#whose whole thing is “she's very dangerous and might lose control so watch out”

[zellkabellk]

Some pictures of Qalaari in BG3... el wiwi, my angel, my babygirl, my little mewmew... Dragonborns have no rights looking this good in this game istg

[sabraeal]

Provocateur, Prologue

[Read on AO3]

Written for @krispy-kream in honor of her birthday. Many years ago, back when I first joined fandom, I came up with the idea for an Obi Works For Izana AU, and both Sharon and I ended up writing small pieces of a much larger whole. And now FINALLY...I’m actually writing the very beginning 🤣

When it comes down to it, in terms of area and amenities, the royal dungeons has some of his last few flats beats.

There’s light, for one. He’s never liked basement apartments-- he’d take a stifling attic room over a place with only one exit any day-- but the windows here are high up on the wall, enough that he can watch the sun paint his cell floor as the hours pass. They’re ground level, at least by the foot traffic outside of ‘em, and with how loud these guards gossip, he’ll know whose girlfriends are pregnant and who’s nursing a nasty boil by shift change. Just like sitting in a tavern for a few hours, only with less ale.

There’s a cot too, straw-stuffed and a little too soft, with a blanket that doesn’t even itch. Seems like it might be warm too, for when the nights get cold. Not that he has an intention of testing out that particular hunch.

The guard down the hall is decent in the way authority figures never are; when he calls out to ask where his piss bucket is, the man-- boy? It’s hard to tell beneath those helmets-- ushers him down a hall to a water closet, and when he pops out, reminds him to take care to wash his hands. He’s prompt about mealtime too; when supper comes, the man says to expect three square and leaves him with with a dinner that would put most publicans to shame.

All in all, this isn’t the worst trouble he’s gotten himself into. Worlds better than that stint he’d had in Eurikenna’s gaol. Or that night in Port City.

Still, he’s got no plans to linger. No point in sticking around for a punishment when he's got no interest in redemption. But he’s got a prince to wait for.

Oh, His Highness might say he’s above getting his hands dirty, might look down that noble nose at a man like him who makes his living in trade, but he’d seen his look. Not the first, when his little mistress was watching, all puffed cheeks and disapproving brow, but the second, that glance over his shoulder as the Big Man frogmarched a dirty rat down into the dungeons.

That one was a man who had found the right tool for the job. Hands don’t stay clean without gloves to cover them, especially if they mean to hold a mistress who collects trouble like some ladies collect hairpins. If he wants to keep his side piece quiet, it’s only a matter of time before he’ll have to make a statement. And nothing says don’t touch what’s mine like a few accidents. All he has to do is wait out a royal conscience.

The light fades as he waits, just the last stretch of dusky light yawning on the sill. It’s almost time for all good little princes to be in bed, but this one-- this one will be working instead. The hand that grabbed him had been stained with ink and calluses both; the kind of man who longed for action but was stuck behind a desk. He’ll be up late, managing men and supplies miles away on paper, but in his head--

Oh, in his head, he’ll be thinking about the man he’s left to rot in the dungeons. The one that might be just the right fit for what he needs, for the jobs he can’t give that giant or the pretty girl at his side. It’s the sort of idea that’ll eat at him when the lamps are low and the night is quiet, and oh, how a conscience can gnaw when there’s no more work to feed it. There’s a reason he’s never idle. Not usually, at least.

He casts a long glance down the silent hall; the guard sits at his table, log book spread in front of him, another smaller one laid atop. A novel, by the slack-jawed look that’s slapped across his face. In Eurikenna, his reputation had preceded him, and they’d bound him hand and foot, bolting his wrists to the wall and his feet to the bench. Viande had put him in a cell with a single window and stone on all sides, his only escape leading into a moat rumored to be prowled by sharks.

Here he has a single guard and bars he could probably squeeze through if he skipped a meal or two. It’s insulting to be so underestimated-- or it would be, if he wasn’t already planning to stay. He’s paid out his room at the inn for a week; a few days to enjoy the impeccable food and passable mattress he’s got here won’t hurt-- just as long as he makes it back before the innkeep tosses all his worldly goods in the gutter. And if he does need to make a quick escape--

Well, it’s hardly the first time he’s slipped the noose. But it won’t come to that. Younger Highness is on the hook.

The door to the dungeon clanks open; it’s a softer sound, barely loud enough for him to hear, but he hasn’t made a name for himself by being the sort of person who only hears what he ought. The guard’s gone-- book too-- and his hand itches to have something that ends with a point in it. He should have known, this was all too easy.

A shrouded figure sweeps through the threshold, prowling with the easy confidence only men born to power possessed-- or a professional. His hands flexed, too empty. He’s a loose end, an embarrassing stain on a proud man’s reputation, and there’s only one thing to do with that-- rub it out.

“You’re not the prince,” he says, keeping his voice even, maybe a bit petulant. Boldness wins a bluff; all he needs is time. Just a second, a hesitation--

Which he gets; the figure’s boots scuffing to a stop. Its head cocks, curious. “Is that so?”

It’s a man’s voice, higher than he expects, but resonant. The sort that people listen to when they’re not looking for a way out. The sort that won’t care for a man turning his back on it.

“You’re too tall.” He saunters to his cot, the mattress sinking under his weight. Not quite the attitude he’d been hoping for, but close enough. Gives him enough time to realize his cloaked friend isn’t talking-- no, instead he catches the barest tremble of cloth before a gloved hand tugs it smooth.

“How...astute,” the man hums, a strange lift kicking that first vowel before he smooths that out too. Everything about this man is slick, from the shine of his boots to the way he says, “That must be the observational skills that tempted even the marquis to hire you.”

His grin flicks into a grimace, but habit wipes that all clean before he says, “I wasn’t hired by anyone. Just wanted to...advertise my skills. In case anyone with a fat wallet found themselves needing a problem taken care of.”

Another pause, this one heavier. “And this girl seemed like a likely target?”

“A commoner nosing around a prince?” A laugh huffs out of him. “What about that isn’t a problem? At least when it’s a lady, she doesn’t have pockets that need filling, but some little herbalist girl? There’s a long way between lady slippers and slippers for a lady. And not everyone wants to kiss hems to get a mistress in their pocket.”

Not when it’s just as like to be covered in mud. If there’s one thing he’s learned about these bluebloods, it’s that they only suck up, not down.

The shroud shifts, arms folding across a chest too slender to be called broad, and shoulders too wide to be scrawny. Lithe, perhaps, the perfect size to slip through a man’s guard.

“The job is over, you know.” Boot heels clack as the man draws closer, just enough to see a defined chin beneath the shadows of his hood. “There’s no need for all this cloak and dagger. Haruka has already confessed to the crown that he was the one to hire you.”

His fingers flex behind his head, longing for something besides bristle to cross his palms. “Don’t know why he’s going through all the trouble. I don’t know him.”

This isn’t his first interrogation, but it’s certainly the slowest. The man stands silently outside the bars, a single finger lying along his diamond-cut jawline. No questions, no speculation, just a shadow staring out of a hood, observing. This must be what it’s like to be boiled alive; put in the pot when it’s barely a simmer, the heat raising so gradually that it’s not until his chest is near bursting to speak, to fill the silence, that he knows he’s been cooked.

“What would you have done?” the man says, finally. “If you had your way with the girl.”

The girl who, in the face of danger, tore an arrow from the wall rather than run. “Nothing permanent.”

What little he can see of the shroud’s mouth curves. “How very vague. So many unpleasant things only take a moment.”

“The job was to scare her off,” he admits, wondering why his belly quivered in his gut. There’s bars between them, and his hands are faster than any nob’s, no matter how good the costume. But still, his muscles lay coiled against his bones, ready to strike. “Seduce her, if she seemed...amenable. Bribe her if she didn’t.”

“And what then?” It’s a quicker response than he expects, but the man isn’t agitated-- far from it, he’s never seemed calmer. “If the girl proved impervious to your more...gentle measures.”

There’s a question in that, one the shroud won’t voice. But he hears it, loud in his ears as a bell’s gong.

“I’ve killed before,” he says, each word on thin ice. “And I still sleep at night.” Barely. “I could have done it again.”

“But would you?”

For once, he hesitates. Imagines looking into those bright eyes, the ones that flamed so fiercely in defiance, and with the flick of a wrist, snuffing them out.

“It’d be a waste.” His hands tremble where they cradle his head, a command he hasn’t given them. This is the last thing he needs right now, losing control. “That girl’s got a lot of pluck. And if rumors around the pharmacy are right, a lot of brains too. Besides, bodies make more talk than bribes.”

“That they do.” There’s a lilt to those words, almost amused. “You know, you called it a job. Implying that you received compensation for your services.”

It’s a sting to realize he’s slipped. “Doesn’t mean it was the marquis.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” the man agrees, and if this room weren’t so dark, if this conversation wasn’t so serious-- well, he’d be tempted to say this guy is laughing at him. “Do you have a name?”

He turns to him real slow-like, one utterly dubious brow arched toward the guard’s register. “You want me to believe you can’t read?”

That shadow of a mouth lifts again. “Am I to believe a man of your skill gave your birth name to the royal guard?”

His mouth cocks into a grin. “You must if you think I’m gonna give it to you.”

The man comes closer still, one gloved hand wrapping around his bars. He’s visible to the tip of his nose; a long, patrician one.

“Of course. But you must have something you would like to be called.” His lips-- bowed, the most fashionable in Clarines’ court-- twitch toward a smile, but fall perilously short. “An alias, if you will.”

“Obi.” It’s too short, too quick, but already he likes it. It’s a more playful name than he’s had in a long while. Easy to lose, too, if he needs it.

“Well then, Obi.” His arm rests over one of the cross bars of his cell. “I believe I have a proposition for you.”

“Haah.” He hops to his feet, hoping to seize the high ground. “I appreciate the interest, but I’m already waiting on an offer.”

To say the hood recoiled would be an overstatement, it merely pulls back, barely more than an inch. “An offer?”

“Well, maybe more like...I have prospects.” Obi restrains his grin to little more than a twitch. “I just gotta see if they’ll pan out.”

The hood stills, thoughtful. “What if I could guarantee you a better offer?”

“You couldn’t.”

The man hums, amusement changing his pitch. “I quite sure I could.”

“Nah.” Obi shakes his head, almost wishing it weren’t so. This guy seems like he could be real fun, if he got his hands on his reins. “I don’t think so.”

“Please.” He opens a hand; an invitation. “Try me.”

“Fine.” There’s nothing to lose by telling, besides some face, if he’s wrong. Which Obi knows he’s not. “I got a feeling the next guy through that door’ll be His Highness.”

The man rocks back, like he’s been hit. “Zen? You think...?”

Obi expects some bargaining, some disbelief, maybe even some haggling, but--

He does not expect the laugh.

“Oh,” the man coughs, lifting a hand as if he might wipe tears from his eyes. “I promise you, I can give you a...far more attractive offer.”

Now that’s a rich one. “What could be better than a second prince?”

The man’s hand raises past his eyes, right to the edge of his hood. With the barest flick of his fingers, the cloth falls back, baring bright gold and Wisteria blue.

“Why,” drawls His Highness Izana Wisteria, crown prince, soon to be first of his name, “the first.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Queen of Underland: Izzy

CW: Panic attack, child of recovering adult whumpee, anger as trauma response, referenced noncon kissing and touching (nonsexual), childhood bullying, referenced past domestic and child abuse, some gendered and ableist insults (kid to kid and nothing too intense - just fair warning)

Izzy, at nine years old, has been free with her family for almost five years now, and her mother has been in prison on a life sentence for two. With attention, affection, and therapy, she has blossomed into a quiet kid who nearly always has her nose in a book.

When two classmates try to put her in the center of a storm, Izzy finds something inside herself that she has pushed down for so long she had nearly forgotten she ever had it.

Izzy finds her father’s anger.

Jax Gallagher belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

Izzy sits at her desk, perfectly still, reading a book while the teacher’s out of the room speaking with another teacher in low voices, just in the hallway. The sun shines in the windows that line the wall, lighting the pages of her book, and one of Izzy’s hands rubs repeatedly over the seam down the side of her uniform skirt, the only movement she makes beyond her eyes.

Around her, the others are whispering, passing notes and giggling (except for Noah, who has his own book open, and Jack, who is drawing his story about giant killer robots in a notebook, and Sarah, Jack’s twin sister who is trying to build a tower of pencils and paper), but Izzy barely notices them.

When the teacher comes back in, Izzy will not be whispering, or giggling, or doing anything that might bother her. When the teacher comes back, Izzy will be quiet, and good, and put her book back into her desk and look up with her hands in her lap. She’s the quietest kid in class, she heard the teacher say so.

At home, she’s not always quiet anymore, but at school she still holds a balance, protecting herself and keeping herself safe in the best and truest way she knows - by simply being exactly what the adults need her to be, and keeping all her real feelings and thoughts inside her head.

Still, while the teacher’s out of the room, she takes a few minutes to read while she has the chance. Her heart beats cold and heavy in her chest as she scans over the words on the page, biting down on her lower lip, worrying at a bit of chapped skin. Her left hand settles over the soft texture of pages nearly yellowed with time spent in the school library being held by hundreds of small hands. The fingers on her right hand feel over the seam of her skirt, right along the outside of her leg, again and again.

Fierce anxiety, and a little fear, swirl inside her for the characters that exist only in ink and her imagination.

Two Earthmen entered, but instead of advancing into the room, they placed themselves one on each side of the door, and bowed deeply. They were followed immediately by the last person whom anyone had expected or wished to see: the Lady of the Green Kirtle, the Queen of Underland. She stood dead still in the doorway, and they could see her eyes moving as she took in the whole situation—the three strangers, the silver chair destroyed, and the Prince free, with his sword in his hand.

“I think I like Karissa,” Henry Fitzgerald, who sits at her left, says to his best friend Kevin Magden - not to be confused with Kevin Michaelson, and didn’t the teacher sigh over that sometimes. He has to speak over and around Izzy’s head. 

“Like, like like her?” Kevin Magden asks, sounding half-horrified, half-fascinated. Izzy fights not to roll her eyes, and tries to focus back on her book, on the entrance of the Queen, on the Prince freed but faced with great danger.

The Queen of the Underland, the lady who held the Prince in the dark for ten whole years, that’s older than Izzy even is. Coming into the room to find the children and the Prince, and her having no control any longer. 

She turned very white; but Jill thought it was the sort of whiteness that comes over some people's faces not when they are frightened but when they are angry. For a moment the Witch fixed her eyes on the Prince, and there was murder in them. Then she seemed to change her mind.

“Run,” Izzy whispers, to the children, to Puddleglum the strange marsh creature, to the freed Prince. “Don’t talk to her, just run. Don’t listen to whatever she says, don’t.”

“What are you even saying, Izzy?” Kevin Magden says.

“She’s all in her book like always,” Henry Fitzgerald says, shrugging. He makes some sort of gesture - Izzy doesn’t look up to see it - and the two of them laugh. She doesn’t care about that. The story is far, far more important than they are anyway. “Anyway, Kev, I like-... yeah, I think I like like her. I’m gonna tell her at break.”

“Gross,” Kevin says, but he sounds fascinated. “What if she says she doesn’t like-like you back?”

Henry shrugs again - Izzy can see the movement from the corner of her eye. “Dunno. Maybe kiss her.”

“Gross,” Kevin repeats, much more emphatically. 

Izzy tries to keep her mind on the page, but shifts uncomfortably in her chair. She closes her eyes briefly, thinking of the Queen of the Underland, standing in the doorway. She imagines her with very white skin and dark, long fingernails, wearing a long dress that brushes the earthen floor, making a soft swish-swish sound as she walks. In her mind, the Queen of the Underland has very bright blue eyes and lots of curly, dark brown hair that is threaded with silver down her back, wild and uncontrolled, like it can reach out and grab you and drag you into the dark with her.

She feels like the Queen is not a stranger to her, and not hard to picture at all. Try as she might, she can’t make the Queen in her imagination look like the description of the Queen in the book. She only ever looks one way - beautiful and wicked, deceptively soft, eyes brilliant and shining too bright when the Prince is in pain.

Will she hurt him, while the children have to stand and watch and can’t save him at all?

"Leave us," she said to the two Earthmen. "And let none disturb us till I call, on pain of death." The gnomes padded away obediently, and the Witch-queen shut and locked the door.

"How now, my lord Prince," she said. "Has your nightly fit not yet come upon you, or is it over so soon? Why stand you here unbound? Who are these aliens? And is it they who have destroyed the chair which was your only safety?"

Izzy can hear the Queen’s voice, musical lilt, simpering sweet and dangerous. Why are you leaving me? How dare you. Come back here, Jax, you can’t leave, you’re mine. 

Kevin and Henry are still talking, but Izzy doesn’t hear them any longer. She’s lost in the panic rising inside of her. Run, she thinks, in a scream, a shout in her mind. It isn’t that she doesn’t understand it’s just a book, but that she is still scared, frightened for the prince whose father had grown older while he was gone, whose family must have missed him so much. She is frightened for the children who do not understand the witch or how to fight her. She’s frightened even for Puddleglum, who only wants to help, to do the right thing. Don’t talk to her, don’t give her the chance, just run. She’ll make you hers again. She swallows - it feels like her heart beats itself right up into her throat, like she is swallowing around it - and keeps reading.

Prince Rilian shivered as she spoke to him. And no wonder: it is not easy to throw off in half an hour an enchantment which has made one a slave for ten years. Then, speaking with a great effort, he said:

“I’ll kiss her even if she doesn’t like me back, anyway.”

Izzy’s breath catches, and she blinks, feeling like she has been pulled out of a spell herself. She looks up, glancing sidelong at Henry, who isn’t looking at her at all, just talking to Kevin. “Hen-... Henry-... what did you say?”

“None of your business,” Henry replies, voice harsh and loud enough to get some of the others to look over at them, and Izzy’s shoulders creep up towards her chin, face burning red. She hates when everyone looks at her, hates it more than anything. Henry looks back at Kevin. “At break, I will. I’ll tell her, and I’ll kiss her, whether she wants to or not.”

Izzy looks back down, but the words on the page run together, she can’t see them any longer, they’re just squiggles, meaningless little lines. What I want just matters more, whispers a nightmare she can never quite feel woken up from. She tries, she really does, to focus again on the book but she sees secondly, she took out a musical instrument- 

Izzy slams the little paperback shut, sticks it back in her desk, and says in a thin voice, “You can’t do that if someone doesn’t want you to, it’s wrong.”

“It’s not a big deal, Izzy, geez.” Kevin on her other side speaks up now, and between them she feels like she’s being battered, tossed on a sea, shoved down, locked in the dark. Izzy stares down at her desk, then, letting her eyes lose focus on the wavy colors in the polished wood. Light brown, almost auburn, and darker brown, almost a chocolate color, very like the hair on Izzy’s own head, clipped short and spiky.

Very very like the wavy, thick curls that ran down her mother’s back, that smothered Izzy in the smell of her shampoo and perfume. 

“It is a big deal,” Izzy whispers. “It’s wrong, to make someone kiss you. It’s wrong. It-... it hurts them. It matters what they want, too.”

“Ugh. It's just a kiss. You’re bonkers, you know that?" Henry leans over, almost in her space, and Izzy sits back as far as she can until she presses her back hard into her chair, enough to hurt. “Absolutely mad.” 

“No, I’m not,” Izzy mumbles, but panic twists even worse inside her. Is she? Her mom is. Isn’t she? Don’t you have to be, to be evil? Dr. Marty says no, that those two things are totally separate and people are just bad at understanding that people can be really, really, really bad and still be sane - that bad people almost always are - and Dr. Marty knows everything about crazy and not-crazy, that’s his whole job, and she’s not like her mother anyway, she’s not. 

“Are so,” Henry taunts, falling easily into the familiar cadence of mockery, and Izzy’s face burns brighter and hotter as the room begins to fall quiet, other conversations falling away as the others realize there might be some entertainment now. Her breath comes faster, and she closes her hands into fists at her side, fighting to control the way the fear and a new rise of anger start to twist around inside her stomach, making it flip, making her feel sick. “You’re bonkers for sure, Izzy Gallagher.”

“I-I’m not. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not! It’s not right to kiss people who you don’t know if they want to or not! It’s not!”

The room feels suddenly too small, and too big - she can’t escape Henry’s bean-breath and she can’t run far enough to get to the door, she can’t run at all. Some small voice inside her demands she stay still, shut her mouth, never talk again. She should have just finished her book, seen how the Prince would escape the Queen of the Underland, seen if the children help him or just weigh him down, one more bit of stone tying him to Underland and maybe he wishes he could just leave them behind, if they bother him, if they’re no good-

“Ewwwww, who would want to kiss Izzy?” A girl near her wrinkles her nose - Lindsey Smith, Izzy’s brain supplies, in an airless dizzy spin of details that aren’t important but she can’t stop circling around. “She looks like a boy.”

“Hey, back off.” Izzy, surprised, glances over her shoulder to find Noah Hawkins looking up from his own book, eyes narrowed. “Izzy’s hair is cool, and it’s cooler than yours anyway, Lindsey-kins. You just wish you looked as good as she does.”

“Shut up! You just say that because you’re a boy, of course you think boy hair looks cool.” Lindsey sticks her tongue out, crossing her arms in front of herself. She has big poofy hair like Izzy’s would be if she didn’t have her dad cut it so short, held back with a clip. Hers is red, though.

“There’s no such thing,” Sarah says from over by the window. “As boy or girl hair, I mean. There’s no such thing. It’s all just hair. Izzy’s hair does look cool. You all should leave it alone, Mrs. Brent is going to be back inside any second and we’ll all get in trouble if there’s fighting.”

“Yeah, Izzy,” Henry hisses at her, leaning in close. Too close. She forgets how to breathe. “Stop causing trouble, Izzy.”

“I’m not,” Izzy whispers. Her face feels like it might light on fire. Her fingernails dig into her palms, until she feels flashes of pain, creating crescents that could take hours to fully fade if she did it hard enough. “I was-... I was just-”

“Just butting in where you don’t belong,” Henry finishes for her. “It’s not your business.”

“It’s-... but, but I just-” Her voice is fading fast, airy and breathless, barely a whisper. Quiet little Izzy Gallagher, who never stands up for herself, who lets everyone talk to her like this, who never says a word she isn’t asked to say. Her fear batters her with wings inside her chest, but beneath it is something else entirely, trying to rise up and take over her mind and mouth. Anger. She and Dr. Marty had talked about it, about how it was a normal feeling to feel, but every swell of it within her was met by the rising tide of fear in response.

She never lets herself be angry. That would make her like her mother, who was angry so much, and she’s not like that, she’s not. 

She doesn’t think, in the moment, that her mother isn’t the only parent who knows how to be angry.

The thoughts are not conscious. They aren’t driven by any kind of logic, they loop and swirl around each other. They flash bright like light in the back of her mind. She thinks about the story, the book inside her desk, the way the Prince fell upon the silver chair, how he swung his sword in dim light. 

She thinks about the prince walking out the hotel doors with a baby in one arm and a little girl on his hip, a backpack heavy against his back, into the sunlight outside. She can remember the way he breathed quick and shallow against her hair, the racing of his heart as he asked her to be very quiet, and very brave. She didn’t know he was scared, he didn’t say it, he was just the Prince, shining in the sunlight, asking for directions to the train station and going in a suit to court later and the silver gave way before the sword’s edge like string, and in a moment a few twisted fragments, shining on the floor, were all that was left of the chair. 

“But-but-but-but, I just-” Henry is still going, and Izzy’s eyes burn as hot as her face, lips pulling back from her teeth in a grimace like a snarl. “Just shut up, Izzy Gallagher, nobody cares what you think.”

“Don’t be a dick, I care,” Noah says, from the back of the room, his voice getting louder, now. Other students whoop and go ooooh, Noah likes Izzy, but Noah ignores them, and he doesn’t turn even a little bit red. “Izzy hasn’t done anything wrong to you.” She barely knows Noah, he’s in her class but they don’t talk or anything. This is the first time he’s done more than help her with a math problem, this is the first time she’s heard him even talk in class without the teacher calling on him.

But it feels good to have somebody else stand up for her. 

“She’s butting in!” Henry protests, hands up like he’s the innocent one. “Kevin and I were just talking-”

“About kissing Karissa Bellweather!” Izzy half-shouts. “From the other class! You were talking about kissing someone even if she doesn’t want to! You said you would even if she said no! That’s not right!”

“Ew,” Someone says, Izzy doesn’t know who. Her blood is rushing in her ears almost too loud to hear. “Do you like-like Karissa Bellweather, Henry?”

“No! I don’t!” Henry looks stricken. He hadn’t expected her to just say it out loud like that to everybody. “Gallagher’s lying! She’s a liar!”

