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rechoired · 4 years

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A problem with the Tales Of Arcadia community

First and foremost, I’d like to ask anyone taking the time to read this to please read the post all the way through before commenting on the matter. There is a lot of dirty laundry to unpack here, and some points will be building off previous ones.

I’ll get right to the point. Most everybody in the Tales of Arcadia fandom will have heard of the blog imthegingerninja / ginger-le-gay. She is one of the most well-known ToA-centric blogs, after all. (If you’re wanting to avoid her on Twitter as well, her account is Margaret Bell, or @The_Book_Bell.)

This is your PSA, TOA fandom: Ginger is a toxic, manipulative person.

This is not a claim I like to make lightly, but it’s long overdue that this issue is properly brought up within the fandom.

I’ve seen so many people wonder why the Tales of Arcadia fandom is so small. Well, I and many others very strongly believe that Ginger is one of the main reasons for that, if not the main one. To make matters easier, I’ve tried to break this down into some main points. So let’s take a look at how Ginger falls under this category.

Disclaimer: Please DO NOT look at this post as an excuse to harass Ginger or any other blog mentioned here. This sort of behavior is NOT acceptable. The point of this post is to educate those who may not know the extent of her harrowing behavior, nothing more.

1. Dishonesty and Death Threats

[EDIT: Shortly after this post went up, she started blatantly lying about me to try to cover for herself. You can see those lies being easily disproven here]

Ginger has been kicked from at least three Tales of Arcadia servers, all for similar reasons of violence. While I cannot provide screenshots as I am no longer part of the servers they were in, there are multiple witnesses that can verify the disgusting behavior she engaged in. The one I saw specifically was her saying that certain members of the fandom should be gathered up and hunted for sport, among other gross things. (Elaboration of why can be found in point 3, though it still doesn’t excuse this kind of talk)

Here is some points made by another blog that also sums up similar issues with Ginger, though:

While there were multiple instances of her inciting violence towards others, this is unfortunately one topic I cannot provide specific screenshots for at this time. But I will add them in as I can find them. That being said, I want to move to the dishonesty, something I do have a screenshot for.

While you could argue that people sometimes notice the similar things, this is far too close together to be considered an “original find”. The reblog button is there for a reason, but she instead decides to steal the OP’s premise and present it as her own original thought.

There have been a couple other blogs that have confirmed that their theories and analysis posts were often stolen and presented as Ginger’s own as well, to the point where they stopped bothering even making such posts, as the above blog points out. (Out of respect for their privacy, I will not be naming these blogs. Say what you will about that possibly weakening my point, but if she’s willing to so blatantly steal from that person shown above, it shouldn’t surprise you that she’s so willing to do it to others.)

Theory-making and analysis posts aren’t as solidly “original content” as a piece of art or fanfiction, sure, but it’s still common fandom courtesy to give credit where it’s due. Ginger has intentionally avoided extending that courtesy far too many times.

2. Hypocrisy

Most of this is going to be about past Merlin vs. Morgana drama, though there are also words to be said for the incredibly shaky relationships she forms with “friends”.

But first let’s talk about those wizards.

This is a topic I’ve tried to approach with Ginger before, but she borderline refused to acknowledge any of the points I was trying to make, and when she did, I don’t know if I just wasn’t being clear or what, but it honestly looked as though she was purposefully trying to misunderstand what I was saying in her bizarre responses. (To be fair, I was sending messages out of anger because she vagueposted about a blog I admired, calling them a “disgusting creep” because of them simply saying they’d hoped Jim and Merlin would be able to actually bond at some point... Not really a justifiable reaction to such a harmless thought, in my opinion. But my point is, I recognize that the circumstances may have clouded my ability to vocalize my thoughts clearly.)

That aside, we should first acknowledge this post Ginger made to save face after having gotten some backlash about hate-train related things (Side note: I couldn’t find the original post, so this is a screenshot I got from someone else. I did not add the writing. The text underneath it should still be slightly readable, I hope.):

Taken at face value, this is a very reasonable post. I think everybody would and should be able to agree on it. Hate-meme him for fun, sure, but don’t actually harass or insult others over a fictional character. Simple, right?

Apparently not, because Ginger’s done loads of that to others. Probably why the “LOL” was added in, I bet.

This post confused me. First of all, exploring dark topics (”angst”, as you put it) has never been a rare occurrence, every fandom has that content, most in heavy abundance. I’ve noticed no staggering difference in volume of this fandom compared to others I’ve been in. People enjoy angst not because they think the character “deserves to be in pain”, they enjoy a fictional blow to their own emotions. There’s lots of different reasons people like angst, but it’s barely ever been out of a genuine hate for whatever character’s the focus, from all the things I’ve seen. Your own friends have indulged in Jim angst and body horror posts before, does that mean you think they’re awful people? I feel like I shouldn’t have to explain something like this.

Also, way to basically admit you think all Merlin stans get off on child torture. So much for “If you like Merlin as a character, you’re valid”, am I right? God, what a mess of a post. (It’s been very recently deleted, which makes me wonder if she got more backlash on it, but just... wow.)

Let’s look at another one.

Again. Vagueposting about someone specific, I’d wager, since most of the people I’ve seen comment on this topic either think both characters are morally gray, or hate both.

But of course, when it comes to Morgana, suddenly excusing bad behavior can be justified. Ginger can call someone a disgusting creep because they want a familial bond between Jim and Merlin, that’s just wrong, but pushing the Mom-gana narrative with the genocidal abuser and Toby is completely fine, folks.

(Note: I would like to point out that I really don’t care about what theories and hopes people have for Morgana. You should be allowed to love that character in any way you want, same as I would say for Merlin. My issue with these examples is the completely brazen hypocrisy in which these two characters are treated. You’re obviously allowed to love Morgana without consequence, but the same should be said for any character of the show, and yet it’s not.)

The most obvious instance of this double-standard is well observable here, I believe:

... I think this mostly speaks for itself. Sorry, but this is very blatantly trying to excuse Morgana’s actions, here.

Oh hey, remember that post about Ginger saying that liking Merlin must mean you want to see Jim in horrible pain?

Say anything similar about her with Morgana, and suddenly she takes issue with this line of reasoning!

I’m sorry, but if you can’t take this sort of thing, then you shouldn’t be dishing it out. One of your own friends is still getting hate over the simple fact of liking Merlin, and all this mentality is exactly why.

Let’s look at one more.

Fun fact! Morgana horrifically abused somebody for centuries, tried to kill multiple kids, took horrible advantage of Claire (probably traumatized her), and canonically wanted to genocide humanity, not to mention all the OTHER murders she's committed, both directly and indirectly.

But somehow pointing any of this out “doesn’t count”. This is why the fandom keeps saying more and more things like this:

And this:

I could be going through her constant hating on Merlin and people who like Merlin for days straight, but I hope you all get the idea by now.

Again, I would like to just reiterate: You can like whatever character you want for whatever reason you want. The problem with this case is the hypocrisy and mistreatment of others, not your taste in characters.

Now interestingly enough, she’s lately been singing a different tune about the guy, switching from the “I hate Merlin I hope he dies!!!” mentality to “Oh he should get a redemption arc too :)” sort of thing.

I’m highly convinced that the only reasons for this “change of heart” is because of the constant backlash she was getting for the obnoxious amount of hate posts being thrown around all the time, but also because Aaron Waltke keeps tabs on the fandom more lately, and has spoken himself about Merlin not being a villain.

I could go on about this point forever, but I think I’ll just leave the Merlin topic with this post going through the hypocrisy of the Merlin Hate Train. In fact, here’s two just for fun.

Now onto more real-world focused areas of hypocrisy. One such instance can be found in Ginger’s Janus Disorder server.

Just take a look at this post.

While the offender in this case isn’t Ginger specifically, it still takes place in her server, and she made no moves to enforce her “No discourse” rule. All over... what? A random kudos on a fanfiction that’s not even about anything controversial since all characters involved are adults? I immensely don’t understand the point of why this ever had to be an issue, or why nobody spoke up about how ridiculous this is.

I’d also like to point out a certain user called firecat17. For some quick context, waaay back in the Kung Fu Panda fandom (around 2018), this user had been harassing people and saying incredibly vile things, a person of which Ginger had a bit of a feud, but firecat’s anon threats had gotten to the point where Ginger ended up having to block their IP.

Obviously, the user firecat was the one in the wrong, here. (Also, the irony in this comment is through the roof...)

Interesting point there, Ginger. Sure would be nice if you practiced what you preached.

Why am I bringing this random old drama up, you may ask? Well, it just strikes me as strange that someone who was so vile to Ginger is suddenly on her okay-list again, sending her asks and getting casual responses as if nothing ever happened.

To be fair, there is the possibility that they worked out their differences in private. But given the severity of the kinds of words being exchanged, I would still find that rather suspicious.

When someone who’s said things so vile can be so easily forgiven, yet something as harmless as leaving a kudos on some random fanfiction is considered grounds for harassment, it’s obvious there’s no stability or room for trust among this group of people. Unsurprising when there’s been several instances of this “friend group” turning on each other.

If you think you’re somehow different, that your “friendship” with Ginger or the others is more valued than that, then I’m sorry to burst your bubble but it’s likely not true. She’d throw you under the bus at the hint of you doing something she deems problematic, as it’s happened to multiple blogs before you.

3. Demonization of and insensitivity towards s*xual abuse victims

(This topic is one that’s hard for me to talk about, being a victim of CSA myself, so I’ve gathered some different sources to do most of the main talking for me. I tried to form more commentary on this myself, but I get too emotionally charged in my responses, and I don’t want that to cloud any reader’s perception of what I’m trying to communicate here, so I’ll try to keep most of my comments brief on this one.)

One thing recently brought to my attention about Ginger and her squad that especially bothers me is their rashness in labeling people p*dophiles and p*do apologists. If these claims were true, then I wouldn’t have a problem with it.

But these people are accusing others of these horrible things and threatening them on the sole basis of fictional content.

Now before you fly off the handle at me, let me be very clear: I absolutely understand that there are gross people out there who use the “It’s all just fiction” argument to hide their actual, pr*datory behaviors. (We’ve all probably seen at least one or two neckbeard memes of that caliber)

But like it or not, exploring traumatic themes through a fictional lens is something that has been studied and proven to be a genuine coping mechanism for some. It’s not something that works for me, but I knew a few people from past therapy groups that it worked surprisingly well for. Bringing a trauma into a controlled environment and processing it through fictional means can and does help some victims deal with what they went through.

It’s important to understand that not everyone processes their experience in the same neat, little boxes you have laid out as the only “acceptable” ways of coping. Trauma fiction and expressive arts therapy are commonly used by victims, and it does help some people, whether you like it or not.

I’m already dragging this on too much, so here are some sources for better-worded information on the topic (Warning: Most of these deal with highly sensitive themes such as gun violence and s*xual abuse.)

Source 1 - Source 2 - Source 3 - Source 4 - Source 5 (pages 61 onward, specifically) - Source 6 - Source 7 - Source 8 - Source 9 - Source 10 (and believe me, if those all don’t satisfy you, I can easily supply more.)

And this quote from source 9 I think sums it up best:

“Fiction works differently. My imagination gives me a framework to process the grief and terror and the consequences, even when I myself have not found any resolution. It allows me to enter my own traumatic experiences sideways and linger inside them, if I know I can give them to characters who might be lucky enough to find the antidote: love, connection, community, family. In other words, I can enter — and exit — the trauma loop through stories that are not exactly the same as mine.

This goes for the reader also. Recent studies periodically assure us that stories — literary fiction, hardcover books, even the simple act of reading — promote empathy. We rarely have identical experiences, so fiction is how we practice linking our similar or parallel realities so we can feel them. This seems particularly useful in our current society, where we are all so separated, and are working so hard to block the violence that keeps happening to us from our minds.

Fiction connects us, and it can also contribute to our healing. When we see ourselves in worlds we don’t live in, like The Handmaid’s Tale or The Color Purple, sometimes, that very different violence helps us finally process our own. Because as much as our memoirs and testimonies are brave and validating, fiction does not just mirror our truths so they are safe to experience; it also helps us endure the aftermath. Because long after the immediate experience is over, survival struggles onward, in every moment of our daily lives.”

While most professionals have in the past advised that victims keep their trauma-related works more private, to only show it to your trusted friends or family, the fast-growing use of the internet has led more people to sharing it in an online platform, which is not unexpected behavior.

I unfortunately don’t have the screenshot of the original post, but there was a post made some time back literally telling a fandom member to go and hang themselves over this garbage. A survivor of s*xual abuse, no less. And to top that off, one of Ginger’s squad @emmy-puff commented in support of that violent post, as well as blatantly misgendering the target of it. While, again, I was unable to get screenshots, there are multiple witnesses to this instance, one Anonymous even having called them out on it back when it happened. (I suspect that Emmy deleted that answer due to how bad it made them look.) If anybody reading this has screenshots of the initial post or the ask that came of it, please feel free to share.

I don’t care who you are or who you’re talking about, if you use misgendering someone as a way to hurt them, then you are an insult to the trans community. That is an awful thing to do, and you lose so much credibility if that’s the only thing you can fall back on when getting in a fight with someone. While this post isn’t about Emmy specifically, this is exactly the kind of hateful rhetoric that’s being encouraged in the environment Ginger’s made.

Another thing I would like to point out on this matter is an instance that happened in the ToA fandom a couple years back. I, again, don’t have screenshots available (I believe the original post ended up deleted) but the post in question caused enough of a fuss that I’m sure a few people must remember it...

A while back, there was an artist that posted uncensored, untagged r*pe art of Aaarrrgghh, Gunmar, and Jim in the main Trollhunters tag. As you can imagine, this infuriated many people. Many of which are among the list of those who’ve been labeled “p*do apologists”. Almost the very minute that post showed up in the tag with no trigger warnings of any kind, the fandom immediately got on OP’s tail about it, because they all shared that basic understanding of “This is a traumatizing subject for many people and they should have the ability to avoid it”. If the people you’ve labelled as pr*dator supporters were really as awful as you say they are, they would’ve jumped to that person’s defense, too. But they were completely against OP’s horrible lack of consideration of survivors, right alongside the rest of the fandom.

Am I saying you have to like trauma fiction? Absolutely not. Are there people that make trauma fiction that are actual pr*dators? I’m sure there are. But those people would be that way whether trauma fiction was out there or not. Gross people have existed and will always exist regardless of what media is out there.

I deeply understand the controversy, uncertainty, and stress that surrounds this topic, I promise you, I do. But the fact of the matter is, some people actually do use trauma fiction and expressive arts therapy as a way of coping, as has been observed in people even from ages as young as 5. To say otherwise is blatantly untrue. This isn’t a matter of opinion or morals, this is plain, studied facts that you cannot change about human psychology.

Nobody should ever have to go through something as horrible as s*xual abuse of any kind, and I know how deeply upsetting it can be to see certain images or stories with those themes in play. Those users with a sense of decency and understanding for fellow victims will tag their posts with the appropriate warnings. After that, it’s up to you to filter out what you don’t want to see. You curate your own internet experience, and it’s just plain irrational to try and harass everyone into conforming to your rules. While it’s an 18+ blog’s job to make sure to tag and label their content appropriately, it is your job to block the things you don’t want to see, whether you’re an adult or a minor. It is YOUR job to blacklist content that you know will upset you, because it is always going to exist on the internet, and any internet user needs to know and understand that. Multiple times I’d seen people going off about posts that were already appropriately trigger-tagged. If you don’t have those upsetting tags blacklisted by now, then the fault is mostly on you in that kind of case, not the OP.

Before I end this topic off, just one more example of blatant disrespect towards victims:

I’m sorry, but the absolute nerve of comparing some random fictional character you’re petty over to an actual pr*dator who’s terribly hurt real children is just awful. Imagine how insulted one of Onion’s victims would be if they saw that. Lord.

Ginger claims to care about victims, but she’s made it abundantly clear that she only cares about those that behave the way she think a victim should.

4. Ableism

I’m going to just show a couple posts here and let them mostly speak for themselves.

Just... my God. You looked at the definition of psychopath and decided that was enough to give you qualification to speak like this about it? Do you realize the extensive work and study of human psychology goes into the diagnosis and understandings of psychopathy? Not to mention, you just admit to thinking people deserve hate because of a mental disorder they legitimately have no control over? I’m sorry, but that is just cruel. Demonization of the mentally ill is not cute or funny. Next.

While I’m still annoyed with Emmy’s transphobic treatment of another user mentioned earlier, they make a very solid point in this instance. (The first post they referenced has since been deleted, but here’s the second one speaking out against the ableism.) I feel I don’t need to add much to this, as these points have already been argued very well by users better qualified to speak on the subject than I.

5. Manipulation tactics

This part is more observations of two kinds of abuse tactics Ginger appears to demonstrate, using the above as points of reference.

First, there’s DARVO.

Then, less formally, there’s this good point about online cult mentality.

Before you say anything, obviously I don’t think Ginger thinks of herself as some sort of deity. While it could be argued that she considers herself a point of authority within the TOA fandom maybe, I haven’t seen enough of this to say for sure how far that goes. So that point can be ignored, because it mostly doesn’t apply in this case. (The “Dictating parts of your online life” might also not apply, but I can’t say for sure as I haven’t gotten any confirmation of that sort of thing in Ginger’s group.)

But there are grains of truth in the other four points, especially that last one. Plain and simple, she’s made people afraid to speak their minds about even harmless things such as character analysis.

Ginger is someone who can’t seem to comprehend different viewpoints and life experiences. She’s extremely unsympathetic towards people she doesn’t understand, as can be observed in above examples. Assuming malicious intent from everybody you can’t understand is a dangerous and hurtful mindset to have, for both you and those who you unnecessarily scorn.

There are a few outcomes I’ve speculated should she ever come to see this post.

1. She will ignore this post completely, pretending as if it doesn’t exist

2. She will dismiss me as being some sort of horrible person, a p*do apologist or something of the sort (despite being a victim of that myself, clearly she doesn’t care about who’s actually been hurt by real p*dos or not if they don’t conform to her narrow worldview), and claim nothing I’ve said bears any meaning, despite the extensive evidence I’ve provided.

3. She will get people to try and attack me.

4. She will actually address these points in a tactful, mature, and serious manner instead of her usual act of trying to dismiss everything at the slightest hint of non-conformity. (The least likely outcome, but one can dream.)

I could add to this post all day, but it’s long enough as it is and my focus was on getting the main points out of the way. I understand that I lack some of the receipts necessary to back myself up in a few parts, but I know that many other fans have bared witness to those things, so I know there will be at least some people who’ll know what I speak of is true, and that’s good enough for me.

That being said, if anybody has screenshots of the instances I wasn’t able to provide for, it would be greatly appreciated if you could add them into the conversation.

!!!-If you have screenshots, but are too uncomfortable to get involved in this, then you can private-message them to me and I would be grateful and more than happy to add them in while keeping you completely anonymous.-!!!

(I've removed the section with all the tags, as I recognize it was probably going overboard. My goal was just to spread information, not to try and involve those tagged, but I understand how that may have gotten lost in translation and made people uncomfortable. Also, it apparently was showing up multiple times in people’s notifications when I only tagged people twice, so I’m not sure why that glitch happened, but I apologize for that annoyance as well.)

Now, to end us off, my responses to questions or angry comments I’m probably going to get:

You don’t even have all the evidence! How are we to know you’re not just lying about some of this?

Admittedly, I don’t have as much screenshot proof as I would like, that’s true. But for most of the instances I couldn’t provide for, there were other witnesses to her bad behavior. I don’t really have the need to lie when there’s already a lot of knowledge out there of the bad stuff she has done. Nor do I really have the emotional investment in this fandom anymore to lie for the pointless reason of causing drama.

Why post this on a throwaway account if you think people are on your side?

I just don’t really want my main blog associated with TOA anymore, to be frank.

You tagged a bunch of people, so you must be trying to get them to attack Ginger!

No. I tagged a bunch of people because I think this information should be heard on a wider scale, considering the position Ginger has in the fandom. I don’t want her or anybody else to be attacked, but her negative impact on this fandom deserves to be acknowledged.

Again, I don’t think Ginger or any of the others deserve harassment or cyberbullying or anything of that manner, that’s kind of what this whole post is against. And it just hurts the situation more than it helps it. What bothers me is how she’s never apologized for or even once acknowledged the gross way she’s treated people. While she might be more low-key about it now, she still treats people who don’t deserve it like garbage. There are still several people upset about the damage she’s caused to this fandom, rightfully so. I wouldn’t be so loud about making this post if I didn’t think it was something worth drawing attention to.

Thank you for reading.

#TrollHunters #3Below #TOAwizards #Tales of Arcadia #TOA

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goulets · 3 years

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Heartland

Chapter: 3/8 Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson Additional Characters: Bruce Wayne, Damian Wayne, Colin Wilkes, Stephanie Brown, Cassandra Cain, Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake, Duke Thomas Rating: T (for now) Case Fic / Kid Fic a03 link

The library has its benefits: no harassment from over-familiar family members, no Dick sexually frustrating him within an inch of his life, and, if he’s willing to be a little sentimental, he kind of does want to show it to the baby. She’s too young to appreciate it, probably, but it stirs something in him to share it with her all the same. He’s heard it’s never too early to get kids into reading - his parents sure as hell never tried, but Jason had read anything he could get his hands on, once he learned how. It had saved him, back then. Maybe it can do the same for her one day.

