and i would never do that but i was just- i was angry. i’m extremely passionate about animal rights- i’m hoping to become a vet with an animal welfare specialization.” with that, he shrugged, “so, no, daisey and i didn’t have a good relationship, but it was simply a misunderstanding. if i could say one last thing to her,” oh, god, could he manage this? he tried to unlock his jaw, look officer grant in the eye. “i would apologize for accusing her of such a heinous act, and of telling so many people about it.” she seemed to buy it; then again, she was probably just pretending. great. 

Do you remember where you were the night Daisey went missing? If so, where were you? What were you doing? Who were you with?

oh, you mean the night i realized i was in love with my now-boyfriend and also almost ruined the couch of one of the richest families in town? “i was at the homecoming party,” zar said, rubbing his hands together. “at the lamar family home. which,” he indicated with one hand, expression earnest, “i presume you know about.” y’know, since it was the last place daisey was seen alive and all. he pursed his lips together, “um, i spent a bit of the night with honey kennedy? or, ulysses,” it always felt weird to call him that, “but he goes by honey. i was hooking up with him in the bathroom at about... eleven-ish? um, i hung out with zola carter for a little bit, when i got there at about ten, and then later on at around midnight.”

“i smoked outside with sam...” he put a hand to his forehead; fuck, what was his last name again? zar snapped his fingers when he remembered. “samuel thayer. that was just after i-.” he clenched his jaw. “after i got into a little fight with oscar lamar. nothing too major, obviously, or anything physical,” except for those spring rolls, “just... we don’t get along, y’know? zola’s his cousin, and he thinks i’m a bad influence on her.” he sighed to himself, “i went back inside, danced with some people whose... names i can’t remember, and then i went home at about two thirty in the morning after saying good-bye to zola.” yeah, that was about how he’d spent the night, give or take a few details. 

Did you notice anything strange about Daisey’s behavior the night she went missing? Did you notice anything suspicious about anyone else you ran into that night? 

he looked up for a moment, trying to remember. “not really... like i said, daisey and i didn’t exactly get along, so we tend to avoid each other. oh,” he sat up, almost surprised he forgot. “there was one thing, though.” oh fuck, was he really about to throw someone under the bus. well, he’d started this sentence, so he had to end it. “i saw her friend angel, angelica flores, and her arguing from across the room? i couldn’t hear what they were arguing about, but angel kept...” fuck, he really hoped he was right. “it looked like she was trying to get daisey to drink something, but daisey didn’t want to drink it.” he shook his head, glancing back up at them. “again, that’s just what i saw, but it seemed fishy.” 

Where were you the night Daisey’s body was recovered?

zar shrugged. “i was at home. watching old battlestar galactica episodes in my room.” and icing his injuries from his fight; the night before had been the night of the voicemail. it was a shit alibi, but it was his alibi. 

How familiar are you with the Ashmont woods? Have you been there often? Have you recently ventured out here? If so, why?

zar frowned for a moment; that wasn’t where daisey was found. was... was that where she was killed? “i went for an ecology class once in, like, sophomore year,” he admitted, “but i’m... i’m not at all familiar with those woods. i’m from out of town, so i don’t exactly know ashmont all that well, especially outside of campus.” 

Do you have feelings towards the investigation? Any comments?

he shook his head. “not really? like... why would i have feelings towards it?” it was a genuine question, and read as such. “i mean, a girl is dead, and you’re questioning everyone who was involved, so you seem to be doing pretty thorough.” zar shrugged for what felt like the tenth time this interview. 

Do you have any people you feel the police should look into? Please, let us know who and why.

there were plenty of people that zar thought could be guilty. any number of daisey’s exes. her fiance who was, apparently, not super into her. a part of him wanted to throw holden under the bus, but even zar knew it wasn’t deserved. “just angel, honestly. though i don’t...” zar shook his head, remembering her breakdown. “i don’t think she would have killed her, honestly. but i just have a bad feeling about her making daisey drink something, y’know?” 

What do you remember of the gallery opening? What did you do? Who were you with?

zar tried not to look too nervous at the question. “yeah, i do. i, uh, took in the art. drank a bit of champagne. i was mostly checking out my friends’ pieces. uh, i went with honey. kennedy. ulysses? my boyfriend.” he swallowed, going over the lie he’d prepared in his head. “all things considered, i didn’t stay for very long. i got a message from our neighbor about my cat, bath bomb? she’d caught herself in the fire escape and i needed to take care of her. so i had to run home. take her to the vet.” 

What do you know about the vandalism that transpired that night?

he shrugged. “i... honestly, i didn’t know about it until the next day. my boyfriend and i left through the back. just ‘cause it was closer to our place. i didn’t even see it in real life. but, i...” zar sighed, raising his eyebrows. “i heard it was blood, and i heard it was fuc- messed up.” 

Did you see anything questionable that night?

“no,” zar insisted, shaking his head. “not at all.” 

as officer grant and officer forrester dismissed him, he hoped that would be the last he’d see of the ashmont pd, but somehow knew that wouldn’t be the case. 

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

question from a non-book reader; i've been reading up on a lot of targaryen history since i got the world of ice and fire book. i vaguely understand the blackfyre rebellion and a lot of what i see on tumblr seems to side either with the targaryens or the blackfyres. but it seems to me that neither side was fully in the right since the targaryens overall weren't exactly known for being just rulers. that said, what is your opinion on the blackfyre rebellion? (1/2)

(2/2) did bloodraven genuinely commit tyranny and sins against the gods, or was aegor rivers the one who had the moral high ground in comparison?

…um.

I’m not sure if you’re confused because you haven’t read the books, or what, but sorry… no. The Blackfyre Rebellion happened because King Aegon IV Targaryen, Aegon the Unworthy (motto: “wash her and bring her to my bed”), always hated his trueborn son Daeron, considering him weak, hated Daeron’s mother Queen Naerys (and always tried to undermine her, including accusing her of infidelity through a proxy), hated the peace made with Dorne that was sealed with Daeron’s marriage to a Dornish princess (including trying and failing to start a war with Dorne by attacking them unprovoked with wooden “dragons”), decided to give Daeron one last stab in the back by legitimizing all his bastards on his deathbed.

One of those bastards included Daemon Blackfyre, born Daemon Waters, the son of Aegon and his cousin Daena the Defiant.

Aegon had knighted Daemon for valor in a squire’s tourney (age 12), and presented him with the Valyrian steel sword Blackfyre, the hereditary sword of House Targaryen and the Targaryen kings. (Blackfyre had belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, and when Aenys gave the sword to his younger brother Maegor at Aegon’s funeral – because Maegor was a warrior and Aenys was not, wanting them to rule together – it was widely considered to be a sign of Aenys’s weakness and Maegor’s strength.) Aegon IV giving Daemon the sword of kings, acknowledging him as his son, and then legitimizing him two years later, was considered by many to be his attempt to make Daemon his true heir and deny Daeron as falseborn, Naerys’s secret bastard.

Nevertheless, Daeron did not let his father’s duplicity preclude his obligations to his many bastard half-brothers and -sisters; including allowing Daemon to change his last name to Blackfyre, arranging his marriage to Rohanne of Tyrosh as Aegon had negotiated (though Daeron did not allow Daemon to marry his sister Princess Daenerys too), and granting a keep and lands along the Blackwater to the new House Blackfyre. Daemon even took his sigil the Targaryen arms inverted, a black three-headed dragon on red. And Daemon made it known that Aegon had given Daemon the sword because he was a warrior and Daeron was not, though Daeron did have two sons (out of four) who were highly martially talented.

Daeron’s rule soon stablized the excesses of the reign of his corrupt hedonist father; he was seen as just and good-hearted, and he was called “Daeron the Good” by both smallfolk and lords. Nevertheless, as time went on, those who opposed Dorne and its inclusion in Westeros, bound by two marriages to House Targaryen, found their figurehead in the handsome warrior Daemon Blackfyre. They looked at Daeron’s marriage to Mariah Martell, and his heir Baelor Breakspear, who though a warrior, also looked like his mother, with dark hair and dark eyes. They stewed at Princess Daenerys’s marriage to Prince Maron Martell of Dorne (oh noes a smelly brown man manhandling our white princess), and imagined a great love story denied to Daemon. (Though for all Daemon’s passion was supposedly cockblocked by his mean half-brother, he was still getting busy with Rohanne, producing at least 9 children in 12 years; and Daenerys never seemed unhappy in her marriage to Maron, who built the Water Gardens for her.) They got really angry at the Dornish courtiers who came to King’s Landing with Mariah, and supposed special treatment to Dorne. They brought up the rumors of Naerys and Aemon the Dragonknight, claiming that the weak Daeron was not Aegon’s son. We literally have the words of a Blackfyre supporter telling us this:

“Treason… is only a word. When two princes fight for a chair where only one may sit, great lords and common men alike must choose. And when the battle’s done, the victors will be hailed as loyal men and true, whilst those who were defeated will be known forevermore as rebels and traitors. That was my fate.” Egg thought about it for a time. “Yes, my lord. Only…King Daeron was a good man. Why would you choose Daemon?” “Daeron…” Ser Eustace almost slurred the word, and Dunk realized he was half-drunk. “Daeron was spindly and round of shoulder, with a little belly that wobbled when he walked. Daemon stood straight and proud, and his stomach was flat and hard as an oaken shield. And he could fight. With axe or lance or flail, he was as good as any knight I ever saw, but with the sword he was the Warrior himself. When Prince Daemon had Blackfyre in his hand, there was not a man to equal him…not Ulrick Dayne with Dawn, no, nor even the Dragonknight with Dark Sister. “You can know a man by his friends, Egg. Daeron surrounded himself with maesters, septons, and singers. Always there were women whispering in his ear, and his court was full of Dornishmen. How not, when he had taken a Dornishwoman into his bed and sold his own sweet sister to the Prince of Dorne, though it was Daemon that she loved? Daeron bore the same name as the Young Dragon, but when his Dornish wife gave him a son he named the child Baelor, after the feeblest king who ever sat the Iron Throne. “Daemon, though… Daemon was no more pious than a king need be, and all the great knights of the realm gathered to him. It would suit Lord Bloodraven if their names were all forgotten, so he has forbidden us to sing of them, but I remember. Robb Reyne, Gareth the Grey, Ser Aubrey Ambrose, Lord Gormon Peake, Black Byren Flowers, Redtusk, Fireball… Bittersteel! I ask you, has there ever been such a noble company, such a roll of heroes? “Why, lad? You ask me why? Because Daemon was the better man. The old king saw it too. He gave the sword to Daemon. Blackfyre, the sword of Aegon the Conqueror, the blade that every Targaryen king had wielded since the Conquest…he put that sword in Daemon’s hand the day he knighted him, a boy of twelve.” “My father says that was because Daemon was a swordsman, and Daeron never was,” said Egg. “Why give a horse to a man who cannot ride? The sword was not the kingdom, he says.” The old knight’s hand jerked so hard that wine spilled from his silver cup. “Your father is a fool.”

–The Sworn Sword

There is nothing to do with justice here. Nothing to do with ruling justly. There’s only hero-worship, glorification of violence, ableism, anti-intellectualism, misogyny, and Dornish racism. That’s what the followers of Daemon Blackfyre supported. They’re like Trump supporters, wanting to make Westeros great again.