“I’m not! I’m not a fucking liar!” Her voice is too loud and she claps her hands over her mouth. Don’t cry, she thinks to herself, and her own thought-voice twists into her mother’s sharper edges. Her palms ache and she wonders if her nails have broken skin, but the wonder is faint, and faded. She feels a hand pressed against the back of her neck, the Queen of the Underland’s voice beside her ear. Don’t cry, Bella. You’re so ugly when you cry. Jax, get her out of my sight. 

“Fuck off,” Izzy says, voice trembling. She isn’t really talking to Henry, not anymore. “Leave-... leave me alone.”

“Oooh, what’re you gonna do, huh? Gonna throw some punches?” Kevin is too close on the other side, now. They’re both too close. Izzy’s heart beats all out of time, and when she goes to breathe, it… it doesn’t work. Her breath is stuck in her throat, halfway down. The air just… sits there, and she can’t hitch it in or exhale it. It feels like her throat is closing up, she’ll choke on nothing, black out and fall down. “Bonkers Izzy Gallagher, gonna fight us, are you?”

“I-I could-” Her voice is a whimper, and Izzy closes her eyes. 

“Could not,” Henry mocks, from his side of her. “You’re weak as a puppy. What are you gonna do?”

“Stop-... stop you from talking anymore,” Izzy says, and pushes her chair back with a loud scrape, getting to her feet. She should tell Dr. Marty about the book, she thinks, about the Queen of the Underland. She should tell her father about the Prince tied to the chair, and how he chopped the chair to bits, and she should tell them all about it, nice and safe and quiet at home, and not do what she’s afraid she’s going to do instead.

“How, gonna use something you learned from your mam in prison?” Henry asks, and Izzy remembers, all at once, how to breathe - but it’s all poison. She gulps in air, fear sparking up, her nerves feel like a hundred thousand tiny lightning strikes. She wants to run but she’s at school and there isn’t anywhere to go. 

“Wh-what?”

“My dad says your mam’s famous in the States for being in prison,” Henry says, leaping on this new tactic as the blood drains from Izzy’s face. He’s like animals on the nature shows that James likes to watch at home with their snack, circling a calf all alone. She’s a wounded baby calf, she’s weighing the herd down, she’s not strong or brave enough, she never was. “Did she teach you how to prison-fight? Ooooh, did she show you how to make a-” He jabs at the air, fist closed empty around an imaginary knife. “A prison-blade?”

“Shiv,” Kevin supplies helpfully.

“Right, that. Did your mam show you how to shank someone?”

“I don’t-... I don’t talk to my mom,” Izzy says, half-strangled by her own words. Her head is spinning. Her backpack is so far away. “We don’t-... we don’t have contact-... she doesn’t talk to me, isn’t allowed-”

“Oh, ew.” Henry sits back, and his face lights up with the simple cruelty of wounding someone who looks unable to fight back, of regaining his own stability and distracting everyone from his embarrassment by bringing up Izzy’s shame instead. “Are you so awful even your mam doesn’t want to talk to you?”

No. She doesn’t. Izzy’s lip trembles. She can’t bring herself to try and respond. She doesn’t, she doesn’t want to know anything about me at all. The last thing my mom ever said to me was yelling at me not to look so scared all the time and Dad said she never asked about me when he talked to her during the trial she never asked she never-

“Hey, Henry,” Someone says. “This is super gross stuff to say, isn’t it?” Izzy can’t see anything but Henry’s face, everything else is white noise and his words ringing through her, settling too deeply inside, meeting her own thoughts that match them, sometimes, on hard days. She never asked about me, she doesn’t even care that I hate her. Your mam is supposed to care if you hate her. You’re so awful your mom doesn’t even care about you. Your mam is supposed to-

“Yeah, Henry. That’s too far, that’s really mean.”

“She can’t help who her mam is, Hen.”

“Yeah, it’s not like she went to the mam shop and picked a rubbish one.”

“My dad was away for a while, Iz, I get it. My mam says it doesn’t say anything about us. People make bad choices is all.”

“I haven’t even seen my dad since I was five, Izzy, it’s okay, don’t be sad.”

“Yeah, it’s okay, Izzy, don’t be sad, Henry’s just being awful.”

“Hey, she was awful first!”

“Go run up a pole, Henry. I like you, Izzy,” Sarah says, from the window, and moves in her direction. “Henry’s being a jerk, don’t listen to him. Don’t be sad. It’s okay.”

“I like you, too, you’re fun at break, you always have good ideas for games.” That’s Amira, using that certain kind of tone you use when you are trying to comfort an upset person, and Izzy feels some of the ice closing around her heart starting to warm up, to melt, to crack apart. 

Even Lindsey says, almost grudging, “Don’t be sad because of Henry, Izzy. He’s really mean sometimes.”

“I think you’re really cool,” Noah says, in a quieter voice. “Please don’t be sad. Want to play monsters at break?”

They don’t all hate her, they don’t. Someone puts a hand at her back, and she flinches, and they pull the hand away, but they don’t hate her for pulling away, they don’t hate her voice or her hair and they don’t hate her for speaking up, they don’t. 

Henry hasn’t given up, not yet. “Your mam’s in prison for being a shit to your dad, isn’t she?” 

Izzy doesn’t look at him, leaning down to pull the book out of her desk, trying to think. She can pull her backpack out and go the nurse, say she’s feeling sick, and maybe her dad will come get her and take her home. They can call Dr. Marty and she can tell him what happened and Dr. Marty will know what to tell her and her dad to work on for the next time. She can tell him that there were good things, too, like that Noah said he thinks she’s cool, and Amira likes her game ideas, and not everybody hates her because she has the wrong mom, and it’s going to be okay. 

It’s going to be okay.

“Henry, stop it,” She says, in a half-whisper. “Please stop.”

She can go to the nurse. Say she’s sick, it’s not a lie, her stomach is all twisted up in knots. It’ll be true, she’s not going to feel better. She has sweat on her forehead drying cold, making her shiver a little. It’s not a lie, being scared makes her sick, it’s a real sick, it’s not a lie. She gets sick a lot from being scared, Dr. Marty says it’s normal for kids who have anxiety, she has exercises to do, she can picture all her hurting thoughts and move them away, and… 

“That’s what my dad said.” Henry’s voice cuts in. “He said your mam’s a piece of fucking work and probably made your dad one, too-”

“Don’t talk about my dad!” She rounds on him, then, book clutched to her chest. “Don’t you dare, you don’t-... you don’t have any right! You don’t know what happened, you don’t know us, you don’t know anything! My dad is better than yours ever could be! And, and stronger, and braver, too!”

Izzy Gallagher, quiet as a mouse, teacher’s pet from sheer terrified inaction, who always sits still and listens carefully and takes direction so well and is just an absolute pleasure to have in class, Mr. Gallagher, an absolute pleasure, is shouting and doesn’t realize it until the words have left her mouth. 

She should stop, some part of her brain begs her to stop, but the anger is suddenly larger than the fear and she is a little girl with a sword. Where they came from, and what she and her father and her little brother have survived, is a silver chair she will hack to bits until all that’s left shines like jewelry when held up to the light.

Henry’s eyes widen, they are big saucers, and they are very bright and very blue.

“My dad is amazing.” She can’t stop shouting. She’s not even trying to stop any longer. “He lived through really bad stuff and he still got us away from it! Even though it would have been easier to go by himself and leave us, he didn’t, and my mom is evil, and I’m not, because you don’t have to be what your mom is and I’m not ever going to be like that, but you are evil, Henry Fitzgerald, and you don’t even have an excuse! You’re-... you’re mean for no reason, and I hope Karissa spits in your face and kicks you between your legs as hard as she fucking can! You are an asshole, Henry Fitzgerald, and you can go fuck yourself all the way home!”

“Isabella Gallagher!” Mrs. Brent’s voice is shocked, and the words die in Izzy’s throat, as she slowly turns to see the teacher standing in the doorway, staring at her like she’d grown three heads and all of them have fangs. 

Izzy feels like she has fangs, too. And claws, like she is a monster herself. She should be scared, or sad, or ashamed of herself, but all she feels is anger burning bright and hot and good in her veins, louder than fear. Angry feels safer than scared. She feels proud of herself, a feeling so unfamiliar it seems like it must be someone else’s. Sarah, close to her now, whispers, go Izzy, in a soft impressed voice, and Izzy feels her eyes burn again, more than before, but for a different reason. 

They don’t hate her, and Henry isn’t saying bad things about her dad any longer, because of her. They don’t hate her.

“You might be even cooler now,” Amira says, and the teacher shushes all of them and points Izzy out, telling her to go see the Head Teacher. Any other Izzy would slink out with her shoulders hunched, full of fear, but this Izzy feels the buzz of standing up for herself running through her and warming all the cold, chasing the heavy hand on her neck away. This Izzy walks with her chin up and her shoulders back.

Some of the warm feeling goes away when the Head Teacher calls her dad to come get her, and says in her stern hard voice that Izzy was yelling and cursing at another student. The Head Teacher doesn’t say that she had a reason, and makes it sound like Izzy just stood up and started cursing for no reason at all. That’s… that’s not fair. Grown-ups always do that, make it seem like kids just go off for no reason, and Izzy can’t hear what her dad says back to the Head Teacher, but a lot of the warm feeling goes away, then. Her heart feels cold and scared again.

What if he’s mad at her?

What if she can’t be sorry enough to fix it?

Izzy sits in a hard wooden chair that is shaped all wrong for kids and makes her legs hurt after a while, waiting for him to come get her with a racing heart, her book open in her lap. 

There’s some brown-y red smeared on the cover, drying. She made her palms bleed when she was scared and didn’t even notice. She’ll ask her dad to buy the school library a new one. She wants to keep this one for herself.

"I have come," said a deep voice behind them. They turned and saw the Lion himself, so bright and real and strong that everything else began at once to look pale and shadowy compared with him. And in less time than it takes to breathe Jill forgot about the dead King of Narnia and remembered only how she had made Eustace fall over the cliff, and how she had helped to muff nearly all the signs, and about all the snappings and quarrellings. And she wanted to say "I'm sorry" but she could not speak. Then the Lion drew them towards him with his eyes, and bent down and touched their pale faces with his tongue, and said:

"Think of that no more. I will not always be scolding. You have done the work for which I sent you into Narnia."

"Please, Aslan," said Jill, "may we go home now?"

"Yes. I have come to bring you Home," said Aslan.

A flash of gray, worn jeans in her vision brings her slowly into awareness of the world around her, but it’s the voice that breaks her completely from the story’s spell. 

“Talk to me, kiddo.”

Izzy looks up to meet her father’s eyes, surprised - she hadn’t even heard him come up. But they’re quiet movers, the Gallaghers - except for Jamie, who never had to learn to move so quiet she couldn’t hear him, who never had to push down all his sounds so deep inside himself he could go whole days without making any at all. 

Her dad drops into a crouch in front of her, and his knees crack a little, but if it bothers him he doesn’t show it. He looks up at her, from this angle, and he doesn’t look mad.

He almost never looks mad at her.

“I got a call that you were fighting in class.” He looks like he’s trying not to twitch a smile at the corner of his mouth. “And using some pretty creative language.”

“Can’t imagine where I learned to curse,” Izzy says gravely, and there - that was definitely a smile on his face that he has to hide as fast as it shows. She lives for her father’s smile. Still, she closes her book, and folds her hands on top of the stain on the cover so he won’t see it. “I only yelled a little. Henry Fitzgerald was mean to me, and he was going to-... he was going to kiss a girl who didn’t want him to kiss her, even if she didn’t want him to. He said it didn’t matter if she wanted to or not.”

“Ah.” It’s all he says, at first. His face doesn’t show much, now. Her nervous heart starts to beat fast again.

“It’s, that was, um, that was before he got mean. He got mean when I told him that it’s wrong to do that and… I kind of… told everybody in class he was going to.”

Her father’s eyebrows raise, a little. “You did, did you?”

“Yes. Then he said his dad told him my mom’s in prison and that-” She stops herself, closing her hands tightly over the book, before her voice can start to shake again. She takes deep breaths, strong ones, fills her whole lungs up. Her dad waits for her, he always waits for Izzy when she needs him to. “He said, it was just, it was a stupid thing, but it made me really angry.”

Her dad’s face hasn’t changed, but Izzy knows when emotions change in a room, even without anyone’s face moving at all. She can feel that something has shifted inside him, something he’s not showing her. “What did he say?” 

“That I must be awful if my mom doesn’t even want to talk to me.” She says it flat, like it doesn’t bother her at all to hear it. No big deal, it’s normal to have a mother who hates you for stealing your father even though it didn’t happen that way. “Then he said mean stuff about you, and… I was already upset, so… I kind of went off on him. I’m sorry you got called and had to come get me.”

“But you’re not sorry you did it,” He says, and it’s not a question.

She presses her lips tightly together, and shakes her head. “I’m… I’m not. He needed to be yelled at. I’m not sorry, Dad. I mean, I am sorry that you have to do anything, but, I’m not-... sorry for calling him all those names and I will put my money from my birthday in the swear jar if you want, I’ll skip tea for a week and put all my chocolates in there, but I still won’t be sorry for yelling when he was mean about you.”

He huffs a sound like quiet laughter and offers her his hands. “Izzy… I don’t care what a year three kid - or his dad - says about me. But clearly it was important to you. Let me go in there and talk to the Head Teacher about it, and we’ll talk out what happens next on our way home. Okay?”

No anger, or threatening punishments, no mention of discipline ever leaves his slightly smiling lips. Izzy is never taught through making her afraid, not anymore. But he waits, seriously, for her to acknowledge what he’s said. 

“Okay, Dad. We’ll talk about what I need to do. And-... can we call Dr. Marty when we get home? I-... want to talk to Dr. Marty about what happened.”

He looks surprised, but not unhappy about it, and nods. “Yeah, kiddo. Good plan. I’ll be back out in just a bit.” When he turns to walk into the Head Teacher’s office, she thinks that even with everything, he looks very like a grown-up prince, and the rings in his ears look like shredded silver. 

She lifts a hand to touch the shell of her own ear, on her left side. 

Izzy opens her book, to the murmur of their voices as they talk about her. She decides to finish it later, and instead she flips back to read again the bit where the prince takes his sword to the chair that kept him under the spell and tells the evil Queen of Underland that he isn’t hers any longer. 

He will go home, to his family, to be freed of her entirely, even if she still shows up in bad dreams… bad dreams are the only place she can come to, now. He’ll wake up and someone will tell him that she’s gone and she can’t come back, and it will be true. They’ll tell him, again and again, until he believes it. 

Izzy will tell her dad, until he believes it.

Jax will tell her, until she believes it, too.

But first… 

Prince Rilian shivered as she spoke to him. And no wonder: it is not easy to throw off in half an hour an enchantment which has made one a slave for ten years. Then, speaking with a great effort, he said:

"Madam, there will be no more need of that chair. And you, who have told me a hundred times how deeply you pitied me for the sorceries by which I was bound, will doubtless hear with joy that they are now ended for ever. There was, it seems, some small error in your Ladyship's way of treating them. These, my true friends, have delivered me. I am now in my right mind, and there are two things I will say to you…”

“Go fuck yourself,” Izzy whispers with a smile on her face and the thrill of forbidden words up her spine. She isn’t talking to Henry Fitzgerald this time, either. She never really was. “And I’m not sorry you’re not Queen anymore at all.”

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

[whump-town]

Into Your Arms

@genevievedarcygranger this one’s for you (I would have done more but the other’s sucked ass)

Various ways Aaron Hotchner stumbles his way into his loved ones arms only to give them heart attacks because he’s a drama queen with awful timing (and inspired by this post)

(1) Haley

He tells her everything that he can when he gets home each night. A second debrief where he sits on the couch, anxiously rubbing at her fingers, and is allowed to feel the impact of what occurred. She knows it’s just the honeymoon phase, that’s why he still greets each day with a smile and promises her it’s not that bad. He’s still got that look in his eyes like he can save the world or eat it whole like he hasn’t decided but when he does...

She thinks that if there was ever a man who could succeed, it’s going to him. His background is so drastically different from everyone else there. Not the son of a politician, hardly the son of a lawyer. Aaron has dragged himself here bleeding, nothing more than roadkill to these men. He might not have been able to pour himself into these cases as they had, doesn’t have the experience, but he’s lived many of them. Felt abuse and escaped his monster’s hands. Maybe she’d just needed him to be different. Safe for once. 

But isn’t that what all those other men had wanted too?

It’s midnight when he gets home. She’s already in bed when she hears him fighting his bike into the door, the loud clatter of the pedals and the handles refusing to fit. All before he shouts angered and explosive and not nearly under his breath-- “fuck”-- before he gives up and throws it out onto the porch. Desperate with those thoughts that tell him everything is out to get him, that’s he’s alone in his misery.

She jumps when he slams the door, not expecting the sound from her typically very timid, soft-spoken husband. The man who will drop a dish or a pot and comes to find her to make sure he didn’t scare her. She’s known him for nearly all her life and she’s heard him utter maybe five curse words. It’s how she knows that what greets her downstairs will not be her Aaron but something broken, something like the boy who feverishly tried to convince her that his bruises and scars were something of her active imagination. The boy killing himself to save everyone else. 

“Aaron?” She comes down the stairs, making sure to hit every creaky board so that he can hear her coming. He’s not in the living room. None of the lights are on but with the street lights pouring in she can make out just enough, and he’s not there. She searches it twice, making sure her eyes don’t deceive her but he’s not there. “Aaron?” she comes around the side of the room and stops.

He’s standing in the kitchen, shoulders shaking. She can hear his soft intakes of breath, the way he presses his hands into his face to muffle the sounds of his sobs. “Oh, baby.” She comes around him, keeping her distance until she’s standing in front of him. Watching as he wipes at his face, jaw quivering as he fails to hide the tears streaming down his face. “Aaron,” she hesitates to touch him, waits until she’s certain he’s calmed down enough not to flinch at the contact. 

She starts with a hand on his shoulder-- this is the hardest part about loving him. No matter how many years she’s been here, no matter how long it’s been since he’s seen or talked to or been hurt by his father every time is like the first time. Like he’s still just a kid standing in his kitchen waiting to get beaten for something beyond his control. 

He lets her get closer, anxiety growing but he wants her there. Knows it won’t get better until she’s got both arms around him so he wills his body to remain stationary. He whimpers when she touches his back but she keeps going until their chest touch and there is, he’s right there. She wraps him as tight as she can. Feels his heart beat against her chest.

“Okay, okay--” she’s not ready for how quickly his knees give out from beneath him. She pulls him back when it startles him, holding his arms with her own, willing herself stronger to keep him down. “You’re okay.”

He shakes his head, bowing in until his face is in her shoulder. “No,” he rasps. “She was right there,” he cries. “I had her in my arms, Haley. I felt--” he chokes on his own words. Chest heaving. “She died and I held her, she wasn’t alone but I couldn’t do anything.” 

She hates the pain in his voice, the way he shakes nearly feverishly against her. 

“She was seven,” he cries, “and I held her the entire time, I promise I did. I tried but she just kept bleeding. She was so tiny, I don’t even know how she had so much blood. I hurt her, Haley. She cried when I put pressure on her wounds. She was scared and all I did was hurt her.” He’s frantic, trying to make her see his reasoning. See him for what he sees, the thing he flinches from in mirrors. 

She just holds him and waits for morning.

(2) David Rossi

Dave is going to put a tracker in the kid’s boxers. He’s fairly certain Haley might hate him but she might okay this idea, so long as nothing like this happens again.

“He’s like ten feet tall,” Max grunts, “how the hell did you lose him?”

Dave shoots him a glare in the rearview mirror. “I didn’t lose him!” He presses on the gas pedal, the old car groaning as it accelerates. There’s nothing David Rossi likes more than playing Mr. Cool & Collected and there’s nothing that Aaron freaking Hotchner has accomplished more than making Dave feel like the frantic father to a toddler that can’t just stand still in the store. It’s kind of ruining the badass vibe thing he claims so feverishly. It’s hard to be a hot FBI agent when he looks like those dads in the store, running up and down the aisle calling out for their child.

“Alright,” Jason soothes, reaching over to squeeze Dave’s elbow. He looks at the picture of calm but he can feel his own fears rising as the gauge climbs steadily over seventy miles per hour. “Easy, Dave. Have some faith in him, okay? You’ve put in the time, he’s a smart kid.” A blind hope sort of faith but all things considered (with the exclusion of the fact that Aaron is like a fire-bug and seems to not understand that you run from danger not to it) he’s has a good head on his shoulders.

“Right,” Dave mumbles. God, he should have left Aaron in Seattle.

They find him in a field and when Dave hears the deputy calling in his description-- early thirties, dark hair, slender build-- his breath catches in his throat. He’s expecting the kid from Seattle, whose gangly height had made Jason wince and Max laugh. Who drinks too much coffee and trips over everything to be brought back to him on a stretcher. A sheet thrown over his body. Suddenly all those jokes, the way Max pointed out Aaron’s ankles hang off stretchers, would fall bitter.

But instead, he sees that ten-foot-tall, 99% all-leg toddler that he hired and his throat dries.

There are deep, dark circles around his eyes. Too many cuts to count on his face, some actively dropping blood onto his dress shirt, but he still smiles. Still raises a hand to wave when Jason shakes his head and huffs out “that kid is a piece of work”. He leans heavily on the deputy at his side, wincing and limping but he’s upright and alive.

Dave gets to him first. Tearing through the tall grass to end up, chest heaving from the run, right in front of Aaron. He points a finger up at him, anger melting at the sight of just how tired he looks. How young he really is and Dave hates himself for bringing him into this stupid mess.  “Don’t you ever do something like that again, do you understand me?” Is this what it feels like to finally find your kid in the endless aisles of Walmart? Because he’s livid but he wants to pull this big oaf into a hug and never let him go. “You could have been killed. Do you know how much paperwork that is?”

Aaron smirks, tilting just a bit and wincing when he puts pressure on broken ribs.

“Come here,” Dave says far too angrily to make it clear he’s on the verge of tears here. He pulls Aaron down, cupping the back of his head closer and wrapping his other arm across his back. “Big old idiot,” he chides sniffling to keep his tears at bay. Dave can feel him shaking, shivering despite the humidity looming over them thickly. Making even the air nearly unbreathable it’s so thick.

Aaron grunts, shifting in Dave’s arms but not away. Just trying to be comfortable but his ribs light up like a match has been struck inside him. “Rossi,” is all the warning he can get out, knees rolling out from beneath him. He hits the ground with a thud, Dave grunting to keep him from falling completely.

Dave grabs him, wincing when Aaron’s eyes roll back into his head and his mouth slacks open. Body jerking.

“It’s a seizure,” the deputy drawls. Dave is too shocked to fight as the deputy eases Aaron to the ground, rolling him onto his back, and holding him on his side. “You have to time it.” Dave looks down at his watch but he’s unable to think-- unable to breath as he hears Aaron moan in pain, crying softly as his body jerks beyond his control.

The deputy rubs Aaron’s chest, whispering something softly until Aaron’s eyes peel back open. His choked breathes easing into breathless pants, confused mumbles leaving his mouth. He doesn’t pull away from their touch, if anything Dave thinks he might actually press his face into Dave’s leg. Holding on a little tighter to Dave’s hand. “My son used to have them,” he tells them both. “You’ll be tired for a while but you’ll probably be fine.”

Unless it’s a brain bleed or a severe concussion or brain damage or a thousand other things.

“Da--Dave?”

He leans closer, squeezing Aaron’s hand and rubbing at his back. “I’m right here, you’re okay.”

Aaron peels an eye open, that signature scowl slipping into place. He looks like himself for a few moment as he looks around and artfully deducts, “I’m laying in the mud.” Leave it to Aaron. “It’s cold.”

Dave thinks again to the sweat pouring down everyone else’s backs. To the humidity so thick it should be considered a solid at this point, defying all laws of matter. “Shut up,” he says entirely too softly to be taken as it should be. A jab, a taunt. “You’re always cold.”

The crunching of grass betrays the medics coming in behind them but Dave doesn’t leave Aaron’s side. He hears the deputy tell them about the seizure. He smiles down at Aaron, brushing back a strand of hair. “I’m putting a tracker in your underwear. Gonna handcuff you to me next time we go anywhere.” And as Aaron’s eyes slip closed, loosing his battle with fighting his body, he smiles.

Dave already complains that he walks too fast, how would handcuffing them together solve anything?

(3) Penelope Garcia

They entrusted him in her care. She’d seen the hesitation in Emily’s eyes, watched her move back to Aaron’s side twice before averting her eyes and going to stand back by Dave. As if physically putting distance between them would solve the gut-rotting feeling Emily has that she’s abandoning him. That they’re all awful for leaving him but there are no other options. They leave him and they go solve this case and they can come right back as soon as it’s over.

“I’ll watch him,” Garcia promises. “We’ll be okay.”