“Could’ve sworn Bruce had a Dr. Seuss anthology somewhere in here,” he says to her, combing over the shelves with his eyes. “Guess not. You up for something more sophisticated?”

She grunts, squeezing his shirt in her fist. “Alright,” he agrees, pulling Twelfth Night off the shelf. “Shakespeare it is. You’ve got taste, kid.”

***

(dick)

Venice is a nightclub that has gone by many names during its Gotham tenure, and just as many owners. Dick has been undercover here at least twice, back when the club was catering to the wealthier patrons of Little Italy. The current management clearly hasn’t bothered with maintaining that exclusivity - the building is now shabby and outdated, even for this neighborhood. One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is the real draw of Venice, which is the illegal casino in the back rooms beyond the VIP lounge. Through all the club’s owners, the casino has always been run by the Falcones, and always frequented by the city’s most morally flexible elected officials. In the past four nights that Dick’s been staking the place out, he’s seen five judges, two city council members, and even the new police commissioner slipping out the back door into the alley, stinking of gin and cigar smoke and patting their coat pockets with an air of satisfaction. It’s good intel to have, Barbara’s told him. Always helpful to keep the files updated on who’s being bought and by whom. None of that really makes him feel better about the fact that he’s been staking this place out for four nights and still hasn’t managed to pin down their actual target.

It’s embarrassing, is what it is. He’s Nightwing, for God’s sake. He’s taken down whole Russian mobs in Bludhaven, and now he’s being completely eluded by a third-string Falcone no one’s even heard of.

Oracle had ID’d the doer of the Torres/Howard murders in a matter of hours, true to her word, and the ballistics had predictably matched up with a few other murders that the police never bothered investigating. Susanna “Susie” Falcone, a second cousin once removed with a rap sheet that puts many of her relatives to shame. Her name must still have some pull in political circles, because she’s only done time once, in spite of being indicted almost a dozen times. Gotta love good old fashioned judicial corruption, Jason had said. No one had been able to argue, looking at the number of charges dismissed.

All in all, it was supposed to be a fairly simple tag-and-bag. Once they’d found her place of work - officially, the Venice nightclub, unofficially, the family casino - he’d been tasked to track her, question her, and then turn her in to the police. He’d chosen his stakeout perch well, on a hotel roof high above the alley, he’d followed her, unseen, and so far, she’s given him the slip every freaking time. The woman has vanished through every doorway from here to Robinson Park, as only the most enterprising criminal can. Were this a different kind of case, Dick might have been impressed.

Instead, he’s annoyed, and having to compromise - his vantage point is lower, closer but more exposed in the thin shadows of a third story construction platform right above the alley. He can see the door to the club without any difficulty, but the moment he moves, he’ll be open to attack.

He’ll just have to move fast. Fortunately, that’s what he’s best at.

There’s a soft motion behind him, almost quiet enough to escape his notice entirely. It’s Jason - Dick hadn’t expected him to actually turn up. No doubt he’s here to make sure they finally succeed in catching their mark tonight, but he’s been so adamant about not leaving Danielle with anyone except Dick that it’s still a surprise to see him. What’s equally surprising to Dick is that he was apparently hoping Jason would show, if the relief he feels at seeing him is anything to go by.

It’s a nice moment of solidarity, until Jason opens his mouth. “So, fourth night’s a charm, huh?”

Dick bristles. “What happened to not leaving the baby?” he retorts.

Jason bristles back, but doesn’t rise to the bait. It’s a little wrongfooting - a reminder that things are changing between them. Dick is used to the veneer of antagonism that hangs over his relationship with Jason, the unresolved tension they both pretend not to notice. They’d gotten into a pretty good groove when he was acting as Batman, staying out of each others’ way for the most part, and working together when necessary. Dick’s pretty sure Jason doesn’t actually harbor any murderous feelings towards him, just like he doesn’t actually hate Bruce, no matter what he says.

“The girls and Alfred ganged up on me,” Jason says, leaning back against the scaffolding. “Whatever. I needed to get the hell out of there anyways. I don’t know how you stand being around them all so much.”

Dick laughs. “They’re not as interested in me,” he admits. “I’m not the cool sibling.”

Jason doesn’t respond right away. It's hard for Dick to tell, when he’s wearing the helmet, but he thinks Jason is probably waiting to see if Dick is joking. It’s another way things have shifted between them - Jason’s holding back, not jumping straight to lashing out, like he used to. It should be a good thing - it is a good thing, but it’s throwing him off balance all the same. He feels like he's spent most of the past several days looking for Jason, even when Jason is right in front of him. He’s used to trying to find the Jason he knows - or knew - the Jason who was taken away from him. Now there’s a new Jason, a Jason he’s still getting to know. Dick can’t choose between them, can’t decide which one he wants to find every time he looks at him. Maybe that’s why he can’t seem to find his one lousy mafia shooter.

“Looks like the cops are covering up the ballistics report on Reynolds,” Jason says, after a moment. “Go figure.”

Dick frowns. “Just Reynolds?”

Jason grunts. “Hold on. What.”

Dick turns to look at him.

“Did you burp her?”

Oh, Dick realizes, he’s on the comm. Someone back at the Manor must have pinged him on a private line.

“Then get Alfred to do it.”

It’s curious that the ballistics on Cy Reynolds’ murder are the ones being suppressed, Dick thinks. He was the only one killed with a submachine gun - the bullets from most of the other crime scenes had come from a standard Beretta APX, and the object of his stakeout, Susie Falcone, had used a Glock on Danielle’s parents. The Glock matched a few other shootings, the Beretta matched none. None of that is particularly noteworthy - after all, Susie is a criminal, and Beretta shell casings are a dime a dozen at any mob shooting.

“Fine. I’ll check back in five. If you asswipes don’t pick up, I’m coming back there.” Jason makes an aggravated noise in the back of his throat, which Dick takes to mean he’s hung up.

“Everything OK?”

“Just peachy. By some cosmic fucking joke, I’m the only person in the family who can get the baby to take a damn bottle. I told her they just need to burp her, but I guess that’s too complicated a task for a family of genius detectives,” Jason grumbles. “I knew I shouldn’t have left her. Shit.”

“Jay, relax. She’s fine.” Dick can’t help but grin at him. It’s honestly sweet, the way Jason and the baby have gotten attached to each other. Dick likes to think he’s her second favorite, but it’s pretty hard to tell. No matter who’s holding her, she’s always looking at Jason, and Jason never stops looking at her.

“It’s fucking cold out here,” Jason says mulishly.

Dick raises an eyebrow. “I noticed. It’s April, not August. If you really want to go back, I’m not gonna stop you.”

“I don’t…” Jason sighs. “Look, I’m here, okay? You bungled this grade school op three nights in a row, so congrats, you triggered the bat buddy system. If I leave and you fuck it up again, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Dick supposes it’s his turn not to rise to the bait. “Fair enough,” he says easily, turning around to face the alleyway again. “What were you saying about the ballistics on Reynolds?”

“Oh, Oracle ran the bullets through Interpol. Turns out our ill-fated gang boss was offed by one of Carmine Falcone’s personal weapons. The record’s been scrubbed from US databases, but Babs had a hunch.” Jason sounds impressed.

“Been scrubbed meaning...there was a record,” Dick follows, “and some people might still remember, if they saw the bullets. Hence the coverup.”

“Yup. Hence the coverup.”

“Could explain what the commissioner was doing here the other night,” Dick muses.

Jason snorts derisively. “See, this is what I hate about the mafia. They’re so goddamn predictable. Kill the competition, pay off the cops, around and around forever. It’s so pedestrian.”

Dick laughs. “You’d rather deal with Clayface?”

“Fuck yes I would. Clayface has flair, you know? Anybody can be a mobster, shit.”

Jason has started shifting with agitation, or maybe impatience. Either way, their vantage spot isn’t hidden enough for him to be moving around. “Get low if you’re gonna be twitchy,” Dick tells him. “Or if you’re gonna have a cigarette, but I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Lucky for you I quit then,” Jason says, crouching down next to him. “I’m not jonesing, I’m just fucking cold.”

“We could huddle together for warmth,” Dick jokes, grinning unabashedly when Jason’s helmet fixes him with a death glare. “Wait, you quit smoking? When?”

“When I started taking care of a baby, obviously.” Jason goes still, suddenly. “Is that her?”

The door to the alleyway opens, and they both tense - but it’s just a man, a bodyguard, by the looks of him. Close-cropped blonde hair, early 40s, used to throwing his weight around. Feeling there’s something familiar about him, Dick nudges Jason and motions for him to take a photo. Jason starts almost imperceptibly at the contact, but follows suit. They both hold perfectly still in the shadows as the man looks around, glances in a cursory way along the rooftops, and then sets off down the alley towards the street.

“I know him,” Jason mutters. “From Tim’s case files - he was with Intergang.”

Dick doesn’t say anything about Jason calling Tim by name, but it’s a welcome development. “Looks like he switched sides, if he’s hanging out here.”

“Wonderful,” Jason says. “All right, I’m gonna check on the kid again.”

Dick represses the urge to give him a shoulder squeeze, or ruffle his hair. It’d probably result in him getting shoved off the platform, but Jason’s being so....not different, because Dick’s always known that this Jason was still in him, somewhere. Always hoped, anyways. When Jason had been younger and acted like this, surly with his words but tender with his actions, Dick had always thought of him as cute. It’s like that now, too, except it’s not just cute, because Jason has several inches and at least two weight classes on him. It’s cute in a different way, an adult way. It’s cute in a way that makes Dick want to push harder against Jason’s armor, to catch as many glimpses of that side of him as he can. If he thinks about it too long, it’s cute in a way that makes him want, recklessly.

“Red Hood to Batgirl,” Jason says. He’s calling on the family line this time. “Give me an update.”

“You’re seriously a helicopter parent, you know that, Hood?” Steph laughs in Dick’s ear. “We figured it out. Well...Black Bat figured it out.”

Jason’s shoulders sag a little in relief. Cute, Dick thinks, involuntarily. He needs to get a grip. “About fucking time.”

“She prefers being propped up,” Cass says. “It helps her swallow.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you earlier. And she likes her back straight.”

“You said none of that, actually,” Steph says. “You just told us to support her head. Which we have been, thank you very much.”

“You have her now?”

“Robin has her.”

Dick and Jason look at each other. Jason says, “What the fuck?”

“Right?” Steph sounds amused. “I was surprised too....his friend is here, that ginger kid? He’s the one that took her from the orphanage, right?”

“Batgirl, I swear to god, if anything happens to her - ”

“Oh, calm down, jeez,” Steph groans. “They’re being supervised, okay? It’s honestly precious, you would agree with me if you could see it. I’ll text the pictures to N.”

“Please do,” Dick says. Speaking of cute, in a way that’s much safer to think about.

“Go do your job now,” Cass tells them. “We’re handling it.”

“Yeah, what she said. Batgirls out.”

“Feel better?” Dick asks, after a moment.

“Don’t ask me that,” Jason grouses. “And show me those pictures when you get them.”

Dick grins. “Sure, Jay.”

“Ugh.”

Dick decides to change the subject, before Jason gets too antsy and tries to bail. “So how do you want to play this, when Susie shows?”

Jason points to a dumpster halfway down the alley. “We wait until she’s there. I’ll get the club door, put a taser on it to stop her getting back in or anyone else from coming out. You cut her off before she gets to the street, and we question her on the backside of the dumpster. I’ll take line of sight, since I’m packing.”

Dick nods. “So is she.”

“So is every goon in those back rooms, sure. That’s why we lock their asses in.”

“And if they come out the front?”

Jason spins a gun in his hand. “Rubber bullets do the job just fine if you know how to aim. Let me worry about the backup.”

Another thing that’s changed about Jason - or that hasn’t changed, depending on how far back Dick looks. He uses rubber bullets now, whenever he’s working a case with one of them. Supposedly it’s a stipulation from Bruce, but Jason didn’t use lethal force on the couple cases he and Dick worked together, either, back when Dick was wearing the cowl. Dick thinks Bruce just gave him an excuse - whatever bloodlust Jason was fueled by when he first came back to Gotham has long since dried up. There are still things that set him off - Barbara had informed them about a dead rapist in the Narrows just last month - but Bruce hadn’t even commented on it, besides the barest acknowledgment. Dick thinks he might be the only one that actually cares when Jason kills someone, anymore. And what’s really disturbing is that he’s not actually sure how much he cares. For instance, he knows Jason has a third gun, holstered under his jacket, loaded with live ammo. He could call Jason out on it, insist he ditch it or at the very least unload it.

He says nothing. Let me worry about the backup. If this mission ends in a massacre, Dick will only have himself to blame.

The door opens again, and out steps Susie Falcone.

She immediately looks around, staying still in the doorway for a minute or more. Dick is pretty sure she hasn’t seen him following her, but he’s familiar with the sensation of being watched. He and Jason both shrink further into the shadows, waiting for her to make a move.

The whole process takes about six seconds. The moment she gets a few paces into the alley, they drop down. Jason electrifies the door handle, and Dick outmaneuvers her easily, slapping his police-issue cuffs on her and kicking her gun aside, then spinning her into the wall behind the dumpster. She hits it with a grunt. By the time she’s glaring at him, Jason is at his side again.

“Nightwing and Red Hood?” she says. “Damn. Didn’t expect to see you fellas out here.”

She doesn’t seem scared of them. Dick guesses they’ll have backup coming their way soon.

“Hey, what do you know,” Jason says conversationally, picking up the gun and emptying the clip in one swift motion. “Nightwing, I do believe this is our Glock.”

“Not mine,” Susie objects. “Picked it up off the club floor.”

“Come on, Susie, you’re smarter than that.” Jason crosses his arms. “Look, I can appreciate a sensible weapon. The Berettas the rest of your family favors? Too flashy for me. I loved Sopranos as much as the next guy, but come on.”

Dick suppresses a laugh. “Thought you were a Sig man,” he says in an undertone. He hadn’t expected Jason to take the lead, but it’s working. Susie looks agitated at the mention of her family.

“Wow, stalker. Remind me to move safe houses,” Jason quips back. “Aw, look, she slipped your cuffs.”

There’s a taser in Susie’s newly freed hand, and Dick quickly sidesteps it, twists it out of her wrist and sends it clattering down the cobblestones of the alley. Jason sweeps her legs out from under her and knocks her down flat, maybe a little harder than Dick would’ve. Thankfully, she goes down without a fight.

“Let’s try this again,” Dick says, kneeling next to her and zip-tying her wrists. If he wasn’t sure before, he is now - she was expecting them. They won’t be alone for long. He throws a couple smoke pellets down to the ends of the alley, and clips a nearly invisible wireless mic to the shoelaces of her boot under the guise of patting her down.

“You’re obviously not surprised to see us, so just tell us what we want to know,” Jason tells her, squatting down. “I’ll be honest, I don’t really give a shit that you shot Big Mouth, but what did Linda Torres ever do to you?”

“Let me up,” Susie snarls.

“No. Talk, or I’ll give you a taste of that taser you tried to pull on us.”

“Hood,” Dick hisses.

“See? He knows I’ll do it. Save yourself the grief, Susie.” Jason points the barrel of his gun lazily at her temple.

Susie narrows her eyes. “Fine. The two of them robbed me, last September. Dumb motherfuckers didn’t know who they were messing with. But I let them live because the bitch was pregnant.”

Jason makes a noise of disbelief. “Oh, sure. You’re a real bleeding heart, is that it?”

“Like you’re any better,” Susie fires back.

“You said you waited on Linda because she was pregnant,” Dick says. “Why’d you wait to kill Big Mouth?”

Susie’s mouth twists. “Guess I just felt like it.” Dick doesn’t need to see the tension in her shoulders to know she’s lying.

“Strike two.” Jason clicks the safety off. “Who put the hits out?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Susie answers. “I’m dead if I talk, so pistol whip me if you want to. Here’s the God’s honest truth: I really didn’t need a reason to kill those assholes. I was out for ‘em anyways. But I’m not crazy enough to kill a baby, all right? I don’t need shit like that on my conscience.”

“Keep talking,” Jason growls. Dick hears the whoop of a siren a few blocks off. “Where’s the baby now?”

“Somewhere safe, I swear. If anybody comes for her, it won’t be me.”

Susie still thinks Danielle’s at the orphanage, then. That’s good for them, but potentially bad for all the other kids, Colin included. These guys clearly have no problem killing children, even if Susie won’t do it.

The sirens are getting closer. Someone inside must’ve called the cops. Dick motions to Jason, indicating they need to wrap things up.

“Who is coming for her,” Jason barks, every line of his body a threat. “You’ve got five seconds.”

“You don’t.” Susie looks triumphant. They can hear the shouts of police from behind the smoke. “But don’t worry, boys. You’ll find out who really runs this town soon enough.”

“Hood,” Dick mutters. “We need to go, cops in this neighborhood aren’t cape-friendly.”

Jason stands, visibly enraged, and for a moment Dick thinks he’ll shoot Susie anyways. He’s prepared to move - but then Jason pulls out his grapple, fires, and flies up onto the roof.

“Talk about a bleeding heart,” Susie says to Dick. “He have kids or something?”

Dick doesn’t like her tone of voice at all. She’s too relaxed, too unconcerned about being under arrest. She won’t stay in long.

“It’s Nightwing! Get your hands up!”

Dick obliges, ready to pull his escrima sticks.

Three police officers come through the smoke, weapons drawn. “You better have a damn good reason for being this far out of Bludhaven,” one of them shouts at Dick.

“Sure do!” Dick calls back. “Arrested a murderer for you, no need to thank me!”

“Shut up,” a different officer retorts. “Keep your hands up, pretty boy.”

“Oh, fuck this,” Jason mutters over the comm. “I’m throwing you an escape, we’ll recon on the library roof. Stop being so goddamn chatty.”

One smoke pellet later, Dick is three rooftops away and flying. He gets to the library before Jason, exhilarated as ever from a good run.

Jason drops down next to him after a minute or so, laughing when he gets a look at Dick’s smile. “Running from the cops still does it for you, huh?”

Dick elbows him, momentarily forgetting to keep his distance. “Doesn’t it for you?”

Surprisingly, Jason doesn’t move away. “Usually they’re shooting at me, so.”

Dick leans closer, testing. “So…yes?”

“You’re so annoying,” Jason says, but he lets Dick nudge his shoulder, bump their arms together. He’s so solid, Dick thinks. So big. More like Bruce than any of them.

“So, how fast do you think she’ll get out?” he asks, when Jason stays quiet.

“Fucking tomorrow, probably,” Jason sighs. “Next week if we’re lucky.”

“Sounds like she didn’t know about Danielle, at least.”

“She’s not the problem,” Jason says, shrugging Dick off and standing back up. “Falcones will blow up the whole orphanage if they get wind of it. We need to put them down first.”

“We need to find out who’s in charge,” Dick agrees. “I planted a mic on her shoe. In the laces. Hopefully she won’t find it for a few days.”

“Good thinking,” Jason nods. “You gonna keep patrolling?”

“Might as well,” Dick says, standing up next to him and stretching his arms over his head. “I’m still stiff from that stakeout, I need to move.”

Jason’s gone quiet again. Dick thinks he hears his breath catch, but the helmet muffles it enough that it could be a yawn.

“You’re going back to the manor?”

Jason groans. “Fuck my life, yes.”

“You miss her, huh.” Cute, his brain chants.

Jason doesn’t answer, but Dick has a feeling he’s getting the stink-eye.

“I miss her too,” Dick offers. “It’s okay.”

Jason sighs. “Dick…”

“It’s a good thing, Jay. You care about her! We all do,” Dick adds, seeing the rigidity in Jason’s posture. “I mean, you’re practically her parent right now. Of course you miss her.”

“...Don’t say it like that.” Jason’s voice is low, almost pained, and Dick knows he pushed too far. “Like…like I have a right to, okay, just. Don’t.”

“Jason, wait,” Dick starts, but he doesn’t get to finish. Without a backward glance, Jason fires off a line to the neighboring building, and then he’s gone.

***

(tim)

The docks are quiet, unsettlingly so, as Tim prowls around the towers of shipping containers, keeping to the deep shadows they cast along the chipped pavement. It’s overcast, so there’s no moonlight to expose him, but it’s also too dark to see which of the trucks and campers parked all over are occupied, which ones might suddenly turn their headlights on him and catch him out.

One truck in particular - an innocuous looking Isuzu with a stunningly weaponized interior, is the object of his search. The driver, Felipe, is one of Tim’s best informants within Intergang - or had been, prior to the upheaval. Tim’s reasonably sure that Felipe is too lowly a grunt to make an example of, but still, he’s concerned that he hasn’t heard from him in a few days.

As it turns out, he needn’t have worried. He finds Felipe a hundred yard away from his truck, taking a piss off the wharf. He lets himself into the passenger side of the truck, and immediately notes that it is packed. There’s hardly a spare inch in the back, and Tim has a tough time even getting into the passenger seat with all the bags, clothes, and blankets stuffed into it. He pushes the majority of it to the floor, and waits.

Felipe comes back a few moments later. He opens the door and starts, eyes going wide when he sees Tim, but Tim puts his finger to his lips and motions for Felipe to get in so they can talk.

“Red Robin,” Felipe says, once the door is closed. He looks even more shaken than usual. “What the fuck, man?”

Tim crosses his arms. “You tell me, Felipe. You’ve been dodging my calls for days, and now I find out you’re skipping town?”

“I ditched that phone, man. Boss Reynolds had my number in there, you know? Ditched it as soon as I heard about him. I wasn’t trying to ghost you, honest.”