And no bigger supporter of Daemon was his half-brother Aegor Rivers, aka Bittersteel. Aegor, “pissed off all his life”, was particularly mad at the court, because his mother Barba Bracken, Aegon’s mistress, had been sent away in disgrace after it was found that she and her father were talking up making Barba queen when Naerys had a health scare. (It was Daeron and his uncle Aemon, Naerys’s supporters, who made enough of a fuss about the scandal to get Aegon to send her away. Note also that Aegor’s grandfather was later executed along with his daughter Bethany, Aegon’s mistress, after she was caught sleeping with a Kingsguard.) While Aegor also received the legitimization given to all of Aegon’s bastards, he didn’t get all the benefits he felt he should have gotten – unlike his half-brother Brynden Rivers, “Bloodraven”, whose mother Melissa Blackwood (another one of Aegon’s mistresses), had always been popular at court (even with Naerys and Daeron), leading to Bloodraven remaining close with Daeron and his family even after Melissa was dismissed as mistress. Furthermore, Shiera Seastar (another one of Aegon’s Great Bastards), chose Brynden as a lover instead of Aegor, making him even more angry.

So, Aegor got close to Daemon, including getting betrothed to one of his daughters, and frequently urged him to press his claim to the throne, on the grounds of king’s choice, having the sword, being more fit than Daeron Falseborn. Do you see a moral high ground here? I do not. It’s further implied that Brynden was also close to Daemon at the time (see him telling Bran that “a brother I loved” is one of his ghosts), and was able to get away and warn Daeron when the Blackfyre plans went from idle talk to open rebellion. He was no tyrant – he probably didn’t even have an office at court at the time, though he did eventually become Daeron’s spymaster.

But yes, Brynden did kill Daemon and his two eldest sons, sniping them during the last battle of the first Blackfyre Rebellion. For which he was accused of kinslaying, and of using sorcery to get those accurate shots. The accusation of sorcery was probably slander (probably… a weirwood bow and weirwood arrows fletched with raven feathers might have had some mystical qualities), and as for the kinslaying… it was a battle where Daemon would have killed his half-nephews Baelor and Maekar if he’d had a chance, where Aegor fought Brynden one-on-one and took his eye out… and if the Blackfyres had won, do you think they’d just have packed off Daeron and Mariah and Aerys and Rhaegel? No, the falseborn weak Dornish half-breeds would have been executed or hunted down. You think they’d’ve left Daenerys and Maron and their children in peace? Nope, a war with Dorne would have been next on the agenda. Don’t talk to me about kinslaying. (Though whether Brynden considers himself to be gods-cursed could be a different matter.)

Now, after the first Blackfyre Rebellion, when Brynden supported killing all the rebel lords (Daeron elected to take hostages instead), after the death of Daeron’s heir Baelor, after the Great Spring Sickness when Daeron and Baelor’s sons died, leading to Daeron’s second son Aerys becoming king, and appointing Brynden as his Hand and master of whisperers… then you might get into questions of tyranny. (Which I consider a lot more debatable than some.) But it has absolutely nothing to do with why Daemon Blackfyre and his supporters rebelled in the first place. When Aegor Rivers formed the Golden Company, to support the Blackfyre cause in their exile in Tyrosh, did he give a flying fuck about tyranny or justice? No he did not, he just wanted to keep fucking with Bloodraven and put Daemon’s son on the throne of Westeros. (Not the gay son, though! That one, the heir after his older brothers died, Bittersteel ignored and kept his support from.)

The Blackfyre cause was never just. They were never in the right. I oppose them wholeheartedly, and I’m suspicious of anyone who chooses the black dragon over the red. I hope that clears things up for you.

[shih-coulda-had-it]

Savior Complex

warnings: starts off pretty apocalyptic, so yes, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. but also a time travel fic, so...? GEN (for now), even if Izuku is age 35! 

summary: So many dead, so little left to protect. One for All responds to Deku’s dream and pulls him into the past.

a credit! @thelennystorm for inspiring Nana’s Quirk and Hero name (pls message me if you would like this changed)

//

“You did everything right,” said the specter, All for One’s younger brother. Izuku stayed prone on the ground, feeling hollow and just… not very Plus Ultra about his situation. The world was teetering on the brink of desolation; only the most overpowered heroes had survived the first few cataclysms, and they shuttled back and forth between the remaining communes of humanity.

All for One had stopped playing games. Humanity starts anew, he had declared on every screen, every soundwave, or not at all.

Izuku had spent close to fifteen years being one of Japan’s Symbols of Peace. He was thirty-five now, and no closer to finding a successor than he was to eradicating All for One.

“I should be doing more,” he grieved.

The sickly-complexioned man tilted his head. “Didn’t you hear me? You’re doing all you can.” His voice turned remorseful. “If anything, my older brother should have been stopped long ago.”

Izuku closed his eyes. “None of you could access One for All like me. I’m the one with a shot at beating him and his regenerative Quirks, and I can’t find him.”

Izuku had met and befriended other countries’ top heroes, but One for All was unique in its stockpiling of its previous users and its unlimited potential, so no one had yet matched Izuku’s prowess. But no one offered any help either.

Japan’s problem, the United Nations had decreed, just before All for One turned his attention from his homeland to the world, Japan’s responsibility.

And that had set the policy up to the present.

He took breaks in this mindscape. His predecessors flitted in and out of awareness, talking less and less as time marched on. All for One’s younger brother’s presence broke the streak of loneliness and silent accusations.

“Midoriya,” said the man. “How badly do you want to fix this?” He gestured broadly at the mindscape, but Izuku got the gist. How badly do you want to stop All for One?

“I’d give my life,” he answered.

“When would you do it?”

The evenness of the interrogation was beginning to mess with Izuku’s mind. And then there was that choice of when, not how. He contemplated the question with all the seriousness it demanded. He used to track All for One’s history; when and who the villain had killed or taken the Quirk of, when were the most pivotal moments. He used to dream about saving those people.

Most of all, he used to dream about saving All Might’s predecessor.

Shimura Nana had not been a famous hero, but she had been well-liked among her peers. Flicker Vision, the Vanishing Hero. Able to disappear from sight for five seconds at a time—a distortion of her cells, so far as Izuku had experienced. According to all documents, her death had occurred via an unknown detonation of red and black energy in a city never rebuilt. Izuku had begged the rest of the narrative from Nana, who’d recounted what she could with a forced smile. All Might’s face, downcast and miserable, provided the dry account with all the emotions it entailed.

“I’d save Shimura-san,” Izuku finally murmured. “She came the closest to destroying all his operations at the time, and she came face to face with him. If I could go back, it’d be that fight.”

“That fight made your hero,” said the man. “That’s when All Might was forged. You’d trade one legend for one forgotten name?”

He had given thought to changing the battle of Kamino Ward, his other concrete reference point, but during All for One’s temporary imprisonment, he had gloated about recently achieving invincibility in conjunction with immortality. That necessitated an earlier change.

Izuku cracked open an eye. “All Might didn’t need a crucible,” he shot back. “He already had his ideals, and his purpose.” He bit his lip, and did a cursory check for the souls around them. No Nana or All Might tonight. “And…” he reluctantly added, because this admission would mean his decision was not wholly objective, “he loved her.”

“Like a mother.”

It stung. Mostly because the memory of Izuku’s own mother hadn’t yet scarred over yet. But no, he couldn’t think of that now, or he’d be crying the rest of his break away. He made a noise of vague agreement, just to appease the man.

He got poked in the cheek. “Hey, Midoriya.”

Izuku sighed.

“Time to go.”

//

The unceremonious booting from his own mindscape, Izuku thought uncharitably, was clearly an omen for this fucking mess of a fight. He evaded the fingers headed for his stomach, blindly swung out with a retaliatory kick. Shigaraki was wearing his glee proudly, and already treating this battle like a playful, if deadly, spar.

They even had something like a script by this point. Izuku had bumped into Shigaraki far too often to not develop one.

“Where’s All for One?” he demanded.

“Sensei’s busy,” sang the villain. “Too busy for the likes of you.”

They circled each other for a few seconds, and then Izuku tapped into Nana’s Quirk, then exercised Black Whip to trip the other man. He faded back into sight behind the sprawled Shigaraki. “That’s unfortunate,” he said, planting a foot right between the shoulder blades. “Because I have some plans to kill him.”

A startled giggle. “Kill? Wow, so much for being a hero!”

Izuku was too jaded by this point to let the jibe sting him. He lessened the pressure on Shigaraki’s spine in any case, only to flinch back at the handfuls of powdery dust being flung at his face.

And then he was choking on pain, because Shigaraki—always, always faster than he should be—had gotten to his feet and had slammed all five fingers to his stomach, his other hand curling in on Izuku’s collar.

Full Cowl’s protection meant that there was a delay. It meant that there was a painful delay.

“Izuku!” barked All for One’s younger brother. “Pull back your fist!”

Through the agony of skin splintering and reknitting, regenerating and decaying, Izuku obeyed. Shigaraki’s grin grew wilder at the defiant sight, and he crowed something unintelligible.

“Think of your dream!” urged the man. “Think of all who were reliant on you to protect them,” and Izuku closed his eyes and pictured the dead, his mentors and his classmates and his family; he pictured Nana’s slumped back as she recalled her final moments, and All Might’s horror at hearing what he’d left his shishou to face, “AND STRIKE WITH ALL YOUR MIGHT!”

Izuku—backed by his eight predecessors howling that same, angry pitch—screamed and punched forward.

The wind enveloped them. Then the world ripped apart.

//

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” babbled a deep, if youthful, voice. “Is he dead? Where’d he come from?”

“Kid, pull it together,” said a more gravelly tone. It was closer to Izuku, who was fighting past the cobwebs and frantically pulling on One for All, which felt smaller than it had before he and Shigaraki—

His eyes snapped open, and although he instinctively tried to sit up, a throbbing bolt of pain encouraged him to fall back instead. “Shit—!”

“Steady,” said the presence kneeling by his shoulder. No steadying hand was offered though. “What’s your name? Do you know who attacked you?”

Blinking past the tears, Izuku reoriented himself first. In front of him, nervously bouncing from foot to foot, was a—oh. Oh, wow. It was a much younger All Might, when he wasn’t using One for All. Izuku could tell by the sunflower yellow hair and the Young Age costume.

Next to him was… his brain stalled. Gran Torino. He was tall, and broadly-muscled, but Izuku could recognize the silver hair (longer, more tousled and rakish) and hawk-like eyes, the off-white and yellow costume that clearly hadn’t changed over the decades.

“Did a—did you see anyone else?” he croaked. “Man a bit above our age. Gray hair. Mole on his lower right jaw.”

Gran Torino looked at All Might, and tilted his head expectantly.

“No,” said All Might. His expression was more than a little queasy. “No, I think—I think you might be laying in him though.”

Izuku—didn’t look down. Valiantly refused to look down. If he had a growing awareness of something seeping into his uniform, sticky and warm, then so what? His environment appeared to be a back alley. Coffee spilled all the time. So Izuku kept his mind busy studying Gran Torino. Doesn’t look like he’s grieving. Does look like he’s in a hurry. What happened to me?

“It’s not on your face,” All Might provided helpfully.

“Your name,” said Gran Torino impatiently.