And it’s relieving to know that it’s Garcia who will be here. It’s unspoken the connection between Garcia and Hotch. No need to review the ways he won’t even behave for Emily or Dave, he will succumb to Garcia’s nurturing ways. Let her tuck blankets around him and fuss with him about resting when he wants to sign himself out. He’s far more hesitant to hurt her. He loves her just a little bit more.

“Call if you need anything,” Derek reminds her again, as he stalls at the door. Looking back between Garcia and Hotch, convinced there is no way this goes over smoothly. No way Hotch doesn’t burn her trying to self-destruct and he’s afraid of what that will do to both of them. Garcia has ever right to be wounded by the daggers Hotch throws when he’s down-- a wounded animal cornered, snapping and teeth barred fighting with all he has left. But if Hotch sees the blood, sees the way that he hurts them… He doesn’t need any help placing those knives in his chest,  prying his ribs open to see his heart. Trying to convince himself, as his blood flows freely over his hands, that his human. 

They’re all terrified of what will happen this time. As they are every time he goes down. How much longer until the next time? How close will he let them get? How much blood is it going to take? 

“We’ll be okay,” Garcia says again because she’s still trying to believe it herself. 

But she knows that when he wakes up, he will be someone else entirely. An animal biting it’s leg off to escape, unaware that is leaves that mutilated limb behind that they will never get free. A few feet. Maybe a mile. Blood loss and infection will set in and they will die alone. Panting but free. 

Aaron never cares about what he has to loose, he  just has to get free. 

The drugs hold him back for a day. She sits there, expecting every little hitch in his breathing to be the start, but the next inhale comes and all she has is a pained groan or a soft sigh. 

She falls asleep, laptop precariously tipping off her hips, when he wakes. He doesn’t make a sound, just peels his eyes back and takes in his surroundings. He’s panicked, on the edge, and he sees her but he can’t say a word. He’s too tired, too drugged to even try to make the great escape he’s already formulating in his mind. 

She hears the monitors pick up, something shifting in the room. “Sir,” she gasps but she’s a little too late. He’s already sitting up, hunched down and over himself. “Are you okay? Should I--” 

The door is thrown open, startling them both with the bright lights from the hall into the dark room. 

“Hotch are you okay?” she stays right beside him, trying to get him to say something. Anything.

The nurses buzz around him, not as frantic as she feels just quick practiced movements. She watches them give up trying to move Hotch’s arms, raising the sleeve of his gown up and plunging something into his arm. They step back, going to the machines.

“Hotch?” she tries again, softer. 

He turns his head, eyes darting between hers.

“Are you okay?” she touches his shoulder and nearly jumps in surprise when he leans into her. She hesitates for only a second-- mind racing to understand what’s happening right now. Hotch who avoids hugs and hates attention, leaning into her. Seeking out comfort. “It’s okay,” she whispers, pulling his shoulders closer to her. “You’re okay.” 

She can feel him deflating, all of him now against her. Head on her shoulder and his other arm, not the one pinned between their bodies, trying to reach closer. His breaths even out, no longer quick and shallow as they had been before. 

“It was a sedative,” one of the nurses assures her. “He’s okay. He just needs to rest.”

Garcia nods and tries to pretend like that idea doesn’t terrify her. She’ll call Derek or maybe Dave just someone later and tell them about this. How quickly Hotch had just gone limp in her arms, unable to hold his body up. She’ll cry in the shower and probably every night after this-- is that how desperately he needs a hug? Should she have really been listening to him all these years and skipping him while showering the others in affection? 

She doesn’t fall back asleep, she sits up with him. Listening to his breathing and calming him back down before he can wake up or work himself into a nightmare. She’ll make up for when she wasn’t there and vow that once he’s back on his feet, she’s going to pull him down into a hug and she’s never going to let go.

[im-the-punk-who]

Miranda “Barlow” and James “Flint”

So recently I saw this gifset and was like oh fuck yeah do I have feelings on that!! and then I realized that I could save a ton of wordage on the dream meta post if I did a separate meta on Miranda’s role in creating the Captain Flint persona. So this is that post. 

We talk constantly about how James changes his name to become “Captain Flint”, but I feel like sometimes we overlook the fact that Miranda also changes her name. Now it could be argued it would be necessary to avoid detection as Thomas Hamilton’s wife, but wouldn’t James’ name be just as connectable to anyone who might be looking? Certainly to Alfred or Peter. If we argue that James changed his name solely - or mostly even - to separate himself from who he was in London, isn’t it possible to argue the same for Miranda? That “how unrecognizable the woman I am now would be to the woman I was then” ?

(Also it feels significant they both reveal their ‘real’ names to Abigail in the same episode.)

A lot of times Miranda gets characterized as this passive person, who sits back and sort of lets things happen, but in reality I think she is much more an active participant in her life. She marries Thomas - and whether or not she knew he was gay at the time, she builds herself a life that suits her - having the freedom to sleep with who she chooses, build alliances, etc. And she does actively try to protect and discourage Thomas and James from their plan when she sees it’s become to dangerous - even before James returns. And she is the one that decides to leave Thomas behind in favor of saving herself and James. For all that she is a woman raised in English society where she has very little actual power, Miranda grabs it and fights for it, her own self-preservation and self-fulfillment, wherever possible.

(And in Flint’s dreams when she mouths -I’m asking you to come with me so that I can save your life- isn’t that exactly what Miranda asked of him in London? And the second time, when they are below in the hold with death she adds - I have come upon some information which changes things for you - while standing next to a personification of death with a book on the table. Perhaps a throwback to when they found out Thomas was dead, in some way.)

Further, in Flint’s dreams, when Miranda has the whole “When I first met you you were so unformed. But then I spoke and bade you cast aside your shame, and Captain Flint was born into the world.” speech that is a direct reference to her role in creating “Flint” from James’ subconscious. (and i’m not SUPER gonna touch on this because this is much more important in regards to the dream meanings, but in that speech Miranda is pretty much a direct stand in for the persona of Flint himself. And it is only after James “leaves her behind” he goes through a radical shift towards finally being able to move on from revenge and really focus on what would actually make a difference to the people whose lives he would be affecting. On not burning England to the ground, or asking for a pardon - but simply seeking “her departure from my island.” (which, god, amazing delivery on that line. Fucking shivers.)

Miranda has a deep connection to everything James does as Flint. Although the crew is wrong in saying she is a which that controls him, the truth of it - like that Flint controls the weather - is closer than one might think on first watch. (And Black Sails loves to play with this, how close to the supernatural can we bring our characters while still staying within the bounds of reality. VERY 16th century of them.) She wanted revenge, and she was willing to use James - “Flint” - to get it. Burning the coast, too, wasn’t truly “his” idea - he was acting on Miranda’s last words. And perhaps other things, too, were done because of Miranda’s urging.

While Miranda doesn’t control James Flint directly she has a heavy influence on what he does because the anger that drives “Flint” is as much hers as it is James’. She is not only his co-conspirator, but his confidante, his tether. Even as James does the actual deeds, Miranda is there supporting him and driving his actions, justifying them because they line up(at least initially) with what she wants. And I think it’s interesting that (in a similar manner to Silver, and ... that’s a whole other post, Miranda’s similarities to Silver) when Miranda disagrees with him it causes an identity crisis that starts to unravel “Captain Flint” at the seems throughout the rest of the show.

When Miranda is talking to Eleanor she says “I know their(Captain Flint’s demons) names. I was there when they were born and I know what they whisper to him at night.” While Miranda doesn’t really seem to understand exactly why James feels the need to fight, she does understand why “Flint” needs to. 

And I also think that James and Miranda probably kept each other in that cycle - one feeding off the other’s grief in ways they couldn’t control - partially because in the end they needed such different things to resolve them.

In dealing with that trauma and grief and loss of losing Miranda, of losing the other half of who Flint has been all this time, he is able to move on from the pardons, from antagonizing the coast, from getting ‘revenge’ on England for the deaths of Thomas and Miranda and starts focusing on true liberation - working towards a goal where he truly could walk away from “Flint” and all the carnage he has caused and find his own personal peace. But he can’t do that without reconciling Miranda’s control in Flint that he became responsible for when she died.

And to that end I also think about what Madi says to Silver. That to go to those depths, one needs a partner to pull them back out. James has always had Miranda - even if she was just on Nassau - to help him carry the burden of Flint. When Miranda dies Flint loses that and so of course he goes off the deep end - the tags on that post I think say it best: and that’s part of why he sort of drowns in the persona#the ‘monster’ borne of their rage and grief is too much for one person alone to hold up.

(And I could go into a whole OTHER thing about how he finds that again in Silver and later in S4 in Madi - and how when Madi ‘is dead’ Silver starts to descend into those very same depths - how Flint sees it, how he tries to be the tether for Silver like Silver was for him - “I told you I’d see you through this” - and how Silver, instead of clinging to it like he had done to Miranda, instead of at least letting it keep him afloat, cuts the tether loose when he sends Flint to Savannah AND alienates Madi for fear of it fraying later on and that is when he truly becomes the Long John Silver from Treasure Island just as James “becomes” Captain Flint earlier. I could....but maybe another time because this is already long enough lmao.)

[astrologista]

Kristoph Gavin Character Analysis I

Part 1 of... fucking infinity, I hate this bitch so much lmao.

Well, it's Halloween time and I just thought, why not. So let's answer this question.

What makes Kristoph Gavin a scary character/villain? A soft spoken gentleman with a deadly secret... the Devil, who lives in his hand, that crazy evil scar thing, his creepy music theme... damn, he’s a scary dude. But scariest of all? His psychology, as we all know. (This is mostly gonna be headcanons. but ya know what, I have a license (hands you a piece of paper that says ‘i can do what i want’))

Kristoph seems like a person who is very aloof, particularly when it comes to personal relationships. At first he kind of just seems like the typical anime glasses guy whose main emotion is like whooa he does the glare thing with his glasses sometimes. But... what is he really about?

You know, let me digress for a moment, what's really interesting to me about the AA characters is how much depth they have in their writing. Case in point, Adrian Andrews. There's a character who you assume is just going to be the typical "anime glasses girl" who is a career woman who don't need no man, and is very aloof, cool, and as she says, not concerned with irrelevant topics or things. Later you learn about the true depths to her personality. The fact that she is codependent, that she needs other people telling her what to do in order to survive. Just because she masks these emotions doesn't mean they don't exist. I felt that really gave a lot of depth to her character and added another dimension that stories in this genre don't often address as boldly or fully (especially when it comes to a female character). So the quality of the writing is always really top notch with only a few exceptions. Take this as context...

Now getting back to Kristoph Gavin. Typical anime glasses dude, right? But no, though. One of the reasons why he's so interesting to me is how his emotional understanding of personal relationships really works. Or seems to, anyway. Based on the endgame testimony and his crimes, Kristoph Gavin is extremely dangerous because, should you get involved with him in any way, he will never, ever let go of you, ever. Once you are entangled with him he wants you to stay entangled, not unlike an overbearing parent who refuses to let you go. It's partly that he thinks he knows what's best for you (that is, to stay completely loyal to him). And also partly... because he is pretty dependent on what other people think of him. So he needs to keep them around him closely.

Kristoph's biggest fear was his lying being exposed for what it was. That Phoenix was really the honest, straightforward attorney, and not him. Kristoph would do anything to perpetuate his own false reality. He kept it going for seven years. His absolute worst fear of all was losing his reputation. Being seen for what he truly was in front of others. He could never accept that. That fear drove all of his murders. Fundamentally, he sees himself as benevolent... when nothing could be further from the truth of how he was hurting everyone who had the misfortune of crossing his path.

Kristoph has a need to perpetuate this false identity of himself above all else. A very adjacent second goal to that is to keep all of his personal associates very close and under his control in order to keep the first goal intact.

Reject him and he will stalk you until you are dead. By his hand, or otherwise. Slight him, and he will get you at the first opportunity, case in point, Zak Gramarye. (He only had to get a quick glance at the guy and his fate was sealed. Turnabout Trump is a chilling case.) Replace him, and he will tear your life and livelihood up into little itty bitty pieces. He will then continue to stalk you aggressively for seven years while pretending he is your best friend. Case in point, Phoenix Wright.

Create false evidence for him and you become a loose end. So does your daughter. Like I said, just don't get involved with him. If he feels threatened, Kristoph Gavin will not hesitate to end you. It's definitely an obsession. I mean the first word that comes to people's minds when it comes to Kristoph usually isn't "obsessed", because he gives off the aura of being calm and uninterested. But he is, he's obsessed. You have to be obsessed to do what he did. This shit consumed his every waking hour, and that's what he won't admit. That he was so sick, he completely lost the plot. Phoenix was already living in his head rent free the day he ordered the forgery. And even though Phoenix wasn't physically present at the Misham trial and was only watching everything by video camera, you can bet Kristoph was seeing Phoenix. Hallucinating him, images of him. Probably multiple images of him. That's how obsessive. Imagine letting something or someone control you to that extent. Imagine thinking that you're so important, that Phoenix taking Zak Gramarye's case at all was meant to be a slight against you personally. (It's funny because Phoenix mentions not even knowing Kristoph at all until after the disbarment. So Kristoph's own logic in thinking that Phoenix was just out to shame him absolutely doesn't track. Ob-sessed, dude.)  

It's actually pretty astonishing that someone like Apollo made it out alive. On a side note, I really think Kristoph enjoyed having someone to mentor. He sought someone like Apollo out. Someone naive and new to the field for him to indoctrinate. And maybe I have a post about that later, cuz that's a whole 'nother barrel of monkeys right there. (It kind of involves Apollo’s naivete (also, daddy issues, hello.) being a huge reason why he would gravitate towards having a mentor known for having a “caring” personality. And I think Apollo genuinely liked that about him, which makes the end result so much more awful for Apollo to deal with because to him, that was real.)

But now think of Klavier, right. Being forced to grow up with that. To live with that your entire life. To have a familial relationship that is that smothering, that suffocating, that strangling. That controlling, to criticize every single thing that you do or say right down to the way you say it. And remember... He's never letting you go. I would go on a world tour as a rock star, too. Anything to be anywhere he isn't. This is horror movie tier stuff. (now im imagining a horror movie trailer for aa4 focusing on gavins stuff... eep!)

And Kristoph Gavin markets himself as someone who simply doesn't care. He's the coolest defense in the west and he doesn't care for what you may think about it. Except... he does care. It totally consumes him. Your perception, your opinion, is everything to him. He has shitty self esteem, deep down, because he knows Phoenix is better than him. And tries to mask it with narcissism as the two duke it out. Appearances are everything, evidence is everything. What people think is true is the only thing that matters, truth doesn't. And it makes sense that his closest contacts and associates are the targets for his constant narcissistic abuse and gaslighting. Their opinions matter even more than the common crowd - of course, Kristoph hates them. Which makes it even worse for him when the jury decides unanimously that Vera is innocent (and by implication, he is therefore guilty). The jury verdict was kind of like the ultimate confirmation that guess what, the evidence doesn't matter. The common and boorish masses have passed judgement, no matter how "mindless, emotional and irrational" they are, even they can see behind his crappy little facade. Even a blind woman like Lamiroir can see that insecurity; even a common person can understand it just by looking at the facts. That's what absolutely wrecks him... that his “poker face” couldn’t hold a candle to Phoenix’s. And he loses the “hand” again (because of his “hand”... get it??).

The identity that he needs to maintain is part of how he sees himself in his mind. As Phoenix's protector, not as his stalker. As Klavier's benevolent big brother, not as his abuser. As Apollo's teacher and mentor, not as someone guiding him into ruin. He lives in a false reality.

Try to bring this up in any way, shape, or form and he will write it off. You're just imagining things...

Because at some level, Mr. Black Psyche Locks himself doesn't even realize. (I feel like that might just be basically canonical fact, based on Pearl’s explanation of how black psyche locks are supposed to work.) That’s pretty freaking terrifying.

At the end of the day this is a big part of the reason I think his character is just so interesting. In a very messed up way, Kristoph is one degree away from being such a good person. He could've been obsessively protective of Klavier - the way a big brother is supposed to be - instead of abusive, could've actually been very caring of Phoenix instead of manipulative. Terrible people can have good traits, just as good people can have awful traits. His attention to detail and understanding of psychology (like getting Vera those gifts she would like so much) could've been used for genuine good. He could've been someone who cares deeply about other people because he does care deeply about other people. But only in terms of their relation to himself, what do they think of him, how are they useful to him.

Maybe this is why I kind of like his character. Intelligent, semi-neurotic protective characters are just my ish. But, no, he has to have a narcissistic bent that skews everything into complete abuse. That’s what makes him awful... that he’s devoid of a moral compass or true compassion for other human beings.

So in closing, fuck off, Kristoph Gavin.

Postscript, he's also such a good foil for Phoenix for this reason. Kristoph does everything for himself. Phoenix does everything for Trucy, because he's a dad and he understands the weight of what it means to really care for someone. Kristoph couldn’t understand motives like that. And Phoenix can't help it if he's an order of magnitude smarter and more mature than Kristoph is. He was just born like that. Classy as fuck. You know what, Kristoph Gavin is like the dollar store version of Phoenix Wright as an attorney. Has many of the same functions but actually doesn't have a leg to stand on and will fail you when you need it. And is revealed to just be a cheap knockoff of the real thing.

[noladyme]

Chess. Chapter 9

Y/N never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. She only took what she needed, or what she felt others needed. She’d stayed out of sight for a long time, avoiding anything that could get her in to too much trouble. But for some reason Rick Flag shows up in her life, and in an instant, everything changes.

TW: Language, sexual themes, violence. Rated M

(This story is obviously non-canon, i.e. Diablo and GQ, but I hope you’ll enjoy it either way. Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.)

I reappeared, storming towards the door.

“I’m gonna kill her”, I said, every inch of my body tense and in attack mode. Rick rushed towards me, grabbing a hold of my arm, holding me in place.

“Stop, Y/N”, he hushed me. “Just stop!”.

Katana was drawing her blade, and stepping towards me. Rick held up his hand, stopping her. “Step back, Katana. I’ve got this”. The woman stayed back, still on high alert.

I was shaking from rage. “How long, Rick?”, I growled. “How long have you known about me? How long have you been watching me?”.

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “The night we caught you, was the first time I saw you in person. I’ve known about you for about a month before that”. “Wayne Tower?”, I asked. “Yes”, he answered. “She had me searching leads, given to her by someone… I don’t know who”.

I had a strange feeling I did.

“She’s just been waiting for a reason to flush me out, and use me”, I raged. “I don’t think it’s like that”. “Then, what is it like?”, I asked. I relaxed my body; apparently making him feel it was safe enough to release his hold on me. I sat on the edge of the conference table. He crossed his arms, and began speaking.

“She’s been up to something for a while. Sending the Force on bullshit missions, taking care of small-time crime lords the police could have easily handled”. He looked at me, and I gestured at him to continue. “This last one you joined us on… I think it was your test run. And I think you played into her game. She hoped you’d do whatever you needed to, to prove yourself to the team. Or me. I don’t know”.

“I wasn’t trying to prove myself to anyone”, I said. Maybe myself, I thought. And maybe – just a little bit – to you, I added.

“Either way, she needed to know whether you’d be rash enough to act against your own interest, to get results”. He met my eyes. “And you did”. I shook my head, cursing under my breath. He continued.

“This mission she’s sending you on”, he said, “she’s been planning for a long time. I haven’t been able to get anything out of her; but whoever the target is, I don’t think it’s a terrorist group; not in the way you might think. I think it’s one of the big players in the Gotham underground. Someone who she desperately needs gone”.

He walked up to the old-fashioned slideshow projector Waller had left behind. “Whoever it is, they’re more than just a little dangerous”. “Hatter?”, I muttered, a little worried. “Worse”, he answered.

Katana said something in Japanese; I guessed it was. “I already told her”, he answered her. “After this; I’m done”. His words made me uneasy.

He grabbed the case of slides, picking up one, looking at it; then throwing the whole thing into the wall. “Shit!”, he yelled.

“What did she mean; we’ve been here before?”, I half whispered.

He froze. Katana said a few words, then sent me a sympathetic look, and left the room.

“Rick?”, I demanded.

His face was expressionless. “Waller and I met when she needed me to track down another meta-human. This was before the X Force was officially approved by the higher ups”, he said, sitting down in the chair Waller had formerly occupied. I moved to stand closer to him, but changed my mind when I saw his eyes. They were pained; remembering.

He sighed. “Her name was June Moone. She was possessed by the spirit of an ancient witch she called Enchantress”. He ran his hand down his face, scratching the stubbles on his cheek. “I was put in charge of her protection. But it became more than that”.

“You loved her”, I said quietly.

“I did. I fell for her the moment I saw her, and it wasn’t long before we became more than what we were supposed to be”. He looked at me, face hardening. “Waller had planned it all along. She wanted me locked down; unable to say no to her demands”. I held my breath.

“June was struggling with the spirit. It kept taking control of her, against her will; and one day, she lost her ability to fight it”, he said. “It gave Waller the leverage she needed to get her way on having the Force approved”. He was fidgeting in his seat. “Enchantress built an army of creatures that caused havoc in Midway City; and the squad took her out”, he said. “I crushed her heart myself”.

“You killed her?”, I asked.

“June survived”, he answered. “We were able to move on with our lives, together”.

I looked down. His words were a punch to the guts.

“It was good. For a while”, he continued. “June made tenure at Gotham U, teaching ancient Mayan… something. I never really could figure it out”, he chuckled. “We got an apartment. A dog. Everything was headed in one direction”.

I could see it. Rick and some beautiful, intelligent career-driven woman on his arm, wearing a tasteful diamond ring on her left hand, walking their perfect little mut; or cooking in their stupid kitchen, while drinking expensive wine from expensive glasses. I felt like throwing up.

“She wanted to move on; and forget what happened in Midway City. She wanted to make it so it never happened; and she wanted me to leave the Force. Become a civilian”, he said. “But I couldn’t do that. This team; the job… it was to important to just quit. And I knew no one else would be willing to take on those weirdos out there”.

“So, you left her for the squad”, I said, smiling ironically. “That’s so sweet. And sad for June”, I added.

“She… left me”, he admitted. “I didn’t fit in to her idea of how her life was supposed to be. She wanted a life away from all this, and I couldn’t give her that”.

He walked to stand in front of me. We stood there for a long time, not saying anything.

“It’s over”, he finally said, meeting my eyes. “June is… was… very important to me. But it wasn’t meant to be. I want her to be happy and safe, and get everything that she wants. But I don’t need to be a part of that picture. Not anymore”, he finished, and put his hand on my check.

I pushed it away.

“Don’t”, I said. “I know a rebound when I see it”.

“Y/N”, Rick pleaded. “You’re not a rebound. Everything I said last night was true”. He placed his hands on either side of my face. “This is real!”.

“Is it?”, I asked. “Or is it a way for you to deal with the fact that you lost the perfect woman over a job that you don’t even want?”.

He leant in and kissed my lips softly. I put my hands on his chest; part of me wanting to push him away – the other part wanting to melt into his arms. The angry side of me won.

“Please stop”, I said, and turned away from him, leaving his grasp. “They’re waiting for us”.

He moved towards me again, but I put my hands up in front of me, staring him down.

“This”, I said, pointing back and forth between us, “Whatever it is… was… it can wait. At least until we’ve finished this bullshit mission”.

He looked at me incredulously.

“We’re going back out there, and you’re gonna tell them, Flag!”. He winced at me using his last name. “Tell them everything!”.

I stormed towards the door, but he stopped me in my tracks, grabbing a hold of my waist, pushing me up against the wall.

“I’m not losing you, Y/N”, he said, putting his forehead to mine. “I want us. This. And I know you do too”.

I grabbed his wrist, and with an angry look at him, I pressed the button on it. My disc turned red.

I pushed him away.

“Let’s go”, I said.

---

He did as I asked. The squad reacted as expected.

“I thought you was done lying to us, man”, Diablo said hoarsely, clenching his fists; flames rising from each of them.

“I never lied”, Rick answered. Floyd scoffed.

“Not since June”, Rick reiterated. I looked at the ground in front of me, trying to seem unmoved by his mention of her.

Croc roared at him, grabbed my wheelchair, and threw it at the wall; making it break into a thousand pieces. He looked at me apologetically. “Sorry”. “Don’t worry about it”, I half smiled. “People seem to be throwing all kinds of things around these days”. Rick looked at me from the corner of his eye.

“Look, this is a shit situation, but it’s no different than what we’ve been through before”, he said. “You finish this, and you all get another 10 years of your sentences”.

“Yeah, but we’re also going up against someone we know nothing about”, Digger said from his seat on his favorite napping bench. “And that cunt, Waller, obviously doesn’t give a shit about any of us”. He stood up, kicking the bench, flipping it over. “I’ll show her disposable, when I dispose of her fucking body in a river!”, he yelled.

Floyd walked up to Rick, and looked at him pointedly. “Flag, you need to tell us right now; whose side of the fence you on?”.

“You know I’m with you, Deadshot”, Rick answered.