“Relax,” Tim tells him. “I’m not mad. I’d dodge me, too. Just tell me what happened, and I’ll shadow you out of town. Make sure you’re not followed.”

“Shit, man,” Felipe sighs. “Okay, look. There’s shit I can’t tell you, not if I ever want to hench again. You gotta figure that all out yourself, yeah?”

Tim shrugs. “Fine.”

Felipe swallows. “It started last week when Boss Reynolds met with somebody - I don’t know his name, God as my witness, but from what I heard, ‘cause I was unloading some of that funky alien tech, and you know Boss Reynolds wanted to supervise that personally - anyways, this guy in a suit took a meeting with him, and it sounded like he was offering Boss Reynolds a job. Said he had a new operation, bigger than Intergang, bigger than anything Gotham’s seen in a while.”

“Did Reynolds believe him?”

“Nah, he told him to get lost. They had some words, and then everybody started pulling guns, and I went back to the ship so I didn’t get fuckin’ shot, but I didn’t hear anything after that. Next thing I saw, Boss Reynolds was calling his son up and telling him to demo some building down by the old boardwalk - a hotel, maybe. Guess he wanted to expand that way, I don’t know.”

“That was the old Falcone hotel,” Tim says, mostly just to see Felipe’s reaction. He isn’t disappointed - Felipe goes pale, and his eyes flash to the rosary hanging off his rearview mirror. Tim likes Felipe as an informant because he’s nosy, shockingly competent for a henchman, and because he really likes to gossip. He’s never held back on Tim before this.

“Few days later, one of ours, this merc named Tiberius, comes down to the warehouse and says he’s got something to show us. Takes out a fat fuckin’ folder full of pictures…man, it was some sick shit. Boss Reynolds, his wife, Reynolds Jr, and every fuckin’ guy under him. Kids, man. He just passed it around, made everyone look at it. Then he says, we can either be in the folder, or we can come meet the new boss.”

Felipe takes a shaky breath. “Obviously I go with Tiberius, like everyone else. I heard a couple guys stayed on the ship that was docked, thinking they’d wait ‘em out, but the new boss blew it up. Says we’re not in the tech business anymore, and anyone caught trying to smuggle it is gonna get tied to it and tossed in the harbor. You can imagine my concerns,” he says, gesturing to his truck. Tim estimates half or more of the weapons in it are salvaged from alien junk. Roy Harper would have a field day with the setup this guy’s made for himself.

“So that’s why you’re bailing,” Tim says, understanding. He can hardly blame the guy. “Why not just hide the truck somewhere?”

“Well…I did think about that,” Felipe admits. “Tiberius made us a pretty sweet pitch, once we went along with him. Not gonna lie, I was tempted. Tech is my thing, you know, but I can make a gun out of pretty much anything. I could see the possibilities, is what I’m saying, but that was before we met the new boss.”

Tim nods encouragingly. This is what he’s been waiting to hear.

“Listen, Red Robin - I know we’ve had our differences, but I respect you, man, you know that. You’ve been good to me, so I’m gonna give you some advice here. Stay the hell away from the new boss. Like, don’t even get involved. I’ve been henching for a while, and I’ve seen some messed up shit, but they are crazy. Está loca, you feel me? I’ve seen the hit list, and you’re right at the top of it. You and all the other capes. Half of Arkham, too. And they’re connected, like you wouldn’t believe. Shit, I’m already saying too much, man. You see the position I’m in here?”

“I do, Felipe,” Tim tells him. He hands over a stack of hundred dollar bills, their agreed-upon rate for information. “Where are you going?”

“You’re crazy too, if you think I’m telling you that,” Felipe scoffs.

Tim wasn’t expecting a straight answer anyways. “Fair enough. You heading out now?”

“Soon as you get the hell outta my car, yeah. You said you’d shadow me out?”

“I will,” Tim says. “From a distance. If you don’t see me, it means you’re clear to cross the bridge.”

“All right,” Felipe nods. “In that case, I hope I never see your ass again.”

Tim laughs, and climbs out of the truck.

He finds his own way out of the shipyard, pulls a bike out of a safe house, and catches up with Felipe’s GPS signal halfway to the Fashion District. Once he’s sure there’s no immediate threat, he calls Barbara.

“Red Robin to Oracle. I’m uploading a recording to the server.”

Barbara is in his ear at once. “You met with your informant?”

“He wouldn’t give me a name, but he let a couple things slip.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” she says.

“First, he flinched hard when I brought up the Falcone name.”

“Confirms what we already know,” Barbara says. “Good. There’s more?”

“There’s more.” Tim tries not to gloat. This is, after all, a serious situation. “He was being cagey about mentioning the leader’s gender, so I was already suspicious, but then said ‘está loca’ when he was trying to warn me.”

Barbara whistles. “Well,” she says, sounding satisfied. “That’ll certainly narrow it down.”

“Yep,” Tim says grimly. “Looks like the new head of the Falcone family is a woman.”

***

(jason)

When Jason was Robin, the library had always been his favorite room in the Manor. It had spoken easily to his idea of what wealth was - rich people had fancy cars, sure, and maybe pools and expensive wardrobes, but wealthy people had art collections, and gardens, and libraries. Jason had spent hours upon hours browsing the shelves, reading anything he could wrap his brain around (and plenty of things he couldn’t), suggesting additions to Alfred, and avoiding his schoolwork in favor of learning about more interesting things, like string theory, or cryptology, or chemical warfare.

That was then.

Now, the library is the only place he can get a minute of peace from the constant barrage of his obnoxious, nosy, boundaryless family members. They’ve been characteristically persistent in their curiosity about him, and about Danielle, who is now Dani, courtesy of Stephanie. This is a nickname family, she’d said, and Jason hadn’t known how to disagree. So now she’s Dani, and Jason is family, and that apparently means he is no longer entitled to any privacy, or personal space for that matter. The only person who hasn’t barged in on him is Bruce, which is almost worse, in a way, because it’s one thing when nobody seeks him out, and it’s quite another when everyone does and then Bruce...doesn’t. Not that he wants Bruce to come up and bother him, God. But he’s in the man’s house, he’s hearing him on the comm constantly either on patrol or down in the cave, and all the other Bat brats and even Alfred are buzzing around him like flies. It’s too much - it feels like before, except for Bruce’s conspicuous absence reminding him that it’s not.

Sharing a bathroom with Dick is another before experience that Jason didn’t need a repeat of. In some ways, it was worse when he was Robin - stripping and showering after patrol in the cave with Dick a few feet away from him is a memory he really wouldn’t have minded leaving back in the Pit - and in other ways, it’s worse now, because Dick is always freaking around. There’s no reprieve, he’s not flitting off to the Titans every week like he used to be. Jason hasn’t gone half a day without Dick getting in his space, drawing up close to him and making that earnest eye contact he’s so annoyingly good at; sometimes wet, sometimes half-naked, sometimes both. And what can Jason do? He’s not going to leave Dani, and he needs Dick to be there so he can get some sleep every once in a while, or patrol, or shower. It’s actually been pretty helpful to have him around, in that regard, but if he has to see the guy walking around with bedhead and nothing but a pair of boxer briefs on one more time, he’s going to fucking explode.

So, the library has its benefits: no harassment from over-familiar family members, no Dick sexually frustrating him within an inch of his life, and, if he’s willing to be a little sentimental, he kind of does want to show it to Dani. She’s too young to appreciate it, probably, but it stirs something in him to share it with her all the same. He’s heard it’s never too early to get kids into reading - his parents sure as hell never tried, but Jason had read anything he could get his hands on, once he learned how. It had saved him, back then. Maybe it can do the same for Dani one day.

“Could’ve sworn Bruce had a Dr. Seuss anthology somewhere in here,” he says to her, combing over the shelves with his eyes. “Guess not. You up for something more sophisticated?”

She grunts, squeezing his shirt in her fist. “Alright,” he agrees, pulling Twelfth Night off the shelf. “Shakespeare it is. You’ve got taste, kid.”

He wonders, not for the first time, what exactly he thinks he’s doing, playing at this whole parenting thing. The rational part of his brain knows that this is a case, that Dani is a victim, that Jason is protecting her because it’s his job. The emotional part of his brain has gone completely off the goddamn rails. Case in point: he’s here with her in the library, prepping her for early literacy like some kind of Crest Hill soccer mom wannabe. Like he’ll even be in her life when she starts doing her ABCs - God willing, she’ll be as far away from him as possible by the time that happens.

It’s fucking hard to think about. He never thought he’d get this attached to a person who can’t even burp on their own. It’s been over a week, and he still struggles with putting her down, with stepping away from her, even when he knows he’s coming right back. Steph and Damian have been wanting to hold her all the time, and Jason knows that they’re capable, knows he has no claim over Dani, doesn’t even mind either of them all that much under normal circumstances, and still, he can’t help feeling like something has reached inside and gripped at his heart every time he passes her over. Which is ridiculous, because she’s not his, he has no more claim over her than any other schmuck off the street. She’s just a kid with unbelievably bad luck, and he’s the idiot who followed Dick up the stairs instead of booking it out the door like a sensible person.

He settles down with her on the couch, propping her up on a couple of pillows, giving her foot a little squeeze. She squeals, smiling at him, and stuffs her fingers in her mouth. God, Jason didn’t know he could feel the way he feels whenever she smiles at him. It’s gonna kill him when he has to give her up.

“If music be the food of love, play on,” he reads, walking his fingers up her leg. “Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, the appetite may sicken, and so die.”

Dani watches him, chewing happily on her fingers. “‘O, it came over my ear like the sweet sound that breathes upon a bank of violets.’ That’s you, you know.” He pokes her in the cheek, grinning. If music be the food of love…but hell, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of this. Especially when she’s all calm and engaging, the precious few minutes that he’s learned to appreciate in between finishing eating and being tired and cranky, when all she wants to do is look around at things, and all Jason wants to do, ever, is look at her.

The door to the library opens, and Jason goes from content to murderous in a fraction of a second. “What the fuck is it now,” he hisses, expecting Damian or maybe Tim, coming to nag him some more, and instead sees Damian’s friend Colin, who looks horrified to have intruded on him. Jason immediately feels like the world’s biggest ass.

“Sorry,” Colin whispers, mortified, and Jason waves a hand apologetically.

“My bad, I didn’t know it was you. Come in, it’s fine. She’s awake, you don’t need to whisper.”

Colin looks unsure, but soon nods and steps into the library, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Once inside, he dawdles by the nearest bookshelf, clearly at a loss. Jason probably should’ve just let him back out, because this is awkward. Should he keep reading to Dani? Talk to Colin? Ask him why he looks like someone just kicked him and stole his dog?

“You good?” he ventures, figuring he ought to at least attempt to be the adult in the room.

Colin glances at him over his shoulder, smiling tentatively. “Yeah, just bored. Damian’s sleeping, we had a rough patrol last night.”

“We?” Jason repeats, stunned. Bruce isn’t an exemplar of child welfare practices, sure, but letting Damian take other kids on crime-busting playdates? What the hell?

“Oh, I guess you don’t know,” Colin frowns. “I’m….uh, it’s probably easier if I just show you.”

He slides his jacket off, threadbare t-shirt hanging off his skinny frame. Jason tenses, not sure what to expect. When Colin’s arm starts to expand, his eyes widen. By the time his fist is as big around as Jason’s thigh, he thinks his eyebrows have probably disappeared into his hairline.

“Oh.” Jason has no idea how he’s supposed to react to this. Is Colin a meta? He’s pretty sure he would know if Colin was a meta. “How…?”

“Scarecrow,” Colin explains. Jason’s heart sinks. “He experimented on me with synthetic Venom. Batman saved me.”

Dani fusses, twisting her body and scrunching her face up. Jason sympathizes - this conversation is giving him gas, too. “Shit,” he says. Not the most articulate way of expressing his condolences, but Colin’s friends with Damian, so tact can’t be of great importance to him. “I didn’t know.”

Dani starts to cry, and Colin takes a couple steps forward, putting Jason’s hackles up at once. Stop it, he tells himself sternly. He might have fallen down a few pegs, but he’s not pathetic enough to square up against an abused fifth grader. He picks her up, rubbing her back, and then glances over at Colin. The kid’s gone shy, looking down at a point somewhere between Jason’s legs and the floor. Jason feels all the hostility bleed out of him, and he sighs.

“You can sit down.” He gestures to the couch, trying to sound nonthreatening. Dani burps, mouths at his shirt, and then gurgles and kicks her legs again. She leans back against his hold to stare at Colin, and Colin’s face splits into a huge grin. He tucks himself down into the cushions, keeping plenty of space between them, but Jason can sense from the inclination of his body that he wants to be closer. Well, if anyone has a right to be close to Dani, it’s the kid who rescued her in the first place.

“Here,” he offers, turning Dani around in his arms. His heart clenches, and he clamps down on his desire to flee. “You can hold her for a minute, if you want to. She likes you.”

Colin looks at him, eyes shining. “Really?”

Jason nods. “Go ahead. Honestly, you probably know a lot more about this shit than I do.”

Colin takes Dani from him carefully, smiling at her and laughing when she reaches forward to grab at his jacket zipper. A few seconds later, it’s in her mouth, along with most of her fist.

“Should I…?” Colin looks at Jason hesitantly.

“I mean…she’s had worse things in her mouth,” Jason tells him. A ringing endorsement of his child-minding abilities right there. “It’s fine, right? That’s how they build an immune system, or whatever.”

“Well, Alfred washed this for me last night,” Colin admits, looking embarrassed. “So it shouldn’t be too gross.”

Jason leans back against the couch cushions, crossing his arms. “Getting all the perks, huh?”

Colin shrugs, casting his eyes down again. “I like it here.”

Considering where Colin grew up, Jason supposes he can’t blame the kid. Still, he’s not quite wrapping his head around this sweet, genuinely nice kid being buddies with Damian. The demon brat isn’t exactly known for his winning personality, and Jason only knows vaguely how the two of them met, but what he’s heard doesn’t strike him as being particularly conducive to forging the lasting bonds of friendship.

Curiosity gets the better of him, and he decides to just ask. “Why’d you call Damian, the night you found her?”

Colin looks surprised. “I...don’t know,” he says, slowly. “I didn’t know who else to call? Damian’s my best friend, and he always knows what to do.”

Jason can’t keep the skeptical look off his face.

“And if he doesn’t, Bat….Bruce, I mean, definitely always knows what to do.”

Jason scrubs a hand over his face. Time to change the fucking subject. “How’d you two get hooked up, anyways?”

Dani turns her head to look at him, still eating Colin’s zipper. Sometimes, Jason gets the bizarre feeling that she can somehow tell when he’s about to blow a gasket. It’s probably a coincidence - she moves around a lot, and Jason has anger issues that flare up every ten minutes, so there’s bound to be some crossover - but it works, because it takes the fight right out of him every time.

“We worked a case together,” Colin says, holding Dani a little more securely against him. “About a year ago, I guess. Kids were disappearing from my orphanage, and from the shelters. I don’t think you were around.”

“I wasn’t,” Jason shakes his head. He and Roy had been busting a trafficking ring in Ibiza, and it had taken Jason over a month to get all the major players. “I heard about it a little, from Dick.”

Dick hadn’t given him too many details at the time - Jason had chalked it up to him having a few other things on his mind, but as Colin fills in the gaps, he starts to suspect Dick just didn’t want him going on a rampage. Which he absolutely would have - he still wants to, God. God. All those poor kids, just a stone’s throw from his old neighborhood. And of course the police had done jack shit - Zsasz is practically Black Mask’s pet, he probably paid them off to look the other way, not that most of them need the excuse - and Bruce was gone, and Jason was gone, and Dick was in over his head, and - fuck, it should never have fallen to Damian and Colin.

He waits for the fury to subside a little, not trusting what will come out of his mouth. Dani hums around her fist, blinking at him, and it helps. “Jesus,” he says, finally. “This fucking town.”

Colin’s mouth twists a little. “Yeah. But you were Robin, right? You probably saw worse things.”

Did he? Jason doesn’t remember. He doubts it, though. He can’t imagine he would’ve been satisfied with Bruce’s way of dealing with it.

“I wouldn’t have pulled my stroke, when I was Robin,” he muses. “Probably why Bruce never gave me a sword.”

No, Jason would’ve bisected the fucker. It still has appeal, though he thinks he would lean towards his favorite Sig rifle if he was taking care of it today. Headshots for the henchmen - anyone who signs on to that kind of operation, even in the most menial capacity, doesn’t deserve to breathe. Kneecaps and crotch shots for the spectators, to make sure they couldn’t get away. Gut shots for the kid-wranglers. And Zsasz....it’s tempting to want to draw it out, but Jason can feel the desire leaving him the longer he thinks about it. His imaginative tortures fade into a simple headshot, and even that isn’t satisfying. Fuck. He just can’t seem to hold onto his rage lately, even when he wants to. It’s all being replaced by some kind of anxiety, some kind of tenderness that aches, burning deep into him every time Dani looks at him, or touches him. Every time he thinks of her. Every time he feels Dick watching him with her, all warmth and affection.

Colin bounces her a little, making her laugh. Jason feels his revenge fantasy slip away.

“What’re you reading her?” Colin nods to the book still laying open in Jason’s lap.

Jason looks at it. “Oh, Twelfth Night. Shakespeare,” he adds, recalling that Colin is eleven, and likely not perusing great literature in his free time. “Figure it’s never too early to start her on the classics.”

Colin grins. “That’s cool,” he says. “Does she like it?”

“Beats me,” Jason shrugs.

“Read some?”

Jason raises his eyebrows.

Colin flushes. “Um. I mean, if you want…”

He decides to humor him. What the hell. “Sure, why not. ‘O spirit of love! How quick and fresh art thou, that, notwithstanding in thy capacity, receiveth as the sea.’”

Dani yawns widely, relinquishing her fist in a long string of drool. Jason laughs, and so does Colin. “Maybe jumping the gun a little,” he admits. “I don’t really know what kids are into these days.”

“Me either,” Colin says. “I think she liked it, though. See, she’s just sleepy.”

Jason feels a lump forming in his throat, and swallows hard against it.

“What does it mean? The part you were reading,” Colin asks.

“Um.” Jason doesn’t really know, he’s not exactly a literary scholar, but he’s always liked to work Shakespeare out on his own, finding meaning in the wordplay and running the metaphors through his mind until they line up in a satisfactory way. He doesn’t know if his interpretation is correct, exactly, but: “So this Duke, a guy called Orsino, is saying that he doesn’t want to be in love anymore. He’s talking about love and how everyone thinks it’s this wonderful thing, but the truth is that it actually just makes people miserable.”

Jason pauses, feeling like he just showed way too much of his hand. “Basically, he’s just complaining,” he finishes, uneasy.

Glancing at Colin out of the corner of his eye, he’s relieved to see that he’s occupied with Dani, and not paying attention to Jason at all. Thank fuck. If it’d been anyone else in the house sitting there, he’d be in for some horrible armchair psychology session, and he’d have to book it out the window and not return for several months.

“I think she wants you,” Colin says, as Dani ramps up her fussing. Jason takes her gratefully, holds her to his chest as she rubs her eyes and grumbles her displeasure at being passed around.

“All right, I hear you,” Jason murmurs, gently tugging her fists away from her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, come on. It’s not so bad.” Like he’s one to talk.

And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, ever since pursue me, he thinks, rocking her tiny body into a comfortable position. Colin was only holding her for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, and Jason was sitting less than five feet away, but he missed her. God, what is happening to him?

“Damian didn’t want to bring her here, at first,” Colin says quietly. “But I think he’s glad that we did. He really likes her, you know.”

Jason doesn’t quite know how to feel about that. It’s sweet, on some level. And he’s well aware that Damian likes her, going by the amount of time he spends hovering in the hallway outside Jason’s room, not to mention the increasingly expensive toys that keep showing up among her things.

He looks down at her, dozing off. “Well, she’s pretty easy to like.”

Colin nods, looking pleased.

“Damian, on the other hand....”

Colin grins. “He’s not so bad.”

He’s really not. Like hell Jason will ever tell him that, though. “You have bizarre taste, kid.”

Colin blushes, hard, and Jason blinks. Well. That’s interesting, isn’t it? Or it will be, in a few years. He makes a note to ask Dick about it, later.

“Are you gonna adopt her?” Colin asks, bringing Jason’s amused thoughts to a screeching halt.

Automatically, he says, “No way.”

Colin looks wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t,” Jason replies. “I’m the last person who should be a parent, trust me.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.”

Doesn’t feel that way either - the thought floats up, unbidden, uninvited. He can’t. “She deserves better,” Jason says, heavily. “Even if….even I could handle it. She deserves better than this family.”

“But your family is - ”

“A death sentence.” He’s being harsh, but if Colin’s gonna be hanging around, he’ll find out for himself soon enough. “It’s fucking cursed, look. I couldn’t do that to any kid, especially her. You should get out too, while you still can.”

Colin looks angry, which surprises him. His hands are balled into fists, and Jason sees a tremor in them, a bulging that immediately sets off alarm bells in his head.

“Kid,” he says sharply. “Colin. If you’re gonna hulk out, take it outside. Alfred will have an honest-to-God stroke if you do it in here.”

A few deep breaths later, Colin looks normal again. “Sorry.” His voice is hoarse. “You’re wrong, though.”

Jason’s temper flares. “No offense, but I think I would know better than you,” he snaps. Dani grumbles sleepily in his arms, and he sighs out in frustration. “Trust me, okay? She’s better off. It never ends well, not in this family. I’m proof of that.”