“Deku,” slipped out before Izuku could filter it. He’d gone by it for too long, hearing it more than his civilian name in the recent years. “No, sorry, uh. Midoriya Izuku.”

Populations had skyrocketed in the world once Quirks were determined to be tailored in 80% of them. So names were in abundance. He wouldn’t strike any mysterious records, where they would find parallels between him and his future baby self.

Gran Torino’s head jerked, like he had heard something. He inhaled sharply, but upon catching Izuku’s eyes, let it go. He needed to jet off then.

Izuku tested his limbs. One for All was doing some miracle work, regenerating the torn muscle fibers and decayed organ tissue. He’d be ready to go any second. “If you gotta go, you gotta go,” said Izuku encouragingly. “I’ll call a friend.”

“To take you to the hospital I hope,” huffed the man.

He made a noncommittal noise. All Might shuffled his stance again, and nervously reminded his teacher of shishou. A concussive force hummed through the air, and in the distance, there were the faint shrieks of sirens, the tremors of buildings facing imminent collapse.

Okay. Izuku was in the right time. Now to just shadow along behind these two.

“You a hero?” demanded Gran Torino. He got to his feet, paused for a beat, scoffed, and offered his hand out. Izuku took it.

“Close enough,” he answered. His license had been lost and shredded a few years ago, but by then, his was a recognizable face and costume. You only had to say green in guessing games, and thoughts would immediately go to Deku. Izuku closed his eyes and pulled at One for All, and the familiar rush of Full Cowl enveloped him.

“You a vigilante?”

Izuku grimaced. “I think your intern mentioned a shishou,” he reminded Gran Torino pointedly. No need to interrogate him about the legality of his work, never mind his identity. Maybe the chaos of the times would be a boon; he could slip right into the Quirk register and Japan’s government records without a second glance.

Gran Torino clicked his tongue, clearly torn between racing for Nana and locking down an unknown, highly suspect element.

Finally, he relented. “If you’re a hero, start a perimeter and begin rescue,” he ordered. “If you’re an enemy, give me the goddamn pleasure of letting me know now, so I can beat you unconscious without wasting time.”

Izuku couldn’t resist. “And if I’m a civilian?”

Gran Torino glared. “Yeah, nice try. Jumpsuit and gear like that? Soaked in blood? You’re one or the other. Tell me now.”

A yellow-gloved hand was curling into a fist. Izuku was familiar enough with his mentor that the steady breathing was preparation for movement, and it was clear that a Gran Torino in his prime had much better lung capacity than an elder. He snapped off a smart salute. “Hero.”

“Then get,” said Gran Torino. To All Might, who was avidly watching the byplay, he snapped, “Let’s go, kid.”

Anyone else might have lost them after the first two seconds.

Midoriya Izuku, using 100% of One for All? Child’s play. He closed his eyes and centered himself, now more than aware that two people had just vanished from his Quirk, and when he opened them, green irises gleamed.

1/?

*note: in the All Might Rising OVA, All Might refers to Nana as oshishou; the ‘o-’ prefix is an indicator of respect, so far as google tells me. think ‘onee-san’ or ‘otou-san’ versus ‘nee-san’ and ‘tou-san.’

i didn’t bother translating shishou to master, like the subtitles did, mostly because... well, the English doesn’t really hold that emotional relationship you see in these mentorships (thinking of the other mentorship i’m familiar with, which is Sakura and Tsunade)

<<and then i didn’t add the prefix ‘o-’ because deep down, i’m a victim of habit, and i’ve seen shishou more than oshishou>>

[pineaberry]

Self-Destruct

This is essentially a backstory for my new Jedi Consular (Vaakot) and Imperial Agent (Ara Cidran).

Warning: Death, slavery, mentions of mutilation

What happens when you break the rules and the Matriarch must execute justice.

The heavy rain pummeled the flagstones of the courtyard leading up to the manor’s massive wooden doors. A single hooded figure cut a path through the heavy drops and opened the entrance with the wave of her hand. The large building was unguarded, the heavy layer of dust betraying the fact that the manor had been abandoned a full year before. A single flickering light emitting from the study cut through the darkness. She pushed open the door and there was her brother, surrounded by tattered books and half-scribbled notes. She had hoped that after his lover’s death he would have taken time to mourn and spend time with his newborn child, but it was not to be.

He remained seated behind a large desk presumably absorbed within a tome of some ancient art, but Atrophine knew better. He was aware of her presence, they’d always been unusually close, even for siblings.

“Fallow, what have you done?” her rueful tone reverberated through the stone walls. The book slammed shut and durasteel gray eyes stared up at her defiantly.

“I did what I had to. I’ve claimed the birthright you denied me!”

“I can see through your borrowed words, Brother. I warned you Isaira’s ambition knew no bounds-”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare speak her name! All she ever wanted was to be worthy of me. Everything she did was for me! To free me from your control!”

“I am not here to argue about your lover’s inferiority complex.”

“You would know all about inferior lovers. The entire House is keenly aware of your love for the military. Does he simper and grovel and beg prettily?” he sneered,

“Mind. Your. Words. Unlike your petty infatuation, my husband has earned his place in my House.”

He bared his teeth at her in an angry grimace before shoving away from his desk.

“Isaira would never bend to my will like he does, but you couldn’t have that, could you? You couldn’t have her in your house without kneeling! You couldn’t have Isaira’s daughter challenging your supremacy! My daughter!”

“Am I to understand that you blame me for your child’s force-blindness as well? I don’t recall ordering you to breed with that woman. Tell me Fallow, is there any responsibility at all that you’re willing to shoulder at this point?”

“Explain it then! Explain why my pure blooded daughter stumbles blindly in the darkness when your own half-breed spawn all but burns with her strength in the Force!”

Atrophine unsheathed her lightsaber and glared at him. Only her love for him prevented her from igniting it and cutting out his insolent tongue.

“Maker’s sake Fallow, you’re a grown man and a healer at that. An articulate Massassi Brute spreads her legs and you forget two decades of medical training? I shouldn’t have to explain what you did wrong! I shouldn’t have to tell you her genetics were riddled with so much inbreeding and slave stock that she was a step up from sterile! She could barely provide you with a living offspring much less a force-user! You should have asked her to build you a temple not bear you an heir!”

“She was my lover! And you! You forced her to raise a force-blind child as a mark of shame! You forced her to acknowledge a damaged offspring just to humiliate her!”

Atrophine stared at him defiant, refusing to apologize for her actions regardless of how they were perceived.

“Is that why you did it then? Your inability to love your child, you complete lack of empathy for a life you created, had you resort to murder?”

“Don’t lecture me!” he snarled as he threw the heavy desk between them against the wall with a single swoop of Force, “Don’t stand there with your hands covered in her blood and lecture me about taking a life! All she wanted was to prove she was your equal and you killed her for it! You coddle and protect every strayed Imperial that wanders into your arms but when it came to her! When it came to the the center of my world! Where was you damned mercy then?!”

“She challenged my leadership! She demanded a duel because her ambition blinded her to her weakness! SHE COULD NOT LIVE AS MY BETTER SO I ALLOWED HER TO DIE AS MY EQUAL!” she snapped blocking a chunk of stone he’d ripped up off the floor. “And you Fallow… you were my brother! You had a daughter that depended on you and what have you done? You’ve broken into my library, stolen sacred holocrons, and murdered Lord Antarus in the process! Antarus was one of our own bloodline! Did you think I would ignore your actions? Did you think you would not have to face the consequences of your crimes?”

Fallow’s silver eyes narrowed but his lips curled into a mad smile. He released a barrage of lightning causing Atrophine to raise a barrier in order to block the attack. The attack rebounded and struck Fallow squarely in the chest.

“You’re too late!” he choked as he doubled over, “do what you will with me sister, it is done… I’ve created a child given every advantage available. A child whose genetic code was updated and refined just as you purified your own child. When the time comes… my son. Isaria’s son will take his rightful place as Darth Cidran...”

“Do you think me blind? Do you think I don’t know all of this?” she asked her eyes reflecting only pain and regret. “I could have helped you. If this is what you wanted, I would have given you the child. He would have been born in the Medical House and wanted for nothing. Even this, all of this could have been forgiven. But even now, that woman blinds you to your sin. You murdered Lord Antarus.”

“Antarus was a decrepit old man too loyal to an ideal to have any common sense.”

“You’re a fool and an idiot! I didn’t come here to kill you, Fallow. I came to see if you were capable of showing an ounce of regret. I came to see if you could give me even a single excuse to overlook what you’ve done!”

A group of Sith in hooded cloaks filed in solemnly followed closely by a man with unnaturally silver hair in an Imperial uniform. Moff cords and bars decorated his jacket. His cold blue eyes stared at the cornered Sith Lord.

“Lord Fallow, we have heard the accusations leveled against you. As Darth Cidran, I find you guilty of the murder of Lord Antarus. In accordance with our law, you are hereby sentenced...” Atrophine took a breath before her silver eyes hardened, “you and your bloodline are stripped of your House, your holdings, and your title. You will be put to death and all record of your name will be purged from the archives. Your holdings are forfeit to Lord Antarus’ surviving family.”

Fallow’s eyes widened as though only just realizing the seriousness of his crimes.

“You can’t… you can’t be serious! You can’t give away what’s mine! I have an heir!”

All eyes were on Atrophine as she remained stoic observing Fallow’s increasing panic.

“Your daughter was born legitimately. She will be given to Imperial Intelligence. If she is worthy, she will find her way way home. Until then, she is banished to live without a family.”

“And my son? What are you going to do with my son?!”

“Your son is tainted with Lord Atarus’ blood. His birth was an act of violence against our family. He has no place among us. He will be processed as a slave: sterilized, branded, and crippled so he may never again raise his hand against us. We will retrieve the power you sought to steal and he will never wield the Dark Side again.”

“You can’t! Atrophine! Atrophine, you’re my sister, you can’t!”

“I am Darth Cidran, and you are not my brother! You are a murderer and you will watch the entire process before you die.”

The rain fell heavy upon the large transparent window pane. It was a different storm than the one that had befallen Fallow’s manor, this one was lighter, almost gentle. Gray light filtered through the clouds casting a silver sheen over every surface. The Main House was tastefully furnished and kept in immaculate condition by a fleet of service droids. The walls held paintings and tapestries wrested from Coruscant, Alderaan, and various Republic holdings. There were priceless treasures and masterpieces claimed over generations with each victory, now beheld by only a select few. Usually the Main House held a softness and warmth unusual among the Sith, but displayed only towards their own, closely knit family. Today the House was cold.

Darth Cidran stood at one of the oversized windows and stared at a red smear on the courtyard. The deed was done:  Justice and order restored at the price of her own heart. She stood, draped in crimson and gold, but feeling as though all the light had drained out of her. Her thoughts lay buried within her memories revisiting every moment where she could have changed the outcome. All the times she refused to act, she had justified it with the belief that her brother meant no harm. Darth Cidran stared at the lick of red being washed away by the soft rains.

She could have forbidden it. She could have spirited away the woman he’d become so entranced by. She could have forced him to remain in the Main House. He would have hated her, but he would still be alive.