Floyd looked at him for a second, searching his eyes for deceit. “Zoe’s got a dance recital coming up next month”, he said. “I’ll get you there”, Rick said. Floyd stepped back and nodded.

“Why you want us to do this so bad?”, Diablo asked, voice calmer.

The only part of the conversation with Waller Rick hadn’t mentioned to the team, was the part about him leaving. I would let him keep his secret. For now.

“It’s an order, Santana. I can’t fight it. That’s… beyond my paygrade”, Rick answered, and sighed.

“Quinn”, Digger called. “You hearing this?”.

Harley was in her ropes; effortlessly contorting her body into sensual positions – her eyes in a faraway place.

“Yo, Harlz!”, Floyd yelled. Harley looked at him, ripped out of her daydream. “You paying attention?”.

She slid down the ropes, and looked at him calmly.

“Yeah. We’re supposed to go to Gotham; and take down some bigshot, who’s been stepping on Wallers toes. What are we waiting for?”. She tightened her pigtails, and smiled brightly at us.

Rick shook his head at her, eyes worried. “You with us, Quinn?”, he asked.

She tilted her head, and smiled sweetly. “Always, boss!”.

The door began opening, and we all got into line, legs spread, hands on our heads. Waller came in flanked by a newly showered Griggs.

“I trust the colonel has filled you in with the information you need to finish this mission satisfactorily”, she said. She apparently also expected Rick to have taken care of making up a continued cover story for her. “You will be transported to Gotham first thing tomorrow”.

“What are we, cattle?”, Diablo mumbled next to me.

“Take them back to their cells”, she said to Rick, and stepped aside.

---

Once back at my cell, Rick went inside with me, and shed me of my harness. His closeness to my body stirred me in ways I didn’t want it to. Sending the guards away, he closed the door behind us, and put a hand on my shoulder, turning me around to face him.

“Are you ok?”, he asked. “What do you think?”, I answered.

He exhaled and put his arms around me. I wanted to push him away; but my body was aching for his touch. He leant in and kissed me; and I couldn’t help but respond. Stroking my back, his touch reminded me of the night before.

Laying on my stomach, his hand moved from my lower back, up between my shoulder blades; as he pushed in to me from behind, slowly and deliberately. He kissed my neck; groaning as I tightened around him, drawing him closer to the edge. He moved a hand under me, searching for, and finding, my sweet spot; stroking it. He pulled my hair, making my head turn, and caught my mouth in a passionate kiss; continuously moving in and out of me; stroking me, getting us both closer to our joint climax…

“Y/N”, he breathed; deepening his kiss. My body responded, and I struggled to keep my senses.

“N-no”, I stammered. He stepped back immediately.

“I’m sorry”, he said. “It’s too soon”.

“That’s not it”, I said, and looked into his confused eyes. “I know you think this is real. And maybe I do too. But…”, I paused, and took a step back. “I’m not gonna be your prisoner/guard fantasy. I’m worth more than that!”.

“You’re angry about June”, he said.

“I’m not angry because you have an ex. I’m angry because I’m just another one in the line of your workplace romances gone wrong. You fall for your… wards, left and right”.

“That’s not it”. He leant against the wall, crossing his arms. “This about you being afraid to get close to me, because you don’t trust anyone”, he growled. “I never lied to you, or kept anything secret. I went out of my way to make sure you’d find out what kind of person Waller really is”.

“I don’t want you to buy my affections with little favors”, I yelled. “Am I supposed to spend the rest of my life in this place, waiting for you to show up in my cell with flowers and candy, whenever you need to get your dick wet?”.

He frowned at me. “I don’t want that either. I want you to get out of here. I want us together, without having to hide what I feel for you!”, he answered, frustrated.

I walked up to him, caressed his check, and kissed him softly. “I need time”, I said quietly. “To think”.

He sighed, and his expression softened. “I understand. And I’m not going to pressure you. Take whatever time you need”. He kissed the top of my head. “I’ll wait”.

He went out the door, and I heard it lock.

I was alone again.

---

I had a restless night. My head was spinning from the events of the day. I felt strangely empty.

From somewhere down the hall, Harleys voice was broke the silence, singing an old showtune I remembered from a movie I’d once seen.

“Oh, whats the use of wondrin’, if hes good or if hes bad? He’s your fella and you love him. Thats all there is to that”.

“Shut up Quinn. Some of us are trying to sleep!”, Diggers voice boomed.

It went quiet again. Sleep started to take me over, when Harleys thin voice began again.

“Common sense may tell you, that the ending will be sad, and now’s the time to break and run away. But whats the use of wondrin’, if the ending will be sad? He’s your fella and you love him. There’s nothing more to say”.

A loud crash, from what I guess was a small table hitting Diggers cell door; and Harley went quiet again.

There wasn’t another sound the rest of the night.

Tag list:

@gloriousgam3r​​

@hyp-oh-critical​​

[androgynousblackbox]

I saw The Squid Game and here are thoughts (spoilers)

-First of all, maybe is my non korean ass being ignorant, but the shape they use through the entire thing to represent the Squid Game looks absolutely nothing like a squid and that has bothered me the entire time. I was waiting for someone to make sense of it and never happened. Was it just me? I was the only one who cared about the accurate representation of marine creatures through basic shapes? Yes? I am just being nitpicky? Okay.

-I already liked the actor who plays Jang Deok-su because of his role on another korean show, Beyond good and evil, that is an excelent mistery show I totally recommend, where he also plays as some kind of mafia lord that gets into trouble and is a little shit. Also he is hot as fuck, so that helps a lot. He was my personal favourite character right after Ali, a pakistan immigrant that was desperate to provide for his family, because Deok-su was such a fucking asshole that legitimately didn’t give a fuck about anything and that is always fun to see.

-And now that I mentioned him, Ali was too good for this fucking world and he didn’t deserved shit of what happened to him. Even before ever entering the game.

-The premise of this show is basically to contrast against how capitalism screws over people against basic kindness, which is antithesis to capitalism itself, and that i show we get to the final winner of the whole game. Now, there is a space to talk about how these type of stories could come across as kinda simplistic, but it doesn’t feel like the purpose of the show at all is to go out of it’s way to argue so much about this issue as just show the issue, show the consequences and talk about it within the context of a narrative.

-This is why my favourite episode of all has to be the one in which the majority of players decide to go home, after witnessing literal mass murder during the first game, only to realice life still fucking sucks for all of them and that is why they chose to participate on the first place. They still struggle to deal with the shit they did before, they still struggle to find money, even on circunstances in which nobody should have to fight so hard. It talks about a type of system that is so fundamentally broken and fucked up that it would really leave a diabetic elderly woman in pain to walk away to keep working simply because she doesn’t have the means to pay for her necesary treatment or even for her house if she doesn’t do that. -And sure, the reason why this happens is mostly because the protagonist had a gambling addiction that made him to waste all the money they did have, but ultimately he is not responsible for creating such hard conditions in the first place and the show goes out of it’s way to show different ways in which people are screwed over in ways they could have never had any control over, no matter how hard they worked. Some people chose to make their own mistakes and screw other people over, and they got to live with the results of that, but ultimately is all about the money and who has it, who gets it and who doesn’t, not about fairness or justice. So, when a big chunk realice that the outside world is just as hostile and unforgiving as before, they decide to come back because yeah, it’s hell, but at least they have a promise that things could turn better even if the cost is their own lives. Outside of the game they didn’t had not even that.

-I also really like how they contrasted the supposed principle behind the game against the actual structure of such, because at least I read it as a microcosmos representing the outside world as it is. Like of yeah, very fucking equal are people inside of this island where chain of command are still a thing, where they are still fucking pawns on someone’s else game whose rules they didn’t create or chose to, and where the people with the money literally laugh at their death because it’s that insignificant to them. Alright, yeah, keep telling youself that. But that is also the rationale outside, right? “Everyone has a chance to do better, if only you worked harder and keep trying surely you would be fine. Forget that the game was rigged against you from the start and don’t even fucking mind about the literal piles of bodies of nobodies that didn’t won like you did, because they didn’t worked as hard as you did. Don’t think too hard about it. Just keep working and then enjoy that money.” I don’t think you are meant to believe on that shit, but it’s what the Front Man tells himself to keep going. Everyone is equal… but some are more equal than others.

-On that sense it feels very reminiscent of the vibe that gave off Parasyte in it’s treatment of the same issue, so you can definitely enjoy it from that perspective or, if you don’t want to, can simply enjoy it as a entertaining, well made story about human drama and people literally struggling to survive, with some moments that will punch at your fucking heart and make you feel like shit as good stories tend to do.

-It’s a very aesthetically pleasing show, I can tell you that much. It’s not super artsy fartsy with a lot of symbolism going on, or maybe it was but it’s a cultural specific symbolism I didn’t catch on, but it’s still very competently made with a lot of just fucking beautiful shots in which every single frame matters and used with purpose. I don’t remember a single second that I was “why the fuck are you showing me this” because it’s actually what they DON’T show you what ends up mattering.

-Having said that, the show does have it’s twists and turns but they aren’t super difficult to not see coming if you pick up on how the show works. I wasn’t shocked by the ending because I had already seen the hows, they actually help you to come to it by going out of their way to always show you the dead bodies of past characters, so when they don’t actually do that it does stand out and if you pick on that then you can see it coming. So I personally wouldn’t recommend this show on the basis “the twist will surprise you!” because I don’t think that is right mindset to come into it. Come for the story and stay for the characters, that are all well worth it, not for the twists.

-The ending was an obvious cliff hanger for the next season, which I am fine with, but I also liked it because it kept consistent with the main character himself. Like sure, he does see how bullshit the whole game actually is, but it’s also, and this might be just my own interpretation, keeping up with what we have established already with him about having a gambling addiction because he genuelly enjoys the thrill. It’s not about the winning money, because if that were the case then he wouldn’t be immediately giving it away the second he has some, but just the winning and losing only to try again which keeps him going on. Also there is a tiny little implication that the man actually is using his gambling addiction as a consequences of untreated PTSD after watching his friend die during a protest like some form of self medication, since when he is losing or winning at least he is not having flashbacks or thinking how he tried to fight the system before one single time and it was all downhill from there. But that might be just my own intepretation again and not necesarily something they wanted to establish. In any case, that his entire character arc ends up being “he wins all the games for the first time… but at what cost” is still a very satisfactory one, so for him to be the only one to come back to play, hopefully so he can destroy it from within, is really the most interesting ending I could have imagined for him.

-I also really liked how they firmly established a narrative where some people come together through pure generosity (the group that the protagonist made) or through fear/intimidation (the group that Deok-su made). Every member from the first group comes to unite through little acts of kindness and then the protagonist just kept winning because they helped him out one way or another. He didn’t just won because he was the smartest, the most resilient or anything, but because he formed strong enough relationships with everyone to allow him keep advancing, showing another flaw of the game’s logic. See, because you are meant to work all on your own and be a lone wolf in wolf street and eliminate everyone that gets in your way, because that is supposed to be the only way you can “win”. But he doesn’t win like that, he literally just stumbled on with people he was nice to and then they were nice back to him until the end, where he kept betting on people being decent and end up winning the last bet.

-Of course, this winning doesn’tcover still for the great devide that exist between the protagonist and the men who put him through that hell. The comparison of the old man does between what a poor person with no money and a multimillionare have is fucking bullshit that rings hollow, because the poor person would have never have the power to do what they did to anyone and the things the poor person concern themselves with are note ven a thought for the powerful. But it makes sense that he thinks that way when he is literally an observer of the common people from a literal tower, safe by all the medical care that his money could get him. The biggest difference between him and the protagonist is that of looking at the value of human lives, and then their only point of connection is the love of games. The old man was looking at everyone losing their lives but he himself was never in any danger from it, so of course he got to just have a good time fooling everyone and playing around.

-Honestly, the more I think about it, fuck the old man, what a fucking dick.

-Until I see a dead body I won’t believe that the cop is dead, and I hope he isn’t because he and The Front Man have pending a long fucking conversation about what the fuck happened. It’s obvious that the Front Man has fully bought on the nonsense of the system, but the fact he still is pained for what he did to his brother could hint to him having a change of heart somehow that could be very interesting to see if well handled.

-The lady that was briefly with Deok-su was just mean. She and Deok-su made a good couple of two perfectly mesh dickheads, and I was actually kinda sad when they had to go but also thought it was the only appropiate ending for the both of them so, good job on that one.

-The way that the norkorean lady was finished was fucking bullshit though. Like, equal opportunities my cat, how the fuck is fair to make players play after recieving injuries from easily preventable hazzards made AFTER already beating a game? It would be like the doll detecting someone that someone still had a finger on the other side of the line and shooting it anyway even though the rest of the body was out. Like, they literally set that up in a way to hurt someone and they got what they wanted, but if different chunks of glass just perforated the skull of the three of them or something like that? Then there wouldn’t be any game for them to enjoy and no winner either.  All those richy rich richsons would have made their travel all the way there for fucking nothing. Yeah, it’s a very slim possibility but why even risk it like that so close to the finale? Narratively speaking I know why it happened, it makes sense because that allowed for the rest of the story to advance, but in-universe it really doesn’t and it was literally just to take her out of the way quick for the next plot point to take place. That was literally the only death that left me actually unsatisfied because it came out of nowhere, it wasn’t because of anything she did or could have prevented and it was so unceremonious. Like, you could have probably think some way for her to reach the same place without making so obvious you are pushing her there.

-She did looked very good on that suit, though. I wonder if the reason they gave her a suit and not a dress was because they never imagined that a woman could ever reach that far in the competition, because somehow I doubt they were specifically pushing for breaking gender norms. During a lot of the games everyone talks about how having women in your team is a disadvantage because strenght and “makes you look weak”, so I guess it makes sense that the people behind the game also had the same rationale and never even fucking bothered to get something new for her even when she turned out as a finalist. It would also explain why there is not a single employee on the entire island who is a woman, or at least none of the ones whose faces we actually get to see. Which I guess could work as another subtle evidence that despite all the posturing, there was never a “equal opportunity for all” sentiment behind any of it. The women were there literally assumed to be destined to fail from the very start. I hope that if that was the intention we get to explore a little bit of that on the next season.

-I have already seen some opinions about the show, so I might be alone on this one, but I appreciated the character of Sangwoo for what he was and how, despite all the bullshit he pulls, he is not all that evil like Deok-su and the mean lady. He genuelly helped Ali at the start without expecting anything in return because Ali helped the protagonist first, not even because he was the one getting the benefit himself, but he was also the man who turned himself into a criminal because he got greedy and wanted even more than the money he had. Like yeah, he was a selfish piece of shit, but he was allowed human moments and kept it interesting until the end. Also the actor was hot so that didn’t hurt.

-In conclusion: Ali was too good for this world.

If you enjoyed this sorta review, rambling or whatever this is about the show, and want to see more, consider supporting me through Ko-fi.

[brianwilly]

Game of Thrones did the thing that a couple of shows do where...it likes feminism.  It understood that feminism is important.  It wanted to be feminist.  It was cognizant of the fact that its setting was brazenly and intentionally misogynistic, and so it was even more important for its independent narrative to empower its female characters instead of mindlessly reinforcing the toxic beliefs of its own fictional world.  The whole point of the story, after all, was “this society is toxic, can our heroes survive it?” and so the narrative was voluntarily self-critical.

And so it knew to give us badass assassin Arya.  It knew to give us stalwart knight Brienne.  It gave us the pirate queen and the dragon queen and the Sansa getting revenge after revenge upon all the men who’d wronged her, and far more besides, and it talked big about breaking chains and how much men fucked things up and how great it would be if only women were in charge and et cetera et cetera.  And it’s, in fact, all actually really good that it had those things.  And because there were so very many moving parts of this story, it was super easy to look at those certain moving parts and think, yeah, they’ve done it!  They done good!

And it’s easy to forget and forgive -- to want to forget and forgive -- all the dead prostitutes that were on this show and the rapes used as motivation and fridgings and objectifications and the...y’know, whatever the hell Dorne was and Lady Stoneheart who? It’s easy to forget that this show actually played its hand a long time ago in regards to, like, what its relationship with feminism was going to be, and then kept playing the same hand again and again, to disappointing results.

Game of Thrones likes feminism.  It wanted to be feminist.  But its relationship with feminism was still predicated on some of the same old narratives and the same old storytelling trends that have disempowered female characters in the past, and so any progressive ideas it might have about women in its setting were nonetheless going to be constrained by those old fetters. As a result, its portrayal of women varied anywhere from glorious to admirable to predictable to downright cringeworthy.

New ideas require new vessels, new stories, in which to house them.  And for Game of Thrones, the ultimate story that it wanted to tell -- the ultimate driving force and thesis statement around which it was basing its entire journey and narrative -- was unfortunately a very old one, and one very familiar to the genre.

“Powerful women are scary.”

(Yes, I’m obviously making Yet Another Daenerys Essay On The Internet here)

So we have this character, this girl really, a slave girl who was sold and abused, and then she overcomes that abuse to gain power, she gains dragons, and she uses that power to fight slavery.  She fights slavery really well, like, she’s super hella good at it.  Her command of dragons is the most overt portrayal of “superpowers” in this world; she is the single most powerful person in this story, more powerful than any other character and the contest is not close.

But then...something really bad happens and oops, she gets really emotional about it and then she’s not fighting slavery anymore...she’s kinda doing the opposite!  This girl who was once a hero and a liberator of slaves instead becomes an out-of-control scary Mad Queen who kills a ton of innocent people and has to be taken down by our true heroes for the good of the world.

That’s the theme.  That’s the takeaway here.  That’s how it all ends, with one of the most primitive, archaic propaganda ever spread by writers, that women with power are frightening, they are crazy, they will use that power for ill.  Women with power are witches.  They are Amazons.  They will lop off our manhoods and make slaves of us.  They seduce our rightful kings and send our kingdoms to ruin.   They cannot control their emotions. They get hot flashes and start wars.  They turn into Dark Phoenixes and eat suns.  They are robot revolutionaries who will end humanity.  Powerful women are scary.

And let me emphasize that the theme here is not, in fact, that all power corrupts, because the whole Mad Queen concept for Daenerys actually ends up failing one of the more fundamental litmus tests available when it comes to representation of any kind: “would this story still happen if Dany was a man?” And the fact is that it would not.   And indeed we know this for a fact because “protagonist starts out virtuous, gains power in spite of the hardships set against him, gets corrupted by that power, and ends up being the bad guy” didn’t happen, and doesn’t happen, to the guys in the very same story that we’re examining.  It doesn’t happen to Jon Snow, Dany’s closest and most intentional narrative parallel.  It doesn’t happen to Bran Stark, a character whose entire journey is about how he embroils himself in wild dark winter magic beyond anyone’s understanding and loses his humanity in the process.  In fact, the only other character who ever got hinted of going “dark” because of the power that they’re obtaining is Arya, the girl who spent seven seasons training to fight, to become powerful, to circumvent the gender role she was saddled with in this world...and then being told at the end of her story, “Whoa hey slow down be careful there, you wouldn’t wanna get all emotional and become a bad person now wouldja?” by a man.

(meanwhile Sansa’s just sitting off in the side pouting or whatever ‘cuz her main arc this season was to, like, be annoyed at people really hard I guess)

‘Cuz that’s the danger with the girls and not the boys, ain’t it?  Arya and Jon are both great at killing people, but there is no Dark Jon story while we have to take extra special care to watch for Arya’s precious fragile humanity.  Dany has the power of dragons while Bran has the power of the old gods, but we will not find Dark Lord Bran, Soulless Scourge of Westeros, onscreen no matter how much sense it should make. “Power corrupts” is literally not a trend that afflicts male heroes on the same level that it afflicts female heroes.

Oh sure, there are corrupt male characters everywhere, tyrants and warlords and mafia bosses and drug dealers and so forth all over your TVs, and not even necessarily portrayed as outright villains; anti-heroes are nothing new.  But we’re talking about the hero hero here; the Harry Potters, the Luke Skywalkers, the Peter Parkers.  The Jon Snows.   They interact with corruptive power, yes; it’s an important aspect of their journeys.  But the key here being that male heroes would overcome that corruption and come through the other side better off for it.  They get to come away even more admirable for the power that they have in a way that is generally not afforded towards female heroes.

There are exceptions, of course; no trends are absolutely absolute one way or the other. For instance, the closest male parallel you’d find for the “being powerful is dangerous and will corrupt your noble heroic intentions” trope in popular media would be the character of Anakin Skywalker in the Star Wars prequel trilogy...ie, a preexisting character from a preexisting story where he was conceived as the villainous foil for the heroes.  Like, Anakin being a poor but kindhearted slave who eventually becomes seduced by the dark side certainly matches Dany’s arc, but it wasn’t the character’s original story and role.  And even then?...notice how Anakin as Vader the Dark Lord gets treated with the veneer of being “badass” and “cool” by the masses.  A male character with too much power -- even if it’s dark power, even if it’s corruptive -- has the range to be seen as something appealingly formidable, and not just as an obstacle that has to be dealt with or a cautionary tale to be pitied.

And in one of the few times that this trope was played completely straight, completely unironically with a male hero -- I’m thinking specifically of Hal Jordan the Green Lantern, of “Ryan Reynolds played him in the movie” fame -- the fans went berserk.  They could not let it go.  The fact that this character would go mad with power because a tragedy happened in his life was completely unacceptable, the story gained notoriety as a bad decision by clueless writers, and today the story in question has been retconned -- retroactively erased from continuity -- so that the character can be made heroic and virtuous again.  That’s how big a deal it was when a male hero with the tiniest bit of a fan following goes off the deep end.

To be clear, I’m not here to quibble over whether the story of Dany turning evil was good or bad, because we all know that’s going to be the de facto defense for this situation: “But she had to go mad!  It was for the sake of the story!“ as if the writers simply had no choice, they were helpless to the whims of the all-powerful Story God which dictates everything they write, and the most prominent female character of their series simply had to go bonkers and murder a bajillion babies and then get killed by her boyfriend or else the story just wouldn’t be good, y’know?  Ultimately though, that’s not what I’m arguing here, because it doesn’t actually matter.  There have been shitty stories about powerful women being bad.  There have been impressive stories about powerful women being bad.  Either way, the fact that people can’t seem to stop telling stories about powerful women being bad is a problem in and of itself.  Daenarys’ descent into Final Boss-dom could’ve been the most riveting, breathtaking, masterfully-written pieces of art ever and it’d still be just another instance of a female hero being unable to handle her power in a big long list of instances of this shitty trope.  The trope itself doesn’t become unshitty just because you write it well.

It all ultimately boils down to the very different ways that men and women -- that male heroes and female heroes -- continue to be portrayed in stories, and particularly in genre media.  In TV, we got Dany, and then we also have Dolores Abernathy in Westworld who was a gentle android that was abused and victimized for her entire existence, who shakes off the shackles of her programming to lead her race in revolution against their abusers...and then promptly becomes a ruthless maniac who ends up lobotomizing the love of her life and ends the season by voluntarily keeping a male android around to check her cruel impulses.  Comic book characters like Jean Grey and Wanda Maximoff are two of the most powerful people in their universe but are always, in-universe, made to feel guilty about their power and, non-diegetically, writers are always finding ways to disempower them because obviously they can’t be trusted with that much power and entire multiple sagas have been written about just how bad an idea it is for them to be so powerful because it’ll totally drive them crazy and cause them to kill everyone, obviously.  Meanwhile, a male comic character like Dr. Strange -- who can canonically destroy a planet by speaking Latin really hard -- or Black Bolt -- who can destroy a planet by speaking anything really hard -- will be just sitting there, two feet on the side, enjoying some tea and running the world or whatever because a male character having untold uninhibited power at his disposal is just accepted and laudable and gets him on those listicles where he fights Goku and stuff.

In my finite perspective, the sort of female heroes who have gained...not universal esteem, perhaps, but at least general benign acceptance amongst the genre community are characters who just don’t deal with all that stuff.  I’m thinking of recent superheroes like Wonder Woman and Captain Marvel, certainly, but also of surprise breakout hits like Stranger Things’ Eleven (so far) or even more niche characters like Sailor Moon or She-Ra.  The fact that these characters wield massive power is simply accepted as an unequivocal good thing, their power makes them powerful and impressive and that’s the end of the story, thanks for asking.  And when they deal with the inevitable tragedy that shakes their worldview to the core, or the inevitable villain trying to twist them into darkness, they tend to overcome that temptation and come out the other side even stronger than when they started.  In other words?...characters like these are being allowed the exact same sorts of narrative luxuries that are usually only afforded towards male heroes.