But Colin shakes his head. “You don’t know,” he says. “My mom said the same thing, when she dropped me off at the orphanage. She gave the nuns a letter - she said I’d be better off with them than with her.”

Jason stills.

“It didn’t matter,” Colin continues. “Scarecrow still got me. Victor Zsasz still got me. Maybe they would have gotten me with her, too. Maybe I wouldn’t have been that much better off with her, but at least I would’ve been with her.” He sniffles, and Jason holds Dani a little tighter.

“I know she loved me.” His voice cracks. “I just wish...I wish I could’ve stayed with her. I wish she would have known that I never would’ve been better off away from her.”

He looks absolutely miserable, pitched forward and rubbing hard at his eyes. Jason is reminded painfully of how young Colin is, closer to Dani’s age than his own. He remembers being Colin’s age and younger, thinking the same thoughts about his own mother. How fiercely he’d guarded her, chased away the cops and the social workers, doing everything in his power not to be separated from her. Not that it mattered, in the end.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Colin, I’m sorry. For the record, I actually kind of get where you’re coming from.”

Colin looks up at him.

“Wish I didn’t, but. That’s life.”

“You should adopt her,” Colin says again, softly.

Jason shakes his head. “Colin…”

“You’ll think about it.”

He exhales. “Sure, I’ll think about it.” Like he’ll be able to think about anything else after this.

“She needs you,” Colin insists stubbornly.

Jason doesn’t reply. He knows on some level Colin is right - Dani does need him right now. She needs someone, at least, someone who can take care of her and protect her. Someone who isn’t afraid to shed blood to keep her safe. Jason doesn’t relish the thought, but he’s certain this won’t end tidily. Mob cases never do. It’ll be messy, and bloody, and Bruce will have a shit fit, and Dick probably will too, and Jason will go back to Crime Alley and Dani will get shipped off to Witness Protection or something, and damn, does that hurt to think about.

He looks over at Colin, still hunched over on himself, vulnerability written into every line of his posture. He’s desperately in need of a hug, or some kind of affection, validation, maybe. Or that’s just Jason projecting, who the fuck knows. If Dick was here, he would know exactly what to do for him. Jason’s at a loss, unable to separate his young self from the damaged kid sitting next to him.

He adjusts his hold on Dani carefully, laying her down flat along his arm, while he works out what to say. Finally, he settles on, “Damian’s lucky to have you.”

Colin sits up a little straighter. He looks like he’s waiting for more, but he’s shit out of luck, because Jason has no idea what else he needs to hear. No idea what he could say that wouldn’t be completely insincere, anyways. We can be your family, Colin. Like hell. Bruce has enough kids lined up waiting to die for him, he’s not about to encourage another one to be turned into cannon fodder for the man’s principles.

“Uh, yeah,” Jason says, after a moment. “That’s all I got.”

Colin smiles wanly. “Thanks, anyways.”

Jason snorts. “Sure.”

“Can I hug you?”

Jason stares. “Can you…what? Me?”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” Colin adds, averting his eyes.

Jason can’t even remember the last time someone hugged him. He thinks Roy might’ve, some eight or nine months ago, after they’d narrowly survived a warehouse explosion. Jason’s whole body had been ringing from the blast, so he doesn’t exactly remember the sensation of it. And before that…?

He imagines Dick’s reaction, if he was here. He’d be disappointed in Jason, that’s for sure. Really, Jay? You can’t hug a child? It’s a fair argument, he has to admit. Jason’s fucked up personal space issues don’t really apply to children, or babies, clearly. Colin’s obviously attention-starved, and Jason’s already holding one kid. What’s another, really.

“Okay,” he relents. “Hit me.”

There’s a shuffling motion next to him, and then Colin is hugging his free arm, leaning his head against Jason’s shoulder. Jason can’t quite contain his surprise - it’s weird, as expected, but it’s not dramatically increasing his desire to bolt through the nearest exit like he’d thought it would. It’s a little funny, actually. He’s pretty sure both Bruce and Damian would lose their shit if they could see him right now. Dick, too, most likely, but to his credit, it would be a happy kind of shit-losing. Damian would probably try to gut him.

Are there cameras in the library? Jason can’t remember. He kind of hopes there aren’t, because if anyone else sees this, he will absolutely never live it down.

***

(dick)

“Wait, I think that’s him.” Dick leans forward to peer at Tim’s screen. He points to the familiar looking figure. “That guy. Do you have a clearer shot?”

Tim skips a few photos ahead, and zooms in. “Him?”

“Yes. That’s the guy. Jason said he recognized him from your surveillance files. He was at the club the night we caught Susie Falcone.”

“The fourth night, was it?” Tim asks, innocently.

“Don’t be mean, Timmy.”

“Just clarifying,” Tim grins. Dick raises an eyebrow. “Okay, okay. I don’t have a ton of intel on this guy, he’s really slippery. According to my informant, he goes by Tiberius - some kind of mercenary, Greek or Albanian national. I doubt that’s his real name.”

Dick nods, studying the photographs. Tim continues, “He came over with Intergang as an enforcer, I think. Might’ve been Reynolds’ personal bodyguard.”

“Could explain how Reynolds got taken out,” Dick says thoughtfully. “He’s on the Falcones’ payroll now, but he’s not family. Might be an easy target.”

Tim opens his mouth, about to reply, when there’s a choked-off sound of fury from the Batcave below them.

“Was that Damian? He’s up already?” Dick asks, glancing down towards Bruce’s computer. He hops over the ramp to see what the fuss is about. Tim follows close behind.

“Everything okay?” Dick asks, approaching the wall of screens. There’s nothing that jumps out at him as being particularly alarming; Bruce is looking at DNA analyses, and Damian is looking at the Manor surveillance, tapping furiously at his ear.

“Todd!” he hisses. “What do you think you’re doing? Colin is my friend!”

“Robin,” Oracle’s voice comes through the speaker. “No names on the comms. And Hood isn’t wearing his earpiece, so you’ll have to tell him in person.” She sounds amused. “Oracle out.”

Damian swears.

“Holy shit,” Tim says faintly. “Look at them.”

The screen that all the Manor surveillance feeds run to is showing just one room - the library, of all places, but Dick vaguely recalls it being some kind of sanctuary to Jason, years and years ago. It makes sense that he’d end up back there, and it makes sense that he’d have Dani with him. What Dick doesn’t expect to see is little Colin Wilkes, all five feet and change of him, snuggled up to Jason’s side and hugging him, wrapped around his arm like a gangly koala. Dick can’t help but notice that Jason’s bicep is about as big around as Colin’s head, which is certainly...something. He’s not quite ready to classify how he feels about that, so he refocuses on the hug itself, which is nothing short of charming.

Damian grinds his teeth audibly. “It’s still going.”

“Oh, man.” Dick can’t help the grin he feels creeping up the sides of his face. “Bruce, are you seeing this?”

“I am,” Bruce says, stiffly. He looks like he’s in pain. Dick fights the urge to roll his eyes.

“What’s wrong with you? Look how sweet they are!” he exclaims, gesturing. It’s adorable.

“It is not sweet,” Damian snarls, whirling on him. “Todd is a corruptive influence, and Colin is young and impressionable! Where is your concern for him?”

Tim coughs, and it sounds a little bit like “jealous”. Surprisingly, this does not diffuse Damian’s indignation.

“I don’t get it,” Dick says, stepping between them quickly to block Damian’s spinning kick. “I thought you and Jason were fine, Damian. You’ve been spending enough time in our - in his room lately. Where’s this coming from?”

“Incredibly, I don’t feel as concerned about Todd recruiting an infant onto the path of lawlessness,” Damian retorts. “Colin lacks paternal guidance in his life, as you know. Todd clearly senses it.”

“Jason is very paternal these days,” Tim agrees.

“I’m pretty sure it’s just a hug,” Dick says in exasperation. “No one’s recruiting anyone, Damian. And look, it’s over. Your friend is just a hugger, that’s all.”

“I must agree with Master Richard,” Alfred says from behind them. “Having been the recipient of many such embraces from young Master Colin myself.”

“See? I’ve gotten hugs from him too,” Dick tells Damian. “And I know you have, so don’t bother denying it. He’s probably gearing up the courage to get one from Bruce one of these days.”

Bruce looks slightly alarmed by the prospect. “He is?”

Damian looks conflicted. “He is?”

Dick casts his eyes heavenward. “Colin, I’m so sorry.”

Before he can say anything else, the Cave door opens below them, and Duke’s bike comes shooting in, whipping around into its parking spot in a move that would send Dick flying over the handlebars. Bruce takes about half a second to look impressed, and then clears the main screen to pull up their intel on the Falcone case.

“What’s up, guys,” Duke calls, pulling off his helmet and jogging up the steps. “I’ve got news. Where’s Jason?”

“Being hugged, in the library,” Dick tells him. “You just missed it.”

Duke looks nonplussed. “Damn. Wait, that’s not some kind of weird euphemism, is it? If it is, I don’t want to know.”

“It most certainly is not,” Damian says venomously.

“Cool. I tried to get him on the comm, but he didn’t respond. Should I go get him? He’ll want to hear this.”

“Damian will get him,” Bruce says.

Damian is…already on the elevator. Dick spares a thought for Jason. At least he’s holding Dani, so Damian won’t attack him outright.

“Your news?” Bruce prompts.

“Right,” Duke nods. “I’ve been all over City Hall records, and spent yesterday afternoon getting intel in the East End. I’ve got names and faces of most of the major players in this. They’re trying hard to front some distant nephew of Carmine Falcone as the head of the whole operation, but it wasn’t quite adding up. You said the new Falcone boss is a woman, right?” he asks Tim.

Tim nods affirmatively.

Duke looks triumphant. “Then I know who she is.”

***

#jaydick #in which there is so much plot all to justify the existence of 1 baby #low key this fic is my maternal love letter to colin wilkes #i miss him dc bring him back #my fics #heartlandverse

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genderfluidlucifer · 3 years

Text

Response to being asked to give an opinion on Connie’s calout by residentevil-4

(Tw: CSAM, rape fic, incest fic, predatory behavior, racism, ableism, kink mention, nsfw mentions. Minors should probably dni.)

“Connie and I know each other irl and went to school together for 3 years, although they now live in a different state and have cut contact with me. We went to a private therapy school in Manhattan as we're both disabled and were deemed unable to attend public school. Even though we were pretty close, Connie didn't like having photos taken of them, so I don't have any selfies of the two of us; however, these are from our sophomore and senior yearbooks which at least confirms that we were in the same year at school. People who have seen Connie's selfies should be able to confirm that that is what they look like. First and foremost, Connie is not TMA. They are intersex and the two of us have discussed intersex issues both in person and online, but they are still decidedly CAFAB.” Ok so first off, I want to address this part of the callout. To be honest...was it really necessary to literally doxx Connie ehre? Because this textbook definition of doxxing. Yes Connie’s done some shitty things but I freally don’t think that what they’ve done warrants this level of doxxing. Or...even better, any doxxing. This feels like a really unnecessary breach of privacy, revealing sensitive information on Connie’s childhood that they choose to confide in you with. I really don’t agree with this aspect of the callout as it feels very invasive and bordering on stalkerish. Btw when I say bordering on stalkerish I’m not directly calling you a stalker Bonnie. Just so we’re clear. I am not defending Connie supposedly faking being TMA. Because faking being TMA is a very serious issue. HOWEVER since I don’t know Connie irl and to be quite frank it’s none of my business what the nature of their agab is. Were not close and I’m certainly not going to like lead Connie onto thinking we’re friends just to confirm this with them because that would be creepy. So to be honest I’m going to take this part of the callout with again of salt for now.

[ID: A cropped screenshot of a numbered list Connie posted to their blog hadrosaurs in response to an ask.

“3. I’m TMA And that’s completely irrelevant. I’m not accusing them because of their gender I didn’t even know their gender when they said that to me saying that they said that because they fucking said that and the reaction to it was incredibly alarming. Don’t fucking say that stuff to people.]

I mean I”m not a trans woman so take this with a grain of salt if you want but...I don’t see how this is really proof of Connie being deliberately transmisogynistic? Yes Connie gives iffy retellings of mistakes they’ve made in the past. I’ve seen that on their blog before and I won’t pretend it doesn’t happen. BUT here they sound genuine enough and to be honest a growing issue I’ve seen with callouts as of late is. A person confirms they in fact did not do the thing they were called out for. And then the people who make the callout choose to see it as proof of incriminating behavior anyways. To be honest it’s a big problem and it’s also incredibly unfair to the person being called out. If you’re so determined at that point to see the person as bigoted no matter what they say then of course anything they say can be seen as proof. So I’m going to have to pass on this bit of evidence. “Connie responded: “Final note: I have spoken extensively with several trans women about using TMA to describe myself. I will not be getting into discourse about that on this blog again. All that leads to is people demanding my medical records and calling me slurs. If you wanna have a thoughtful conversation about it direct message me cause it’s not happening again here.” Again this really doesn’t seem all that self incriminating. Connie mentions here that they’ve talked to rl trans woman about whether or not they can be considered TMA. Connie really doesn’t have to disclose that personal information to people for any reason. Yes even when people are e including this ask response in a callout. And considering lots of people DO get invasive about Connie’s medical history ans general personal life over matters like this? I feel their reaction is pretty understandable here. “Connie has constantly compared “exclusionists” (or anyone, really) to TERFs, even when the people in question are not transmisogynistic, trans exclusionary radfems, or are even transmisogyny affected themselves.

“ Gonna have to disagree with this part of the callout too. Lots of ace inclus blogs, even some run by trans women , have proven that the ace exclus movement was started by swerfs/terfs. But the blog that has the most evidence for this is courteousmingler on tumblr. I suggest you check out that blog’s archiving of the history of ace exclus rhetoric before rushing to call me a transmisogynist for disagreeing with this part of the callout. I looked through all of the evidence for Connie being racist and tbh as a black ndn it all feels incredibly flimsy. It’d be one thing if Connie was using their experiences to derail and invalidate the discussions about how black people are oppressed But they weren’t doing that there at all. This part of the post feels incredibly biased. And like OP is looking for things to be mad about. Going to have to pass on this list of evidence. Also uh I seem to recall that residentevil04 got called out for some questionable behavior as well. “Both me (insepsy, hi) and ezrat have had really weird spikes in activity on our Statcounters, both on the same day. (Saturday, 4/17/21) For both of us, majority of the pages looked at by these visitors have been related to or about Connie, or have been posts that Connie would find "problematic" such as the f slur untagged or something related to "panphobia"/aphobia. I’m sorry but...none of the proof of cyberstalking holds any water. Visiting someone’s blogs and rbing posts to disagree with them is not cyberstalking. Keeping tabs on urls that an abusive person who has harassed are using so you can block them (in this case with kyoshi) and warn your mutuals is not stalking. As a victim of rl stalking it’s...really weird to call this legit stalking at all. Much less claim that you have damning proof of it being stalking when no such evidence exists in the callout. Besides after Connie and nonbinarydave called out one of kyoshi’s buddies for sending a death threat hate anon to nonbinarydave’s toddler st4lker partly admitted to doing it a few times. Then other mutuals in kyoshi’s toxic social circle clearly began joining in. Making side accounts where they tried to spin a false narrative of nonbinarydave’s daughter being one of their alters (ableist as hell.) And also trying to do it in such a way that they thought would trigger nonibnarydave’s psychosis (also ableist as hell.) If you’re going to drag Connie for their mistakes and never let them move on from those mistakes then it’s only fair to do that to people you agree with who also do toxic/bigoted things. ALso the fact that your wording here suggests that you think panphobia and aphobia aren’t real makes me doubt this claim even more. Exclus and their allies are notorious for mislabeling inclus disagreeing with them as stalking. “connie said that they would release that info at a later time and the minor began to argue with them that they had a responsibility regardless of their complicated relationship with age. in this argument connie for a time kept their age ambiguous and at one point told the minor (who confirmed in a later ask that they were severely traumatized by adults) that they obviously weren’t traumatized. connie quickly deleted this ask and any mentions of it and the next post they reblogged was about how wrong it was to try and quantify or discount others’ trauma. on my old blog i @ed them in the replies and asked if they had just done that. connie admitted to it and said it was fucked up but quickly blocked + deleted my comment. i can’t remember whether or not connie apologized to the minor, they may have? but yeah. i thought that was pretty weird.”] I do agree with some of the concern here that adults shouldn’t over expose minors in discourse. I’ve been contemplating this for awhile myself. And trying to figure out how to take better steps to avoid including minors who are triggered by discourse in discourse, especially. HOWEVER I have one little issue with this addition to the callout. If that is the case then exclus and their allies need to practice this as well. You cannot ignore the fact that the reason a lot of minors are getting involved in exclus discourse is due to adult exclus and their allies forcing minors to pick a side in the discourse. Y’all are not at all exempt from this problem. I still remember an ex mutual of mine trying to convince a minor to agree that aces can’t face corrective rape. And based on how aggressive it got with me when I tried to avoid giving an opinion on the matter, I can’t imagine that it would’ve reacted better to the minor refusing to give an opinion or to the minor outright disagreed. Refusing to put these standards on exclus and their allies is both hypocritical and quite frankly very transparent. The claims about them glorifying dark topics on AO3 through their fics also seems unfortunately legit. I mean those asks of shaming people who ask their viewers to not romanticize or glorify abusive relationships in their works is very damning. I’m very disappointed to see that Connie has taken being an inclus to the point of validating antis anti culture wholeheartedly. I can’t think of much more to add to my opinion on that part of the callout. As for the issue of Connie interacting with pro shippers in the past, I do know that this claim is legit. I’ve seen it before and so has Breeze. This was why for a brief time we decided to stop following their blogs. Because it was triggering to have pro shippers put on our dash. And sometimes we just don’t feel it’s worth it to always let people we’re platforming know they’re rbing triggering stuff. So sometimes we just quietly unfollow and choose to not interact until we’re sure they’re filtering what they do and don’t rb in some way. I definitely don’t agree with that behavior. And if they’re still doing that I”ll deplatform again. “The anon asks: “A weird question but do you know any other stimboard blogs with your follow criteria? (No radfems, racists, fandom antis, etc.) I was hoping to find more through your “similar blogs” but a lot have no anti-antis for their DNI or allow truscum/transmeds and exclus. :(“

The user responds: “I know of @turtle-pond-stims, @outofangband, and @kinaesthetics! 🍂🍄" “[ID: A cropped screenshot of an ask sent by Connie from their now-deactivated blog, butch-with-a-tortoise.

Connie says: “hey anon I have safe stim blogs. dm me if you want them. And radfems/bigots aren’t allowed to interact. For my own safety (because the community is honestly terrifying) I can’t publicly say on my blogs that I’m safe for proshippers/kinky people but I try to spread word how I can.”] [ID: Screenshot of a post by evilwriter37, which reads, “I’ve been seeing posts about fandom police leaving ao3, and it’s like: Good. We don’t want you here anyway. Go find your own fanfiction site.”

The post is tagged “#Fandom #AO3 #Antis #Purity Culture” and has 87 notes. It was posted on December 21st, 2020.

There is a reply from main-to-outofangband-andothers saying: “there are Silm antis on that site who are against Russigon (Maedhros and Fingon) not because they’re cousins but because they’re both male (coded)”] [ID: A screenshot of an anonymous (though signed off as being from outofangband) ask sent to evilwriter37, which says, “Melkor and Viggo solidarity is ‘Look there’s nothing wrong with keeping my enemy chained up in my personal chambers at all times so please just focus on the war efforts and I’ll focus on the boy* in my chambers’ -@outofbangand.

*boy used figuratively @ antis”

The user responds: “Pfft!!! Hahaha! You’re absolutely right! (And Viggo does refer to Hiccup in canon as ‘my boy’).”] I can’t really say anything to refute this. Because these are all posts of Connie outright stating that they disagree with antis. And not only sympathize with anti antis but are fully against antis. Looks like very damning evidence. Although ngl I’m not entirely against kinky blogs as a whole? Just so long as they truly stay in their lane with their kink content. And don’t force it on others in any way. Or shame people who are triggered by their kinks. It is true that being entirely against kinky blogs no matter what is dipping your toes into swerf rhetoric. Tbh I’m not going to look at the rest. This is pretty much all I need to make a decision on whether or not I”ll continue platforming Connie. Though I will try to get some more perspective from people who I interact with as well. Because I feel better about making a more definitive decision after doing that. Also in general please don’t not try to get an opinion from me on how I feel about syscourse. A lot of the claims about Connie’s age weirdness and them using their alters as a shield feel like syscourse to me. Especially if this callout was written by one or several singlets. Singlets should never be trying to judge how legit someone’s system is ever. Even if their system friends encourage them to. You can call out a horrible person with a system without trying to insinuate that they’re lying about their alters in some way. Doing otherwise is ableist ESPECIALLY if you’re a singlet. Also in general the reason I stay out of discussions of judging how someone is handling their systems is because it’s syscourse and syscourse is triggering for my system and I. If this post was an attempt to get me to give an opinion on the validity of Connie’s system I don’t appreciate it. And I would appreciate not being dragged into such matters again, thank you.