She could have spared the creature’s life…

The idea had been repulsive to her. To have spared Isaira’s life after her disrespectful tirade would have tarnished her name. To allow that low-born creature to continue drawing breath after insulting her would have been a crippling blow to her honor. Yet now, faced with his loss she would gladly bear it.

“No. You’re wrong,” a voice cut into her thoughts and she glanced to see her husband approaching with a sleeping child in his arms. The light contrasted with the scar that covered most of the right side of his face, marring what would have otherwise been a pleasantly symmetrical face.

“I’ve not said anything dearest.”

“You were thinking it. I can tell because you get that look on your face, that same look you get when a healing’s gone wrong,” he replied as stood by her side.

“How is she doing?” Atrophine changed the subject to the sleeping toddler.

“Difficult to say. It doesn’t seem Fallow paid her any mind. She wouldn’t stop crying for her nanny droid. I’ve had one of the scouts see if he could find the damned thing before...”

“Before she’s handed over,” Atrophine finished the sentence for him.

Atrophine could sense his hesitation. Veroz was a practical man with practical thoughts, that wasn’t to say he was stupid, but often times she could sense his puzzlement at Sith customs and obligations. She’d caught him several times reading up on Sith codes of honor to glean some sort of understanding.

“Are you sure you want to go through with it? Wasn’t his death enough?”

“You know I don’t want to, love. It’s not her fault,” Atrophine replied as she carefully took the sleeping child from him, “my poor little Ara. I’d hoped you and Tremas would grow up to be the best of friends. I’d hoped you would have found your own way, your own strength, your own power. I would have been with you every step of the way. I would have given you every advantage, every opportunity.”

Veroz watched as his wife gently rubbed the small child’s back. He knew she was saying goodbye.

“You won’t remember my face, or your parents, or this place, but I want you to remember my words,” her voice became laced with strands of raw Force as she spoke, “always remember you have a home. You are not an orphan. You are not abandoned. You are not alone. You are loved… you are so loved… come back to us. No matter where you are in this galaxy, find us. Remember where you belong. Remember… that we will be waiting for you.”

They walked in silence down the brightly lit corridors to the nursery. She pressed a kiss on the toddler’s forehead before tucking her in bed.

“She will be out of harm’s way,” Veroz promised once they’d left the room, “one of my agents will place her in a secure home.”

“She will be a pureblooded Sith in the Republic without the Force to protect her. Her life will not be easy, but her fate is better than that of her brother’s,” Atrophine countered as they descended the great spiral staircase down into the kitchens. Veroz opened the ornately decorated door to the servant’s quarters and immediately heard an infant’s desperate cries coming from deep within one of the barracks.

An Inquisitor was there monitoring the child’s health with a scanner. He bowed when Darth Cidran approached.

“The procedure has been completed, my lord. He has been clipped and marked as a non-breeding slave.”

Atrophine gave a single nod in acknowledgement before dismissing the healer with a wave of her hand. Slowly she approached the crying infant. Unlike his sister, he was not dressed in silks and his ridges held no gold adornments. He was bare-faced and swaddled in coarse rags. His lips had been slashed with twin parallel lines to indicate his status as an undesirable, chemically neutered slave. All the physical modifications we easy enough to numb, she knew his pain and cries came from the force alchemy procedure he had just endured.

Veroz remained at the doorway at a loss to what he could say. There were no words to ever fix what was happening. Finally he fished out a tiny gold bracelet with a name set in shining letters and offered it to his wife.

“It appears Fallow named him. ‘Isauro’, after his mother.”

Atrophine stared at the gilded letters describing a child so very different than the one sobbing before them. She reached out and placed a hand over his forehead soothing his distress as she visibly forced herself not to hold him.

“Isauro of House Cidran is the child you would have been. You would have grown up within these walls. The gardens would have been your domain, the hidden rivers and wonders of the mountain yours to discover. In our libraries you would have learned of your legacy and the knowledge left for us to hold. Within our Houses you would have found your passion, your talent, your skills… you would have been treasured. You would have been our pride...” her hand clenched around the bracelet, “but that is not who you are. You are… the culmination of greed and malice. You are the by-product of a selfish desire that threatened to destroy us; a blind ambition that cannot be rewarded. Your wings have been broken, your song torn from your throat. We have taken back the power that was stolen. You will never know the warmth of crimson sands or the bond of family or the thrill of your first hunt. You will never fully experience freedom or passion or love. These are gifts from the Dark Side and they are denied to you. You are banished to the cold unfeeling depths of isolation. You are not Isauro, that child does not exist. I name you Vaakot. Do not search for your family. You have none. Do not search for your past, it has disowned you.”

Veroz listened solemnly as she uttered the words like a curse upon the child. He knew what would happen should Vaakot remain within the Empire. A crippled pureblood unable to use the Dark Side would be enslaved and suffer a particularly gruesome death. Even should Atrophine allow Vaakot to remain within her House, he would be disdained and abused by all of its members.

“The only gift I give to you, is a life within the ice. It will have to be enough, you will receive nothing else, Vaakot,” she said as the child cried louder and she turned away as though pained before summoning her Inquisitor once more.

“Take the creature to Nar Shadda. On the promenade’s second floor you will find a slave market. Sell it there and give the money to Lord Antarus’ heirs to make amends for his existence...”

Once the wailing child had been taken away, Veroz held Atrophine. They both knew what was in that market. The Republic kept a close eye on it and a Sith Pureblood would attract their attention. A life among the Jedi… a life among the cold barren wasteland of the Force was the best he could aspire to be. Tomorrow, he would take little Ara to her new life but Ara’s trip was the beginning a journey. Unlike Vaakot, Ara would be able to find her way back home.

[plaidstiel-wormstache]

To The Wolves

This one is for @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog, Mimi’s Rom Com Fluff Challenge. I picked the quote from the movie Ever After, “She came to tell you the truth and you fed her to the wolves!” But I hope you don’t mind I added one or two words in there. Word Count: 3062 Characters: Reader, John, Dean, Sam, mentions of Bobby Warnings: angst, fluff, kissing, mentions of supernatural violence and death, possible triggers for an abusive male figure A/N: This one was beta’d by (you guessed it) @whispersandwhiskerburn, I couldn’t do it without you. You’re the person I’d thank at an award ceremony. This fic is also set when the boys are younger and still hunting under John’s watchful eye. Flashback in Italics, quote in bold.

“Uncle John, I need to talk to you.” “What is it, Y/N?” His voice was weary, as if he already knew what was coming. I noticed the boys were pointedly not looking at me. I swallowed, then continued. “I want to lead this hunt. It’s a werewolf case--I can handle it.” “No.” No reasons, no nothing. That was what Sam and I both hated about John--he was such a drill-sergeant. His way was the only way when you hunted with John Winchester. “But Uncle John, you never let me--” “I said no, Y/N. And if you can’t listen and follow orders, then you can sit out for this case.” He was standing now, squaring off against me. The Winchester patriarch may have passed his prime, but his body was still coiled muscle and his mind was as sharp as a tack. He eyed me up and down, noting my defiant stance. “I’m serious, Y/N. You’re off this case until I say otherwise.” The room was shrinking around me, suddenly the size of a closet; there was nowhere to get away from Uncle John’s angry stare or the pitying looks coming from the Sam and Dean. Well, I’d show them.

But I didn't. I got my ribs cracked and got a civilian killed instead. And now I had to tell John. Which was going to be way worse than a few ribs going snap.

“Uncle John?” I squeaked. It was quiet; the boys were outside loading up the Impala for the hunt that I'd already finished. “Yeah, doll?” He didn’t look up from the journal page he was filling in, but his mouth did lift up at the side. I suppose my familial name for him made him happy in some way. He wasn't biologically my Uncle, much like Bobby wasn't biologically my Dad, but I’d been with Bobby since I was little and when I started showing an interest in the physical side of hunting, it had been natural to ride along with John and the boys. Every muscle was tense, almost shaking, as I tried to think of how best to say it, my lungs struggling to expand more from fear than the pain of my ribs. I focused on keeping my hand from shaking as I pulled a chair out next to him and sat down. It was better to not have my knees knocking during this. “I...uh” It was like cranking a lever, trying to finally get the words out, and when they finally came they poured out in a stream so fast I had no control over it: “I know you told me not to, but I wanted to show you I could, I killed the werewolf, but not before he could get the woman he’d taken. She was between us, and he must have thought I'd back off, but I didn't and he, well, I thought he was turning her but he’d killed her when I… but I killed it, Uncle John. I killed him. There's no more werewolf. I ganked the bas…” I let myself trail off, watching his hands anxiously. He'd stopped breathing, but the real tension was in his clenching fist, the fingers snapping the pencil he had been writing with. When I gathered the courage to look at his face, I found his eyes boring holes into me. “I'm sorry.” I added, like it’d make up for everything, like those two words would stop the red climbing up his neck and into his face. “You what?” John’s voice was deadly quiet. I was frozen. He seemed to be waiting for my response. He was breathing again, which was a good sign, and he'd lowered the pencil shrapnel to the table. But his fingers were still clenched into fists and I could tell he was struggling to maintain his composure. “I killed the werewolf last night when you and--” John pushed up from the table, his chair exploding out from under him and rocketing back, crashing against the wall and clattering to the floor. I flung myself out of my chair as well, quickly grabbing at my side as my ribs screamed from the quick movement. John saw it and reached across the table, grabbing at my shirt and lifting before I could pull away. He clearly saw the black and blue and purple, the scratches and the angry welt that was right over two of my ribs. I pulled away from him and backed up towards the door. “What the fuck were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all? You got an innocent person killed. You got your damn ribs broken. You could have been bitten or killed!” He took a deep breath and made an effort to calm himself. “You defied a direct order. Seriously. Tell me. What. Were. You. Thinking?” He wasn’t yelling anymore--but this quiet harsh intensity was worse. I stared on, unsure if he actually wanted me to say something or if he was testing me. At that moment, I wanted nothing more from life than to sink through the floor. Anything to escape John's angry stare, forcing me to think about what had happened--what I had let happen. The victim's blue eyes flashed in front of me again, the way I knew they would for the rest of my life. Somehow, John's gaze was worse, more personal. I might learn to live with the guilt. But his disappointment...I doubted I'd ever be able to recover from that. “Get out.” John said quietly. Was this a test? If I left, could I return? Get out for now? Or forever? What did he- “Leave!” John roared, hurling the bottle at the wall nearby. Beer and shards of glass rained over my bare arm and spattered against my jeans. I felt the tears start behind my eyes and rushed out the door before John could see. Sam and Dean were outside, having stopped what they were doing to head in, probably at the noise John was making. I couldn’t hide the tears streaming down my cheeks from them, but I didn’t have to stay and deal with it either.

I grabbed for the keys in my pocket and wrenched open the door of my buggy. The tears in my eyes made it difficult to place the key in the ignition, but finally it slid in, and I sputtered the old thing to life, tearing out of the driveway as fast as it could go. These weren't sad tears. I was fuming. I was angry at myself for being stupid enough to think I could do the job, for killing a human, for not listening when John told me I couldn't handle it, for not obeying Dad and keeping my promise to be smart with the Winchesters, for showing weakness and running away...Hell, I was even angry for confessing to Uncle John. At that moment, there wasn’t much I wasn’t angry about in this world and this life that I had chosen.