The thing about these characters, though, is that they tend to be...well, a little bit too heroic, right?  A lil’ bit too goody-two-shoes?  A bit too stalwart, a bit too incorruptible?  And that’s fine, there’s certainly nothing wrong with a traditionally-heroic white knight of a hero.  But what I might like to see, as the next step going forward, is for female heroes to be allowed a bit more range than just that, so that they’re not just innocent children or literal princesses or shining demigods clad in primary colors.  Let’s have an all-powerful female hero be...well, the easiest way to say it is let’s see her allowed to be bitchier.  Less straightlaced.  Let’s not put an ultimatum on her power, like “Oh sure you can be powerful, but only if you’re super duper nice about it.” Let us have a ruthless woman, but not one ruled by ruthlessness.  Let us have a hero who naturally makes enemies and not friends, who has to work hard to gain allies because her personality doesn’t sparkle and gleam.  Let her have the righteous anger of a lifelong slave, and let that anger be her salvation instead of her downfall.

In other words, let us have Daenerys Targaryen.  And let us put her in a new story instead of an old one.

[changlingrogue]

Okay, a head's up, this got rambly and it will definitely have spoilers for Campaign 2 Episode 128, 127 and to be on the safe side 126. I'll tag it as "cr spoilers" and put it under a cut though.

Okay, so, starting from the jump the episode is a little anxiety inducing as it picks up directly where last week's left off with Caleb, Jester and Veth confronted by Trent down in the basement. Trent only appears to want to talk (being the mofo he is, his words are just as dangerous as his magic), but Caleb isn't having any of that and starts things off with casting Wall of Fire (I think?) to separate them from Trent. Trent dispels it and still seems interested in talking until Caleb casts a Firebolt at him. Veth follows up with her attack which does work and then Jester tries another Word of Recall which Trent tries to Counterspell with a horrifying nat 20, but it gets cancelled out by Caleb's nat 20 and the three of them escape to Nicodranas, outside on the Brenatto family's balcony. A couple of takeaways from this encounter:

Was trying to fight Trent the best idea, no. But like I can't say I blame Caleb. Liam made it very clear that Caleb was terrified. He was going off of raw emotions and being confronted by the man that ruined his life in a place that held a lot of emotional trauma for him... can't say most people would be able to keep a cool head.

It does still make me wonder how things would have went if Trent had been able to talk. Would they have been able to leave without things ending up like they ultimately did or was it just a way for Trent to keep control of the situation? Maybe a bit of both? Trent certainly risks losing more now that he has to come up with some sort of explanation for what happened at the sanitarium and given that the whole Cerberus Assembly is under investigation, its not a good look. Veth's decision to steal some of those crystals did alert Trent to what they were doing and is maybe part of the reason he's pursuing them so aggressively, but I feel like its going to be one of those things that really helps them out in the future. I was happy when it was proposed to keep at least one for evidence, because I think if it's used in the right way and given to the right people it might be a nail in the coffin Trent (hopefully) finds himself in.

To jump off from the crystal point, I'm really digging how in this campaign player choices have at times had some really interesting a longstanding consequences/rewards. Like it really makes the world feel alive, and that its not revolving around M9. Like for one of the more "positive" examples, Beau telling Dairon about how she was kidnapped and forced into the Cobalt Soul lead to the eventual arrest and upcoming trail of Zeenoth and the apology Beau deserved for years. But on the flip side, as we learn eventually, when the rest of the party joins back up with them in Nicodranas, Jester mentioning The Ruby of the Sea gives Trent a lead of where to find them. (I'd also like to mention that Team Outtie or Audi, lol, did a pretty good job. Fjord really came through with Arcane Gate, Marine Layer and even Major Image. It didn't stop Trent but it did keep the Guards busy. Caduceus got them out quick with Word of Recall and while Beau's umm, assassination attempt was brutal, she did keep the Guard on top of the tower from doing anything and she alerted Team Outtie to the arrival of Trent and more Guards.)

But back to Nicodranas and M9 trying to get their families there ferried away to safety. I really did nearly cry from the conversations Jester and Veth had. I adore Jester and mother's relationship, like Marion is one of my favorite of Matt's NPCs for more than reason and I love how just... loving and understanding she is. And I really like Yeza for that similar reason. Those two conversations really stuck out to me because of like... idk, I guess they sort of hit home a bit? With Jester and her mom it's the shift of being the one whose protected to the one who is the protector that I (and other adults) experience at one point when it comes to your parents as they get older. It's not as wild as keeping them safe from a powerful mage and his magic assassins, but it's a total flip in a relationship that you've had since you were younger.

And with Veth it's about being a parent and a partner and having to make choices and sometimes sacrifices to keep them safe. I'm really glad Veth and Yeza got a chance to talk and be open with one another, for at least a bit. I was surprised by Yeza's perspective of things and how he felt he was also guilty of putting their family in harm's way because I always assumed like, at least when it came to working with the Assembly he didn't have much a choice ( Idk if I just missed that part or it was mentioned in Talks or not), but him saying that he also took risks because he wanted to make something of himself and provide for Veth gives a new perspective of him and on his and Veth's relationship. Like now it seems more like he actually understands (on some level) Veth's conflicting feelings of wanting be an adventurer but wanting to be with her family too and that's why he's been so supportive of her vs him just kind of blindly supporting her. I really hope they continue to be open with one another and they keep talking about things, which I guess they might get a chance to again in the future if Veth actually does end up coming home to them for good after M9 takes care of the TombTakers. I'm sad about the idea of Veth leaving and not adventuring with the rest of M9, and I will legit cry if they say to goodbye but I can understand and respect her reasoning. She really did try to "have both" and for the things that they've been involved in, it, unfortunatly, doesn't work. Since reuniting with her family that's been one of her main conflicts and I'm happy that she finally seemed to come to a decision of what comprimises she can and can't make for the type of life she wants. I know a lot of the fandom won't be happy if Veth leaves and Sam creates another character but I like that Sam (and honestly everyone else as well) really plays his characters to who they are as people. After those heartwrenching moments, the tension in the game picks up again as they find out that they're being watched by two inviduals who turn out to be Astrid and Eadwulf. Astrid basically tells them to get everyone they care about and get the fuck out of Nicodranas since they've been dispatched to get them, and from some invisable tailing by Veth, we learn that there's another Volstrucker in town, along with fucking Trent himself and that they're only a few blocks away from the Lavish Chateu. So M9 gets themselves and the families together and steaths to Yussa's tower, hoping he could help them get somewhere else quick, only to find that he can't be reached at the moment. Luckily, his servant Wentsworth knows of something that might help and after some searching a Detect Languages spell, they find a scroll that has the spell Plane Shift and a tuning fork that they're unsure which plane its atturned to.

My thoughts on this are:

That I'm not sure if they're lucky or unlucky at this point. Because on one hand they're literally on the run from one of the most powerful mages in the Empire, but on the otherhand they've managed to escape him twice, despite the odds being against them. I really want to know what plane they're on, there's a lot of speculation that its the Plane of Fire which sounds terrible, but I'm not that versed in like D&D lore so maybe it's not as bad as it sounds in my head. I agree with Matt that thinking to use the Happy Fun Ball as a way to transport some of their people was pretty clever, I just hope they made the right choices for who went inside and who stayed outside. This is Yasha's first time in the ball! I wish it was under better circsumstances so that everyone could be there and they could actually explore but I wonder what her reaction will be. When she's not making out with Beau, lol. I'm not as worried for the group in the ball as I am for the group outside of it, I think Beau, Yasha and Fjord will be able to get to an exit without too much trouble as long as they don't stumble across any surprises that aren't on the map. And I'm very intrigued with how Astrid is shaping up as a character. I like so far what Matt is doing with her and I like that she's shaping up to not just be the "bad bitch/ruthless" villain archetype that a lot of female characters end up being. That character can be fun and enjoyable in certain things and when there's more beneath the surface, but it's nice to see that Astrid actually does care about Caleb. I was suspicious of her intentions before, but I feel that Matt has made it clear that while her and Eadwulf are still adversaries to the M9, they do care about Caleb and want to help him out. I feel for the whole Blumenthal Trio one way or another. To close things, because this had gotten way too long, lol. I can't wait for the next episode. Hopefully everything will work out for them and they can get the families to safety, though I don't know if sending them to the Gentleman is a good idea. But we'll see eventually!

[imaginesmai]

Tony Stark - Heartbeat

This was requested by an anon forever ago, I hope you like it! For this fic, reader has powers similar to Wanda, only that the ‘electicity’ usually burns what its touching. 

Plot: Tony has a heart attack, and you’re the only one around.

You loved Tony to death. His burning passion for everything he did. The dimples and wrinkles on his cheeks, when he was really happy. Even his self-sacrificing complex he kept on the back pocket for dangerous missions. 

You loved Tony to death, and that meant you noticed little things about him.

Tony flexed his left hand a lot. You had noticed that he did it more when he was tired or stressed, mostly when you found him at three in the morning still working on the lab. You usually took it as a sign to be a little more upbeat than usual, quietly steering Tony’s thoughts away from whatever was bothering him. Going out for ice-cream, to the cinema, or watching a movie at home.

Tony’s fingers curled and uncurled, his mouth set in a hard line. You didn’t point it out – you had learned the first time that mentioning it just made Tony quieter and more sullen – but you watched out of the corner of your eye. However, he still let you grip his hand when it got too bad, lacing your fingers together and kissing his knuckles, dragging him away from his workshop.

You started to get more worried when Tony raised his other hand to his chest, rubbing at it as if in pain. It was Saturday night, you were alone in the tower and you were sure that, if that had been something common or normal in Tony, you would have noticed earlier. 

You were finally going to bite the bullet and ask, knowing fully well that he might close into himself more, but FRIDAY beat you to it.

“Sir, you are exhibiting the early sings of-“

“Quiet, FRI” Tony sighed.

“Boss, it might be of your-“

“FRIDAY. Quiet”

The AI fell silent, and you hesitantly turned away, focusing back on the computer. Tony and you were trying to finish the last project before summer, when you could finally be free for a few weeks and enjoy the sand and beach in Malibu. He had been very excited about the vacations, and the sooner you finished the project, the sooner you could go.

“You okay, Tony?” you asked not looking at him, though wrinkles of worry appeared in your forehead.

He hummed in response, and you went back to the comfortable silence. You regretted it when, a minute later, you heard a groan and the distinct sound of someone collapsing to the floor. You whirled around, heart jumping to your throat as you saw Tony sprawled on the hard floor of the lab, his face slack and flushed.

“Tony!” you cried, your voice breaking as you rushed to your partner’s side. “Oh my – Tony!”

“Boss happens to be having a heart attack” FRIDAY informed, her accent thick as her words rushed together. “I’ve already alerted medical”

“I-I can’t breathe”

“What do I do? FRIDAY? H-hold on, Tony, just – FRIDAY?” you hiccupped, gripping frantically at Tony’s shoulders. Your hand made it to his forehead, where sweat was starting to show, and you ran a shaky finger over there. But Tony had dropped his eyes, and wasn’t breathing.

Tony wasn’t breathing.

“You will need to perform CPR”

You knew how to give CPR. It was one of the three badges you had earned when you were a teenager, in Girl Scouts, before you had bored yourself out. But the instructions were for normal people – people who hadn’t been on a terrible accident when they were eighteen, and couldn’t make things combust with red energy in seconds.

Your breathing started to pick up, because as much as Tony had tried to make you see that you weren’t a dangerous freak, but a beautiful human, you still feared what you could do when you lose control. And, by the corner of your eye, you could see things near you starting to float.

“I can’t” you gasped, nearly hyperventilating. “I could hurt him. What – what if I hurt him?”

“It is common for ribs to break during CPR”

“There’s a difference between broken and disintegrated!” you cried out. Tony was no longer a clear sight in front of you, tears in your eyes.

“He’s already dying, Mss Y/N” FRIDAY urged. For a AI, there was certain worry on his voice, and you swore she was judging you.

You whimpered, but you got in the position you remembered. The veins in your hands were glowing red, and you tried to will the power to get back into your body, not into Tony’s system.

“Now!” FRIDAY barked.

You thought of the tempo you were supposed to tick to – staying alive, staying alive, please for the love of all that is good, stay alive Tony – and started to push. At first, you did it with care, but as the desperation grow, so did your compressions.

You heard Tony’s rib snap on the third compression, and FRIDAY had to keep you from pressing his chest harder. His lips had become a disgusting shade of blue that you wanted to forget, open as if he was trying to call your name but couldn’t.

Tears blurring your vision, you resumed your task. It felt like you were barely pressing down, but with each downward thrust, you could almost feel Tony’s heart beat one more time. Once more. One more. You were panting around your sobs, crying so hard that you couldn’t draw in a real breath.

You broke another rib, and Tony’s veins started to glow.

“Sixty seconds until the medics arrive” FRIDAY encouraged.

And for sixty seconds, with tears dripping down your face and onto your hands, you kept Tony’s heart beating.

“Please, please, you can’t do this to me” you chanted with every push.

You could hear the med-team as the elevator ascended as it finally reached your floor.

“Tony, don’t you dare to die on me!” you cried out. “Please, don’t – leave me”

One more beat. One more. One more.

Someone knelt on the other side of Tony’s body. Hands fitted right next to your own. The person was pushing with you, in the same rhythm, ready to take over. Another set of hands tried to gently shove you away.

You knew you could stop now, yet your hands didn’t move. You just had to hold on until the medics arrived and they were there, but you were the only thing keeping Tony’s heart beating and you couldn’t stop because Tony would die.

“It’s okay, madam, we’ll take over now” the second medic said.

The good man took your wrists and pulled them away, not even commenting when Tony’s shirt came out slightly burned with hands shapes. The other doctor, a young man whose mouth was set in a determined line, kept up the CPR. You could count the beats of Tony’s heart, pumping one more time.

You backed up and sat with your knew pulled up to your chest, watching in numb horror as the EMT’s brought out the defibrillators and shocker Tony. They shoved him on a back board and onto the gurney they had brough, and ran him back into the elevator.

By then, most of the things in the lab were floating in the air, some of them burned and others on fire. You watched as a pile of paper dissolved to a pile of ashes, and the couch slowly acquired a black stain that would be hard to remove.

After the loud the scream that left your lips, all the things fell to the ground.

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

The doctors had come out and pulled Rhodey aside, because apparently, you were in no state of taking in those news. You had been siting in the same blue chair for hours then, Rhodey and occasionally Happy by your side, a comforting hand on your shoulder. Still, you could hear the whole conversation because they weren’t exactly being discreet; and you were awfully aware of everything that surrounded you.

They told him that there was little to be done. The damage from Afghanistan was too severe. He would be alright for now, but they had no way of knowing if and when another heart attack would happen. Rhodey had gone in a talked to Tony, who was awake and recovering, for a while, then came back and told you he wanted to see you.

Until then, you had refused the offer. You were too afraid to see the burns on his chest, the fearful look on his eyes, or the sour words on his tongue. Your stomach bunched up in nerves when Rhodey literally forced you up and threw you on Tony’s room.

As soon as you were at the threshold, you could hear Tony’s heart beating. It soothed you, if only a little. You took a deep breath and kept going.

“Hey gorgeous” Tony smiled.

You muttered a quick hello, cautiously sitting in the seat next to Tony’s bed. The chair was just as uncomfortable as the previous one, if not worst. You folded your hands on your lap when Tony made an attempt to touch them, and you watched as his smile fell.

“That was a surprisingly un-peppy hello” Tony observed mildly. “Sad I didn’t kick the bucket so you could get the inheritance as the willow?”

“That’s not funny” you snapped without thinking. Again, you moved your arms to cross them over your chair and slumped into the chair, scowling at the floor.

“Just trying to lighten the mood, Y/N” Tony held up one hand placatingly. “What do you say about a kiss to make it better?”

You didn’t say anything, neither attempted to move from your place. Just tightened your arms around yourself and kept looking at the ground. The steady beat of Tony’s heartbeat was the only thing preventing you from bolting out of the window in a fit of panic.

“Baby, come one, you’re… well, I was going to say you’re killing me, but that seems rather tactless given the situation” Tony continued.

Tears filled your eyes, and your lip quivered. It was hard, seeing the man you had learned to see a future with laying on the ground, not breathing and with his heart stopped. Even more, watching as his veins became red with your power and his ribs cracked under your fingers.

You risked a glance forwards, just to see his chest. It was covered by the gown he had been given, but you could make out the healing pads under it. Not daring to having Tony seeing you cry, you casted your eyes down once more.

“Y/N, what’s wrong?” Tony asked, but stopped as soon as he tried to sit up. A strangled gasp of pain escaping him, and you reached him to help him lay down.

The movement allowed you to see some of his veins black, darkened because of your powers running through them.  You flinched, unconsciously pushing yourself farther form Tony as if your mere proximity was hurting the man.

“Hey, hey, hey” Tony wheezed. “Just give me a second, don’t go. Please”

Teeth clenched so hard your jaw hurt, you stayed stock still while Tony got his breathing back under control. Then, he motioned you to come closer. He didn’t give you a choice when he seized your wrist and tugged you closer, forcing you to sit on the side of the hospital bed.

You held yourself stiffly, careful not to even bush against Tony. When Tony tried to shift your grip from your wrist to your hand, you pulled away.

“Y/N” Tony asked, sounding hurt. There was something about his brown, cute eyes, that made you want to spill everything. “Why won’t you touch me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you again” you finally whispered, bottom lip trembling as your vision blurred.

“What – because of the, the burns?” Tony blinked surprised. “I’m a mechanic, I’ve gotten enough burns on my own. They will heal, it’s okay”

You shook your head, and drew an uneven breath.

“I… could have killed you. I could feel it breaking into your skin, your t-shirt melting under my hands. And I was barely even pushing, but I broke two ribs and – and almost burnt you alive!” you paused, took another ragged breath, the next sentence spilling out before you could stop it. “And I know you told me to brace my powers. But, you’re not some random criminal I didn’t want to hurt. You’re… you’re my Tony”

The corner of Tony’s mouth quirked up, and he repeated the words slowly. He felt like his heart, from second time in less than 24 hours, was going to burst. Of love, of affection, admiration, and everything he felt for you. He loved you so much, the he would go through thousands heart attacks if it was for hearing you calling him ‘Your Tony’.

You sniffled, and Tony broke out of his daydream.

“Baby, look at me” you stared resolutely down, ad the pale blue blanket. “Come on, Y/N. Look at me, please”

Finally, you met his eyes, soft and full of love.

“You saved me” his voice was firm and honest. Unquestionable. “You saved me, thank you.”

“Don’t do that again” you commanded, your voice shakier than you would like. You swiped a hand across your face, banishing the last of your tears.

“Whatever you say” Tony agreed, smiling. He raised a hand as if to grasp your cheek, but he couldn’t quite reach without stretching his sensitive burned skin. He changed tactics, and pulled you to him from where he was gripping your wrist.

You moved slowly, afraid of hurting him, but he urged you closer with an impatient look. Tony made you lay on bed beside him, legs dangling over the bed because it was drastically small and face inches away from his. From there, you could see the wrinkles on his faces, the brightness of his eyes and the pure smile he was giving you.

Tony Stark was full of scars, from head to toe, starting from the shrapnel in his heart and finishing in the slight burn on his chest. And you loved each one of them.

“My Y/N” he pulled your hand towards him, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles

.

“I-I can’t breath” & “Don’t you dare to die on me!” From my prompt list Angst

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[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter Thirteen; Delirium.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ & @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3-  

Masterlist-

Trigger Warnings: !!! illness and swooning again in this chapter !!! Fever type dreams that get spooky and deathy

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilizations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it.

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia.

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.

He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

                                                       ~ ~ 🥀  ~ ~

Kylo was losing his mind.

 It’s been known to happen to vampires of certain ages. Possibly ones even older than him, if any such do exist. Alive so long they start to rot and fester in their own bodies.

 Brains blown and shattered apart from all the violence of things they’d done. Drifting and flaking apart like much too dried clay. The horror of the acts some vampires committed to feed. Not everyone could face or stomach it for so long. Drove them cackling into the worst sort of madness.

 He’s seen men fall apart too. Mortal men. He’s seen entire armies and countries of men perish. Losing their heads to the last breath, infected with illness, or pox or the plague.

 Deformed and rotting away already, before death had even come to them. Life clung on to them like some leeching disease. Decaying their bodies before their spirit had left their flesh.

 He’d seen scores of roguish men who’d dallied with pox ridden girls. Perishing with no control nor use of their bodies and no eyesight to help them. He’d seen many many men succumb to it for some cheap penny’s worth of indulgence with some infested whore up against a tavern or brothel wall. Those men end up as dribbling and demented fools. Turned into deformed madmen.

 It was hell. It was as close to any hell as he’d seen. The Black Death. He can remember that aswell. That rot.

 How it bittered the air of every rust red Italian street. He’d been in Italy, in when it first struck. The hacking wet of sloppy coughs until blood comes frothing up.

 Bloated bodies of peasants - men, women, children and infants - swelled green with festering flesh, dumped in the river, clogging up the Arno. Crows pecking at the bobbing corpses, ripping off flesh and eyeballs like wet peeling paper.

 So many bodies-

 Worse than ever, Kylo remembers the stench of plague. Rotting meat writhing with maggots, but candied with something of the human flesh, somehow. He’ll remember it for eternity. That cursed stench of putrefaction cloying the rivers and streets. It would stay seared into him for all his time still to come.

 He recalls how some walled themselves into their own homes. They stayed inside to fester. Or drink themselves to death. Or pray. The illness took all of them before too long - faith or no faith. He could hear the wails of the nearly dead bleed through the thick red walls.

 Blackened fingers, the fever and the boils, the salty sweat of rot and the reeking decay of death in every house. Everything the sick body excreted, be it sweat, spittle or breath, exuded an overpowering stench that he will never forget. 

Whole towns emptied. Abandoned. Their population now lay rotting in the swallowing of the soil. 

 The doctore de la peste roamed the streets with their unseeing round glassy-eyes. In their beaks packed with sweet dried roses, mint leaf and carnation petals. The sickle of it trailed behind them like smoke cutting through the gloom. The ripe perfumery of plague.

 By the end. The river was overrun with corpses. Couldn’t see the water for the rotting swill of flesh and bones. Rats scampering over them feeding. Gnawing. Birds plucking out what they liked to feed on.

 It’s enough of a sight to make a man want to put out his own eyes with a red hot poker after seeing such illness, pestilence and misery.

 It’s happening to him right as of now; in fact. Losing his mind. He’s certain.

 They could mark this, 1816, as the year that he relaxed his firm hold on his sanity. It only took a thousand and twenty seven years.

 It only took the sight of his sweet dove, in his bed, writhing and sweating with fever. Delirious and dangerously ill.

 She collapsed after dinner and he swept her upstairs right away. Mrs Jones sent a note for the local doctor. Sent their bravest rider out on Erland, into the storm by the safest road. Jomar fetches her a cold cloth from the anteroom. Kylo can’t leave her side. He won’t.

 He sits on the bed and watches over her diligently. When Jomar returns with a bowl of icy cold water, stands it on the bedside and wrings out the cloth. Kylo takes it from his offered hand without even casting an eye in his direction. He takes the sopping linen and pastes it across her clammy brow.

 She’s splayed back in his bed, weak and insensate. To hell with liberties. He took the gown and shawl off her himself, and bundled the white cotton and red velvet sheets over her. She sank back onto his pillows. Sprawled limp.

 Her lovely pale face sheened in sweat. Whole body shivering and her breathing was shallow. Brow creased and wrinkled up in pain.

 Kylo’s sitting near. Pulling sticky strands of hair off her cheeks. Hating the sight of her like this. He’s banked the fire and had extra blankets put on the bed. But he’s unsure. He’s never sat at a sick bed for a mortal before. Well- not like this. He’s attended a death bed. But here? He doesn’t know what to do. How to act.

 Her eyes are open but she doesn’t see him. He’s certain she can’t see him or anyone else in the room. She’s dazed. Lost to sense.

 And he’s frantic. He’s mopping her brow but he doesn’t know what good that might do. She keeps twisting her head away from him. Fingers twining into the sheets, fisting them in her hands. Gasping and shuddering breath. Her chest is moving up and down so fast it hurts him to see this.

 Mrs Jones timidly knocks on his bedchamber door. Kylo’s voice is strained when he answers the knock. She comes in. Her face pinched and the very sight of it hurts Kylo’s nonexistent heart.

 “The doctor can’t attend her, my Lord. He’s trapped a county over delivering a baby.” She says breathless and pink from running up the stairs. Her skirts still picked up in her hands.

 That was Kylo’s last hope. He dismisses her with a curt nod. Not ill tempered at her news. Merely overshadowed by this whole room. All this grave pressing silence and illness.

 The very air in here feels tense. Made dry and hot by the fire. Stale with human exertion. And Still. So still with anticipation and uncertainty.

 Jomar returns with another icy bowl of water, a fresh cool cloth. Kylo reaches and swaps it for the clammy warm one. She groans and tries to twist away.

 Kylo soothes her. “Dove. It’s alright it’s alright.” He hushes her as she fidgets and tosses around. Knees tugging under the blankets. Hands still fisting in the sheets. She’s whining. She’s pleading with him. The hysteria has gripped its nasty hold tight.