In general there’s like a few parts of this callout that feel legit. Which is unfortunately cluttered with obvious bias and obsessive hatred of Connie. I’m not here to stan or coddle Connie. I know they are not a perfect person. Especially since no human being in the world is perfect. But I feel the way this callout was created was very sloppy since a lot of the evidence was messy at best. And some points were very hypocritical as well as there being some no true scotsman moments from OP. In acting like exclus never do any of the thing that they tried to call out Connie for. Which is behavior that I am not a fan of. This is why people need to be more careful about callouts and like make roughdrafts and have a more unbiased person helping them if they don’t feel they can do it on their own. I’m even trying to make a resolve to do better at that myself. So it’s not like I’m unwilling to put my money where my mouth is. Anyways those are all my thoughts on this messy callout. And tbh I’m not going to get too much more heavily involved in this. Because I need to focus on more immediately serious rl stuff more often, like doing what I can to get out of the hellish landscape of a house I currently am stuck in.

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the-odd-job · 4 years

Text

Ashes of Icarus chapter 19 - All the Things He Said

Warnings: Chose Not to Use Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Optimus, Cliffjumper Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Additional Tags: Dubcon, Unplanned Pregnancy, Mechpreg, Sticky Words: 1937

( Previous )

Every day grew more tense as the sand in the hourglass slipped away. His time was running out. Sooner and sooner Ratchet would access the spec ops records, and then it would be all over him, wouldn’t it? Jazz, Optimus, Prowl, Ironhide, Red Alert would have questions that Ratchet would have to answer.

They would all find out, and then what?

Then what?

No doubt Red Alert would demand the greatest punishment, although Sunstreaker wasn’t at all sure what that might be. Was it possible they’d straight up execute him? He wouldn’t have put that past them.

Exiling him would’ve been well preferable to that. Incarcerate him?

What would they do to the sparkling? While it was still in his frame, and after it had separated?

Did he want to stay to find answers to those questions, or should he leave before they could make him face the consequences of his actions?

Where would he go? To Megatron? Or somewhere else?

Where else?

Where could he go? And would Megatron even let him go, after he had made it clear he wanted his hands on the sparkling?

Or would he simply be hunted down and dragged to the Decepticons?

He was likely safe from that fate if he stayed with the Autobots, but was what the Autobots would do to him any better?

Megatron, at least, had stopped harassing him after their one mid-battle conversation. Apparently he’d gotten to discuss what he had wanted to discuss—probably mainly the reminder of what he had promised to do if Sunstreaker didn’t.

Tell the Autobots.

But so far, there had been no word from the tyrant.

It was quiet on all fronts, for now, but he could sense Ratchet’s mounting concern. Sunstreaker, personally, thought that Ratchet didn’t want to find out answers in a way that would break his precious medical confidentiality, but what was he doing except forcing the medic’s hand with his refusal to tell who the sire was?

With his refusal to admit it was Megatron?

-----------------------------------------------------------

“Sunstreaker, Sideswipe,” Optimus greeted them in the rec room. They were sitting in their corner table as usual, and if Sunstreaker’s presence didn’t just create a lovely bubble around them that no one dared to cross the threshold of.

No one except the Prime.

Optimus spoke quietly enough that snooping ears couldn’t hear him, which was enough to make Sunstreaker tense from helm to pede. Now what?

He glared.

“Wazzup?” Sideswipe asked with an easy smile, leaning back in his seat.

“Could I speak with you two in private?” the Prime asked. Sideswipe cocked an optical ridge at him.

Sunstreaker growled. “If it’s not something we can talk about in public, then we’re not talking about it.”

Optimus gave him a look, but that was nothing new. Happened practically every time they talked, really. Sunstreaker didn’t lose his glare any more than Sideswipe lost his smile even as he sipped from his cube.

If Optimus wasn’t as kind and forgiving as he was… Well, Sunstreaker wasn’t sure he’d even be an Autobot at this point, after everything he’d done and all the disrespect he’d shown.

And soon enough he might just use up all of Optimus’ goodwill, and then what? The million dollar question. He highly doubted even the Prime could forgive relations with Megatron.

“Very well,” Optimus said, surprisingly, and took a seat opposite from them. Even Sideswipe frowned at this point, setting his cube down.

“Seriously, Prime, what’s this about?” his brother asked, and wasn’t that what they were both curious over.

“Ratchet has been very concerned over you,” Optimus rumbled, glancing between them. His voice was low and quiet, just enough to travel across the table to them, and no further.

Sunstreaker’s optics narrowed. “What’s he said?”

“Just that he’s worried. You know Ratchet would never speak of anything confidential.” Everyone knew that. As bad as Ratchet’s bedside manner was, as grouchy as he could be, one thing he was, was reliable. Optimus may have been his leader, and if Sunstreaker hazarded, his friend too, but that wouldn’t be enough for Ratchet to speak of things that were between him and his patients.

Beyond saying he was worried about them it looked like, anyway.

“Did he ask you to talk with us?” Sideswipe asked, a little disbelieving. Optimus for sure tried to be everyone’s buddy despite being the leader of the whole damn faction, but it couldn’t exactly be said he and the brothers had ever been too close. They had too many issues with authority figures, especially as maddeningly soft ones like Optimus, to really appreciate the Prime to any measure.

Not a great foundation for anything more than barely passable relations, as much as Optimus never held it against them. He still tried.

As he tried now too. “No, he didn’t ask me to. I wanted to ask you myself. Is everything alright?”

What the frag made him think they’d tell him even if something wasn’t? Sunstreaker frowned harder, and next to him, Sideswipe mirrored the expression.

“Yeeeaaahhh?” his brother almost asked, because you know, why wouldn’t everything be just dandy? “Everything’s fine? I’m not sure what Ratchet’s worried over.”

Sideswipe paused for a thoughtful effect before he continued. “Well, unless it’s about Sunny’s glitch. That’s been acting up.”

“I remember,” Optimus sighed, his optics resting on Sunstreaker. “But you have had quite a bit of luck keeping it under control since, have you not?”

“Thanks to Sides,” Sunstreaker grunted.

The Prime frowned at the suggestion behind those words. “What has caused it to act up like this?” Damn, wasn’t he just so concerned. For who, though? For Sunstreaker and his mental health on a downward spiral, or for the rest of the Autobots he’d become an instant threat to if he lost control of himself?

Probably a bit of both. Optimus was just so… Altruistic.

“Haven’t you noticed Megatron’s given me an uncomfortable amount of attention lately?” Sunstreaker asked, raising one of his optical ridges for good measure. “If that’s not stressful, I don’t know what is.”

Look, he wasn’t even lying.

“I have noticed,” Optimus said carefully, like the whole situation was a powder keg ready to explode.

With Sunstreaker on the scene, that may as well be true. “Do you know why he’s given you that amount of attention?” Optimus continued, looking at him with concern.

But that was probably fair enough when your worst enemy was gunning for one of your soldiers.

Sideswipe cracked his knuckles mentally. Time to fabricate some falsehoods.

“You remember that one time Megatron and Soundwave ran into me and Sides?” Sunstreaker asked, and continued after Optimus had nodded at him. “He said something about remembering me, that time. We have some… Unfinished business, that he didn’t manage to finish that time either.

“I think he’s trying to finish it now.”

Optimus frowned and considered his words for a moment—and the implications behind them. “What kind of ‘unfinished business’, if that isn’t too much prying?”

Aw, wasn’t he just so polite.

Sunstreaker stayed quiet just long enough to make it look like he was considering how much and how he would tell about this—for reasons that should become obvious when he finally spoke up. “There was a deathmatch,” he said, a bit cautiously. See, their past was a bit of a sore topic, wasn’t it? So violent and filled with death even before the war that most Autobots were just uncomfortable when it came up.

They didn’t want to hear about everything they had been through. It was just too disturbing for their fragile little sensibilities. “It ended before either of us died, which is… Not supposed to happen. Ever.” He gave Optimus a meaningful look, the kind that said ‘you wouldn’t understand, but just take my word for it’.

Optimus nodded again, more slowly this time as he started to catch onto what Sunstreaker was getting to.

Sunstreaker said it out loud anyway, just so there was no confusion. “I think he’s trying to grudge kill me now, now that he remembers me.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not about to let that happen,” Sideswipe piped in with a fierce grin. The Prime frowned at him in disapproval, to which Sideswipe merely shrugged. So they were a little bloodthirsty, and too fearless for their own good. Sue them.

“Is there anything you would like me to do about that?” Optimus asked kindly.

Sunstreaker snorted. “Kill him, maybe? Would solve a lot of problems.”

The Prime had a pause before he sighed. “Yes, that is the goal, isn’t it?” he said quietly enough that Sunstreaker wasn’t sure if it was even aimed at them at all.

They said nothing. Optimus eventually cycled another ventilation, and nodded at them. “Thank you for your candor, twins.”

Candor. Right.

Sunstreaker nodded back, as did Sideswipe.

Optimus took his leave, and alone they were again—but not for long, because someone whose intelligence was as lacking as their height decided to come their way after the Prime had left the room.

‘Cause you know, Optimus wouldn’t have particularly approved of Cliffjumper antagonizing them, but that was all Cliffjumper knew how to do.

What did they ever do to him? Were activated in the wrong city? Had the wrong frame type? A past he didn’t approve of? A little too shaky loyalties?

“Everyone’s starting to notice something’s up,” Cliffjumper said as he came closer, stopping outside of grabbing distance and placing his hands on his hips.

“And what is up, exactly?” Sunstreaker asked, narrowing his optics at the minibot.

Cliffjumper leaned towards them. “You and Megatron are what’s up. You’ve been eyeing each other for months. So what’s going on there, huh?“

Was it just Cliffjumper looking for any excuses to blame them for unbecoming behavior?

Or had their comrades actually noticed the change?

Sunstreaker snorted. “He wants to kill me is what’s going on there?”

Sideswipe laughed. “You’re reaching even harder than usual, CJ!”

The minibot wasn’t discouraged. “Am I really? What’s with him not trying to fragging ‘kill you’ this hard before, tell me that.”

Easy. “Because he didn’t remember me before,” Sunstreaker said with a good, big roll of his optics. “Now he does and wants to finish what he started way back when.”

“That’s what we figure, anyway,” Sideswipe shrugged, “Not a hell of a lot of other potential explanations.”

Cliffjumper growled at them, but he had no solid proof, did he? So he’d noticed their looks, the lowkey drama between them—noticed something was going on.

But he had no way to prove it was anything more than what the twins suggested it was. He didn’t know about the sparklet steadily growing next to his spark.

But he would soon. Everyone would know soon, once its signature strengthened enough to become noticeable on top of that of its carrier.

And then… He could only imagine what Cliffjumper would accuse him of then.

He might even hit home.

“Say what you say,” Cliffjumper huffed at them, his arms coming up to cross across his slagging mini chassis. “You won’t be able to hide the fragging truth forever. Did you jump on that spike already? ‘Cause I think you did.”

This time Sunstreaker laughed and Sideswipe snorted. “Riiiight, he fragged Megatron,” Sideswipe said in full mockery. “And lived to tell the tale?

“Frag off, Cliff, seriously.”

“Why don’t you do what your name suggests and go jump off a real high cliff?” Sunstreaker smirked, hiding his expression behind his cube.

Cliffjumper growled at them again, but turned to leave. “We’ll see who laughs last, fraggers.”

Yeah—and it probably wouldn’t be him and his brother.

( Next )

#transformers #maccadams #optimus prime #sunstreaker #sideswipe #cliffjumper #fic #2020 #ashes of icarus #ashes

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anchanted-one · 4 years

Text

A few days ago, I saw a post by someone who had been harassed for expressing pleasure that Isabella and some other characters looked like South Indians and Sri Lankans.

For reference, these are some pics of South Indians that I pulled off Pinterest.

As you can see, South Indians can be a lot darker of skin than those of the North. They are descendents of an ethnic group called Dravidians, who are said to have been the original inhabitants of Indian going as far back as the Indus Valley Civilization. Because of their darker skin and a stupid fascination with fair complexion (probably another thing to thank colonialism for) they face severe discrimination today. (I will say it simply coz it needs saying: we Indians are racist bastards)

Looking at the movies made by the more world famous Bombay based filmmakers, one might get the impression that our darker skinned peoples don't even exist. And if they do they are servants, beggars, lower class vagrants, and worst of all, violent criminals.

Which is why it's understandable if someone of Dravidian origin sees Isabella and feels grateful to see someone like themselves in a game, and as (such a popular) romanceable too.

Apparently there were a segment of DA fans who were deeply offended by this. They yelled and groaned, apparently, that the likes of David Gaider (who is a problematic man to say the least) had come out and said that Rivaini are all black, and that the OP was "taking this away" from the black people.

But dark skin isn't limited to African peoples, and saying that it is is a big disservice to the other groups.

If we look purely at the character models, one would never be able to tell that Duncan and Isabella are African-like people. Sure they have dark skin, but their facial structures are Middle Eastern or South Asian. Which is why it's understandable for some of us to see them as (in this case) Dravidian-like people.

This is especially true with DA2 Isabella because for DA2, the team has clearly had the time and motivation to make all companions look unique and interesting, but Isabella only ambiguously looks the part of African.

Compare her (and Duncan) to Vivienne, whose beautiful lips and nose leaves no one in any doubt whatsoever.

Also: not all of us can follow every scrap of literature, every single developer interview.

It is Bioware's fault if someone sees Rivaini black people as black peoples of more than just African descent. Not people like the OP in question.

Representation matters. But it's not just Africans who are often left out: and anyone looking at a post where someone is celebrating their ethnicity apparently shown in a word they love, and resorting to harassment and gatekeeping and name-calling is a dick move. I'm sure to the OP it was like hearing "No way, you stupid bitch! Your representation doesn't matter, only ours!"

Note: in case anyone is wondering, I'm the lighter skinned, more privileged class of Indian. But I was sent to a public school and had many darker friends.

#Dragon Age #Representation #Peoples of color

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traincat · 5 years

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I saw your posts about Spider-Man on twitter but I’d rather message you anonymously because I’m shy; anyways, I saw your reaction to that video of Zendaya, Tom and Jacob to the is Spider-Man Jewish question. And their reactions pissed me off so much. They were all so dismissive of the questions and actually laughing at it. I myself am Jewish and was really excited to see so many people talking about Peter being Jewish and now I keep flashbacking to that horrible video 😡

Please don’t be shy! I don’t bite first. But I completely respect your right to be anonymous, particularly on this subject, which has garnered some heated discussion on several sides. If you saw my tweets I’m fairly sure you know my stance on it. I’m going to elaborate anyway for the unaware, free of twitter’s character limit, as to why the MCU Spider-Man cast’s reactions to being asked if Spider-Man is Jewish was frankly very inappropriate.

For those who haven’t seen the clip, it’s here. (Please don’t harass OP for posting it more than they’ve already been harassed for daring to point out the antisemitism in the clip, I just don’t feel like finding the whole Wired video.) I have multiple problems with this, starting with the fact that I personally feel like it’s a setup. The focus of this -- both from the critical and defensive sides -- has very much been on the actors themselves, but I want to walk it back a little bit, because while their reactions to the question were undoubtedly both ignorant and hurtful (there’s nothing inherently humorous about asking if a character is Jewish, so I’m not sure why Zendaya was laughing), ultimately I think the larger problem is why this was allowed on the internet in the first place. The actors themselves may be young -- though I will point out they are all adults and professionals, and this isn’t the first interview for any of them -- but their managers aren’t, and it’s hard for me to believe that if a company with as much range and influence as Disney didn’t want religion discussed in promotional material for the film that they couldn’t have that material blocked. It’s less difficult but much more questionable for me to believe that nobody saw these young stars’ reactions to the question “is Peter Parker Jewish?” and no one decided that the content needed to be refilmed so it came off less mocking or that it should be cut entirely. Let me be really very frank: a group of non-Jewish actors should not have been asked this question, even if their reactions were respectful and inclusive towards the Jewish identity, because their opinions don’t matter. The opinions of Jewish creatives matter. These actors most likely (or, based off their reactions, definitely) don’t have the tools needed to recognize the Jewish coding within the character the way a Jewish creative does, and their opinion on the subject doesn’t matter compared to that of a Jewish person. Take, for instance, Andrew Garfield’s insightful comments drawing on his own cultural experiences as a Jewish person, or Phil Lord of Into the Spider-Verse’s description of Peter Parker. This is not a flat out condemnation of Tom Holland, Zendaya, or Jacob Batalon, but it is fair to say that none of them are experts I would call upon to discuss the Jewish history of Spider-Man, given that none of them are Jewish or, based on the linked interview, apparently have given Judaism and the history of superheroes any serious thought. Which, again, is not their job or a faction of their identity, so I can’t exactly blame them for it. It’s disappointing that they are not more open minded and better spoken on the topic, but not surprising that they aren’t.

That being said: their reactions were completely inappropriate and borderline antisemitic. Let me make it perfectly clear that you don’t have to be acting with malicious intent to be antisemitic; antisemitism is ingrained in our culture, in our jokes, in our popular media, and it is incredibly easy to fall prey to it without realizing what you are doing, and these three young and very influential stars reacted to the notion of Peter Parker being Jewish as if you’d asked them if he was Martian. I’ve seen a lot of people attempt to excuse the comments by saying that the actors were “taken aback” or “surprised” by the “randomness” of the question, but there’s really nothing random about it when Andrew Garfield was quite outspoken about Peter Parker’s Jewish identity and when Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse had Peter B. Parker very notably have a Jewish wedding, which for me lends some doubt to Zendaya’s claim that she’d “never heard anyone ask” that particular question, all the while giggling like something was funny. It’s quite possible she’d never heard it before, but that means she’s divorced herself from greater discussion involving other adaptations of the story, including discussions that took place six months ago when Spider-Verse was in theaters. I’ve also seen plenty of people attempt to let Tom Holland off the hook for his comments, saying that he only said “I don’t know” when in fact he prefaces that with “I don’t think he is.”

Let me be very clear: that these young actors lack of knowledge about the Jewish coding of Peter Parker and the long Jewish history of superhero comics isn’t the problem. They are being paid to portray roles, not to know everything about the history of those roles they are portraying. The problem is the language they employed when the question came up. It was dismissive, it was insulting, and it was antisemitic, whether or not that was the intent of the speakers. Again, you don’t have to be actively malicious to be antisemitic. “Is Spider-Man real” was treated with respect while “is Spider-Man Jewish” was hurriedly and thoroughly dismissed. Let me be very clear: I would not have a problem with this clip if Tom Holland had simply said “I’m not sure”, or if Zendaya had said “I hadn’t heard that before, but that’s interesting,” or anything along those lines, being inclusive about the idea of Peter Parker being Jewish even if they weren’t hardline approving of it. The fact was there was no support for the concept of Peter Parker’s Jewish identity, only giggly or confused dismissal, and that is not the way to treat any marginalized identity, and I frankly can’t believe that people would rather side with the actors in a moment of ill-spoken and insulting dismissal of Jewish people -- acting as if it’s a total impossibility that Peter Parker could be Jewish -- than with the Jewish people who rightfully feel hurt by their insensitive comments. They’re fine, people. They still got paid far more than anyone taking offense at their careless words. They didn’t go down a hundred points in the secret Jewish gold stock market. They probably didn’t even notice the backlash from Jewish fans among their 18,000 other social media notifications. Nobody is quote-unquote “canceling” them for being ignorant of Jewish history in superhero media and pop culture and for speaking carelessly. Perhaps there should be greater consequences, like, at the very least, a public apology for their careless language and laughter, but honestly, that’s very unlikely, so you don’t need to defend them. They’re probably fine.

I said this on twitter, but I’m going to say it again: a lack of knowledge about Peter Parker’s Jewish coding or the long history of Jewish creators and subtext in superhero comics, especially when Marvel was getting its start as we know it now, is not a bad thing. It is not bad to not know this. If you didn’t know this, you’re not a bad person and you shouldn’t feel bad or guilty for just learning it. We all have things we are unaware of or that we don’t possess the cultural tools to recognize. That’s part of having an individual human and cultural experience. The problem becomes when this is brought up and instead of being interested or at the very least inclusive in their language, young influential stars dismiss it outright. Tom Holland’s “I don’t think he is” could have easily be “I didn’t think he was, but that’s an interesting point to look into”, whereas Zendaya claiming she’d never heard that could’ve easily been “I didn’t know that.” Simple as that. Minor changes, but a world of difference. These stars may be young, but they are professionals, and they should be expected to act in a professional manner. Instead, they chose in the moment to dismiss it entirely. And like I said, this is not entirely their fault, because I do think that upon their reactions either a reshoot should have been ordered with their handlers giving them tips for more inclusive and less offensive language, or that the question should have been cut entirely if it wasn’t going to be taken in good faith or discussed seriously. But it wasn’t. This was viewed as appropriate discussion and aired. And, as inappropriate as the actors’ words were, and as much as I personally believe they should apologize for those statements, that is not their solely their faults. Someone should have corrected them for their own good and for their own growth. There should have been people looking out for their images who should have said, “hey, this doesn’t look good, this is coming off like you’re dismissing the Jewish identity and experience.” But there weren’t, because the Jewish interest is not viewed as marketable, and therefore insults to Jewish people -- intentionally malicious or not -- are not viewed as things that need to be managed. And that is deeply unfortunate and very telling of how people in Hollywood, an industry that wouldn’t exist without Jewish people, currently views Jewish people. And I have to say, I expect better of young professionals in 2019 than when faced with a question about marginalized identities like Jewish people to either dismiss or laugh through the inquiry instead of paying it the minimal amount of respect by at least pretending to entertain the notion, even if they don’t personally believe it.