Dean’s stride was long as he started his storm towards the front door, but Sam caught his shoulder. “You go, I’ll deal with Dad.” Sam instructed his older brother. “No, Sam, you heard Dad. He’s ripe for another screaming match and if you go in there-” Dean tried, but Sam ignored his brother’s protests. “It’ll be fine, Dean, go find YNN.” Sam said before entering the room and slamming the door shut behind him. Dean threw in the duffel he was still holding and rounded the Impala. With one foot in the well of the drivers side, he listened to the shouting begin. “Oh come on, Dad!” Even though Sam was nineteen, his voice cracked as he yelled at their father. “Don't you start, Sam.” John yelled back. Dean had heard this all before, no point listening for the rest. He took off after the buggy, knowing YN’d pull over eventually to shed all her tears and maybe a few bullets, before continuing.

Sure enough, the blue buggy was pulled off to the side of the road, the fields fence dipped where someone had held it down to climb over and the distant boom of a gun and echoing profanities could be heard. Dean waited on the front of his car until he could see YN in the distance, the moon catching in her silvery-blonde hair. She was clutching at her ribs and almost limping as she crossed the recently dredged dirt. “Rough fight?” Dean called out to her, sliding off the bonnet and walking toward the fence. “You should see the other guy.” She waited till she was closer to respond, but her voice was hoarse, and her smile was forced. “What happened?” Dean asked, pushing the fence lower and offering his hand as she clambered over. “I fucked up big time, Dean.” She confessed, staring up at him. Her big round eyes were bloodshot and the small catch of breath gave away that she'd been crying. “We all have, kiddo.” Dean said, walking her back towards the Impala and patting the bonnet, helping her up to take a seat.

“YN’s just flown out of here in tears. What happened?” Sam asked his Dad after shutting the door a little too harshly. “She thought she could take on a werewolf and instead she cost a civilian her life.” John answered matter-of-factly, already righting the chair that he had sent flying earlier. “Oh come on, Dad!” It was almost an accusation as Sam cast his hands through his shaggy hair. “Don't you start, Sam.” John warned, slamming his fist onto the table. “Start what, Dad? You don't let YNN do anything! What did you think was gonna happen?” Sam yelled, though he was still a little shorter than his father, and a lot lighter, he could be just as menacing. “I thought she'd listen!” John roared again. His temper flaring just as quickly as it had dropped. “Listen to what? Your constant put downs?” “She’s not ready for any of this!” John bellowed. “Is that why she ganked a werewolf by herself? She’s younger than Dean was when he--” Sam tried but John wasn't willing to listen. “And got an innocent killed!” “All she wants to do is impress you! If you didn't set such a high bar,” “High bar? She just came in and-” “She just came in to tell you the truth, and you fed her to the wolves!” Sam was too angry  to realize that his wording had managed to shut John up. “She tried to talk to you last night. Hell, she’s tried to talk to you about this for ages--you bring her along on hunts, say you’re training her, but always leave her in the car or stick her doing clean up detail. She’s smart, and strong, and so damn ready to impress you. And all you do is ignore her. She went out on this hunt on her own--and then told you about it afterward, even though things didn’t go right. Do you know how much courage that would've taken? She could have just not said anything--we’d have never known that she was there and was responsible for that woman’s death--we’d have blamed the wolf, and you know it!” Sam took in a deep breath, his eyes burning with emotion. “Maybe you can’t see it, Dad, but she’s a hell of a lot more ready for this than you give her credit for. It’s not her fault you don’t trust anyone to make decisions for themselves, to lead their own lives.” Sam waited, but John just stood there, looking at his youngest son as if he didn’t recognize him. After a minute, Sam sighed, rolled his eyes, and went back outside to get some air, leaving his father alone.

“So what's the play?” Dean asked, watching as I lifted the hem of my shirt and wiped my nose. “What do you think I should do?” I asked, looking at the young hunter who reminded me so much of John...just not as jaded or set in his ways. “Well…” Dean leaned back on his hands, lost in thought. “The way I see it, you can either, one,” Dean sat forward and counted on his fingers, “go back to Bobby’s, hang it all up and answer phones like your old man. Or two, suck it up and come back with me. Face the music.” Dean explained, watching as I weighed the pros and cons of the forked path. “I want to hunt, but…” My nose twitched and my lips pulled to the side, a habit I’d had since before I could remember. “I wanna see Dad,” I was aware that I probably sounded like a bratty teenager, I suppose I still was, one more year, though. Dean smiled and pulled me under his arm, resting his chin on the top of my head. The real reason I wasn’t already leaving was because of moments like this. With Dean. I’d miss my best friend, Sam, as well, but Dean made it extra tough to leave. His fingers gently grazed back and forth along the hairline at my temple, his lips pressed in my hair. I wanted those lips against mine. But I’m sure he only saw me as his little cousin. “Dean?” I asked, ducking from under his jaw and looking up at him. Dammit those green eyes made it hard to think. “Yeah, sweetheart?” He murmured, seemingly in a hypnotic trance as he licked his lips. Thoughts of his plump, wet, lips pressed against mine were making it hard to tell what I really wanted. “I wanna go home.” I whispered. There it was. The truth. “YNN?” Dean leaned forward, a miniscule movement but to me it was a flashing neon sign. My cheeks were flushed and I was overly aware of my sweaty palms and suddenly sure I had turned beet red, but good god there was that tongue again. I mirrored his movement, my head tilting towards his. Maybe if I offered the opportunity, I wouldn’t be the fool that made a pass that wasn’t-- And then he was kissing me. His lips were warm and wet, but not sloppy. It was better than I could’ve ever dreamed. His breath was warm as it caressed my face when we broke apart. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-” Dean tried, but I wanted him to shut up. I wanted his lips back on mine. I closed the distance and kissed him this time, opening to him when his tongue darted across my bottom lip.

“You alright?” Sam asked, standing up from his seat on the gutter as I got out of my small bug. “Yeah, thanks Sammy. Sorry I left you with him in such a bad mood.” And I was. Poor Sam had been dealing with Marine Corporal John Winchester while Dean and I made out. “You and Dean talk?” He asked as we both watched the Impala pull into the overgrown driveway When he saw my blush his eyebrows waggled. “Oh, so you finally got that off you chest, huh? Feel better now?” “How about you? Did you tell John your big secret?” I shot back. I didn’t mean for it to come out defensively, but at least it wiped the smirk off his face and stopped him thinking about Dean and me. “Dad not here?” Dean called out, making me look around as well. John’s truck wasn’t there. “Went for a beer.” Sam said as we joined Dean on the run-down porch. I studied Sam quickly to make sure he was okay after my verbal jab, then followed Dean inside to grab my things.

“Well, I’ll see you around.” I looked between the boys, standing awkwardly in front of them, one hand tucked into my back pocket as the other cradled my throbbing side. My bags were packed and already in the car, Bobby knew the story and I’m sure I’d get a lecture when I got home. Dean moved first, pulling me into a hug, careful of my ribs. “See you soon.” He whispered, giving my cheek a lingering kiss. I could feel my cheeks grow warm, and the thought of seeing Dean sooner rather than later made me giddy. But it was over all too soon and Dean dropped his arms and stepped back. I turned to Sam, giving him a tight hug. “Tell them.” It was quieter than a whisper. I waited for him to nod before I gave his back a pat and released him. “Take care of yourselves.” I instructed while climbing into the car, both Winchesters nodding and smiling as they raised their hands in farewell.

The brothers watched her take off and turned to see John pull up. “Was that YN?” John called to his boys as he closed his door and walked towards them. “She said sorry to leave without saying goodbye. She just wanted to get back to Bobby.” Dean half lied. John nodded and the two men started towards the abandoned house that had served as base for this hunt. Sam watched as Y/N’s tail lights disappeared into the distance and turned to find he was standing on the drive by himself. Now was the moment. He knew he couldn’t wait much longer, and since the hunt was officially over, he could finally share his wonderful news. Sam bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time and looked into the empty rooms, looking for his family. “Dad? Dean?” Sam called, finally finding the two older Winchesters sitting in the dusty dining room laughing and smiling. They both looked up from the dining table where they were cleaning out the molds they had used last night to make new silver bullets. “What’s up, Sammy?” Dean asked, watching as his brother fished a piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolded it, placing it on the table between Dean and his father. “What’s that?” Dean asked when John picked up the paper, looking over it. Sam watched on anxiously as his Dad’s eyes darted back and forth over the document. “An acceptance letter. I got in...with a full ride scholarship.” He replied excitedly. Dean snatched up the paper from where John had let it fall from his hands. Sam stood a little straighter and smiled, his chest swelling with pride. “I’m going to Stanford.”

Please reblog and give me your thoughts, I’m dying to hear what you think. Again, thanks to Angel, a wonderful friend and beta. Let me know if you want to be added to tags. None of the gifs I use are my own, credit to the creators.

Tags: @ackleholic-hunter @akshi8278 @arryn-nyxx @autopistaaningunaparte @avasmommy224 @babypieandwhiskey @beckawinchester @blacktithe7 @bringmesomepie56 @chaos-and-the-calm67 @charliebradbury1104 @chvalkenberg95 @clairese1980 @dancingalone21 @dreamilyjensen @ellen-reincarnated1967 @eyes-of-a-disney-princess @fandoms-are-the-best-escape @frenchybell @gabby913 @grace-for-sale @green-love-red-fantasyhearts @hasta-impalasta @i-like-your-assbutt @ilostmyshoe-79 @impala-dreamer @impalaimagining @iwriteaboutdean @jalove-wecallhimdean @jensen-jarpad @kazchester-fanfiction @kristaparadowski @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @lipstickandwhiskey @lucifer-in-leather @lucis-unicorn @melonberri @manawhaat @mogarukes @mrswhozeewhatsis @munlis @nichelle-my-belle @notnaturalanahi @oriona75 @percywinchester27 @purgatoan @redlipstickandplaid @ruprecht0420 @sdavid09 @sherloki-moriartea @thegreatficmaster @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @wayward-mirage @waywardjoy @whispersandwhiskerburn @wheresthekillswitch @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname @wi-deangirl77 @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou @wideawakeandwriting @dont-trust-humanity @you-know-whodoesthat-crazypeople @maddieburcham1 @captainemwinchester @mrsbatesmotel53 @samwinjarpad @kittenofdoomage

[thoughtsfromthebackofmymind]

I waited for you

Jannette

Did you know that I’m not her? And I partially agreed to the wait because I didn’t believe you existed in the first place. But in the slight rare possibility that you did, you would definitely not want me. Because I’m not ‘her.’ I choke on soft words like ‘want’ and ‘need’. I hate flowers, red boxes of unpredictable strangely textured chocolate, balloons that take months to die and everything Valentines Day. I’m sorry but to me The Notebook and Pretty Woman were just okay. I am the one that fairies tell you to stay away from, I was never Cinderella, I was the evil stepmother. I was never the princess, I was the fire breathing dragon. I was Ursula, I was The Wicked Witch of the West, yet you still chose to knock on the door of this castle- my heart, unaware that an invisible fortress had been built due to much more experienced pain than a sting.