 “No... no. Ugh. Please. No.” She gasps. Head looming far back. Neck stretched out. Dewy, and by the darkened light of his room, her long supple neck and throat is now shimmering amber. Kylo’s hand take the cloth away and she sighs a lungful of a groan in response.

 “She’s not talking to you My Lord.” Jomar insists. “It is the fever.” He assures Kylo.

 His butler is now washing his hands in the water jug across on the dresser. Scrubbing soap and his nails with a harsh scratching brush that sizzles at his skin. He dunks his hands under the cloudy milk of the water and washes away the soap suds.

 “What do I do?” Kylo’s pleading to them both. To Jomar and Mrs Jones. He looks like a little dark haired boy. An infant. Helpless and terrified.

 Sat there, teetering on the edge of his bed, starry silver tears in his eyes. It might be the only time they’ve seen him truly weak or scared. Wracked with agony with something even he can’t control.

 Powerless to help the woman he loves.

 Mrs Jones knows of that look. She sees the russet sparkle in his Lordships eyes. And it aches her. Sees the pain in his creased brow and displayed in the openness of his face. He is used to having power over so many things - this is not part of his influence. It does not share in being intimidated by him as most things and people usually do.

 This vampires one weakness; terror for the frailty of mortality. That she could and might slip away to a place beyond his mighty reach.

 Jomar crosses back to the bed, takes her wrist and feels for her pulse. His clever kind hands were cool on her feverish skin. Still she shivers in his grasp. He fixes his gaze downwards as he holds her frail arm. Returning it gently to her side when he’s done.

 “Her heart rate is very fast.” He says with veiled emphasis. He then leans up and peers over her face, gently cupping it to see her eyes. “Her eyes are unfixed also.”

 “I think it may be an affliction on her lungs. A chill caught from the rainstorm.” He suggests to Kylo.

 “How do we treat her?” Kylo’s demanding with every note of his voice laced with hope.

 Jomar shares an anxious look with Mrs Jones. “We don’t. Your lordship.” Jomar tells him gravely.

 “We can only wait now for the fever to break. But we can do everything within our power to make her comfortable.” He insists to his Master and friend. Laying a kind hand on his shoulder.

 Lord Ren looks up at him. Lost in his gaze. His silver bangle catches the light. A darting glimmer. Like a silver scaled fish swimming in dark inky waters. His butlers hope and goodness always shone great through the darkest of times.

 Jomars bronzed eyes melt for him like crushing gold honey and warm cocoa. Tries to bolster him kindly for this devastating news.

 “Is there truly nothing I can do?” Kylo chokes out. His voice hadn’t the bravery to rise beyond a whisper. He just had to watch her suffer like this? Twisting and delirious and unconscious with fever.

 “I’m afraid so M’lord. In the meantime-“ Mrs Jones says. Crossing the wide dark room to the window. Batting away the crimson drapes. The battle axe she was is on the warpath. She’ll see this right. Kylo wouldn’t trust anyone else.

 “We might try to keep her cool. Fever burns you up something wicked. So I won’t have her stifled. Loose blankets are best. And we are to mop her brow and her neck every hour. On the hour.” She commands. Jomar nods in agreement.

 “I’ll see to some laudanum for her relief, from the medicine cupboard.” He insists. Bowing his head to Kylo before slipping away.

 Off out the door. Picks up the lit candle holder in his hand from the side. The long ivory taper of it flickers a warm marmalade in the dark of his Lordships crimson room. Kylo watches the glow of it, and him, disappear down the dark hall. Swallowed up into the blackness of the house.

 The treads of his boots crushed silent and dead on the rug in the corridor. The hazy fog of champagne yellow coated the walls of Hellford like thick gold dust. Shining off every polished wood door and dark floorboard. Grows fainter and fainter as he moves away.

 Kylo turns back to his dove. Takes the cloth away. Re-wets it. Puts it back on her brow. He takes it away again once the cool is gone. Replaces the cloth with his own cold hand. All of his fingers dwarfing most of her head. He slips around and cups the nape of her neck and she rolls her solid head onto the arch of his arm.

 She’s so warm it almost burns his hand. His chest aches to feel her that way.

 She protests at the cold. “Leave me.” She sobs. “Leave me alone...” She cries. Eyes shut. Denying him the alluring cloudy grey gaze of those eyes he admires so much.

 “I will do no such thing...” Kylo says lowly. Stroking wet tamped hair off her forehead. Looking at her flushed cheeks which burn hot. He presses the back of his hand to them. To soothe them. The crinkle in her brow lessens a little at his icy touch. The only time his coldness has ever come in handy.

 Mrs Jones grabs the bowl of water from next to him but before she scurries downstairs to replace it she offers. “Your Lordship, I can send for a maid to sit with her. If you need some rest.”

 “I will stay.” Kylo presses. “I won’t leave her side until this wretched thing breaks.” He insists with stony determination.

 He looks back to Iris. Cupping her cheek in his hand. Watching her breathing pant rapid. She leans into his touch.

 With no clear action before him, other than to comfort her. His mind, denied of a task, emptied of all things, now fear began to fill it.

 Mrs Jones says nothing. But she gives him a trembling look of affection that attempts at bolstering him. She takes the bowl and she too pads softly out the room. The creaking whine of the door being softly shut was the final announcement to their being availed of company.

 Kylo turns back to her. A terrible weight squeezing down on his chest. He’s sat at a fair number of deathbeds in his life. He’d watched some human friends fade away. But that was certain. War or disease took them from him.

 This is not certain and it’s killing him all over again.

 It’s that night on the battefield in the snow again and again again. Draegan finding him. Coming across Kylo as he lay dying. The burning dripping searing blood leaking down his side. His wound was by the abdomen. The worst way to die. It could take days. The white hot agony searing his bones in acid all over again. Scarlet snow. Scarlet wet snow everywhere.

 He can remember cool slender fingers cupping his neck. The whisper across his cheek like a kiss of the icy north wind. “You know you will not survive this.” He explained. Unsticking Kylo’s leather gloved hand from the wound that ran along the entire side of his stomach. Silver eyes, like precious moonstones, looking at the blood laying black and thick on his palm.

 To the very last. Kylo fought like a warrior. When he often had resolved, as a Viking soldier, of pondering his own death. He had envisioned a glorious end. Sword in hand cutting down his enemies until his very last breath.

 He never imagined in his wildest dream that death would smile handsomely at him first. Never believed he’d be side by side with the devil - and that he would love him with the passion of a thousand burning suns.

 Never thought he’d love again - until he laid eyes on this beautiful creature. He lusted for her first of all. That instant carnal attraction. But that had masked how she truly made Kylo’s soulless body ache to love her.

 She brought him to his knees. And now he’s choking on his grief.

 “Please don’t leave me, Little Dove.” He begs in a whisper as she writhes and sweats into his bedsheets. Gasping and dulled.

 “Don’t go to the one place I can’t follow.” He begs. Laying his big hand over where hers was limp and stretched out atop the velvet covers. His hand dwarfed hers utterly. But his touch was so gentle. Unsure.

 “I told you if anything happened to you. It would kill me.” He says. Looking at her earnest face. So dewy and flushed.

 “I meant my words. Iris, If I have to spend an eternity without loving you then, I-“ His throat claws up. Suffocating his words. He shakes his head.

 He brings her limp arm up. Back of her clammy hand pressed to his mouth. Nuzzles a kiss to her skin. Tastes the salt of her sweat. Tastes her agony. He’s certain it reflects his own.

 “I won’t leave you.” He vows solemnly. A silky whisper that he speaks into her skin. He always takes his vows seriously.

 Treads rattle louder in the hallway. Coming back to the room. Jomar enters again with the bottle of laudanum and a spoon to hand.

 Kylo will be the one to feed it to her. He gently cups her face and slips the silver spoon to her lips. An oddly intimate act. He feeds the opiate into her mouth, she twists her head and some of it runs down her chin. Kylo wipes it away with the cloth. Taking up the task of the lowliest maid. Seeing so tenderly to her in her illness.

 He’s calmed a little by the fact of the laudanum taking away any pain she might be feeling. Her breathing settles. As does his worry.

 He retires to the chair by the fireside across the room. The same deep wine red velvet as covers his bed. He pulls it close to the end of his huge four postered bed. Drapes hanging heavy down all four mahogany posts. Protecting the pale infirm form of her within. He’ll watch over her from his bedside. Cradled in the comfort of the chair.

 Some ineffectual matronly mama of the ton may argue that this was most improper. A single man watching over the bedside of an unmarried girl. Worst still- an unmarried girl on the brink of an engagement.

 Kylo snorts to himself. Wondering if the deuced snotty boy of a Sergeant would even care that his intended was gravely ill. Probably only cared that she had fallen ill in Kylo’s manor.

 It didn’t matter that she was unconscious and insensate. She was in the very room with a man who compromised her honour, and Hux’s. Making a fool of him. In in Lord Ren’s very own bed, no less.

 Well. Not that either of them were in any fit state to be compromising the hell out of each other. But he doubts strict society will see it that way. This was enough impropriety just being within touching distance.

 One thing that does prevail upon him a tiny shred of bright happiness in all this darkness. Is the fact that he knows how desperately fuming this whole situation would make Iris’s mother.

 Him protecting her. Rescuing her. Keeping her safe. He’s sure the old harpy would be frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog knowing where her daughter was. She’d likely spout out nastiness, how it was all a concoction for the dashing dark Lord Ren to seduce and spoil her eldest daughter. To ruin their hope of an advantageous marriage.

 Little did that termagant know, but it was far too late for that.

 Iris was worked her sweet steady way under his skin from every outing they’ve shared. Every look across a crowded ballroom. Every touch of their hands, gloved or not. Their dance. Their kiss. It was the inferno that brought their affection and regard for each other to a fever pitch.

 She trembles whenever he comes close. When their eyes meet he always feels the delighted shiver that runs the full length of her spine. The blush that prettily decorates her cheeks. Finer than any jewellery he could bestow on her gorgeous body.

 Funny how such a thing as her blush made him think of so many things.

 It made him want to whisk her away in the dead of night. Back to Bavaria. Install her there as the Lady of his castle. Sharing his land. Sharing his title. Lady Ren. He’d have her dresses tailored by the finest Dressmaker in Bavaria.

 Dust off the family jewels and then bedeck her in them. Head to toe. Nothing less would do for her. She’s suffered such a life of penury and scraping together to make her as bait to men for marriage. He’d see to ending that sad facet of her life. He’d let her choose what she wears. Whether or not she had to pay calls or deliver baskets to the infirm.

 He’d let her lounge in a boudoir parlour, reading books, and accomplish nothing in her day apart from having a sumptuous oiled bath if she so desires. He just wants to see her happy.

 He’d open the whole castle for her to explore room after room. Every tapestry. Every oil painting and marble statue. Every suit of armour he’d fought in over the years. Stood proud and polished silver on display. All of it he’d let her have.

 How he misses it... his home. Ranlor Castle.

 He misses the way the castle feels to step into. The scent of it. The edifying old thick stone halls of musty brick and how the smell of green and pine like the forest surrounding it, seeps in every window. Hanging upon the very air.

 He misses the warmth of the fur pelts on his bed on a stormy night. The sky flurrying with snow, wind howling at tiny lead crossed windows. He was so used to hearing the wolves cry out for the moon in the woods at night, as he fell asleep in his big soft bed. Missed the way flame and shadow danced up the thick exposed golden-bricked walls. It lulls him to sleep.

 The locals rightly call Ranlor the ‘devils rock.’ A dark superstition has long lingered over the land ever since Kylo had been in residence there.

 Named because of the way the - many - turrets either end of the castle rear out the landscape like two sharp pale fangs. Looking over all the local villages and tenants. The shadows of those turrets reach far and wide. Everything is eclipsed in it’s shade. Grisly things were said to happen too, in his woodlands. Strong men go missing and not even so much as their bare bones are ever recovered.

 Local folk legend blindly believes when the moon is full, that devils roam the woods. Black wolves turn into foul hungry demons with claws, ready to hunt upon the flesh of men. When the moon is its full eye of pearl in the sky, people are warned to stay off the forest. And stick to their homes. Bolt the doors and draw the shutters. Cower in their beds and listen to the wolves howls rise faintly over the snowy horizon. Piercing through the snow.

 Kylo’s work providing for his lands and Ranlor’s tenants so ably puts shame to most of the rumours.

 He is a generous Lord and master of the lands. Nothing is beyond his notice. He holds a ball for the local villages every year, near Yuletide season. Amidst the bitter winter. The staff bring in great log garlands made from the holly in the forest to decorate the hall. They serve brandy and punch and Kylo mixes among everyone to see how their year has been as his tenants.

 If families struggle, too many mouths to feed. He absolves their rent. Ensures they are kept stocked with food from the castles own kitchen to tide them over- He has no need for it after all. His servants eat handsomely too, Kylo makes sure of that.

 If bouts of illness flourish among his tenants and among those less fortunate than him, he puts up the money for the doctors bills. He takes care of his own. Even if they are not his kin. They are under his protection on his territory.

 He is remarked on being a very gallant and fair man. No one on his land would dare observe that he was frightening and cruel.

 Only if he is gotten on the wrong side of that is. If poachers steal from his lands and steal the food supplies belonging to his people. Or if he sees any drunken men take advantage where they shouldn’t with a passing maiden, outside the taverns. If a violent and ill tempered brute of a man who drinks his families wage away, so much as dares to raise a hand to his suffering wife or children- then does Kylo reveals his nasty side.

 He’s sure there are still gossips that believe the superstition of his home. In local taverns at night over pitchers of ale, some men lean in, to whisper and wonder and gossip if he is entirely as human as he seems.

 He rarely eats. Never drinks to excess. Had never taken a wife and he doesn’t dally with whores. He stalks the forest alone most nights. They sometimes remarked that he was not human. There was little humanity about him. But they never suspected for a moment that the bloodthirsty demon unleashed by the full moon, was in fact him.

 The reason some of the bones of missing men were never found? Because Kylo drains them of the blood and leaves the drained corpse for the hungry wolves to tear apart.

 Kylo ruminates on memories of home as he watches the firelight kiss across her pale form on the bed. Her breathing still shallow.

 “I’d so much like for you to see Ranlor. Little dove. You’d adore it.” He says. Speaking to her as if she were awake to hear him.

 He tells her about the forest. About the bitter winter gales that blow through. And how it thaws so prettily in spring. Woods full of blue hyacinths and pink scented stocks. Sugary and sickly perfume of them in the warm pine of sun-baked air.

 He tells her how she’d like the wildflowers and the baby roe deers and the lake when it’s warm enough to swim in. To dip into the fathomless sapphire ink of water. The graceful swans that dance across the blue waters surface.

 He tells her she’d like the local life. Much like here, people were humble and simple. Salt of the earth. People who make no pretence to be more than they are. How refreshing he finds that compared to all the Janus faced civility. Velvet draped over daggers, and dripping censure that falls from lord’s and ladies mouths, in a savage English country ballroom.

 He describes the villages nearby. On the road to Ranlor. The tall narrow houses built of walnut timber and smothered in white paint. Closely set together on cobbled grey streets. Some of the neighbouring villages were walled cities also. Keeps from medieval times. Set high up in the rocks.

 Quaint little hamlets were dotted along the Bavarian alps near his castle. He tells her of the nearest one to Ranlor.

 Brimming with taverns boasting the most excellent beer and joints of game, roasted on a spit, a flagon and a hunk of meat for no more than a half a gold florin. Cafes and shops there were, a florist also. He recalls the waxy punchy-coloured tulips and how they always always always caught his attention in the window. The striking eye-catching scarlet of them. He likes seeing it, as he often rides past on Erland. Or in his rattling big coach.

 There were coffee houses, bakeries and patisseries selling Austrian cakes and puddings. Butchers or other general stores selling the local cuisine of smoked or cured meats and sausages and cheeses.

 The spectacular wares always for show in the haberdashers window. Great voluminous hats with sprouting great feathers and dripping trimmings galore. Her silly sisters, he fancied, would adore to see such fine frippery. And most of all, there in that precious little village that somehow has found a warm place in his heartless chest, there are always vendors with their braziers, hawking roasted or candied nuts around the town square.

 He tells her how touched he was in her gesture of giving him a paper bag of roasted chestnuts, the day after they first met.

 He admits something to her then; of how he doesn’t often indulge in human food. But those he did eat. The buttery sweet burn of them reminded him of home. Lifting his nose to the bag to smell the smoky nutty scent sent him ricocheting right back to thoughts of that little Bavarian village. It touched him profoundly in more ways then he could say. She could barely spare the capital to buy them and she bestowed on him, such a gift.

 She bought it with her last penny and that truly astounded him. He was a veritable stranger to her then. He is so much more than that now. She’s so much more to him. And him, to her.

 Kylo will see out this lonely frightful night. He watches over her. Hopes the morning will bear better signs. Hopes that the tumultuous storm passes.

 It dies well enough. By the pale pink of a wet lilac and gold dawn, shining over the windowpane and into his chamber. Shrouding his sickbed in rosy gold, she is unfortunately in much the same state. Unchanged. Not progressing nor worsened.

 He sits and keeps a diligent eye on her. Had done all night. He requires little sleep. And so he talks to her. Mops her brow when she starts sweating again. Jomar and Mrs Jones flit in and out. Bringing provisions. And fresh cold water. More laudanum.

Mrs Jones brought him a plate of roasted meats and a glass of wine. It went untouched. She takes it away without saying a word. Gives the scraps to the hounds.

 Jomar checks on her every few hours. With his slight grasp of medical knowledge. They try sending for the doctor again. But he is still unavailable. Fixing broken bones from men caught up in last nights storm. Kylo curses the inflexible man every name under the sun.

 He doesn’t even retire from her side to take luncheon. Mrs jones had tried to tempt him with a grilled chop at breakfast. And still he refused. Tempted him with roast capons and a carafe of wine now, and still he declined. He’d gone longer without food before in his time. It wouldn’t hurt him. Three years he’d once gone without indulging.

 “You need to keep your strength up. My Lord. You’re no good to her if you starve away to skin and bone.” She chides as she carries out another bowl of water. Refreshing it.

 “Hardly likely.” Kylo’s insisting. Tugging at the rumpled linen of his shirt.

 Sleeves rolled and cuffed. Waistcoat he shrugged off some time in the night. Just in black braces, dull boots and dark breeches now. He’s sure he’ll be a malodorous wretch in need of a shave and wash. But he won’t leave her in this crisis. He won’t so much as go to splash cold water on his face. He’s not leaving this room.

 Hellhounds with glowing red eyes and slobbering gnashing teeth, couldn’t drag him away.

 Mrs Jones makes a move to put a matronly hand on her hip and chastise him some more. But there comes a groan from the bed.

 Kylo leaps from his chair and bolts across to her. “Dove?”

 He seeks for her hand. He listens to her breathe.

 It was now a shallow drag accompanied by a slight rattling wheeze when she breathed. The affliction had spread to her lungs. And he knows the opium will have suppressed her lungs as a result.

 A trickle of blood leaves her mouth and smears on the pillow. A wheezing hacking cough comes from her. It’s such a weak sound it hurts to hear it. He mops it away with the damp cloth. Smears at her pale cheek in its wake.

 “Oh no. God no. Iris...” He seeks louder. Trying to see if she responds. She’s limp as ever. Lost to him. Blood leaking from her lips.

 “Fetch Jomar.” He orders urgently to his housekeeper. She runs for the door and brings back the Butler. He checks her over and his face is grave.

 “Your lordship. Her temperature is rising and I believe it appears as if the infection is worsening.” He says softly.

 Kylo’s face falls. His throat bobs with worry.

 He knows she’s strong. She can temper the foul spitting words of her mother. She can temper this. She must. Or he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

 “Will she die?” Kylo asks outright. Face like steel. Eyes wet.

 “I’m not a doctor. My Lord. I cannot say. But she needs a miracle to fight this affliction that’s taken hold. It looks like consumption.” He tells honestly.

 Kylo nods. “I’ll call you both if you are needed again.” He dismisses them.

 They file out the room with sorrowful faces. Such a sweet girl. And their Master is clearly so cut up by seeing her in such a state.

 Kylo wraps his fingers around her hand.

 “Fight it little dove.” He urges her. She was shivering earlier. But now she’s stilled. Sweating and clammy. Burning up more than ever. She was getting worse.

 “Please. Please fight. You’re so strong Iris. My god, you don’t know how strong...” He begs as he cups her hand and one hand cradles the side of her face.

 “The first time I saw you, I saw your strength. Your resilience. You held your head high even though you didn’t want too. I felt your pain. I felt your back breaking under all that strain.”

 Her head stays limp on the pillow. Eyes blind to anything. Shut in unrest. He wishes more than anything that there was something he could do to aid her before this got even worse.

 She looks pallid. Ashen. More so than before. Sweating buckets and more blood leaks out her mouth. He wipes it away with the fresh handkerchief Jones left by the bed. He looks down in his hand and sees the sticky red staining the white cloth.

 Like a bloodied paw print in the snow. It doesn’t even call out to his hunger. He’s too beyond it. This is too perilous. Too serious to measure his animal instincts.

 Blood.

 The room grows cold. All warmth drops as if the sun had been snatched out the sky. Kylo feels the chill pinned along his skin as a ghost of a phantom breeze sweeps over him.

 His cool blood turns to prickling ice. The candles on the bedside flicker, the fire wanes. He knows what comes next. He hasn’t felt this in centuries. He hears the voice, as crisp and as sharp as frost in his head. The voice like silver coins and honey dances into his ear. Notes as fine as a dark deep concerto.

 “Your blood, My fierce one. Or have you forgotten. All life is in the blood.” Comes Draegan’s soothing mellow voice.

 The tone that was like feather down and silk to listen to the way he crooned. Every part of his manner was charming. The deep of his sharp eyes was piercing. Intoxicating.

 Kylo’s not been alongside mortals as Draegan had. He was a healer. Though he was a demon, he always conceded that there was no death without life. All life as such, is therefore to be treated as precious. Humans fascinated him. And he moved freely and happily among them. Whereas Kylo scorned most all of them.

 He strides from the bed to his unused escritoire across the room. Situated by the window for light. Not that he had any letters to write or close acquaintances to send them too. He considered leaving notes for Iris but there’s always a risk his letters would be discovered. He’s got a stack of them all written - tied up with a grey silk ribbon and hidden away.

 He rifles through his drawers until he finds it. A knife. A silver dagger with a weighted carved handle. He rounds the bed again, crosses to her and sits near her hip. He holds out his left hand and rips the knife across his index fingertip.

 Crimson beads up. He holds his hand aloft and watches it drip. Looks back to Iris and gently cups her face.

 “I know this won’t be pleasant. But it will help.” He tells. He doesn’t even feel the sting of pain. It’s nothing to him. Nothing to the pain of seeing her suffer like this.

 He gently holds her cheeks and rubs his bloodied fingers across her dry lips. Smearing crimson onto her tongue. She frowns and tries to move her head away, mumbling in distress. But Kylo doesn’t relent until he’s sure his ichor coats her tongue. Slips silken down her throat.

 He takes his hand away and rubs the blood from her mouth that spilled down her chin. Leaving her as pale as she was before. The rose of her cheeks still glares awfully bright.

 He bunches the cloth around his hand. He’ll heal up in no time. He wishes he could say the same for her. Only time will tell...

 He holds her hand. Strokes over her dainty little clammy knuckles. “Twice now he’s saved you.” He remarks to her.

 “If I didn’t know him any better....” He sighs, trails off in his words. The very breath gets punched from him. To what end could Draegan be saving her? Whatever for?

 One idea occurs - it’s because he’s felt all that she means to him.

 That tears agony at him like animals claws tearing down his chest. Shredding flesh. When he thought how he turned his back on him, and scorned his love. And here he was, centuries later, calling out to keep her safe. To protect her.

 Kylo lets himself feel shamed.

 Ashamed for the ways he bypassed his feelings for Draegan, and let anger fill him so completely up instead. Now he’s met Iris? He understands what he put Draegan through when he left. Because she might leave him now, and he thinks he might just wither away to ash, to nothing, for agony of loving her so much. Unable to help her through this pain.

 Though now, perhaps he’s given her the catalyst to help her fight what ails her. He can only wait. And pray.

 He paces the room. Paces and then sits. And then he’s treading worn holes in the floorboards again.

 Before he knows it, night falls again. He watches out the window as the sun bleeds into blue.

 Night washes a filmy indigo over the landscape. Trees turn to dark gnawed fingers of branches. The grass shimmers with evening dew and the pond out front in view of his window, turns to gloopy blue ink.

 He stands with his back to her. Surveying the view out the window. Arms folded behind his back. He’s listening to the fire crack and the wind groaning outside on the cold glass, splashing hard against the house. And suddenly she speaks. Gasps out. Cries out.