Ultimately, I have to say, none of this is surprising if you view Disney as thoroughly managing their own brand (and know that their own brand is heavily antisemitic), when Spider-Man: Homecoming contained several depictions of Jewish people that either unsettled me or struck me as inappropriate. The first is the black hats on the subway who glare at Peter -- poor little MCU Peter, who people are endlessly willing to woobify and excuse -- and then, in his school, the kid in full Orthodox attire, when a child at that level of religious dress would never have been at that school because a secular school could not properly address his religious needs and when the New York Orthodox community is famously insular. No, everything the MCU did in Spider-Man: Homecoming, in my personal opinion, reflected the harmful opinion that you can “spot” a Jew, by having men in full Orthodox dress glare at Peter Parker on subway, by having a child in his multicultural school in full Orthodox dress instead of simply wearing a yarmulke or a Star of David necklace like, say, Kitty Pryde was famous for during her debut. There’s nothing wrong with highlighting the Orthodox community, but when that is all the Jewish representation in your film, with no plot reason for doing so, it strikes me as distinctly odd, as if you’re trying to separate the Jewish contingent from the rest of your audience. When Marisa Tomei, who looks a certain kind of ethnic, is identified in-universe as “the hot Italian woman”, lest anyone think her Aunt May and therefore Peter Parker might be Jewish. The message then becomes: you can spot a Jew. And you can’t. That’s harmful. That’s what led to me in my grandmother’s rented apartment while she was dying while her nurse ranted to me about her landlord the “evil Jew”, afraid to say anything in case she harmed my grandmother while I wasn’t there. That’s how that ends up. So I’m sure Tom Holland, Zendaya, and Jacob Batalon didn’t view their comments in the moment as harmful, and I’m sure the people who are defending their naivete and ignorance about Jewish culture and the Jewish history of comic books are only trying to speak out towards their favorite actors, but there are real consequences towards this type of language and this type of behavior and this lack of respect for the Jewish identity, and this isn’t something that can just be brushed off. And those are my thoughts on the subject.

The MCU already took careful decisions to erase to the Judaism from Spider-Man, notably following Andrew Garfield’s open declarations about Spider-Man’s Jewish identity. Now its actor are following suit. It’s hard for me to pretend it is a total coincidence, especially following Into the Spider-Verse’s Peter B. Parker with his Jewish wedding scene, voiced by Jake Johnson, who is from a Jewish family, which came out barely half a year ago. It’s both fine and normal to be unaware, especially if it’s not your background, of the Jewish history of Spider-Man. It is not fair or appropriate, especially if you are not Jewish, to dismiss the notion that the character could be Jewish without any kind of consideration, and it is especially not fair to laugh at the notion. I don’t have a lot of faith that the actors involved will learn from this, but I sincerely hope that they do and that they behave better in the future, because they did hurt and insult a lot of real Jewish people whose feelings should not be ignored.

#peter parker #spiderman #marvel comics #traincat talks comics #judaism #mcu critical

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mooksie01 · 5 years

Text

With Teammates Like These, Who Needs Friends? (5/5)

Chapter Summary: A post-mission lunch break leads to... more mockery.

Clover is going to fire every single one of his teammates.

Warnings: More bullying of teammates, mild spiciness, workplace banter of a less-than-respectful nature

AO3 Link: [X]

First Chapter: [X]

Notes: Hey everyone! Sorry for the slight delay in getting this chapter out, I spent the majority of yesterday moving back into my dorm room and the rest of it hanging out with my friends that I haven't seen in a month, so I didn't really have time to post. Hopefully this chapter makes up for it, though! I hope you all enjoy the last chapter in this first installment of the series! Subsequent installments will be posted whenever I find time to write them, which may be sporadic now that classes have started back up again.

Please like, reblog, and comment if you're able!!!! You guys have all been so amazing throughout this journey and I could not appreciate you more!

---

Clover is ambushed the moment he steps foot into the mess hall after the mission debrief. This time, he is fully prepared for Elm’s attack, and he ducks under her attempt at wrapping one of her well-muscled arms around his neck.

“Aw, come on, captain! I was only going to mess up your hair a little!” Elm cries exuberantly, apparently elated at this turn of events. She is always excited when Clover plays along with her roughhousing.

“Sorry, Elm,” Clover says, getting in line for some of whatever they’re serving today. He’d cook if he weren’t so wiped from the mission, but he supposes that he’ll have to settle for food from the canteen just this once. “I’m afraid that I’d like to keep my hair as it is for right now.”

He accepts a tray of some sort of hearty stew and a chunk of bread, pleased. He’d personally signed off on the directive to encourage the kitchen staff to serve more hot meals, and he’s glad to see that the order is being followed. The lower-ranking soldiers certainly deserve it.

Elm laughs, boxing him on the shoulder with so much force that, had he not been ready for it, Clover likely would’ve dropped his newly-acquired food. “Why, captain!” she shouts as they head in the direction of the table where the rest of the Ace Ops are sitting, “Are you trying to look nice for someone? Has some little birdie caught your eye?”

Clover rolls his eyes as they settle next to each other on one of the benches. Across from them, Vine speaks, “I believe Huntsman Branwen has captured the captain’s attention, Elm. I was under the impression that you already knew this.”

“And I,” Clover cuts Elm off before she can say something stupid that will stack more disciplinary action on top of her ever-growing pile, “was under the impression that my subordinates had a bit more tact and a lot more sense, but I suppose that I was wrong. Especially considering that stunt you pulled during the mission today, Elm.”

Harriet and Marrow exchange a long suffering look from where they sit beside Vine. Harriet leans an elbow on the table and props her chin in her palm, half-heartedly stirring around her stew with the other hand. “Are you guys really still talking about this? I already told you, I have no desire to poke into my coworkers' personal lives.”

Elm powers on, disregarding Harriet’s words, “Aw, lighten up, captain! I feel like you should be celebrating! After all,” she winks with all the subtlety of a raging Megoliath, “you got to spend the whole mission today with your pretty bird, didn’t you? Not to mention whatever was going on in the hall this morning….” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

Clover sighs, “If you could please refrain from referring to Qrow as a ‘pretty bird’ or whatever else, I don’t think he’d be too happy if he heard you saying that.”

Marrow perks up next to Harriet, “Qrow?”

“Ha!” Elm slams her fists down onto the table, rattling everyone’s dishes. “Seems like someone is on a first-name-basis!”

Is it too late to take his food back to his quarters? Probably. That would likely be an admission of guilt in his teammates’ eyes. Instead, Clover raises his chin in challenge, narrowing his eyes at Elm. “I’ll have you know that Qrow requested that we all call him by his first name. I simply have enough respect for him to abide by that.” He may have resolved to get closer to the other man, but he doesn’t need his teammates to know that right away. That will just lead them to start harassing Qrow.

“Seems like you’re doing a little more than ‘respecting’ him, Clover,” Marrow states, tail wagging behind him.

Clover scowls at him, feeling betrayed, “What ever happened to not acting like kids, Marrow?”

Marrow shrugs, leaning precariously into the open space where the back of the table’s bench would be, if it had one. He crosses his arms casually behind his head and closes his eyes. “Hey, the way I see it, if everyone’s dog-piling onto you instead of me, for once? That’s a good thing. Besides,” he sighs, “that was before I knew that you had an actual, real crush on the dude. I thought you just wanted to bone him.”

At this, Clover swears that he can actually feel a few circuits in his brain all frying at once. He resolutely ignores any thoughts of “boning” Qrow, as well as the incessant laughter coming from Elm and Vine’s (faux-?)confused inquiries as to what exactly “bone” is a euphemism for, instead choosing to focus on Marrow, who is still lounging across from him.

He snarls at the faunus, “Marrow. Need I remind you that I am your commanding officer and that I am more than willing to issue disciplinary if I feel it’s necessary? And that is incredibly disrespectful to Qrow, as well as myself.”

Marrow straightens immediately and crosses his arms in a pout, “Aw, come on, Clover, I was just kidding. You did the same thing to me a few months ago when I was into that rabbit girl from Menagerie.”

That… was fair. But still, Qrow would probably be all kinds of upset and embarrassed if he heard that the people who were supposed to be his teammates for the foreseeable future were all making inappropriate jokes about him.

Harriet groans loudly, dropping her head into her hands, “Can we please stop talking about this? The guy probably isn’t even gay.”

Clover’s heart skips a beat. A strange sense of something that feels very much like panic floods his veins. “Really, you don’t think so?” He leans toward Harriet, aware that something weird is probably going on with his face, but unable to find it within himself to care.

Harriet backs away as much as she is able to while staying seated on the bench. “Uh.”

“I’d imagine that it would be simple enough to ask General Ironwood whether Huntsman Branwen is interested in acquiring a same-sex partner or not,” Vine folds his arms placidly onto the table, gaze contemplative, “considering their apparent long history. We may even be able to present our inquiries to some of the children that Huntsman Branwen brought with him. It is my understanding that a Miss ‘Ruby’ and Miss ‘Yang’ are related to him in some way, if the intel Elm and I received from Miss Valkyrie, Mister Arc, and Mister Ren while wandering the mines today is correct.”

Clover’s brain takes a long second to catch up to all of that. Then it rewinds.

“Hold on!” He interjects with no small amount of alarm. “What do you mean by ‘we’?”

Elm grins a little too widely. It’s extremely off-putting. “Isn’t it obvious?!” she yells. Loudly.

Several heads turn in their direction.

“We’re going to help you get your man!”

---

More Notes: There we go! A return to the roots of this story, which was always meant to be the Ace Ops torturing poor Clover (but really, how bad can you feel for the guy who's currently in the process of snagging a date with Qrow?). I hope you all enjoyed and I love you guys so much!

THANK YOU FOR READING!

(That Clover/Qrow/Elm story will be going up in a couple of hours, too, by the way! I have a few errands to run first, but then it's full steam ahead!)

#rwby #qrow branwen #clover ebi #fair game #lucky charms #qrowver #luckbirds #elm ederne #vine zeki #marrow amin #harriet bree #rwby v7 #rwby volume 7 #rwby 7 #rwby fanfiction #my writing #pining #humor #fluff

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glassrain · 5 years

Note

Then what House is Adrien in?

Much as it painsme to give such a by-the-books answer, I’m going to have to sayHufflepuff - though, perhaps, not for the reasons many people would.I.e., I wouldn’t put Adrien in Hufflepuff simply because he’snice. Kindness is a choice, not a character trait. People can be niceand not be in Hufflepuff; inversely, a Hufflepuff is fully capable ofbeing selfish, cold, snide, shy, or temperamental, among many othernon-sunshiny character traits. Being a nice, positive and outgoingindividual is neither a prerequisite nor a litmus test forHufflepuffs.

(Sorry about the mini rant, but I have Opinions on Hogwarts Housesorting.)

So first I’m going to touch on why I wouldn’t putAdrien in Ravenclaw, like OP of the Adrien is aRavenclaw post. (I’m quickly going to plug in here that OPis absolutely welcome to their opinion and I’m notarguing that they’re WrongTM - simply that Iapproach the character differently than they do.) OP’s pointsessentially boil down to: “Adrien is a lot smarter than peoplegive him credit for (Ravenclaw), and takes no crap when his lovedones are in the wrong (non-Hufflepuff).” I absolutely agree thatAdrien is markedly smarter than people give him credit for. He’snever shown to be any less than a straight-A student in any subject,not to mention the fact that his continued presence in public schoolis dependent on his high grades, so clearly he’s smart. He somehow manages to keep this track record, evenwhile juggling multiple extra curriculars and his superheroactivities - no minor feat. OP also references his puns and play-onwords; you have to have a pretty clever mind to do that as well andconstantly as he does, on the fly.

While I’ll give credit to the point about the puns, I’m notgoing to sort someone based solely on their sense of humor. As forAdrien’s academia … okay, brace yourself for another mini rant.Intelligent people are not automatically sorted into Ravenclaw,simply because they are intelligent. Just look at Hermione. I thinkthat if she were not originally from Harry Potter, manypeople would instantly sort her into Ravenclaw simply for thatreason, despite the fact that she is so obviously Gryffindor.Likewise, I wouldn’t sort Adrien into Ravenclaw based solely on hisbook smarts. Where are the Ravenclaw aspects in other areasin his life - the instinctual, day-to-day parts of his life insteadof the ones where he intentionally turns his mind toward studying andtaking in information? Adrien rarely tries to outsmart his opponents,usually preferring to take point physically while Ladybug riddles outthe solution (and even his fighting style is forward, flashy andaggressive instead of sly and clever). Adrien is also themost clueless character on the show - and after two years running that cannot just be from inexperience. For example,Marinette is not exactly subtle even when she’s trying to be, but Adrien still hasn’t even aninkling about her feelings toward him (at least as far as I’vewatched - I’m not entirely up to date in season 3). Adrien has noidea that his father is Hawkmoth despite the fact that Gabriel spendsall his time locked away in a mysterious attic, or the fact thatAdrien saw the peacock miraculous in hisfather’s hidden safe where he was keeping a book on themiraculous’ (or the fact that Gabriel has a hidden safe tobegin with), or the fact that he’s got butterflies decorating hisentire house, not to mention his father’s brand logo. Has Adriengot any clue that his mother is stashed away in the basement? Adrienis also one of the most easily manipulated characters on the show,because he instantly takes everything people say at face value, neverquestioning them because it doesn’t occur to histo question. It doesn’t occur to him to wonder about thediscrepancies in his life. He doesn’t even notice them,because his brain isn’t wired to observe and form connections. Hisbrain isn’t wired to be curious.

His brain isn’t wired like a Ravenclaw.

So, not a Ravenclaw. But why a Hufflepuff? After all, OP madevalid points about how easily Adrien fights his loved ones. Wouldn’tthat indicate a certain lack of Hufflepuff-ness? My answer to thatis: not necessarily.

Hufflepuffs are hardworking, patient, and fair players - alltraits Adrien has in spades. But Hufflepuff’s truly defining trait- loyalty - is the one that really cements me on this particularsorting for Adrien. It’s true that Adrien pulls no punches whenconfronting his akumatized friends, but it’s equally true thatAdrien’s goal is to free his friends from Hawkmothand restore them to themselves. At the end of the day, he fights soferociously for them, trying to defeat the enemy in orderto retrieve the friend trapped inside. What at first looks like alack of loyalty is instead a bright example of saidloyalty. OP also mentioned Adrien’s willingness to confront hisloved ones, like Chloe in Despair Bear. Confrontingsomeone you care about on a genuine problem in their life is hardly asign of disloyalty - in fact, it would be far more disloyalto stand back and allow toxic behaviors in someone’s life tocontinue hurting them, simply because confrontation makes one feeluncomfortable. The fact that easy-going, gentle Adrien is willing to stifle his natural instincts to make peace in order to confront his loved ones only highlights his loyalty to them, revealing how far he will go for their good. To again reference Despair Bear, Adrienwas speaking in defense of his friends - also people he is loyal to -gave Chloe an entire season’s worth of chances before offering hisultimatum, and all throughout the episode stood by her side,believing in her and encouraging her, and coaxing others to believein her as well. This kind of tenacity and loyalty is all markedly Hufflepuffbehavior.

Adrien continues to stay loyal to Chloe, even past the point where he should probably cut ties. He remains her friend despite the often cruel way she treats the other classmates - a fact that would look rather contradictory of Adrien’s character if he weren’t so hopelessly Hufflepuff. He remains her friend despite her habit of constantly harassing him in season 1. Adrien is very quick to forgive her and reaffirm their friendship after somewhat minimal effort on Chloe’s part to make amends in Despair Bear, because he wants to remain faithful to her, despite everything. He also defends her to Ladybug on multiple occasions, in episodes like Antibug or Queen Wasp, regardless of Ladybug’s very valid anger at Chloe. Because Adrien doesn’t turn his back on his friends.

Speaking of people Adrien is devoutly devoted to: Ladybug. OP mentioned that Adrien’s habit of constantly sacrificing himself for her is more an indication of logic - since Ladybug is the only one who can cleanse akumas - rather than loyalty. While I agree that this certainly a part of it, I don’t think there’s any indication that it’s the sole reason, or even the primary reason. From a purely cinematic perspective, nearly every episode with Chat sacrificing himself for Ladybug (Zombizou excluded) plays the scenario as a sacrifice for a friend instead of as a means to an end, indicating that loyalty is in fact the root cause. But even disregarding his fierce protection of her in battle, his faith in her boarders on irrational. (This faith, this unwavering belief that Ladybug can and will rise above any obstacle, his willingness to do practically anything she asks based on that faith, is a subtler but equally strong fact of loyalty. After all, loyalty isn’t just an action - it’s also an unwavering belief in a person/cause.) In Dark Owl, Adrien was willing to give her his miraculous, which she said she was going to surrender to Hawkmoth, simply because she asked him to. No real objections or questions, simply a blind trust that Ladybug knew what she was doing, and Adrien was willing to risk one of his few freedoms - not to mention letting Hawkmoth win - based solely on that faith. Or how about in Hero’s Day, when Adrien insists with full confidence, “You and me, we can do this,” when faced with an literal army of akumas? It’s certainly not faith in himself that prods him to say that. Adrien No-one-needs-me-as-Chat-Noir, You’re-replacing-me-with-a-turtle? Agreste, he hasn’t got the highest self esteem on a good day, let alone when virtually the entire city of Paris is hunting them down with very dangerous superpowers. His words here stem entirely from his faith in Ladybug. Another example is Reverser. In this episode Adrien, scared out of his mind at even a ride in a cab, willingly allows himself to be blindfolded and tied to a kite, then hurls himself off the Eiffel Tower, even knowing that Ladybug can barely walk three steps without making a mess, trusting her to catch the rope and guide him safely. The ability to trust someone that completely is an unabashedly Hufflepuff trait.

To further examine the topic, what about his feelings for Ladybug? Adrien is a hopeless romantic, and he wants to be in a relationship. But no matter how hard he might try - like his attempted date with Kagami - he’s already given his heart to Ladybug and can’t even comprehend the idea of taking it back and trying with someone else. Tikki and Marinette even have a conversation about it in Weredad - Tikki cautions Marinette and reminds her that Ladybug has rejected Chat Noir so many times, that he might be willing to try with someone new. Marinette simply scoffs at the idea, utterly confident that Chat Noir is devoted fully to Ladybug. And she’s right. No matter how many times she tells him she’s in love with someone else, Adrien is simply incapable of taking back his affection, or to stop trying with her (for better or for worse). In fact, I credit his devotion to Ladybug as the reason he’s so blind to Marinette - Adrien clearly adores Marinette, he has nothing but a thousand glowing praises to say about her, and is baffled at the idea that someone as amazing (in his own words) as Marinette might like Chat Noir. It’s not a lack of affection that keeps him on his “just a friend” train - it’s the fact that his eyes are so full of Ladybug that he doesn’t even see Marinette, not that way.

The final point I’m going to make (because this post has gotten quite out of hand) is Adrien’s loyalty to Gabriel. While Adrien’s loyalty to his friends and partner is commendable, his relationship with his father a much more unfortunate story: loyalty misplaced. Loyalty blinding him to faults. When Gabriel akumatizes himself into the Collector, that is a marked indication of his innocence in the Hawkmoth debate … but it doesn’t negate the previous evidences, all of which Adrien is perfectly content to ignore for the sake of maintaining his relationship with his father. The last thing he wants to believe is that his father is the madman terrorizing the city. So he doesn’t. Even beyond the question of Hawkmoth, however, Adrien’s loyalty to his father is the root of him blaming himself for his father’s behavior, while letting Gabriel off scott free. I DON’T say this to blame Adrien in any way, because Adrien is very much the victim of his father’s abuse. Adrien bends over backwards to please and appease his father: his extra curriculars are of Gabriel’s choosing, and Adrien makes sure to excel in each. Even before public school was cause for motivation, Adrien still made high grades to please his father. Adrien models for Gabriel’s company, and seems happy to do so. Adrien works so hard to be the perfect son. But he gets little to nothing out of it. Gabriel rarely dines with him, never leaves the house to support Adrien’s school activities, photo shoots, or fencing matches, keeps him locked away, isolated in his room like a cage (to the point where imprisonment becomes one of his worst fears). Gabriel tells him that he must schedule appointments with Nathalie for something as simple as a conversation with his father. Gabriel scolds and guilts Adrien for something as innocent as sneaking out to watch a movie that starred his mother (all while hiding his own heinous secrets). Gabriel intentionally manipulates Adrien into believing that Gabriel’s akumatization in The Collector is his fault. Gabriel gave him nothing but a single pen for his birthday for three years (or in the original French, completely forgot about it very often).

In the face of such treatment, many children would be inclined to grow resentful, angry and rebellious, hurting deeply over their abuse. Adrien, however, grows pensive and insecure. His loyalty to Gabriel blinds him, leads him to stalwartly refuse to acknowledge Gabriel’s treatment of him. Baring two short instances in Simon Says, Adrien never - not once - corrects, accuses,or snaps at Gabriel. The closest he comes is sadly acknowledging that Gabriel once again, won’t be showing up/ refuses to give him an inch/ etc., and even then Adrein is merely sad instead of accusatory. Adrien leaps at any crumbs of affection Gabriel might deign to toss his way, so blinded by his love and loyalty to this man that it never even occurs to him that he deserves better from his own father. Instead, he willingly shoulders the blame, or makes allowances and excuses, or ignores the situation all together. Because if Gabriel is what’s wrong with their relationship … then Adrein might have to pull away fro his own good. And that goes against his very nature. Adrien being at fault is infinitely more preferable to him than cutting ties to his father.