Unbeknownst to you, there’d be six more doors you’d have to get through before you ever even saw a glimpse of me. I was still wounded. Conditioned to live with a knife lodged in between my third and fourth intercostal margin which collapsed my left lung so I never left due to you being out of my comfort zone and shortness of breath. Besides I was already in a relationship with pain and I hated him but I loved him because pain had been faithful for years. I could rely on a past history that he was sure to come. My first love on Earth cheated on me, visiting me on holidays bearing beautifully wrapped gifts of empty promises tied with bows the colour of wishful thinking and then leaving me. An egg can’t produce without a seed and winter came, then summer, then spring, then fall and I guess mine took the option to leave because although mummy said I was beautiful, and that it wasn’t my fault, it still felt like incarcerated incidence so beauty, to me, was incomplete. Like having only five heartbeats with no reason to stand up, there was no heart in the house tonight, nights like this I wish and I’d pray;

“Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, please allow the clouds to gather and the sky to turn to grey. Lead us not into temptation. Oh how I wish that it would rain so when I look in the sky I can see my reflection.”

I got nervous when you got to door six,  but surely when you saw the auction off art on the wall no one else wanted, redescribing each and every one of my wounds, you’d see the ugliness of pain. That I’m not the beauty you thought me to be when you sat in an audience listening to a woman spit a poem about how she would wait. So confidently as I did every morning after taking off poetry and music and talents and great things others think of me because they’re just John’s Legends and can’t see all of me. I stepped outside to bask in the sun. He’s the one that knows me. He loves me. He has the ability to forsee and still loves me. So I stepped outside only to find you sleeping night after night in front of the door of my cold heart, “who led you inside?” I was terrified. No one has ever been this close but all you wanted to do was show me that we shared the same old wounds. There were no butterflies, just extreme discomfort because comfort is uncomfortable to someone more acquainted with pain than love. Fear began to eat at my mind and scared crows pucked up my warm heart long ago but even with the strength of ten men I’ve had no courage. I promise I’m not lying.

But for some strange reason you still felt like heels click three times. I was a relentless unpredictable storm. And I guess those other men were made of straw and hay because I huffed and puffed but the spirit that your brick body house wouldn’t go down. Why couldn’t I admit that your hand placed gently on the back of my neck calms me? Instead I accused you of trying to control me. I hated the way my heart became a defiant teenager and began listening to you instead of me. And even after you kept giving me your ‘I LOVE YOUs’, I couldn’t stop them from replaying in my mind when my spirit, my spirit was a witness to the Christ that I saw in your life. I started getting tired of the fight. I decided to give it a try just to prove to you that you too would leave just like my seed and die before petals, stems and leaves. My trusting heart had been attacked. I didn’t know the difference between accepting abuse and being the peacemaker. I’m left with a pacemaker, nobody wanted me. My rhythm is abnormal.

I lost my footing and I kept asking myself ‘who are you?’ While climbing the attractive mount Everest of your mind, I attempted to hike a little higher to take a peek at your soul. I lost my footing on that trail, dangled off the cliff of your condition of unconditional and that is where I fell in love, skydiving on the wings of your patience. Thank you for catching me. But this love, it’s too much. This love is just way too much because your smouldering volcano erupted upon my arrival. Smothering larva, I mean hot larva chasing me down, burning the pain of my past. Scorching heat on the back of my heels, a fire that screams ‘just let me love you!’  I fell, I am consumed, I am overwhelmed. Did you know that I am crazy? Did you know broken homes and corrupt fathers, fictitious family figments, fractured bones and stained glass windows shattered my windpipe? It’s hard to breathe when anyone gets close. Stand close. And just let me inhale your exhale. Stay close. Even when I punch you with my words, stay close. Even when I cut you with my fears, stay close. Look into my chilling eyes and remember, look at my chilling eyes and remember, look at my bleeding knees and remember, look at my bleeding lips and remember, I fell for you. And it took me thirty three years to let that pain die so that new hope and new life could resurrect.

You caught my tears like wilted worn bible pages, stored them up in bottles and let the collection remind me that as long as I stay close to him, I’d never thirst again. And when God removed the scales from my eyes, I remember looking at you for the first time and finally understood the meaning of the word ’Behold’. I remember the first time I looked into your eyes, it was like staring at the back of the moon only to find that it shines too. You wear patience like a tailored suit. And all I could do was thank God and your mother for raising the man I never believed could exist. You begin to see me transforming by the renewing, I was so comfortable cocooning as you studied the freckles in my face like constellations. How sweet it is to know that I’m with someone who would still find me beautiful with stretch marks? Even when I begin being stretched as I press towards the mark.

We are not Romeo and Juliet. We are just Matthew and Janette. We too are a beautifully written tragedy. We too fought in the beginning like Capulets and Montagues. We too persevered in love’s name. In love’s name, in Jesus’ name, two lovers destined to kill themselves daily for the love of Christ. And although we know the world considers this poison, we will continue to drink truth. Stabbing ourselves with the daggers of his word constantly to convictive. We live to fight another day, we live to die another day in order to live another unending day with our king in eternity. So far from what our adversaries had planned and written for our ending, but he’s nothing but a pretender. Trying to be an author and a finisher, posing as an angry, weak William that Shakespeare but as though many of his weapons would be formed, they’ll never prosper here.

And I know they told you, “Goodluck with her.” Many have tried. Cause not even Charlie could Parker, but your consistent love would make Ella stop having fits and put down her dukes. You have me willing to walk and hop on cold trains even on a holiday. Inspire the desire to not be headstrong but armstrong, you had me in a sentimental mood willing to walk miles to get to you. You became my black coffee and I couldn’t move on. I felt dizzy because I was out of my element like a uncovered monk but you’ve been a good man for more reasons than I could count. May the Lord continue to orchestrate this beautiful lifelong complex cord progression.

I could make a million promises with a long list of what I could vow but we are flawed human beings. And if there’s anyone who could break one before night’s end, it would be me that could show you how. So today I would let my yes be my yes, my no be my no and today my I do my I do. I vow that at times I will fail you. I vow that at times I will fall short but in failures and short comings, I won’t tap out, I won’t give up. I vow to gather arguments like evidence left behind by unsubs, having the humility to say I have this criminal mind and it is CSI for the sake of Law and Order. I vow not to buy into false romanticism saying things like “you complete me” because you don’t. In Christ I have already been made complete, the head over all. So I vow not to attribute glory to you that only belongs to God.

To you and only you today I commit, to you and only you I submit, with an attitude. The attitude of Christ Jesus. Who although existed in the form of God did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped but humbled himself and emptied himself  and made himself to the point where he became obedient even to the point of death. Even death on the cross and he would be my constant reflection as death on that cross was the greatest public display of affection. I’ve learned that he loved me enough to give me you, and so I vow to you my last breath.

[succorcreek]