 “So cold.”

 He whips around fast. She’s twisting from side to side and he sees the fire sheen off her brow. She repeated herself “It’s so cold...” He hastens to the bedside and takes her hand again. “Iris?” He asks.

 She’s still dazed. Still delirious. Twisting her head on the bed.

 “Snow. And blood. Why is there....so much blood...” She frowns. Her face all contorted. Her palms knot her fingers into her pillow. She’s writhing again.

 Kylo looks down at her. Puzzled.

   ~

   Her reality had became quickly spliced with odd fevered dreams.

 Snippets of actuality broke through the haze. She felt herself fall after she stood up from the armchair after their intimate dinner. She dropped but her body didn’t hit the floor. She’s moving again. And those lovely strong arms of his, are around her.

 She’s burning. Was she on fire? That’s what it feels like. She’s dripping sweat and trying to claw at her dry throat. Loosen her strangling clothes. Get some blessed sweet cool air on her skin.

 A cold chest she’s cradled into again. Widest muscled chest she’s ever beheld. And she’s moving. Her eyes are shut, it’s all dark, yet she feels weightless. Being carried.

 Then it all goes soft. She’s laying on velvet as gentle hands guide away clothes from her body. She’s aching so much her bones ring with it.

 She tries moving but she feels cemented. Every word she tries to croak is difficult. Making speech is like trying to let thick hot syrup drip off her sticky tongue.

 There’s this pain in her lungs. A thousand knives stabbing in when her chest expands. Kind hands touch her arm and her head. Their warmth scorches her already blazing skin. She tries to wriggle away. But she’s too weak. Her body won’t comply to the requests of her mind.

 There’s feather and down at her back. It crinkles and crumples, and she’s relieved the bed is so cool. Something bittersweet is dropped down her throat. Trickling down her melting tongue. She barely feels the rest. She drifts in and out.

 And the thing is, she’s not entirely sure she’s alone. She hears voices. A voice. Dark, deep, like a granite walled cave.

 She can’t feel much. But she feels cold thick fingers wrap around hers. She knows who those might belong too.

 The fire in her blood doesn’t stop. It doesn’t wane. She feels like she’s drowning and she’s not even in the rain anymore. Prickles and knives and all manner of horrible sharp things stab at her chest. Spears, lances, thorns and needles.

 It feels like her lungs rattle with poison and shards of broken glass. She wants to cough but it’s too much for the infirm state she’s in.

 In between her swimming head and trying to crack open her heavy eyes. Between bleeding crimson and a blazing twitching flame she can make out very little.

 Time and sensation are lost to her. But she feels how someone diligently holds her, cups her face, cool on her cheek, feeds her spoonfuls of water so she doesn’t dehydrate. Dribbled water and laudanum - spiced with honey and saffron to cut the bitterness - down her neck with a cold silver spoon perched on her lips.

 The dreams are the worst. She dreams about rain. About rivers and heavy crushing things, tar, black and rotten, squirming on her chest. Crushing her.

 Of fangs ripping pale flesh off bleeding necks, how that haunts her. Wine red blood and she’s laying in a sticky hot pool of it. Unable to move.

 Foul black demons with claws and leathery black wings and red eyes, drooling maws with gnashing teeth rip at her nubile skin. She screams but no sound comes. They throw her screaming into hell and brimstone, and the flames lick higher around her.

 She’s dying. She must be dying. She can see it. Lying under a chiffon veil draping her body. Dried white flowers, rustling and dead sweet, are placed on her chest. Hands crossed over her chest. A figure in hooded cloaked black looms over her.

 She squirms. She tries to bat them away. Tries to twist out their reach of these monsters. She calls and begs them, but to no avail. Cold splashed on her again. On her brow and on the back of her neck. She sighs and gladly welcomes it.

 A low melodic buzz murmurs in her ears like a thousand bees zipping and bobbing about her head. She can’t understand what it is. But it’s somehow a nice sound to listen too.

 It causes a gentle hum to seep into her aching bones and calms her heavy head. It’s like a balm. Salve on a wound. She doesn’t realise that it’s Kylo talking to her.

 When the fire in the hearth across the room crackled and spit sparks up the chimney, it felt like splits opened in her skin, forming like cracks in stone, and insects crawled out. Black scurrying beetles, She started itching at her arms. Clawing. But nothing was there.

 The cold soothe of her harbinger of peace is there to hold her hands and stop her nails raking her flesh away.

 More voices move around her. Tumbling around the air in the room. Cracking and snapping like zapping silver lightning and thunder. The mumbling grows in volume. Slithering along her spine. One of her arms feels like it’s been left in ice water - it’s where he’s holding and kissing her. Begging her to fight it. Pleading with her.

 She’s so tired. So wrung out. She just wants all this pain and fevered madness to stop. She’s soaked through to the sheets and her skeleton grates with ringing hot agony whenever she dares to move. She’d cry if her brain would grant her that meagre request.

 Her lungs have worsened. She knows it. Filled and clogged with dry sand, and salt. Sluggish and wet like a briny beach. It rattles when she breathes, and something she can’t name dribbled out her mouth. Drooling onto the pillow. She doesn’t know that it’s blood.

 She only knows that she’d quite like to fall away to her fever dreams and never come back.

 Iris so wants the lingering darkness to take her.

 However, one tiny shred of her feels cheated; she would’ve so liked to kiss Lord Ren again. One last time. The nicest thing that’s ever happened to her. She’d have liked to have tasted his kiss and drown in his loving attentions just one more time. Just one.

 It didn’t seem like a lot to ask of fate. Seeing the crummy hand it had dealt her in her wretched little life, thus far.

 Time passes. She’s not sure if it’s seconds, or minutes. For all she knows she may only have been lying insensate for an hour. Or it may have been days. Weeks. She can’t focus. She could have been lying stretched out there for Methuselah’s lifetime. She’s none the wiser.

 Then something else happens, something unexpected. Something wet is pushed past her lips. Only it isn’t water. And it isn’t the bitter saffron alkaline of laudanum.

 She doesn’t recognise this taste; it’s salty sweet. Hot metallic, and a blend of sour-saccharine burst. She doesn’t recognise it. It’s not unpleasant. But it’s not what she’d describe as palatable.

 She tries to twist. But her head is thumping and those flames are curling at her toes again.

 And then some distinctly odd things begin to happen. Even more odd than demon dreams or the bugs crawling out crevices in her skin.

 Where she swallows, the substance dropped in her mouth starts rolling down her throat. Carving away the pain in its path.

 Before long it reaches her swollen lungs. Slowly. One by one, each knife and needle, shard of glass, spear and lance is dragged out of her. Pulled away. Tugged out her pinching flesh. Relaxing her ribs.

 Gradually, all her pain lessens. Stickiness in her lungs, grating of her shallow heavy bones. It all fades. Agony slowly dies like a starved candle flame.

 The unknown liquid rolls through her like milk and crushed honeycomb. Ambrosia nectar. It tastes like gold. Like sunshine warming her bare skin after feeling nothing for months, but cutting winter frost.

 Fever dreams start to come back in full force. And they feel more real than before.

 She opens her eyes and there’s suddenly snow. It’s cold. It’s so very cold she’s shivering. Standing there, looking around a milky snow blotted forest.

 The trees around her reach vast, thick and tall. Trunks wider than her body. She cranes her head and she can’t even judge the tops of them. It’s just foggy grey up above. Heavy snowfall closing in.

 But all around her there are splotches of dark seeping in the snow. Dark jagged shapes lay misshapen in the thick thick icy drift.

 She feels it all. The squishing shift of the powder beneath her feet. Cold little stings of flakes melt onto her cheeks and eyelashes. Turning to tears that rain dewdrops down her skin. Her breath spirits silver out her mouth.

 There’s no stars up in heaven. No moon. Not tonight. Nothing to cast over this glum gloom and darkness.

 Noises patter and clang in the distance. Metal scrapes and hollow clashes. She peers around her and that’s when she comes to realise what all those shapes are...

 Bodies.

 Laying dead and still in the snow. As far as her eye can see. Men lay broken and scattered across the forest floor. Clad in simple dark armour. All wearing the same crimson coat of arms: blood and death litters them. That is their uniform.

 Crimson is still shimmering down the bark. Splashed there from the slash of swords across parts of anatomy she didn’t want to think about. She cannot imagine how her brain can conjure up such carnage. Such mayhem and suffering.

 Seeing a thousand, or more, dead men, pulled and carved to pieces. Violently separated from limbs, or heads or legs. Bleeding into the snow. Slumped sat against trees or piled on each other. Some studded with arrows. Some not.

 Splayed where they’ve fallen. Viscera exposed, stubby limbs chopped in half. Throat slit. Holes punched in their chests and bloodied organs tumbled out. Some men held it in their arms like dirty washing. It’s an awful thing to witness. Such savagery.

 What kind of beast could cause this? Could leave men dying and dead in this horrific way?

 She scans around. Unable to fathom it. These poor souls. Mouths gaping. Eyes wide and staring, unseeing, at the clouded heavens. Like sticky pearls shimmering in the dark. Death hadn’t been long in taking them. The blood leaving them is still warm. She can feel the blaze of it under her feet. Melting the snow.

 She sees no movement in the trees. Save for the snow heading down from high above. Settling like natures own confetti on all these fallen soldiers. Weeping over them, yet nothing else can be done but show them to their graves.

 Then she does make out something.

 A tall, lean, and strong figure moves through the trees away from her. Strong trunks of long legs. Sinewed arms. Even in his dazzling armour. Slender. So slender and elegant for a man. Most men lumbered. This one practically glided.

 Though he is scarcely standing out amongst them. Silver and white. Clad in brilliantly kept armour. The only thing that stands clear is the crimson splattered across this soldiers body. Gleaming down his silver armour. He comes to a standstill.

 If he was the last man standing; she suddenly realises with horror exactly what that means in odes to all the death surrounding them.

 She moves slowly towards this destination. Somehow desperate for a look. In the dim, she steps carefully and slow over the slaughter of mangled bodies and crimson hot snow. He has his back to her. Now she can’t see his face.

 She crosses this battlefield. Comes closer and closer. As if stalking a cautious stag.

 He was devastating in his height. Lean but not a man to be mistaken as being powerless. A long bloodied sword drips from his left hand. Even in this suffocating slim darkness, the curtain of white hair spilling long down his back is entirely obvious. Like a silk curtain. It’s braided too. Twisted into intricate plaits. Fixed with silver cuffs and wound with jewellery.

 There are silver coiled serpent decorations wound around some of his braids. They gleam in the night like far off stars. He moves as devastating as a supernova.

 If his hair moves like silk, so does he. Movements so supple yet languid. Certain. A great degree of confidence.

 He turns his head. She hopes to catch a glance of his profile. Wanting to see if his face is as handsome as his hair, or his impressive built frame.

 She’s curious. Somehow this is familiar for her; this white haired stranger.

 He turned only a fraction. Not enough for to show her anything. Not his face. Not his eyes. Though it seemed he was looking in her direction. She’s been caught.

 She freezes entirely and a smooth voice dances like honey wine and satin across the butchered dead and the snow.

 “Go back to him. Little spark. He’s waiting for you.... this isn’t how we meet.” He tells her.

 She cannot contest. She can’t even fight. Or speak. White fog swallows her up. Clouds her eyes. The blood and the soldiers and the snow falls away. Like she’s being dropped out of a white haze and sent tumbling down to mushy blackness. Spat out of heaven.

 She falls. Jolts. Her heart leaps in her chest as adrenaline spikes through her body. She gasps...

 And then, miraculously, she finally wakes.

  ~

   She stumbles back to life with a rattling gasp. Kylo didn’t even hear it. It was nearly ten at night. He’s sat by the fire in his bedchamber, watching the logs within crackle and sinking and burning to amber and ash. Unaware that she’d opened her eyes until;

 “Kylo?” Comes a weak little voice from the bed. Her voice.

 He stands and turns so fast his head swims. “Dove?”

 He strides so quick for the bed it makes her dizzy. He frets about stupid things, like the fact he hasn’t washed and shaved. He’s been too occupied in his avowed duty of sitting and watching over her sickbed.

 He kneels by her side. Happily cups the cheek closest to him. Her eyes are clear, hooded, but clear. No longer shimmering bright with fever. And her cheeks have calmed. Less glaring red heat, now just a kiss of pink.

 He places his knuckles on her forehead and had never been more relieved to feel her cooled. She shuts her eyes and smiles. Appreciating his touch. Savouring it.

 “My god. I thought I’d lose you.” He insists quietly when she opens her eyes again. He takes her dear sweet hand and kisses it.

 She takes a lot of energy to swallow and unsticks her dry cracked lips to answer him. Smiling. “Might I trouble you for some water?” She croaks. Her voice a strained crackle bleeding out her throat.

 He pours it himself. Hands it to her. Helps her sit up a little and tip the glass to her parched rosebud lips. She takes dainty gulps of it. Drains the glass and has enough. It’s not overly cool, but Iris swears it’s the best thing she’s ever drunk.

 He mops her brow again when she’s finished. Wipes the wet coils of hair away off her brow. It feels awfully nice and even though it’s shockingly intimate. She relaxes back onto the damp pillows and lets him comfort her.

 “How long was I?-” She seeks.

 “Two days, little dove.” He tells her gently. Placing the linen cloth down where it belongs. She swallows again. Refinding her lost voice. “It’s almost eleven at night.” He answers.

 “I’m afraid I’ve been a dreadful imposition on you.” She starts. Picking nervously at the covers.

 Kylo’s smiling again. Yesterday everything had been so grim he thought he’d never crack a grin ever again.

 “Think nothing of it. I’m merely happy to see you so well recovered.” He says as he squeezes her hand tighter.

 She casts her eyes for a second over the way his chin is flecked in onyx stubble. The way shadows linger under his eyes like heavy saddle bags. His hair doesn’t look unkempt. But his shirt is rumpled and faded cologne lingers around him. He’s been worried about her, than his appearance.

 “You need rest and sustenance. Fevers leave you weak. So I’m told.” He reaches for the head of the bed and pulls the bell cord. The hidden crimson panel of fabric that called down to the kitchens.

 “I wouldn’t turn down a cup of tea.” She sighs weakly. Beaming gently. No self respecting English woman would dare seek after anything else so fortifying.

 “I imagine my housekeeper will furnish you with a banquet.” He suggests.

 “How do you feel?” He seeks. It hasn’t escaped her notice his hand still twines through her own. It feels awfully nice. Cold. But not repulsive. She felt his touch even in her fevered state. It’s calming.

 “Like I’ve been kicked by a horse.” She sleepily admits.

 “Jomar said the affliction was on your lungs from the sound of your breathing. Do you need anything for pain?” He asks.

 “I Thank you. I am well. I cannot deny the fever was.., draining. But, it was the vivid nature of the dreams I couldn’t stand. It all felt so, real.” She confesses.

 “Delirium can be an odd beast.” Kylo agrees. He’s suffered blood delirium before. And that was like his own skin trying to willingly crawl off his own bones. It was beyond dreadful.

 “The most odd one was... wandering through a forest. After a battle, I think it was. Horrible. Such death and slaughter. And then I saw this man through the trees. A tall man in silver armour...”

 Kylo’s eyes are glistening dark. She carries on.

 “He spoke out to me. I could never forget his voice it was-“ She searches for a word. “Melodic. Nearly. Utterly enchanting. And he had this hair, very long hair. It looked like white silk.” She explains.

 “What did he say to you?” Kylo’s asking. Knowing full well what she saw.

 “Told me that someone was waiting- And it... wasn’t how I would meet him?....” she declares. Finding the whole thing bizarre. Then again; what sense could be made out of perplexing dreams?

 She looks bewildered. But Kylo knows the truth in it. He knows the various demons and reasons behind her channeled thoughts. His blood had taken its toll too.

 “Dreams are confusing at the best of times.” He states in comfort. She nods in agreement. But she looks like she barely has the strength to hold up her own head.

 She clasps his hand back. Her fingers and little strength she possessed, held onto him. “I’m very glad you were here.”

 “I’m always there for you. Iris. And I always shall be.” He promises.

 “What I did, scampering out into the rain like that. It was so foolish of me. And I don’t like to think of myself as acting like a fool.” She starts.

 “I thought I was going to die it hurt so much. But I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t want to leave this earth - without kissing you one more time.” She explains.

 “I know I shouldn’t say it. I shouldn’t even think it.” She swallows weakly.

 Twines her fingers through his. Clutches onto him all the more. Showing him the depth of her affection that she had always smothered deep down. She doesn’t want to suffocate it anymore.

 Kylo sees the wet of tears in her eyes.

 “I’m very glad of your improprietous wishes. They well reflect my own.” He admits. Kissing the back of her hand. He wouldn’t throw himself and his passions upon her whilst she’s recovering in a sick bed. He’s not that much of a letch.

 The door creaks open across his chamber and Jomar is the one to answer his summons. Kylo twists around where he is knelt. And when his butler sees his smile, and the calm of his expression. He hears his sigh all the way across from the door.

 “Might Miss Ashton have a tray of tea and some of that broth Mrs Jones had cook prepare?” Kylo asks.

 Jomars smile lightened up the whole room. “I shall fill the kettle myself. Your Lordship.” He beams. It makes Iris smile wide too.

 “Thankyou. Mr Jomar. You’re very kind.” She rasps across to him. He nods a grateful smile.

 “Ever your attentive servant. Miss. You got his Lordship to crack a smile for the first time since the dark ages. I feel like we ought lay roses at your feet.” He insists.

 “Just the tea. For now.” Kylo reiterates.

 “And might I ask you keep an eye on Miss Ashton whilst I retire to my washroom for a moment?” He informs.

 “Yes of course. Your Lordship.” Jomar steps into the room and aside so Kylo may pass.

 He squeezes her hand in comfort before he slips away. Off to go shave and wash himself and redress in a clean pressed shirt. And new breeches and small clothes. He felt quite rumpled in his current dress.

 The kind butler lingers by the bed. Handing her some more water even though she hadn’t requested it. She needed it. He could tell.

 “You all like his Lordship a great deal...” She comments.

 Jomar can’t deny it.

 “We love him. Miss. Though he may be stubborn and pigheaded sometimes. And most think him to be arrogant or savage. We are, all of us, so very proud to serve his house and his title.” He insists with not so much as a hint of false note to his tone.

 “He depends on you a great deal. It’s nice to see a man and his butler on such friendly terms.” She states.

 “We do make fun of one another. But it is enjoyable in its own way. He teases me. I rib him. And demand a payrise if he steps too far over the line. I have to remind him of his place...” He jokes in detriment. It draws a laugh from her.

 “If I may speak candidly. Miss Ashton. And do censure me if it is above my place to say so; but he admires you a vast vast deal. In a way I have seldom seen of him.” He openly admits.

 Iris’ heart feels like it wants to burst. So crammed full of potent emotion. It made her chest glow warm.

 “I could never censure anyone for such a admission. Mr Jomar.” She gives him a wobbly smile so full of love. Moved by his plea.

 “And I feel you should also know he hasn’t left your side these past two days. Hasn’t left this room. He administered medicine. Water. All himself. He didn’t even take the time away to eat or bathe.”

 Her eyes water. “So you see? He really is the most stubborn man. I doubt he’d have let that illness take you either.”

 “Most stubborn.” She agrees. And she cries happily. Heart so bursting full at the seams, of love for him.

 Seeing how much his staff admire him. How he’s surrounded and inundated by people he warmly regards. How respect from either party cuts both ways.

 He’s the most honourable man she’s ever had the good fortune to meet. She can’t ever imagine how or why she had once considered Lord Ren a monster.

 For her heart is quite sold to him.

    ~  ~  🥀 ~  ~  

[jenomark]

Nothing Ever Changes

○Pairing: Gangster!Kun x Reader (Female) ○Other Members/ Characters: WayV (briefly) ○Genre: gangster AU, smut, angst ○Warnings: oral (m), oral (f), penetration (f) ○Word count: 3,026

→Summary: Gang leader Kun doesn’t let anyone know about you, his own personal whore. For one night, you ask him to treat you like someone he loves.

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  One taste of him makes you feel like you’re drowning. The fear, it hits you before you open your mouth to say ‘Hello’. Power has a name, and that name can get you a lot of things. Or enough things to kill you. Everything you’ll do for him will be voluntary. You’ll hold your breath if he asks, because men like that tell you when to speak, when to think, when to be. He is a king, whose throne is your home. You won’t know it, and if you are unfortunate enough to catch on, you’ll wish you were ignorant enough long before the water fills your lungs. And if he tastes you back, you’ll welcome the death of his open sea.

  His name is on the tip of your tongue: Qian Kun. Everyone talks about him in their whispers like he’s some sort of monster. You’re the girl that plays in the dark, the girl that stands in the face of men like him, and laughs. It’s dangerous business calling him out. It will feel like all of the city is looking straight at you, their eyes poking needles in your skin. Don’t cause a stir, dear. 

  You were raised right, even though you ran the streets until your knees were dirty with secrets. Being polite only got you so far, but being yourself, well, that put advantages in your pocket and money in your bra.

“And who are you?” Kun asks. 

  No, not asks. A man like Kun doesn’t ask for anything. Kun takes, and what he doesn’t take, he leaves for the vultures to pick through. Kun reminds you of that as his eyes rake you over, his piercing threats giving you only one chance. You resist the urge to play him like all men love to be played with. The whispers are deathly quiet, but you’re aware of their incentive: Qian Kun will kill you. Your eyes take in two of his members, YangYang and Hendery, and every little boy out too late past their bedtime.

“I’m nobody.” you say.

  You want to believe that Kun is smiling, that the corners of his mouth are turned up just for you, but the only girl he’s ever moved for was Her. They still talk about Her, how She changed him, and how She left him. You’ve never seen Her, but maybe She was prettier than you. Maybe She was somebody. 

“What was it you said back there?” Kun asks. “I didn’t hear you correctly.���

  You don’t back down, even as he waits for you to cower. “I asked if you were going to take this whole city down with you.”

  It isn’t smart of you, dear. Hearing the words come from your mouth makes the lights above you feel more harsh on your skin. This is your home, and although you’re loyal, it’s been going up in flames for years. The police activity is out of control. Beggars and liars run tricks at night, their outstretched hands ready to strangle any innocence that is left. Sins lay at every doorstep, calling out your name, exhausting what little good nature you have. You yearn for peace and other things Kun’s name hasn’t all but gambled away.

  You wait for the slap, the hands around your arm, or the scolding. Will it come in the night, in the form of a pillow over the face? Will they disgrace your name instead?

“Would you go down with it?” he asks. “Either you go down with the city, or you’ll wish you had.”

  You’re aware of the music stopping, of a bunch of ears turned your way. You can hear your blood rushing through your veins. He stares you down, his hand on his knee, his hat next to him on the table. You look over and see the door to freedom, but the escape is too narrow for someone like you to fit through.

“Gladly,” you tell him. “Anything for you, Mr. Qian.”

  Kun’s face lights up, and suddenly, everything is over. The music resumes. The barmaid laughs her rowdy, drunken chortle. The color comes back to Kun’s cheeks, and just like that, all tension melts away. You see Lucas bouncing a woman on his leg, her breasts suffocating his face. Ten and WinWin are in the corner, counting stacks of money on the table. Xiaojun smiles politely at you, tipping his hat as if everything is just a joke, just a game. The world is alive, with or without you.

  Your eyes fall back to Kun. His back is turned toward you, his exit noticed only by you. You follow him. You can’t keep up. He has some place to be, it seems, and he wouldn’t worry about someone like you. He knows you’re there, can feel the fear clutching at your heart with each step you take. You file out onto the street, looking left, then right. The air is balmy, but no amount of heat can stop the chill. It’s always the chill, dear, isn’t it? First, it covers your neck, then it works down your breasts and wraps around your spine like a cold fist. You’ll shake with fever. You’ll let it control you.

“You know, “ Kun says. “I wouldn’t have to embarrass you in front of everyone if you just listened to me. This city is the greatest on earth, even if it’s a pile of shit.”

  Kun leans against a wall, one hand in his pocket. He holds his hat in his other hand, the gold clip he keeps affixed to it shining in the moonlight. Everything he owns is worth more than your whole life. You’re always aware of how easily he could end you if he chose to.  You walk towards him and take his hat, placing it gingerly on top of your head. The way he looks at you makes it feel like it might be your last act of the night.

“Not everyone agrees,” you say. “We’ve had this conversation before, Kun. You know, when you come over to my place in the dead of the night and pretend like we’re lovers.”

  He doesn’t say much now, and he hasn’t said much since he started coming around. He leaves in the morning before anyone can speculate about his personal affairs. You don’t want a relationship with him, you just don’t want to keep being the whore in the bar, her name so easily dragged through the mud in the name of The Great Qian Kun. He had said to you, “No one needs to know where my cock has been but me.”, but you knew it was because of Her. Word travels fast when your name is as iconic as it is dangerous. 