So, yes. I believe that Adrien is 100% a Hufflepuff - not for his sweet smile or his compassion or his penchant for optimism, but for his fierce dedication and unwavering trust in those he loves, even those who may not deserve it. Adrien is absolutely a Hufflepuff, and I cannot be convinced otherwise. Although OP did make one very valid point - poor Adrien would look terrible in yellow. Sorry, Adrien.

#adrien agreste #analysis #miraculous: tales of ladybug and cat noir #miraculous ladybug #mlb #hogwarts houses #coffeemugsforbearhugs #kate #thanks for the ask!#sorry - this got SUPER long #a lot longer than i thought it was #oops!#you don't have to read it all if you don't want #i just got a little carried away #but thank you again for the ask #you know i love this sort of thing!

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go-diane-winchester · 6 years

Text

Why Jensen can't stop Misha?

When I did my post about Misha's inadequacy as a man, I was wondering whether I should do a post about Jensen and his fear of other people in his personal space. Then an awesome creature tagged me onto a hideous heller post, which has my blood boiling. The idiot heller posted the filth in the general tags and is therefore fair game. Apparently the gifs below are gush worthy.

This was a turn on for @cas-is-my-spirit-animal-bruh. Now, if the idiot had just tagged it destiel, we wouldn't have to see it and go into gag mode. Look at the second gif. Jensen has his hand in front of his face. He is trying to block Misha. And how many times is he saying stop. Remember the red carpet for the 300th episode party. He was messing with Jensen's tie and Jensen physically turned away saying ''stop it''. It also reminds me of that horrendous photo op where Misha grabbed Jensen's hands forcefully and Jensen tried to wrangle his hand out of Misha's grasp, screaming at him. Misha loves that power because he is dominant one.

Now, the hellers may argue that Jensen gave his go-ahead to show this clip. Why would he do that? There are a few suppositions. The bibro, who directed me to this monstrosity, had this to say:

''Why would he agree to publish this sick footage? My guess: for fandom to finally see the true face of Misha and how far he is willing to go in his sickening pandering to the shippers. This is the personality of Misha and the reality of how shipping negatively influences the working environment on set. He [Jensen] probably didn’t count on minions being that nasty that they would romanticize this, because hey! their overlord can’t do no wrong!!! (sarcasm).''

A good supposition. I have a theory as well. Have you noticed how Jensen's words and actions are sometimes incongruous with each other. He gets upset if you ask him anything ship-related, and yet he will snap shippy photos during his photo op. He rolls his eyes at the mere mention of Misha but the minute Danneel says she loves Misha, Jensen obediently chimes in ''who doesn't?''. He clashes with himself. I think Jensen is easy to maneuver into doing things against his will. All you have to do is give him the right motivation and he will do exactly what you want.

What is his motivation as far as Danneel is concerned?

Simple. That's his wife. He is trying to help her acquire a piece of the Supernatural pie, and she chose Misha's fan base, because she thinks Jensen's fans don't like her. And when HatersOfDanneel [an abstractly named twitter handle] attacked her, Misha conveniently came to the rescue, although he does that for no one else. This is how you win favors, people. This is how inmates gain a ''fresh meat's'' confidence. Set up a fake enemy to harass your prey and then save the prey, so he will feel indebted to you. This is what I hypothesized happened here. Jensen went along with what Danneel wanted, because every man is afraid of a nagging wife. He would never hear the end of it.

What is his motivation as far as Destiel is concerned?

Jensen has a manager, a publicist and assistants. Are all of them blind? How are they all unaware of Jensen's discomfort. How come hellers get away with threatening Jensen? Do none of them see Misha's panel footage? Why are these people so lax? I think Misha networked with Jensen's people, and he used fear of possible PR problems if their star, Jensen, is seen as a homophobe. If Jensen loses public favor due to accusations of bigotry, his career is going to take a nosedive. And if that happens, all his people whom he employed, will have to deal with a very unsteady financial future in a turbulent economic climate.

So Misha did the spin doctor spiel on them and they in turn, spun Jensen's head. Jensen does what they say, even though he hates it, for fear of disrepute. That is why he has no congruency in his speech and actions, because playing pretend has its limitations. When you get angry, you forgot what you were supposed to do or say? So that also might be why that particular piece of footage made it into the gag reel. Jensen gave his permission because his people told him to. Did Misha ever speak directly to Jensen? Maybe. And he probably used the same spiel. ''Just tolerate it, Jensen. Trying to correct them might make matters worse. The LGBT will feel like you hate them. And you don't want them to think that, do you?'' Fun fact: Spin doctor is term used in politics and government. Misha just happened to intern at the white house. He must have learned something there. Other than stealing white house property.

I think Jensen is caught between a rock and a hard place. I think this gif set and the photo ops, are actually more troublesome to him than he lets up. The reason why I think so, is the 1999 cowboy photo shoot. Jensen mentioned it at a con, and immediately Jared pulled a cringy face, and then became uncharacteristically serious, which leads me to believe Jensen spoke to Jared about this, which is why Jared is so protective of him. He knows about Jensen's fear, especially since I think the fear is still there, lying dormant within Jensen. I mildly considered Jensen's discomfort regarding that photo shoot to be baffling. Jensen has done shirtless scenes in DOOL, Dark Angel and Supernatural. What was so bad about this photo shoot?

Then I remember the uproar Corey Feldman created in the media. I watched a documentary called The Open Secret which, unfortunately, is no longer available on YouTube. Apparently there is a pedo ring that targets young boys who go to work in the industry. There is a link between agents, photographers and the elite. The photographers basically showcase the boys to the rich magnets. I think they do sales work, and probably get a commission. Since the boys are merchandise, it is the photographer's job to make the merchandise look attractive. Whilst watching the doccie, I wondered how come Jensen didn't get targeted. He was way more beautiful than any of his peers in 1999. And he looked younger than his peers. He entered the industry, at 18 , 1996, without a chaperone. He should have been fair game. Someone pointed out that when this photo shoot took place he was around 21. Correct.

Then I saw the pictures taken at the photo shoot and something stood out, that gelled with what the detectives and psychologists etc, in the documentary were saying.

That shoot lasted a long time, probably half the day. The team took many pictures with horses and lassoing. I think it was a shoot for a magazine. Most of the pictures don't look bad. So its baffling that Jensen hates all of them. These above pictures stand out. According to the detective, when photographers see a boy of interest, they take a few pictures that might entice the pedophiles and pederasts they are attracting. Pedophiles and pederasts [and I am sorry to talk about this] like children and teenagers, because they are usually bigger, older and stronger than their frightened victims. Its more about their ego. Also, in some cases, the aggressors are taller and therefore usually looking down at victims.

That is why photographers will make boys remove their shirts so they are topless [this is one thing Jensen mentioned hating], and then take the picture from an angle where they are looming over the subject so that the subject appears shorter or maybe smaller. Its the pedophile/pederast's POV. The third picture is ridiculous because the photographer made Jensen scrunch down to look shorter. I think the photographer might have been shorter than Jensen. Jensen's pose appears like a invitation. He probably got the inkling, by the end of the session, that something was off with the whole shoot. That is why, to this day, the shoot upsets him. But other than that, I don't know if anything else happened on that day.

Do I think something drastic happened? No. I don't think Jensen was attacked by a predator. The predators didn't want Jensen even though he was a teenager, very beautiful and alone in Los Angeles. The reason why is if you really squint, Jensen is a star child. His father is a veteran in the industry. Alan Ackles is a somebody. If they touch his kid, Alan might become a problem for them. Because they didn't want a potentially difficult angry dad situation to deal with in the future, they decided to leave Jensen alone. However, the shoot still messed Jensen up enough that he remembers it to this day, decades later. He even argued with a heller over it, because she wanted him to sign on of the pictures during his autos and he was upset. Why get upset? Its just a picture, right? Unless there is an ugly memory attached to it.

Maybe the penny dropped for him as to how ugly the situation could have gotten. So that gif set of Misha forcing Jensen's face into his crotch, that the hellers are gushing over, is not hot or cute. It is disgusting. Only a complete pervert will be aroused by the coercion of the Cockles pairing and the beatings in the destiel pairing. Misha is vile and so are his hellers. They get turned on by the sickest things.

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daynameyer · 7 years

Text

The tensions between the two brothers was palpable,

but it seemed Derrek didn’t even notice it. Day went back to her full plate, which thankfully didn’t get too cold. She didn’t have to wonder why Derrek didn’t like being in the spotlight; she was the same way. Imagining being on TV or doing interviews and so on was a terrifying, anxiety-inducing thought for Day. Being in front of a camera is something she had never been comfortable with, so she didn’t blame Derrek. Still, she understood why Chase would be so frustrated, too. The whole band signed up for this, and being in the spotlight is part of the job. It’s like doing a group project and one member isn’t pulling their weight. It just doesn’t seem fair for the responsibilities to fall on everyone else’s shoulders.

Day watched as Derrek tried to pick more food off his brother’s place, and Chase didn’t allow it. The look on Derrek’s face almost made her laugh, you could tell he wasn’t used to his brother standing up to him. Normally, Day didn’t mind other people picking off her plate at all. Her little brother used to do the same to her whenever they were at the diner their mom worked at. It’s part of the reason why she had the habit of piling on so much food onto her plate. But when Derrek went around the table and sank in the chair beside her, she knew he was only doing it to get back at Chase, and Day wasn’t down for that. She didn’t like being used to piss other people off, or for anything for that matter.

She loved feeling his arm on her shoulders, she could feel how warm he was even through the fabric of her cardigan. “I’m sure Day will share with me,” He said, reaching toward her food.

Day smacked his hand, a little harder than she intended. “Go get your own, lazy bum.” She ordered. She felt kind of bad, but she wasn’t going to step down. Chase and Bash laughed out loud as Derrek stood, defeated, and went to get his own food. She watched him walk away and just wanted to call him back.

Breakfast ended shortly after. Everyone had finished their plates, except for Derrek who got left behind in the dining room because the others needed to get ready for the interview. They asked Day to go wake up Maycen and Paige. They needed to get some food in them and get ready themselves. The interview was later on in the day, but the band always needed to arrive early for photo-ops and so on.

When Dayna stepped into the girls’ hotel room, they were still sleeping. One of them was snoring, probably Maycen. Day threw open the curtains, letting the sunlight pour into the room. Paige immediately started groaning and hiding her face from the light. Maycen, on the other hand, didn’t even stir because of her sleep mask. Day walked over to the bed the girls were in. “Rise and shine,” she spoke quietly in a sing-song voice. “You have a busy day, today, according to Bash.”

Paige groaned again and threw a pillow at Day. “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger!” She exclaimed. “If it was up to me, you guys would get to sleep all day.”

Eventually, the girls grumpily got out of bed, mumbling and grumbling. It was amusing to Day, who sat on the armchair in the room. They had been naked under the sheets but weren’t shy at all about stepping out without covering themselves up. Day imagined it must be nice to have that level of comfort in a relationship, that being naked around another person is really no big deal. Day wasn’t exactly shy either, and she knew that the naked body isn’t inherently sexual, so she didn’t mind it.

She had pulled out her laptop and started checking her various social media, something she hadn’t done since she blocked Patrick on everything on the day she left him. When she signed in, she was bombarded with messages from friends back home, from Patrick’s crazy mom, from Patrick himself, too. It looked like he made random accounts and used them to contact her since he was blocked on his actual account. The messages from friends ranged from concern (“where r u?? ur mom is super worried”) to slight annoyance (“why is your boyfriend harassing me and accusing me of hiding you?”). She replied to her friend’s messages with a quick copy-paste telling them she was fine, and to just block her ex-boyfriend. The messages from Patrick’s mom were horrid, calling Day a whore and a bitch for leaving her son, saying that she broke his heart and he was too upset to carry on with his life. Patrick’s messages were just as bad. They went from being angry and aggressive, blaming Day and threatening her, to being gut wrenching, apologizing profusely and begging her to come back.

Day shut her laptop. She didn’t know how she was feeling, the whole thing was just so messed up. Her stomach was in knots and suddenly she wished she hadn’t ate so much. She felt sick. The two girls were marching back and forth in the room, throwing clothes around, fixing each other’s hair, doing each other’s makeup, deciding which clothes looked best.

Maycen walked by Day and must have noticed her face. “Are you okay?” she asked, “You look like you’ve just watched some seriously disturbing porn.”

She looked up from her lap and forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine!” Day saw a Maycen raise an eyebrow, but she didn’t pry any more than that.

While the girls finished getting ready, Day tired to distract herself with her laptop. She started watching a video when she realized she didn’t have her phone with her, it was in Derrek and Chase’s room. She took her laptop with her to keep watching the video and left the room. She made her way down the hall and knocked. Chase let her in and she explained she was just getting her phone. He was in the process of getting ready for the interview, too.

There was a lot of hustle and bustle in the room considering there was only Day and Chase, with Bash popping in here and there. No one seemed to know where Derrek had gone off to. Chase looked like he was going to say something to Day, who was sat on the edge of the bed and clearing her phone notifications, but Bastien burst in again. “We gotta go, are you ready?”

Chase nodded, said a quick goodbye to Day, and they left. She assumed the girls both went off with them, as well. Just as she had decided to go back to her own room, the one she shared with the girls, she realized she didn’t bring her keycard. “Guess I’m stuck in here for now,” she mumbled aloud to herself.

She occupied her time by taking on a new freelance graphic design project on her laptop. It was something simple and easy, a logo for a new company, and was able to finish it faster than she thought. It was late afternoon by then, and her lack of sleep from the night before was catching up to her. Her eyes were closing by themselves and she couldn’t concentrate on the show she had started watching. Day got up from her seat at the desk and took off her clothes. She found another large t-shirt of Derrek’s and slipped it on, deciding that she was going to take a much-needed nap.

She picked the bed she had slept with Derrek in and snuggled in comfortably under the covers. The curtains were shut, and the room was just dark enough for her to fall asleep easily. About an hour later, she heard the door open. It woke her just enough to be aware of it, but she was still half-asleep. She heard a familiar voice. ”Anyone here?”

Even though she hadn’t known him for very long, she already knew his voice. Her heartbeat quickened just slightly at the thought of him possibly joining her in bed. Day didn’t reply just yet; she wanted to see what he would do when he saw her, if he saw her. She was wrapped up in a pretty bedsheet cocoon and she was almost sure he wouldn’t be able to see her unless he looked closely. The only thing sticking out was probably her pale blond hair on the white pillowcase. Day pretended to be asleep as she heard him rummaging around the room. What was he doing? It was taking him a lot longer to notice her than she thought.

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loversandantiheroes · 7 years

Text

Like Blood Running Warm - Part 1

Author’s Note: Happy Spooktober. A couple weeks ago I mentioned how this song made me want to write a Vamp!Clara AU. This is the result of that. Part 1 of probably 2 or 3 if they remain this sort of length. Big thanks to @longjackets, @nikkidee, @kingandcrook, and @infiniteregress17 for the beta help.

Summary: A snowstorm strands a group of bus passengers at a near-derelict station overnight near the Colorado border. One of them just can't seem to get warm.

Rating: T (currently, AO3 link is pre-tagged for the later stuff)

Warnings: Angst by the bucket, Terminal Illness, Simm!Master being...Simm!Master and thus a walking dumpster fire, Implied Past Drug Use, Implied Harassment.

Word Count: 5799

AO3 Link: here

Did you call for the night porter? You smell the blood running warm I stay close to this frozen border, so close I can hit it with a stone Now something crawls right up my spine That I always got to follow Turn out the lights Don't see me drawn and hollow Just blood running warm

- Mark Lanegan, "When Your Number Isn't Up"

- 11:07pm

John Smith, the night porter, sat in the break room of the bus terminal. He should, by all rights, be keeping post behind the counter in the booth, even at this late of an hour, and he knew that. Pointless, though, wasn’t it? An old portable telly spouted crackling spurts of weather reports at him. Worst snow in a decade, record lows, blah blah. He could’ve guessed that himself looking at the drifts forming outside the sliding doors, which he would have to keep shovelled out unless he wanted to end up buried in here. Buried alive with shitty instant coffee, a vending machine that half-worked, and a telly he couldn’t even get a decent signal on. His employers, stingy bastards that they were, were too cheap to provide anything new or at least decent on the premises. In the lounge, where most stations would have the new plasma or LED or god-knows-what-the-fuck-ever craning down from the ceiling or mounted on the walls, there were instead tiny coin-op televisions. Bloody ancient things with built-in radio dials bolted to the arms of the benches and chairs, popping and crackling to life at the generous price of 30 minutes for a quarter.

John had no bloody idea why the hell the relics were still installed. Honestly, he didn’t know such things even existed until he took this post, but the real shocker was that somehow they still worked. By all rights, they shouldn’t be able to pick up a signal anymore, save for the radio dial, not after the big push from analog to digital broadcasting. Converter box wired up to some kind of main switch maybe, that was the best he could figure. Mystery of the fucking universe, or might as well be; tech was not his area. But it made him feel something. Kinship maybe, he thought, cradling the battered porcelain mug of coffee and trying to work some warmth into the joints of his fingers. Old and busted, but still working. Last legs, maybe, but some life still crackling inside.

He’d moved to the States for the sake of his health, that was the joke of it. Christ on a bike, that was the fucking joke. The belching exhaust of a passing lorry in Glasgow last spring had left him doubled over and hacking against a lamp post. Not that a cough was that unusual, he’d been a smoker from the age of fourteen. He was used to the hack-and-rattle first thing in the morning, or when the seasons changed from Damp and Warm to Damp and Cold (Scotland only had the two seasons, really). But this time had been different. Not quite worse, but deeper, like the first signal of the flu.

He’d gone home to his flat that day, made tea, and emptied his tobacco tin into the garbage. Good fucking riddance. Something welled up in him then. A change of scenery would be good. He was nearly fifty-six years old, and he’d never even left the country. Wanderlust, he’d called it at the time. Not entirely untrue, but a little too grand. All he’d wanted in that second was to run away. It wasn’t as if he had any real ties to Glasgow anymore. No friends to speak of, all those were gone. Family either dead or distant. He spun his wedding ring unconsciously. No children. That was almost a relief, considering.

Once he decided to go, he’d sold everything but his clothes and his guitar. Sentiment was only the half of that. He’d never admit it, but he’d simply found the idea of travelling halfway across the world with nothing but the guitar too foolishly romantic to give up. Then on the emptied floor of his flat he’d laid out a massive map of the continental US, closed his eyes, and flipped a coin at it.

He’d spent six good months in Colorado, taking odd jobs and occasionally even sitting in on open mic nights at a local bar, plucking out something of The Velvet Underground or Bowie, and chalking up the slow but steady weight loss as stress and an aversion to American food. Then the cough had come back.

Small cell lung cancer. The fast moving shit. The sort that dug its nails in and decided it lived in you now. Gentrification of the lungs. Radiation or chemo might have bought him some time, but that was the best it could offer. But the pricetag on a few more months was entirely too steep. One look in the clinic window at the thinning husks hooked up to IV drips with pallid eyes and piebald pates, and he’d been out like a shot. On his way to work that night he’d bought a pack of cigarettes. If he was gonna die, he’d at least do it with a full head of hair.

John leaned over the break room table, rubbing at his temples. Too busy feeling sorry for himself to think fucking properly, he inhaled just a bit too sharply. The heating in the bus station was rubbish, the glass windows and sliding doors too thin to keep the cold out, and the electric heater he’d dragged in himself, in a feeble attempt to keep his toes from freezing during the long winter, barely managed to take the chill out of the break room.

Cold air needled into his lungs, and he choked, sputtering and coughing so hard it made his bones ache. Hot coffee sloshed over his hands, and he swore, or at least tried. He needed air to curse, and his lungs weren’t having any of that nonsense. He pounded on the table, sloshing more coffee and overturning a plastic tumbler full of spoons. As the fit subsided, John fumbled in his pockets for his handkerchief and spat, folding it away and trying to pretend he hadn’t seen it come away from this lips bloody.

John sat with his head between his knees until he could breathe evenly again, the sound of the telly all but drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. At last, he stood, sopped up the mess of coffee, and stumbled out to check the departures and arrivals. Departures from Shotton had been cancelled even before John had limped to work in his jeep. The last two drivers had waved him off as he pulled in, climbing into their own cars to get the hell out of Dodge and back home before the snow settled in with any real intent. Now the roads were closing, and that meant he might be stuck here alone, hacking his lungs up over bad coffee and worse telly until the snow plows went out.

“Fuck,” he muttered. The arrivals list, which had been a string of delays when he’d come in, was now almost completely cancelled. All but one. 11:20 from Cheyenne. Delayed, but still inbound. Wonderful. Snowed in overnight with a busload of pissy tourists on their way to Denver. Wouldn’t that just be a time. “Of-fucking-course. You couldn’t even give me one miserable night off, could you?” he growled at the ceiling.

He kept swearing as he pulled his winter gear on. He’d read once that swearing helped with pain relief; maybe the blue streak would keep him warm. He struggled this balaclava over his head, wondering if it wasn’t time for a haircut. He was a little too proud to still have a full head of hair, grey or no, and had let it go a little wild after the move. Insulation, he told himself. Too fucking cold to trim the hair back, be liable to freeze to death before the cancer gets a chance to finish the fucking job.

Laughing, John wound his scarf around his head.

- 11:34pm

John had most of the entry cleared and shook down with rock salt and sand, when he saw headlights. The bus lurched up through the drive, crunching and shuddering its way up through the snow to the sheltered entrance.