When Girl Bullies grow up to be Psychopaths Spouses Thug Minions Full Psychopaths or Complicit Co-Criminals? Some women are pulled into the abuse by the psychopath abuse cycle. (see complicit in Topic word cloud archive below). They do not commit dangerous criminal acts but their compliance and ignorance of those harmed is "complicit co-criminality". Melania is such a case. See the series tab above for the series of articles on Melania and Co-criminals who are complicit psychopathy scale of 1-40 pts: 5 While this is a low score people complicit as co-criminals have often been tried some executed as WWll trials Some women have undefined character or personalities and just melt in with their spouse. They take on the spouses character and ideals. While they weren't sociopaths or psychopaths they become merged into their lover or spouses life and brain disorder: psychopath or sociopath. This feature in women may be a personality they are born with influenced by their problem family or taught to women through disempowerment (such as that modelled by the above type where Melania models submission and complicitness for women). Kellyanne Conway may fit this type: eager to say anything to be included in the Trump Boy's Club psychopathy scale: 10-15 points where one sees the cycle of abuse psychopathy scale is a participant in crime cannibalism SM torture pedophile rings: 40: wife is sometimes given criminal sentences equal to or almost equal to that of the husband instigator Some women have a life history of anti-social behavior. This is one of the predictors for possible teen or adult emerging psychopathy or sociopathy. Predictors in childhood may be different or the same predictors of boys who become dangerous psychopaths as adults. In boys harm of animals or others is often the main predictor (see predictor in topic cloud below). Girls who tend to more social behavior though may demonstrate more cruelty bullying and mind games early on. These may be girls that get into odd 2nd grade fights control parents torture a brother or intentionally expose the so called friends to being abandoned in the dark then lie about the situation. If this last case is so the same with boys / teens / men: there are clues of the disorder in childhood to be found if you look. Childhood antisocial behavior is called oppositional defiant disorder (though this author advocates for the use of just "antisocial disorder" for children and adults) The leader girl in Slender man murder: Bully Groomed and trained conned other girl into her "cult" deranged social games lack of compassion sympathy of the Psychopath Mythomania (see that in books catalog tab above and topic archive cloud below) Planning obsessed revengeful angry ideals for her age that are regressed and don't equal emotional development of 12 year old average girls: obsessed with her "cult" and not social boys appearance inclusion fads ideals of typical girls early oppositional history likely family of abuse or neglect exacerbating disorder Slender Man stabbing From Wikipedia the free encyclopedia Victims One 12-year-old female The Slender Man stabbing occurred on Saturday May 31 2014 in the city of Waukesha in Waukesha County Wisconsin when two 12-year-old girls allegedly lured another girl of the same age into the woods and stabbed her 19 times purportedly to impress the fictional character Slender Man.[2][3] After being stabbed the victim crawled to a road and lay on a sidewalk where a cyclist found her and called 9-1-1. She was rushed to a hospital at which point she was "one millimeter away from certain death" according to a criminal complaint.[2] The victim was hospitalized for six days but has since recovered and returned to school.[4] Background Main article: Slender Man Slender Man is a fictional entity created for a 2009 Photoshop contest on Something Awful an online forum the goal of which was to create paranormal images. The Slender Man mythos was later expanded by a number of other people who created fan fiction and additional forged images depicting the entity.[2] Slender Man is depicted as a tall faceless man in a black suit with tentacles growing out of his back. According to the Slender Man mythos the entity can cause amnesia bouts of coughing and paranoid behavior in individuals. He is often depicted hiding in forests or stalking children.[2] Lead-up to stabbing Both of the accused were 12 years old at the time of the stabbing as was the victim. All three were classmates enrolled in the same middle school and had been at a sleepover at one suspect's home the night before.[6] The alleged perpetrators had discovered the Slender Man on the Creepypasta Wiki a website that hosts creepypasta. The two girls at the time said they believed Slender Man was real and that they wanted to become his "proxies" or followers to prove their loyalty to him prove his existence and prevent him from harming their families. The two accused believed that the only way they could become the Slender Man's proxies was to murder someone.[2] After they carried out the killing they believed they would become servants of the Slender Man and be allowed to live in his mansion which they believed was in Nicolet National Forest.[7] The two girls allegedly targeted a mutual friend. Reports indicate they initially planned to carry out the attack on May 31 2014 at 2:00 AM when the victim would be sleeping over to celebrate the birthday of one of the other girls. They allegedly planned to duct tape the victim's mouth stab her in the neck with a kitchen knife and flee. They did not carry out the attack at that time however since one of the girls is believed to have delayed the attack until the next day; she claimed that she desired to give the victim one more day to live.[2] Attack The two accused allegedly planned to carry out the attack Saturday morning in a bathroom at a local park. Instead they were accused of carrying out the attack in a nearby forest while playing a game of hide-and-seek. During the game one of the perpetrators allegedly pinned the victim down but there was reportedly a dispute about who would carry out the stabbing. According to allegations published in Newsweek the supposed perpetrator who had pinned the victim down ordered the other supposed perpetrator to carry out the attack.[2] She is reported to have complied and stabbed the victim 19 times in the arms legs and torso with a five-inch-long kitchen knife. Two of the stab wounds were to major arteries.[8] One of the two stab wounds missed her heart by less than a millimeter and the other went through her diaphragm cutting into her liver and stomach.[3] Immediately following the attack the two accused allegedly told the still-conscious victim to be quiet and that they would get help for her. However they are accused of fleeing shortly after.[2] Aftermath After the stabbing the victim dragged her way out of the forest to a ditch at the side of a nearby road. She was discovered by a bicyclist who called 9-1-1 to get medical assistance for the victim.[9] The victim reportedly said "Please help me. I've been stabbed" to gain the attention of the bicyclist. The criminal complaint stated that the victim was in extreme pain and could only answer yes or no questions.[10] The Waukesha Fire Department and Police Department responded to the call and located the victim who gave law enforcement the name of one of her attackers.[2][11] The victim was transported to a hospital where she underwent surgery.[2][3] Of the 19 stab wounds two were to major organs with one wound missing a major artery by "less than a millimeter". The victim was injured in what is commonly known as the "cardiac box" an area that includes the aorta and lungs; patients wounded in the "cardiac box" typically have a 25 to 50 percent mortality rate.[3] Law enforcement conducted a mass search for the two suspects. Agencies that participated in the search included the police departments of the city of Waukesha Waukesha County New Berlin and Brookfield as well as the Waukesha Fire Department and Flight for Life emergency helicopter services.[11][12] The two girls were apprehended near Interstate 94 by a Waukesha County sheriff's deputy.[13] The officer discovered the knife used in the stabbing in a bag carried by one of the suspects. After being arrested the girls reportedly expressed ambivalent views about the attack. They were described as feeling guilty for stabbing their friend but felt that the attack was needed to appease Slender Man.[2] The victim was discharged from the hospital six days after the attack[14] although she continued to have physical difficulties for several weeks after that. She received thousands of letters of support from well-wishers around the world. The victim ultimately healed from her injuries and was able to resume school in fall of 2014.[3] Investigation and court procedures 20142015 Winnebago Mental Health Institute In August 2014 one girl was ruled incompetent to stand trial.[15] She had been diagnosed by state psychiatrists with childhood onset schizophrenia and oppositional defiant disorder. Her father is also schizophrenic. She was remanded to Winnebago Mental Health Institute.[16][17][18] In December 2014 both girls were ruled competent to stand trial; the ruling says that one of the two girls refused to take her prescribed schizophrenia medication.[14][19] The girls have been charged with attempted first-degree intentional homicide. They have been set to be tried as adults because Wisconsin law states "all murder and attempted-murder charges for children older than 10 start in adult court."[2] A conviction on first-degree charges in adult court could result in a sentence of up to 45 years in state prison whereas a conviction in juvenile court could lead to three years incarceration then supervision until the age of 18.[20] Bail was set at $500000 each.[21] Series When Wives and Lovers are "Turned" into junior vampires or co-criminals: Psychopaths (or Vampires) Select victims (Vampires "glamour" hypnotize prey and select persons are "turned" into a vampire with drops of the vampire's blood) Groom them Punish and Reward cycles bring submission See in the Books by Dr. Bunch this whole process plus there are different types of "minions" a. some just insanely jump on board like Kellyanne Conway b. some are selected groomed and trained in the Abuse Cycle like Donald Trump and most Psychopaths with their wives and lovers. But the result from minions a or b is the same despite a different origin and process of conversion: real death of others or death of the soul and the psychopath's famous scheme: death of all by marginalization Pick any key word above and search Books and Topic Cloud Below for more on that. Post 1: Melania and Forced Lies at the UNhttp://bit.ly/2xn8B7O Post 2 Melania Lies at UN Luncheon toohttp://bit.ly/2jOJiXD Post 3 Melania models both lies and disempowerment for womenhttp://bit.ly/2xYbOMO Post 4 Twitter Blows up: Twilight Zone of Melania http://bit.ly/2jQr3B3 Post 5 Complicit and Co-criminals: Breaking our hearts but must be stoppedhttp://bit.ly/2xXLWAy Post 6 Lessons from film Van Helsing though a story of a werewolf relative brother mythology helps us understand human mental disorderhttp://bit.ly/2jPF7Lg Post 7 Complicit Women: Bonnie and Clyde and other criminalshttp://bit.ly/2xXFXLV Post 8 When girls grow up to be bullies and psychopathshttp://bit.ly/2xxZ4cJ Post 9 Woman Cannibalhttp://bit.ly/2yr9Xwb Psychopaths Pirates Vampires and more: Run flee tell others! 300 topics on this listed below in the Cloud Archive: Click Here: Catalog of 100 Books Kindle Hypnosis Binaural Subliminal CDs bullies co-criminals cult girl bullies girls oppositional defiant is antisocial disorder slender man women #trumpbully #stopbully #trumpmentalhealth http://bit.ly/2rZ1vSp

When Girl Bullies gr

[hope-n-prayers-blog]

Did you know that I’m not her? And I partially agreed to the wait because I didn’t believe you existed in the first place. But in the slight rare possibility that you did, you would definitely not want me. Because I’m not ‘her.’ I choke on soft words like ‘want’ and ‘need’. I hate flowers, red boxes of unpredictable strangely textured chocolate, balloons that take months to die and everything Valentines Day. I’m sorry but to me The Notebook and Pretty Woman were just okay. I am the one that fairies tell you to stay away from, I was never Cinderella, I was the evil stepmother. I was never the princess, I was the fire breathing dragon. I was Ursula, I was The Wicked Witch of the West, yet you still chose to knock on the door of this castle- my heart, unaware that an invisible fortress had been built due to much more experienced pain than a sting. Unbeknownst to you, there’d be six more doors you’d have to get through before you ever even saw a glimpse of me. I was still wounded. Conditioned to live with a knife lodged in between my third and fourth intercostal margin which collapsed my left lung so I never left due to you being out of my comfort zone and shortness of breath. Besides I was already in a relationship with pain and I hated him but I loved him because pain had been faithful for years. I could rely on a past history that he was sure to come. My first love on Earth cheated on me, visiting me on holidays bearing beautifully wrapped gifts of empty promises tied with bows the colour of wishful thinking and then leaving me. An egg can’t produce without a seed and winter came, then summer, then spring, then fall and I guess mine took the option to leave because although mummy said I was beautiful, and that it wasn’t my fault, it still felt like incarcerated incidence so beauty, to me, was incomplete. Like having only five heartbeats with no reason to stand up, there was no heart in the house tonight, nights like this I wish and I’d pray; “Our Father who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, please allow the clouds to gather and the sky to turn to grey. Lead us not into temptation. Oh how I wish that it would rain so when I look in the sky I can see my reflection.” I got nervous when you got to door six,  but surely when you saw the auction off art on the wall no one else wanted, redescribing each and every one of my wounds, you’d see the ugliness of pain. That I’m not the beauty you thought me to be when you sat in an audience listening to a woman spit a poem about how she would wait. So confidently as I did every morning after taking off poetry and music and talents and great things others think of me because they’re just John’s Legends and can’t see all of me. I stepped outside to bask in the sun. He’s the one that knows me. He loves me. He has the ability to forsee and still loves me. So I stepped outside only to find you sleeping night after night in front of the door of my cold heart, “who led you inside?” I was terrified. No one has ever been this close but all you wanted to do was show me that we shared the same old wounds. There were no butterflies, just extreme discomfort because comfort is uncomfortable to someone more acquainted with pain than love. Fear began to eat at my mind and scared crows pucked up my warm heart long ago but even with the strength of ten men I’ve had no courage. I promise I’m not lying. But for some strange reason you still felt like heels click three times. I was a relentless unpredictable storm. And I guess those other men were made of straw and hay because I huffed and puffed but the spirit that your brick body house wouldn’t go down. Why couldn’t I admit that your hand placed gently on the back of my neck calms me? Instead I accused you of trying to control me. I hated the way my heart became a defiant teenager and began listening to you instead of me. And even after you kept giving me your ‘I LOVE YOUs’, I couldn’t stop them from replaying in my mind when my spirit, my spirit was a witness to the Christ that I saw in your life. I started getting tired of the fight. I decided to give it a try just to prove to you that you too would leave just like my seed and die before petals, stems and leaves. My trusting heart had been attacked. I didn’t know the difference between accepting abuse and being the peacemaker. I’m left with a pacemaker, nobody wanted me. My rhythm is abnormal. I lost my footing and I kept asking myself ‘who are you?’ While climbing the attractive mount Everest of your mind, I attempted to hike a little higher to take a peek at your soul. I lost my footing on that trail, dangled off the cliff of your condition of unconditional and that is where I fell in love, skydiving on the wings of your patience. Thank you for catching me. But this love, it’s too much. This love is just way too much because your smouldering volcano erupted upon my arrival. Smothering larva, I mean hot larva chasing me down, burning the pain of my past. Scorching heat on the back of my heels, a fire that screams ‘just let me love you!’  I fell, I am consumed, I am overwhelmed. Did you know that I am crazy? Did you know broken homes and corrupt fathers, fictitious family figments, fractured bones and stained glass windows shattered my windpipe? It’s hard to breathe when anyone gets close. Stand close. And just let me inhale your exhale. Stay close. Even when I punch you with my words, stay close. Even when I cut you with my fears, stay close. Look into my chilling eyes and remember, look at my chilling eyes and remember, look at my bleeding knees and remember, look at my bleeding lips and remember, I fell for you. And it took me thirty three years to let that pain die so that new hope and new life could resurrect. You caught my tears like wilted worn bible pages, stored them up in bottles and let the collection remind me that as long as I stay close to him, I’d never thirst again. And when God removed the scales from my eyes, I remember looking at you for the first time and finally understood the meaning of the word ’Behold’. I remember the first time I looked into your eyes, it was like staring at the back of the moon only to find that it shines too. You wear patience like a tailored suit. And all I could do was thank God and your mother for raising the man I never believed could exist. You begin to see me transforming by the renewing, I was so comfortable cocooning as you studied the freckles in my face like constellations. How sweet it is to know that I’m with someone who would still find me beautiful with stretch marks? Even when I begin being stretched as I press towards the mark. We are not Romeo and Juliet. We are just Matthew and Janette. We too are a beautifully written tragedy. We too fought in the beginning like Capulets and Montagues. We too persevered in love’s name. In love’s name, in Jesus’ name, two lovers destined to kill themselves daily for the love of Christ. And although we know the world considers this poison, we will continue to drink truth. Stabbing ourselves with the daggers of his word constantly to convictive. We live to fight another day, we live to die another day in order to live another unending day with our king in eternity. So far from what our adversaries had planned and written for our ending, but he’s nothing but a pretender. Trying to be an author and a finisher, posing as an angry, weak William that Shakespeare but as though many of his weapons would be formed, they’ll never prosper here. And I know they told you, “Goodluck with her.” Many have tried. Cause not even Charlie could Parker, but your consistent love would make Ella stop having fits and put down her dukes. You have me willing to walk and hop on cold trains even on a holiday. Inspire the desire to not be headstrong but armstrong, you had me in a sentimental mood willing to walk miles to get to you. You became my black coffee and I couldn’t move on. I felt dizzy because I was out of my element like a uncovered monk but you’ve been a good man for more reasons than I could count. May the Lord continue to orchestrate this beautiful lifelong complex cord progression. I could make a million promises with a long list of what I could vow but we are flawed human beings. And if there’s anyone who could break one before night’s end, it would be me that could show you how. So today I would let my yes be my yes, my no be my no and today my I do my I do. I vow that at times I will fail you. I vow that at times I will fall short but in failures and short comings, I won’t tap out, I won’t give up. I vow to gather arguments like evidence left behind by unsubs, having the humility to say I have this criminal mind and it is CSI for the sake of Law and Order. I vow not to buy into false romanticism saying things like “you complete me” because you don’t. In Christ I have already been made complete, the head over all. So I vow not to attribute glory to you that only belongs to God. To you and only you today I commit, to you and only you I submit, with an attitude. The attitude of Christ Jesus. Who although existed in the form of God did not regard equality with God a thing to be grasped but humbled himself and emptied himself  and made himself to the point where he became obedient even to the point of death. Even death on the cross and he would be my constant reflection as death on that cross was the greatest public display of affection. I’ve learned that he loved me enough to give me you, and so I vow to you my last breath.

[succorcreek]

When Girl Bullies grow up to be Psychopaths

Spouses, Thug Minions, Full Psychopaths or Complicit Co-Criminals?

**Some women are pulled into the abuse by the psychopath abuse cycle. (see complicit in Topic word cloud archive below). They do not commit dangerous criminal acts, but their compliance and ignorance of those harmed is "complicit co-criminality". Melania is such a case. See the series tab above for the series of articles on Melania and Co-criminals who are complicit

 psychopathy scale of 1-40 pts: 5

While this is a low score, people complicit as co-criminals have often been tried, some executed, as WWll trials

**Some women have undefined character or personalities and just melt in with their spouse.  They take on the spouses character and ideals. While they weren't sociopaths or psychopaths, they become merged into their lover or spouses life and brain disorder: psychopath or sociopath. This feature in women may be a personality they are born with, influenced by their problem family, or taught to women through disempowerment (such as that modelled by the above type, where Melania models submission and complicitness for women).  Kellyanne Conway may fit this type: eager to say anything to be included in the Trump Boy's Club

psychopathy scale: 10-15 points, where one sees the cycle of abuse

psychopathy scale, is a participant in crime, cannibalism, SM, torture, pedophile rings: 40: wife is sometimes given criminal sentences equal to or almost equal to that of the husband instigator

**Some women have a life history of anti-social behavior. This is one of the predictors for possible teen or adult emerging psychopathy or sociopathy. Predictors in childhood may be different or the same predictors of boys who become dangerous psychopaths as adults. In boys, harm of animals or others is often the main predictor (see predictor in topic cloud below). Girls, who tend to more social behavior, though, may demonstrate more cruelty, bullying, and mind games early on. These may be girls that get into odd 2nd grade fights, control parents, torture a brother, or intentionally expose the so called friends to being abandoned in the dark, then lie about the situation. 

If this last case is so, the same with boys / teens / men: there are clues of the disorder in childhood to be found, if you look. Childhood antisocial behavior is called oppositional defiant disorder (though this author advocates for the use of just "antisocial disorder" for children and adults)

The leader girl in Slender man murder:

Bully

Groomed and trained, conned other girl into her "cult"

deranged social games

lack of compassion, sympathy of the Psychopath

Mythomania (see that in books catalog tab above, and topic archive cloud below)

Planning 

obsessed

revengeful, angry

ideals for her age that are regressed and don't equal emotional development of 12 year old average girls: obsessed with her "cult" and not social, boys, appearance, inclusion, fads ideals of typical girls

early oppositional history, likely family of abuse or neglect exacerbating disorder 

Slender Man stabbing From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia Victims     One 12-year-old female The Slender Man stabbing occurred on Saturday, May 31, 2014, in the city of Waukesha in Waukesha County, Wisconsin, when two 12-year-old girls allegedly lured another girl of the same age into the woods and stabbed her 19 times, purportedly to impress the fictional character Slender Man.[2][3] After being stabbed, the victim crawled to a road and lay on a sidewalk where a cyclist found her and called 9-1-1. She was rushed to a hospital, at which point she was "one millimeter away from certain death," according to a criminal complaint.[2] The victim was hospitalized for six days but has since recovered and returned to school.[4] Background Main article: Slender Man Slender Man is a fictional entity created for a 2009 Photoshop contest on Something Awful, an online forum, the goal of which was to create paranormal images. The Slender Man mythos was later expanded by a number of other people who created fan fiction and additional forged images depicting the entity.[2] Slender Man is depicted as a tall, faceless man in a black suit with tentacles growing out of his back. According to the Slender Man mythos, the entity can cause amnesia, bouts of coughing and paranoid behavior in individuals. He is often depicted hiding in forests or stalking children.[2] Lead-up to stabbing Both of the accused were 12 years old at the time of the stabbing, as was the victim. All three were classmates enrolled in the same middle school and had been at a sleepover at one suspect's home the night before.[6] The alleged perpetrators had discovered the Slender Man on the Creepypasta Wiki, a website that hosts creepypasta. The two girls at the time said they believed Slender Man was real, and that they wanted to become his "proxies", or followers, to prove their loyalty to him, prove his existence, and prevent him from harming their families. The two accused believed that the only way they could become the Slender Man's proxies was to murder someone.[2] After they carried out the killing, they believed they would become servants of the Slender Man and be allowed to live in his mansion, which they believed was in Nicolet National Forest.[7] The two girls allegedly targeted a mutual friend. Reports indicate they initially planned to carry out the attack on May 31, 2014 at 2:00 AM, when the victim would be sleeping over to celebrate the birthday of one of the other girls. They allegedly planned to duct tape the victim's mouth, stab her in the neck with a kitchen knife, and flee. They did not carry out the attack at that time, however, since one of the girls is believed to have delayed the attack until the next day; she claimed that she desired to give the victim one more day to live.[2] Attack The two accused allegedly planned to carry out the attack Saturday morning in a bathroom at a local park. Instead, they were accused of carrying out the attack in a nearby forest while playing a game of hide-and-seek. During the game, one of the perpetrators allegedly pinned the victim down, but there was reportedly a dispute about who would carry out the stabbing. According to allegations published in Newsweek, the supposed perpetrator who had pinned the victim down ordered the other supposed perpetrator to carry out the attack.[2] She is reported to have complied and stabbed the victim 19 times in the arms, legs, and torso with a five-inch-long kitchen knife. Two of the stab wounds were to major arteries.[8] One of the two stab wounds missed her heart by less than a millimeter and the other went through her diaphragm, cutting into her liver and stomach.[3] Immediately following the attack, the two accused allegedly told the still-conscious victim to be quiet and that they would get help for her. However, they are accused of fleeing shortly after.[2] Aftermath After the stabbing, the victim dragged her way out of the forest to a ditch at the side of a nearby road. She was discovered by a bicyclist, who called 9-1-1 to get medical assistance for the victim.[9] The victim reportedly said "Please help me. I've been stabbed" to gain the attention of the bicyclist. The criminal complaint stated that the victim was in extreme pain and could only answer yes or no questions.[10] The Waukesha Fire Department and Police Department responded to the call and located the victim, who gave law enforcement the name of one of her attackers.[2][11] The victim was transported to a hospital, where she underwent surgery.[2][3] Of the 19 stab wounds, two were to major organs, with one wound missing a major artery by "less than a millimeter". The victim was injured in what is commonly known as the "cardiac box," an area that includes the aorta and lungs; patients wounded in the "cardiac box" typically have a 25 to 50 percent mortality rate.[3] Law enforcement conducted a mass search for the two suspects. Agencies that participated in the search included the police departments of the city of Waukesha, Waukesha County, New Berlin and Brookfield, as well as the Waukesha Fire Department and Flight for Life emergency helicopter services.[11][12] The two girls were apprehended near Interstate 94 by a Waukesha County sheriff's deputy.[13] The officer discovered the knife used in the stabbing in a bag carried by one of the suspects. After being arrested, the girls reportedly expressed ambivalent views about the attack. They were described as feeling guilty for stabbing their friend, but felt that the attack was needed to appease Slender Man.[2] The victim was discharged from the hospital six days after the attack,[14] although she continued to have physical difficulties for several weeks after that. She received thousands of letters of support from well-wishers around the world. The victim ultimately healed from her injuries, and was able to resume school in fall of 2014.[3] Investigation and court procedures 2014–2015 Winnebago Mental Health Institute In August 2014, one girl was ruled incompetent to stand trial.[15] She had been diagnosed by state psychiatrists with childhood onset schizophrenia and oppositional defiant disorder. Her father is also schizophrenic. She was remanded to Winnebago Mental Health Institute.[16][17][18] In December 2014, both girls were ruled competent to stand trial; the ruling says that one of the two girls refused to take her prescribed schizophrenia medication.[14][19] The girls have been charged with attempted first-degree intentional homicide. They have been set to be tried as adults because Wisconsin law states, "all murder and attempted-murder charges for children older than 10 start in adult court."[2] A conviction on first-degree charges in adult court could result in a sentence of up to 45 years in state prison, whereas a conviction in juvenile court could lead to three years incarceration, then supervision until the age of 18.[20] Bail was set at $500,000 each.[21] Series When Wives and Lovers are "Turned" into junior vampires or co-criminals: Psychopaths (or Vampires) Select victims (Vampires "glamour" hypnotize prey, and select persons are "turned" into a vampire with drops of the vampire's blood) Groom them Punish and Reward cycles bring submission See in the Books by Dr. Bunch, this whole process, plus, there are different types of "minions" a. some just insanely jump on board, like Kellyanne Conway b. some are selected, groomed, and trained in the Abuse Cycle, like Donald Trump and most Psychopaths with their wives and lovers. But, the result from minions a or b is the same, despite a different origin and process of conversion: real death of others or death of the soul and the psychopath's famous scheme: death of all by marginalization Pick any key word above and search Books and Topic Cloud Below for more on that. Post 1: Melania and Forced Lies at the UN http://bit.ly/2xn8B7O Post 2 Melania Lies at UN Luncheon too http://bit.ly/2jOJiXD Post 3 Melania models both lies and disempowerment for women http://bit.ly/2xYbOMO Post 4 Twitter Blows up: Twilight Zone of Melania  http://bit.ly/2jQr3B3 Post 5 Complicit and Co-criminals: Breaking our hearts but must be stopped http://bit.ly/2xXLWAy Post 6 Lessons from film, Van Helsing, though a story of a werewolf relative brother mythology helps us understand human mental disorder http://bit.ly/2jPF7Lg Post 7 Complicit Women: Bonnie and Clyde and other criminals http://bit.ly/2xXFXLV Post 8 When girls grow up to be bullies and psychopaths http://bit.ly/2xxZ4cJ Post 9 Woman Cannibal http://bit.ly/2yr9Xwb Psychopaths, Pirates, Vampires, and more:

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