John leaned on his shovel and flapped a thickly-gloved hand as the bus ground to a stop in front of him. The door hissed open, blowing a gorgeously welcome gust of heated air at him. The driver was a new guy, a round-faced man with close cropped hair and a frankly terrible goatee. “Fuck me ragged,” the driver called down, grinning, “I’m gonna get held up by the Michelin Man.”

John made a gun out of his right hand and popped his thumb. Ka-chow. “You’ll want to get inside,” he shouted through too many layers of damp wool.

The driver frowned, motioning at his ear. “Can’t hear you, pal.”

He waved again, palm in, fingers curling. Come the fuck in.

- 11:40pm

There weren’t many passengers, thank God. John counted heads as they shambled in, jamming his gloves into his pockets and fiddling with his scarf which had gone stiff with frost. Seventeen or eighteen, including the driver, who’d pulled off to try and park the bus proper while he still stood a chance to get it moving. An old couple cooed and laughed over the coin-op televisions. A young black woman in a pea-colored coat almost as heavily padded as his own gave him a nervous smile as he struggled out of his balaclava. She asked hopefully about coffee with a London accent that made him do a double take.

“Or tea or hot chocolate?” she went on in the sort of bright tone only the incredibly anxious and incredibly exhausted can achieve. “Anything hot, honestly, I’m not fussy.”

John grunted, both in effort and assent. He’d worked up a fair sweat out there, and the wool was stuck fastidiously to his head. He bent, trying to pull it up from the back, and heard a second voice with an unmistakable Blackpool twinge.

“Easy, mate, you’ll pull your whole head off by mistake.”

Cold fingers brushed at the nape of his neck, curling into the wool, helping him pull. And then he was free, spitting lint and rifling a hand through the haphazard sprawl of his hair.

London giggled behind her hand. Beside her now was a second, significantly smaller woman who was holding his snow-crusted balaclava out to him. For a second, all he saw were her eyes, wide and brown and faintly crinkled at the corners as she smiled up at him. She was lovely, far too lovely, and he was far too old, and oh Jesus Christ he was staring.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, trying to flatten the beast his hair had become. “Uhm, the coffee machine’s on the fritz,” he said, gesturing at the line of vending machines and utterly missing the excited upshoot both women’s eyebrows did when they heard his accent. With a touch of annoyance, he noticed the out of order sign had dropped once again and was slowly soaking into a puddle of slush. “I’ve got a kettle in the break room, but the coffee’s instant. But there’s quite a lot of it, at least, so.” He shrugged, grinning awkwardly and trying not to look at the short one with the big eyes.

“That’d be amazing, I’m frozen,” London said, bouncing on her toes.

“Right, well, have a seat, I’ll go and get that on.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Blackpool said.

London scoffed, rolling her eyes. “No accounting for taste,” she muttered.

Blackpool stuck out her tongue.

John glanced at her sidelong as he opened the door to the break room. She noted his hesitation and gave him a quizzical look. “You on your own tonight?”

John frowned. “Yeah, why?”

“Then I will definitely give you a hand. You look fit to keel over.”

The frown deepened into a scowl.

She laughed. “Oh, go on, your eyebrows look like they could shoot laser beams when you scrunch up like that.”

He pushed through the door after her, shrugging his parka off and pretending that he wasn’t trying to hide a smile, unsure why he should be hiding it other than that recurring little prickle that said she’s too pretty and you’re too old and have you forgotten you’re dying?

“I like the accent. Where in Scotland?” she asked, already filling the kettle as he stripped off his overalls.

“Glasgow.” He spared her a glance over his shoulder, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re from Blackpool?”

“Ooh, jackpot, well done.”

“Not the sort of accent I expected to hear coming in with the snow in the arse-end of America. I had friends there. The other girl, London, is she with you?”

“No, not really. Met her at the station, actually, we’ve just been headed the same way. Fell in together a bit. It was just nice, y’know. Familiar sort of accent. America’s so bloody big, makes you feel a little less alone.” Her gaze shifted outward and for a moment she was gone, the over the hills and far away sort of gone, hands still trying to seat the kettle without the help of her eyes. On the third try, she finally managed to set the it down on the base properly and click it on.

“Oh. I know that look,” he muttered, sitting down to try and struggle his overalls past his boots. “Someone’s homesick.”

“Something like that.”

He opened his mouth, but the well-meaning platitude he’d meant to give was lost in a deep, lung-rattling cough. He bent double, hugging his knees, eyes squeezed shut, and told himself over and over again it will pass, it will pass, it will pass. Spots burst and swam behind his eyelids as his body protested the idea. The muscles in his body froze up, lungs refusing any command except get out get out get out. All at once the darkness seemed to deepen, wrapping around him, swallowing him up. There was a bizarre sensation of detachment. Like he was falling into himself, as if his body was some hollow thing he was floating around inside like a sensory deprivation tank.

An arm curled around his shoulders, holding his body up, a cold hand rubbing circles on his back. Blackpool’s voice came floating through the black from miles off like sweet woodsmoke.

“Hey, c’mon breathe, breathe, you’re alright.”

At last, his muscles unlocked, and he sucked in a great whooping gulp of air and coughed again, half-retching as Blackpool shoved a crumpled wad of tissues into his hands. John sat shaking as his breathing leveled, swimming back up into the peaked fluorescent light. The coughing was old, but the blackout, that was new. New and decidedly not good. Blackpool’s hand still rubbed at his back. She was still there. He swiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, and as he blinked the tears out of his eyes he saw a smear of red across his knuckles. Fuck.

Blackpool looked down at the blood on his hand, eyes wide with concern and something else he couldn’t quite place. Something that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Her pupils were dangerously wide, irises a thin sliver of copper that seemed to pulse and flash. A fresh shudder rippled up his spine. Lack of oxygen, he told himself. Surely.

“You need a doctor,” she whispered, searching her coat pockets and finally producing a phone in a chipped blue case.

He grasped her hand, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

“The hell you don’t,” she hissed. “You’re ill.”

“I know,” he said, and that stopped her. He sighed. “Just, please, trust me. An ambulance couldn’t make it through this mess anyway. No point. I’ll be fine in a minute, I just need to catch my breath.”

She stared him down, mouth set and grim. For a long, horrible moment he felt close to talking. To actually saying it. He hadn’t actually told anyone about the diagnosis. There was nobody to tell, and somehow that was the worst of it. He was going to die here alone in a shithole of a town thousands of miles from home, and nobody would know. Loneliness hit him in a crushing wave. He saw himself reflected in the dark of her eyes, drawn and pale and hopelessly lost.

And then she sighed, and his shoulders dropped, and the moment passed.

“What’s your name, Glasgow?” she asked finally.

“John. But mostly people call me the Doctor.” She gave him a funny look and he shrugged. “Old nickname. Long story.”

“No doctor for the Doctor, though?”

He shook his head, resolute.

“Well, then fuck that,” she said flatly. “Glasgow it is.”

He rasped a laugh that set him dangerously close to coughing again. “Suppose I’m supposed to just call you Blackpool, then?”

“It’s only fair.” She smiled tentatively. “But it’s Clara, for the record.”

- 12:03am

Blackpool - Clara - handed out hot water in little styrofoam cups. John followed behind with sachets of coffee and tea bags and tiny packets of sugar. London, who Blackpool said was named Bill, squealed happily when he produced a pyramid-shaped teabag out of his pocket.

“Oh that is gorgeous, you’re a lifesaver, mate.”

Blackpool had moved onto the driver, whose name tag was emblazoned with “MASTERS” in off-kilter lettering. His cheshire grin slipped sideways into a leer as she handed him the cup, his fingers lingering on hers a little too long.

“Cheers, love,” he said with an overblown wink and an equally overblown mockery of an English accent.

Blackpool’s face went stony, and she jerked back, moving on quickly to the elderly couple. The grin on Masters’ face spread even broader.

Bill fidgeted, her own smile fading fast. Her eyes flitted around like nervous hummingbirds, lighting on Blackpool, him, the ceiling, the floor. Anywhere but the driver. John clenched his jaw, hands making a decision for him before his brain stood a chance to intervene, accidentally fumbling the handful of coffee and sugar and knocking the cup of still-steaming water out of Masters’ hands and into his lap. The room was entirely too cold (and his kettle frankly a bit too crap) for the piddly amount of liquid to be hot enough to actually hurt him, but the man yowled like it was boiling.

“Ach, so sorry mate,” John crowed, playing up the Glasgow in his voice to the most ridiculous degree he could that still stopped short of Rab C. Nesbitt territory. “The cauld goes fae my joints, sorry, like, I’ll get ye some towels an’ a fresh cuppa, dinnae worry about it.”

He trotted back to the office, more than a little delighted at the sour look on the driver’s face. How’d that saying go? Like a rottweiler licking piss off a dandelion. That was the one. Beautiful.

- 12:15am

John ran out an extension cable and a power strip for the ones needing a charge for their phones, which unsurprisingly was all of them. Reception was shit, and the storm was only half of it. No wifi, either. He made apologies, gesturing at the desperately out of date equipment. “Give them another ten years, and they might actually catch onto the indoor plumbing fad.”

Blackpool gave him a wink and a thumbs up over the top of her phone. London rolled her eyes and lamented the absence of Netflix, rather loudly at that. Blackpool shook her head and set to poking half-heartedly at Candy Crush.

London wandered over, leaning back against the desk where John sat. She had apparently memorized the names of the other passengers and ticked them off to John as she sipped at her tea. She pointed out the elderly couple. “Melvin and Tilly. Their granddaughter just had her first baby, they’re going down to visit. Spiky hair over there is named Dan or Dave or maybe Doug, he talks a bit too fast for me to really catch it. The cougar with the long blonde hair is Susan; loves badminton, very straight though, shame. Oh, that over there, that’s Dee. Or D, like the letter, not sure which.”

“And of course, you’ve met Clara,” she gestured at Blackpool, who was still flicking through her phone. “Late twenties, maybe early thirties at a push. Used to be an English teacher back home, I think she said. Didn’t like talking about home though. Breakup or something, I dunno. There’s a sore spot there, I didn’t want to poke. I did learn, however, that she likes Jane Austen, souffles, and apparently, older men.” London tilted her head at him pointedly, amused by the way John’s gaunt cheeks colored as he stared fastidiously at his shoelaces. She tutted. “Oh you poor bugger. Five minutes in and you’ve already got it bad. Don’t worry, mate, same here.”

“I really d-”

“Oh like hell. You absolutely have, of course you have. I’m not stupid. And I mean it’s not like I can blame you. Look at ‘er.” She lifted her hands again at the other woman as if her existence was the only proof needed. In fairness, it probably was.

John nodded solemnly. “Alright. So what next, fisticuffs? Rifles at dawn? You can get in an early dig at my honor if you want, I’ll let you go first.”

She laughed. “Naw mate, she is way out of my league. Out of your league too, now that I think about it.” London put a playful elbow in his ribs. “She still likes you though. I can tell. Haven’t seen her smile at a single bloke until she saw you.”

He cleared his throat. “And uh, what about the driver? Masters. What’s the deal there?”

London’s smile evaporated. “He’s a prick,” she said flatly.

- 12:40am

“Alright, the suspense is killing me,” Blackpool said at last. She’d taken to pacing around the lounge with her phone in her hands and had veered out of her path to the front desk suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” he said, blinking.

“You said people called you the Doctor. Why?”

John waved a dismissive hand. “It’s really not that interesting, honestly.”

“C’mon.”

“Why do you want to know?”

She rolled her eyes, laughing. “Because I am dying of boredom. And because, quite frankly, I like listening to you talk.” John fumbled his pen. Blackpool didn’t seem to notice. She tilted her head. “How’s your cough, by the way? I suppose I shouldn’t bother you. Talking might actually be a bad idea….oh god, I am rambling aren’t I?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said dryly.

“Right. Well. I’ll just, uhm.” She motioned away.

“I had something of a reputation when I was younger,” he said suddenly, not really wanting to tell but wanting her to leave even less. “Drugs. College,” he shrugged. “Nothing terribly shocking, but also not very legal. Used to get folk turning up at all hours on my doorstep, worn out or strung out or heartbroken. I’d find the right remedy in my bag of tricks to calm them down, get them talking.”

“A stoner psychologist?”

“Basically.” He leaned back and spread his hands. “The Doctor is in.”

- 1:17am

Boredom took over rather quickly. D-or-Dee, a youth with a partially shaved head and a pocket full of quarters went around feeding coins into the slots of the tiny mounted TVs, looking for one that still worked. For awhile, several of them crowded around to catch the weather reports - snow, lots of; we now return you to your regularly scheduled programming - but it quickly became apparent that the only thing on this late was going to be infomercials and horrible sitcom reruns. The tiny knot of people dispersed, and the youth settled for twiddling the radio dials, trying to find a signal in the squelch and static.

“How do you manage alone here at night?” Blackpool said, leaning over the front desk and swirling the last dregs of her instant coffee as he scratched at a newspaper with a pen. “This place is practically prehistoric. I keep waiting for a dinosaur to jump out of the ladies’ and come charging out to eat us.”

“Alas, it’s never been quite that interesting. But I manage, mostly.” John wiggled his pen at the desktop, heavily populated with familiar nightshift detritus: thin paperbacks (Vonnegut and Iain M. Banks stuff mostly), crosswords, at least three newspapers, and an mp3 player half-hidden under a pack of L&M cigarettes. A stack of monitors to his right showed crackly footage from security cameras in the station; two from the lounge, one in the hall by the lavs, and two outside at the front and back entrances. He gave them a cursory glance and saw nothing amiss. Then looked again, brows knitting together. That wasn’t entirely true. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He checked the doors again and did a head count, lost count, tried again, distracted by the way Masters was leaning over three chairs to talk to London, who was resolutely ignoring him. John felt the first twinge of a headache at his temples. What the hell was he missing?

And then Blackpool’s arm darted in front of him and grabbed the mp3 player and the cigarettes in one quick swoop that left him blinking.

“Oi, Quick Draw McGraw, give over!”

Blackpool shook the cigarette pack and gave him a disapproving glare. “Seriously?”

He scowled. She seemed to bring that out in him. “I’m old enough, miss, honest. I’ve got ID, I can prove it, even.”

“These can’t be doing your lungs any favors.”

“When did you turn into my mother?”

“Well, if you’re going to be like that I guess I’ll just have to take your toys away,” she said coolly, slipping them into her pocket.

John scoffed. “You really want to be stuck in here with a crotchety old bugger going off nicotine? Trust me, it won’t be pretty.”

“You ought to take better care of yourself, y’know.” The playfulness hadn’t gone, not entirely, but there was a genuine edge of concern.

John felt heat creep up his face and grumbled, fiddling with his hair. That inexplicable urge to tell her hit him again. Christ, he was pathetic. Was this all it took? A pretty face and a kind word, and he was ready to fall on his knees and confess. It was a sin anyway, wasn’t it? Suicide by inaction. Jesus. Get ahold of yourself for fuck’s sake.

Blackpool held up the mp3 player. “Got anything good in here?”

“Depends on your definition of good.”

Music warbled faintly from the earbuds as she shuffled through his playlist. “Bowie. Lots of Bowie. Miles Davis. Screaming Trees. And...Peter Andre?” She gave him a look that was just a hair’s breadth away from mocking.

“It got stuck in my head, ok? It was either download it or put a plastic spork in my ear.”

She laughed, properly laughed, round face all crinkled up, rocking on her elbows. Any indignance he might’ve felt fled immediately. He watched her laugh and felt a little of the malaise drain from his limbs.

Blackpool shook her head at him, eyes sparkling. “Well, that’s good to see.”

“What?”

“You. Smilin’.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. He hadn’t even realized.

She patted his hand. A fleeting touch, but enough to make his heart catch almost painfully. “It looks good on you,” she said.

“Oh, flattering an old man,” he said. “If you’re here for my many many riches, as clearly evidenced by my glamorous, high-paying position, I’m afraid I have bad news.”

“Shut up,” she smacked his shoulder lightly.

“I just thought you should be aware!” he carried on, blustering his way through the blush that wanted to creep up his cheeks again.

A sudden burst of static made the both of them jump. D-or-Dee cheered happily, having finally found a radio signal that wasn’t just weather reports or bad country music. Violin strings cut through the crackle and pop in a lilting swell. A guitar crawled in in response, sweet and slow as molasses. John recognized it, an old Fleetwood Mac tune from the Peter Green days.

Melvin, the old guy, was on his feet suddenly, tugging at his wife’s arm. Tilly cackled, called him a sentimental old goat. And then she went to him, smiling sweetly, hands clasped together, one arm on his shoulder. They revolved slowly, beaming at one another.

A few others joined them, Dave/Dan/Doug, the youngish fellow with spiky hair, offered his hand to Susan, a woman about John’s age who laughed musically and joked about breaking her hip, but went anyway. D-or-Dee snatched up London even as Masters was moving closer and twirled her away while the driver was left sneering. A cold little prickle crawled up the back of John’s neck as he locked eyes with the driver. He was going to be trouble. Before sun up, John was certain, he would be trouble.

Blackpool’s hand was on his again, her eyes locked mistily on the elderly couple. “Dance with me?” she asked suddenly.

He sputtered, half-laughing, an immediate refusal on his lips, but then she turned her head and he saw the tears in her eyes. He knew that look. It wasn’t wistfulness but hurt, like an old wound had suddenly reopened. John felt his heart perched on the edge of something he didn’t want to name, teetering, ready to fall. He could let it, knowing at once he’d give anything to take away whatever pain had filled her, and chastised himself for the foolishness.

As if he could. The plows would go out in the morning and she would be on another bus and that would be it. And anyway, he was old enough to be her father and not likely to see the last snows of the season melt. Nothing lasted, not ever. The kid turned the music up, and John felt it working in his chest. A little miracle, a little spark crackling away inside. Old and battered and still playing something sweet and strong enough to make him feel. Maybe that wasn’t all the music. Maybe.

Nothing lasted, but maybe it didn’t have to last to be worth it.

John squeezed her hand once and made for the door. The security monitors dragged his attention for a split second, but he kept moving. Whatever it was, it could wait another five minutes. Blackpool held her arms out as he rounded the desk. He hesitated, swallowing hard. People were watching. London looked at once hopelessly amused and somehow proud. She grinned at him and popped a double thumbs-up, giggling. The driver looked significantly less pleased. The man’s face had gone rat-like and sour, staring at them both with such utter contempt John could almost feel it on his skin, slippery and unpleasant like motor oil.

But Blackpool’s eyes were turned up to him, wide and dark and too full. You wave and you wave with your wide lovely eyes ran through his head with a kind of sick-sweet flush. He went to her. London pumped her fist discretely in triumph.

“You’re cold,” he said as she curled around his shoulder.

“I’m alright.” She took his left hand with her right. Should’ve felt odd. Probably. It didn’t. She led and he followed, trying to pretend he was more than a gangly wreck of limbs and mad silver hair.

She settled against him, fingers worrying over the ring on his hand. “I hope I’m not,” she paused, pressed her face to his jacket, tried to start again. “I dunno, overstepping or something. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to put the mack on a married man.”

His eyebrows flew up. “You’re putting the mack on me now, are you?”

“Shut up,” she said, but there was a chuckle in it.

“I’m not married anymore. It’s sentiment, I suppose. Maybe just habit by now. Just never taken it off.”

She looked up at him, searching his face as if looking for the answer to something she didn’t quite want to ask. She seemed to find it. He could guess; a ghost of that same hurt he’d seen in her face. “I’m sorry,” she said.

John’s mouth went painfully dry. “You too, eh?” he asked.

She nodded. “We weren’t married,” she said, so quiet he could just barely hear her over the music. “But he was going to propose.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Her breath hitched, and she swayed a little in his arms, head down low on his shoulder. John turned them slowly, putting his back to the room, giving her what little privacy he could. He stared out the window. The snow was coming down harder, big fat snowballs of the stuff forming new drifts in the track he had cleared. The sky outside was a dull, muddied pink, the snow drifts colored orange in the streetlights. Blackpool wept discreetly, not making a sound, but he felt tears soak through his hoodie to his t-shirt, and wondered that even those felt cold. He pressed his hand into the small of her back, thumb rubbing absently against her spine, and he tucked the top of her head under his chin. She smelled faintly of lilac soap and deep, bitter chocolate.

“Thank you,” she said as the song ended.

“What for?”

“For being kind.” She looked up at him again, and he watched the last of her tears spill down her cheeks. “That’s rarer than it ought to be.”

A commercial for Thompson’s Water Seal replaced Peter Green, and the other pairs drifted apart. John barely noticed. Her eyes skimmed down over his face, pausing long enough at his lips to make his heart beat faster. She couldn’t possibly...

A cracking from outside made his head snap up, and John watched as a heavy branch bowed over the power lines, cracking and popping. He swore, dropping his hand to his belt where his maglite hung, just as the branch gave way and fell.

In the split second before the darkness descended, John finally registered what had been wrong with the cctv feed. As light as it was outside, even at this hour, the inside of the station was brighter, and he saw himself reflected in the plate glass of the sliding doors. Six feet of wiry thin Scot. Face a little too long, a little too drawn now, but eyes as bright and cold as the night outside. His hands hovered in midair, clasping nothingness.

Of the woman in his arms, there was no sign. Blackpool had no reflection.

#whouffaldi #twelve x clara #doctor who fanfiction #twelfth doctor #clara oswald #vamp!clara #bc I haven't actually gotten to do a romance/horror au ever #let me live

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