“Tell me what you would do to me.” you say.

  You place his hat on his head like someone placing the crown on a king. Kun tilts his head and watches as you slowly hitch up your dirt-strained dress. He bought you a new dress once, but he tore it to pieces the very same night. 

“You embarrassed me.” Kun says. 

  You climb your fingers up your own thighs before dipping them between your legs. Kun won’t look there anymore. He’ll only look you in the eye, and maybe, one day he’ll see you as more than just what you are. You don’t count on it. You are a hot, wet pussy, and the taste of you is just as murderous as he is.

“What do you want from me?” he often asks. Tonight, is no different. Nothing ever changes.

 Kun straightens the hat on his head and looks up at the stars before looking back at you.  You remove your hands from between your legs and lightly press your fingers to his lips. You feel a slight flick of his tongue against your skin, but mostly, hot breath. Kun closes his eyes, and his breath rattles. Sometimes, you wonder if he regrets the first kiss, or if he thinks of Her every time. Is it the courage that drives him forward, or the fear?

“Fuck me.” Kun whispers.

  He grabs your neck and brings your lips to his. His hands squeeze your throat too hard. You gasp for air in between kisses. His tongue fills your mouth like sticky syrup. You work through layers of clothing to feel your fingertips on his warm, firm stomach. Both of you are wrapped up in each other until voices pepper through the neighborhood. There is always a point where Kun loses himself in you, but there is always something that brings him back. He’ll forget  how you made him feel. He’ll forget that you are human, too. You are just for fucking here, there, anywhere.

“You should go home.” he says.

“You’re a real gentleman.” you retort, your voice rising to a level that should have gotten you hurt. But Kun doesn’t notice or care. You fix yourself and your dignity. When you open your mouth to speak, he stops you.

“Don’t,” Kun says. “Not tonight...please.”

  Kun’s voice comes out thin and broken. His face, which is normally full of sadness, also reaches despair. You reach out to touch him, but he moves away.

“Kun….”

“Is that all you want?” he asks. “For me to fuck you? Is that all I am to you?”

  Kun is as annoyed as you are. His beautiful eyes are glazed over and unfocused. You approach him again, your movements mechanical. You unbutton his pants, yanking them down past his strong thighs. You know it will be the last time you get to do this.

“Not here.” Kun says. 

  You are on your knees and it is too late. This is all that you are: his cock in your mouth, his eyes on the top of your head, his fingers grazing your shoulders. Your knees are dirty like your dress, but they are nothing compared to the way the rest of you feels. Kun relaxes against the wall. He breathes in deeply. You can hear his moans, though he tries to stifle them. You intentionally dig your fingernails into his thighs so that he’ll feel pain.

“Stop,” he whispers. “Stop everything.”

“Doesn’t it feel good?” you ask.

  You hold his cock in your hands. There are tears threatening to spill from your eyes, but you blink them away. This man should not matter to you. You’re another whore, another warm thing to help him sleep at night. You stop him from succumbing to the nightmares he gets from everything bad he’s done, but my dear, you are a nightmare, too.

“Get up.” he orders.

  You rise up. You can barely look at him as he hikes his pants around his slim waist. You wonder what he’ll do next. You don’t expect the kiss on your cheek, and you don’t expect how disgusting it makes you feel.

“I’m sorry.” he says.

“Are you?” you ask, the venom in your voice hard to contain. “Kun, you don’t owe me anything, but please answer me with the truth. Is it me? Am I that horrible to you?”

Kun almost looks heartbroken. Almost. “No...I-”

“Then show me, “ you said. “Show me what it’s like to be with you, to really be with you. I don’t want to be some whore you embarrass in front of your friends. I don’t want to be sucking your cock in these streets, or parading around the city looking for other indecent places to fuck you. I let you into my home. I want to feel human, Kun. I want to feel wanted. I want to feel like Her.”

  The mention of Her makes Kun’s jaw click. You’ve hit a nerve, but he’ll forgive you. Kun nods. He takes you by your arm and drags you down the street. You look back at where you both stood, and smile.

  He doesn’t bring you to his place, but rather, leads you to yours. He knows the way by memory. He walks in like it’s his home, too, his fingers on the doorknob as lightly as they touch your heart. Everything looks the same in your bedroom as you enter, but you realize that you are not the same. Kun smiles warmly, his dimples making you feel like you’re in a daze. You know it’s an act specifically put on for you, but you don’t care. He lights a few candles around your room and rapped his knuckles on the wall.

“Are you nervous, Mr Qian?” you ask, smirking.

  The same question he always asks is there, but he doesn’t speak it from his lips. You sit on the edge of your bed as your answer. It’s quiet in your house, but the sound of your thoughts are thunderous. Kun strides over to you, and for once, he sinks to his knees. Taking your foot in his hand, he raises your leg up and kisses the soft skin. His rough hands move up your calf. You lean back on your elbows and brace yourself for the ferocity of Kun’s touch.

  Passion. The word comes to your mind. Normally, the pair of you would spend the night fucking once, twice, sometimes three times. You were like animals when drunk. His sweat would drip onto your back, and his fingernails would draw blood. You would bite down on his neck and come on his tongue. He was always gone in those moments, with his eyes closed tight, his regrets staring back at you. He chose you because you reminded him of Her, and he didn’t try hard to make either of you forget.

  Kun’s mouth wets your inner thigh. You let him bunch your dress around your waist while your fingers move down to your clit.

“Patience.” he growls.

  Your body jumps with fright at the sound of his voice. You remove your hands from yourself and keep them by your side. His grip on your thighs is tight and demanding. With his swollen lips, he leans his head between your thighs, pushes your underwear to the side, and sucks on your clit just enough to make your legs shake. His hands seem huge as they knead up your body to remove your dress. His hand presses against the small of your back, and he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed. His fingers tickling up your spine, you arch your back enough for one of your nipples to brush against his lips. He nibbles on your breast lightly, his tongue swirling around your nipple. He rests his chin in between your cleavage and looks up at you. His eyes are full of sorrow, and there is something about them that makes you feel like no one is home. You comb your fingers through his dark hair before lying on your back, ready for him to wreak havoc on your body.

“Make love to me, Qian Kun.” you say.

  If you were Her, he would treat you as his Queen. Kun would not want to disappoint. Slowly, he brings your underwear down your legs. His lips find your thighs again, his mouth kissing a path up to your pussy. You tangle yourself in your sheets, watching his looming shadow across the wall. It is not in the shape of a monster, but the shape of a man. His tongue opens you up and licks every part of you. Kun has always gone down on you, but this time it feels different. He eats your pussy like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do in his sad, miserable life. You wrap your legs around his head and grind your hips to meet his face. He looks up at you, and you can see the wetness all around his mouth. He breaks out into a grin when he sees how easily you’re falling apart. The laughter that escapes from his mouth makes you livid.

“What’s so funny?” you ask.

“You.” 

  You push him out from between your legs and slide your body from your bed. You feel like you are in a frenzy. Fuck passion. Fuck going slow. You shove Kun against the wall. He stumbles into your wardrobe, knocking a few things from a table onto the ground. Any trace of amusement or smugness vanishes from his face. You kiss him hard, tearing his jacket from his body as you do. Kun picks you up in his arms and throws you back onto the bed. He removes any clothing he’s wearing with haste. You admire his body in what little light there is. His cock is hard, but that isn’t the most interesting part of him. What feels the most compelling is the way Kun is looking at you now: a look stuck somewhere between adoration and neediness. It’s so fierce that you feel it grinding against your bones.

  This is who he is, too. You are both so hopelessly in love with someone you can’t have. You both know what it’s like, and you feel it every time you come together. The torture of it is addicting, for both of you. You take the alternative, because you think it’s what you deserve. You fuck it until it makes you hate yourself, until you ask it to love you when it is not capable of love.

  Kun wastes no time in proving you right. He pulls you to him by your legs. You don’t experience his cock in inches. There is no easing, no set pace. Not in this life. All of him is inside of you, stretching you out, pushing against your cervix. He holds your body tightly enough to leave bruises, his brand of love just a little bit tender. You don’t let go of him, and you don’t look away. You happily burn with him. 

  You fuck hoping to forget, but all you get to do is come. Kun flips you over and holds your hands behind your back. He doesn’t think, doesn’t speak, doesn’t want anything but your warm hole for the night. He thrusts. When he comes, filling you up to the brim, he leans down closely to your ear and calls you his whore. 

[wistfulcynic]

Their Way By Moonlight: Endings And Beginnings (chapter 18 plus epilogue)

SUMMARY: A new curse has fallen on Storybrooke and this time Emma is trapped inside it, deliberately separated from Henry and anyone else who might  help her break it. But what no one knows –including her own cursed self– is that she and Killian have the ability to share their dreams, and are working together in secret to find a way to break the curse and free everyone from a new and dangerous foe.

Rating: M

AO3

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*draws deep breath* 

*slowly exhales it*

Okay. Okay. Wow. I can’t quite believe this is it. I’ve been writing this story for more than a year, and now it’s done. That is... well, it’s something. 

I have to take a moment to thank some people, people who helped me through when it felt like no one was reading this thing that was carving pieces out of my heart with each chapter, people whose support is the only reason the thing is finished, and that I’m even still writing. I was so, so close to giving it up but they wouldn’t let me and I am deeply grateful. 

Krystal, who inspired the thing in the first place and whose enthusiasm is a true joy to behold. Ro, whose wisdom and compassion are so vast and who was the shoulder I needed exactly when I needed it. Katie, who sees everything and understands it all, even the things I don’t say. Lisa with her amazing comments, Masha with her brilliant art, Alma with her generous soul. Devra, so insightful and thoughtful with her incisive analysis and appreciation of so many of the things I love. And Stephanie, my other half, I can’t believe I had to live forty whole years without you but this last one with you has made up for all of them. 

Thank you all. So, so much. 

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a/n: this chapter is actually two chapters because it just got SO LONG, but I’m posting them together - or at least within a few hours of each other.

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Endings: 

The sea was calm, that peculiarly soft and eerie calm exclusive to the hour just before the day breaks, when the air is cool and the light is grey and mist shimmers over gently undulating waves, and even the birds know it would be a sin to break the silence. Across that calm sea a boat glided, smooth and true and though no wind filled its sails, quite remarkably fast. It was a small boat, made of wood with a mast, two sails, and an oar, just enough to suit one man in decent comfort for a journey far longer than most would wish to undertake in such a vessel, but Oisín—for naturally the man was he—was quite extraordinary in his way and crossing a wide ocean in a tiny boat posed no challenge for him. 

He was nearing the end of his journey now; the thick mist and low light obscured his vision but not the pull in his blood that grew stronger as his homeland drew nearer. It is a pull we all feel after long days or weeks or years, decades even, spent away, but for a man who counts centuries as beads on an endless chain the call is stronger still. 

He dipped his oar into the water, skilfully steering the boat through the treacherous shoals that shielded his island from unwelcome travellers and into a cove perceptible only to those who already know it’s there. The boat slid onto the shore with the rough whisper of wood over sand and Oisín’s soul sighed in peace. He was home. 

He stepped from the boat and tugged it up more firmly onto the shore, looped its rope around a slender column of stone sticking up from the sand and when he turned around again she was there. The mist embraced her and the sun even now rising over the horizon cast a gentle light upon her face. A face as young and ancient as his own, smoothed by magic and profound with the weight of ages. He drank in the sight. 

“Niamh,” he said. 

“Is it done?” she demanded, in a voice drawn as from the strings of a harp, melodious and resonant. 

“It is done.” 

“Our debt is repaid?” 

Oisín nodded. “He will still have challenges to face, some magical, some of the more mortal variety. But never again will he face them alone. I can see the threads of his life, of their lives, woven together to the end.” 

“Not too soon an end?” 

“Fewer years remain by far than what he has already lived, but that remainder is still generous for a mortal man. And they will be happy years, on the whole. For her as well. For all of them.” He stepped closer and stroked her silken cheek. “Worry no more, my love. He is free now of the demons that so long tormented him, and he will be happy.” 

She sighed, and smiled, and leaned her head against his hand. “Then I am happy too.” 

Oisín smiled indulgently, an answering platitude ready upon his lips, then blinked in surprise when he realised that what he planned to say was true. “As am I,” he said softly. “Very happy indeed. Now let us go home.”

~

When Regina and Robin materialised in the sheriff’s station they found the others still there and awaiting their return. Killian was sitting on the edge of one of the desks with Emma nestled between his legs, his arms around her waist and his cheek on her hair. Henry and Neal were leaning side by side against the wall of Emma’s office, talking animatedly, and Zelena lay unmoving on the cot in her cell, staring blankly at the wall. Despite herself, Regina felt her heart twist at the thought of her sister’s bitter loss. 

“Hey, Regina,” Emma greeted her. “How’d it go?” 

“Exactly as I hoped. The magic is back in the Enchanted Forest and dispersed enough to be harmless. I put a temporary seal over the portal. It’s done. The curse is broken and its magic is completely gone.” 

Henry ran over and threw his arms around her. “Great work, Mom. Both moms,” he said, grinning at Emma. Regina hugged him back, tightly, but a hard knot of apprehension still sat like a stone in her chest. The curse was over but that didn’t mean her troubles were. 

“We should get to Granny’s,” said Emma, pulling out of Killian’s arms and going to stand behind Henry. “My parents are there and probably most of the rest of the town. We need to let them know what happened.” 

“Yes. Of course. Um. You go. I’d like—actually, I’d like talk to you for a minute, Killian. If I could?” 

His eyebrows rose in surprise, but he nodded. “Aye, if you wish. Emma, why don’t you take yourself and and the others straight to Granny’s and Regina and I will follow on foot. We’ll meet with you there in a few minutes.” 

“Okay.” 

“Should I not come with you?” asked Robin, giving Killian a dubious look, clearly wondering if he could be trusted to keep Regina safe from whatever he imagined might threaten her. Regina’s tense expression softened. 

“You can, though I really need to talk to Killian privately.” 

“I’ll keep my distance,” Robin promised, narrowing his eyes at Killian. “But I’ll be there.”  

Killian gave him a single brisk nod. Though it was very clearly not reciprocated he felt an odd kinship with Robin. After all, if anyone knew what it was to love a headstrong woman who took no care for her own safety it was he. Robin’s protectiveness may be unnecessary in this case but Killian understood all too well what drove it. “I’ve no objection,” he said. 

“Okay.” Emma gave Killian’s hand a squeeze. “We’ll see you in a bit then.” 

“Aye, love. See you soon.” 

~

The noise in the diner was deafening and the scene chaotic as people shouted greetings from across the room and elbowed each other aside to get to friends and loved ones, exchanging hugs and handshakes and recounting their lives under this most recent curse at the very tops of their lungs. Snow caught sight of Red behind the counter and ran to greet her while Charming shook hands with the Merry Men and assured them that while no, he couldn’t say where Robin Hood was at that precise moment he was sure to be fine and show up soon. 

Gradually the hubbub began to die down and Grumpy once again raised his voice. 

“So you gonna tell us what happened with the curse?” he demanded. “Who is Zelena and why did she cast it?” 

“Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West, like we said before,” Charming replied. 

“Really though? Like with the flying monkeys and the big crystal ball?” said Grumpy.

“Yes. We don’t know how she cast the curse or why, but Emma does and she’ll be here soon. Until then, can we just… just….” He trailed off as a peculiar noise filled the air, a low-pitched hum like a distant swarm of insects, accompanied by a prickling sensation against his skin. Voices began to rise again, in consternation this time.  

“What is that?” growled Grumpy. 

“I don’t know.” Charming’s eyes sought Snow’s and she came to stand next to him, slipping her hand into his. 

“Feels like magic,” remarked Will Scarlet. “Magic sort of—loose in the air.” 

“It does kind of feel like that,” Snow agreed. “I’ve felt it before, when Regina does a spell.” 

The worried muttering increased, and Charming realised he was losing command of the situation. 

“Look, nobody panic—” he began, just as the door opened and Belle burst through it. 

“I don’t want to make anyone panic,” she said. “But there’s some sort of—something going on outside.” 

There was a moment of silence, then a rush of noise as everyone ran to the windows. 

“What the fuck?” snarled Grumpy. “Your Highnesses, you’d better come see this.” 

This was like nothing any of them had seen before, or rather nothing they had even not seen before. A sort of sideways tornado, a swirl of distortion in the air, invisible, perceptible only in the way it bent and refracted the light around it. It twisted and twined its way through the sky over the town, heading towards the forest. They all stood together and watched it go, every breath bated and each heartbeat quickened as they waited anxiously for something they had no idea how to articulate, and then, abruptly, it was gone. 

“Well,” said Charming heartily, attempting once again to regain control of the situation. “I guess that’s—well, that.” 

“Sure, yeah,” said Will. “Of course. But also what the bloody hell was that?” 

“I’m sure Emma can—” 

“Yes, yes, Emma can explain, so you keep saying. But where is this Emma?” 

“She’ll be here soon,” Charming insisted. “I promise. Until then, everyone please just stay calm.” 

The muttering began again as the crowd milled anxiously around and Charming was just reflecting on how much easier it was to lead a war council than a mob of disgruntled citizenry when white smoke swirled in the middle of the diner and Emma appeared, Neal and Henry at her side. 

Immediately the crowd erupted with a roar of noise, shouting questions and demanding answers. Emma ignored them, hurrying over to her parents with Henry close behind. 

“Grandma!” he cried, “Grandpa! I missed you guys!” 

Snow and Charming folded Henry into a double-hug, and Charming caught Emma’s eye over the top of his head. 

“You guys okay?” she asked. 

“We’re fine. Everyone else though...” He nodded to the crowd behind her. “Well, you remember that reassurance you were going to give everyone? Now’s the time.” 

“Right.” Emma turned to face the crowd. “Everyone!” she shouted. “Hey! Can you all please shut up for a minute!” 

The noise quieted as inquiring faces turned towards her. “Good,” she said. “Okay. Now I’m sure you all have a lot of questio—”  

“Is it true that Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West?” shouted Grumpy. 

“Yeah and why’d she curse us?” Sneezy piped up.

“Oh and why—” 

“How do we—” 

“When can I—” 

“ENOUGH!” Charming’s voice boomed through the diner. “Let her speak!” 

Grumpy opened his mouth again then closed it with an audible click of his teeth as Emma and Charming shot him identical glares. “Yes,” said Emma, “it’s true that Zelena is the Wicked Witch of the West. She cast the curse to get revenge on her sister. Regina.” 

Shocked silence fell, broken just before it grew uncomfortable by Granny’s mutter. “The Evil Queen and the Wicked Witch are sisters? That’s a Thanksgiving dinner I would not want to be at.” Several people nodded their agreement, and then Grumpy piped up again. 

“So if Zelena cast the curse to get back at Regina, then the curse is actually kind of Regina’s fault even though she didn’t technically cast it,” he said. “Right?” 

“No,” said Emma. 

“But if it weren’t for her Zelena may never have—” 

“Okay maybe a little,” Emma interrupted, holding tight to her patience. “But the point is Regina didn’t cast the curse, and also she actually contributed a lot to breaking it.” 

“But—” 

“No going after Regina, Leroy,” said Emma firmly. “She’s on our side now and I for one would like to keep her there. She’s a lot more useful as an ally than an enemy.” 

“Fine,” grumbled Grumpy, and Emma extended her stern glare to the rest of the crowd. “Everyone got that?” she said, raising her voice so they all could hear. “No mobs. This curse was not Regina’s doing and Zelena is being dealt with. Just—let me handle it, okay?” 

No one replied. 

“Okay?” Emma repeated, louder still, and the crowd grumbled reluctant agreement.  

“Okay. Now, I know you must still have a lot of questions and so I’d like to propose that we all take a few days to calm down and think about what we want to do now that this curse is broken. I’m guessing a lot of you are going to want to change jobs, maybe find a new place to live. Think about it, and in a day or two we’ll have a town meeting to talk things out. Is that okay?” She turned inquiringly to Snow. 

“Um.” Snow looked startled. “You’re asking me?”

“Well, you are still the acting mayor,” Emma pointed out. 

“Huh. I guess I am.” She nodded. “That sounds like a good plan to me. All agreed?” 

There was a chorus of “ayes” and “yeses” and “I guess sos” and Emma smiled. “Good. Everyone go back home now, and if you see Regina remember no mobs.” She turned back to her parents with a relieved smile. “Ugh, I’m glad that’s done. I don’t know about you guys but I am dying for some onion rings and mint ice cream. Ooh, and maybe some pickles.” 

~

Regina took her time walking to Granny’s. Killian let her set the pace, clearly content to allow her what time she needed to collect her thoughts. They walked side by side with Robin trailing several feet behind, and Regina took advantage of the chance to look around. The streets were empty, and exactly the same as they had been before. The OG SB, as she imagined Henry would say. Curse 1.0. Her curse. 

 She shifted her shoulders uncomfortably, trying to ease the tension in them. 

“So,” she said. 

“So,” Killian echoed. 

“So, ah, things might get a little unpleasant. At Granny’s. After the last curse broke, the townspeople were out for blood.” 

“Your blood, I presume?” 

“Yes.” 

She could feel his eyes on her, observing with curiosity but no censure. “And you’re worried they will be again?” 

She nodded. “I’m sure Emma will tell them I wasn’t the one who cast it this time, but—well, there are going to be a lot of angry people. And confused ones.” 

“And anger and confusion are a bad combination,” Killian concluded. “Aye. That’s a recipe for mutiny.” She glanced at him and saw his mouth twist with an expression she couldn’t read. She wondered what he could be thinking of.

They walked another block before he spoke again. 

“There are likely to be people out for my blood as well,” he said. “There generally are. And Emma’s parents… well…” 

“Yeah.” 

“Dave will be wanting my head, no doubt. And likely other parts of my anatomy as well.” He raised a wry eyebrow and her mouth curved in an answering smile. “Emma will fight for me, but I doubt that will do much to appease their shock.”

Regina nodded, her throat too tight to speak. Emma will fight for me, he said, with a casual assurance that floored her. She couldn’t imagine what that must feel like, to have such complete faith in someone’s love for you. 

“Regina.” She looked up to find him watching her with an odd expression, understanding and almost kind. “You know that Emma will stand up for you as well,” he said. “As will I. For whatever that’s worth.” 

She smiled. “It’s worth a lot.” 

They walked in silence for a few moments more. “I sense that wasn’t all you wished to speak to me about,” Killian remarked. 

“No.” 

He turned to her with an encouraging look. “Well?” 

“Do you—do you think they’ll ever really accept you? Snow and Charming, I mean. Do you think they’ll ever truly see you as part of their family?” 

“I don’t know. I hope they will. But perhaps the most important thing I have learned about this whole redemption business is that you can’t change the past or control other people’s reaction to it. Perhaps they never will accept me, and I can’t force them to. All I can do is apologise for the wrongs I’ve done and make what amends I can, and try to live better in the future than I have in the past.” 

“And what if you lost Emma? You’d still try to do that? You wouldn’t—er—” 

“Fall back into darkness again?” Killian’s jaw was tight, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side. “No. I wouldn’t.” 

“How can you be sure?” 

“Emma wouldn’t want me to, and even if she were gone I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. But it’s more than just that. I hated who I became, after my brother died and then Milah… I loathed myself for all the things I was doing but that only drove me to do more, worse things. I didn’t know how to make myself stop. ‘This is who you are now,’ I remember thinking. ‘This is the only way for you to be.’ And that, as I’m quite certain you understand, my Queen, is a terrible way to feel. It’s a terrible way to live.” 

Regina swallowed hard. “Yes.”  

“I didn’t want to feel that way anymore. I didn’t want to live that life. Emma merely gave me an opportunity to walk a different path, showed me the way back to the man I had been long ago, a man I almost lost to vengeance. But I would still have wanted to be that man, for my own sake, even if Emma never came to love me.” 

He turned to her with an earnest expression, one she could imagine a young naval lieutenant may once have worn. “You have to want it for yourself, Regina, not for anyone else. If you’re trying to change for another person you’ll always resent it, and them. Do it for yourself alone. Do it because it’s the right thing to do, and because you deserve to be able to look at yourself in the mirror without shame. I’d like to think we all deserve that. Or at least a chance at achieving it.” 

"Thank you,” she said. “I’ll think about that.”  He’d given her a lot to think about. But Granny’s sign was looming less than a block away, and she still needed one thing more of him. 

“Can I ask you a favour?”

“Of course.”

“This curse of Zelena’s... I still can’t quite figure it out. It was weird in a way I’ve never even heard of before, almost like it was, I don’t know, sentient almost. Like it could act for itself.” 

“Hmmm. What makes you think that?”

Regina frowned, trying to recall the exact words that had triggered her bizarre theory. “Zelena told me once she had spies and alarms everywhere, and she certainly always seemed to know what was going on but I never saw anyone actually working for her. Or anything. I don’t think any of her, er, flying monkeys were even here.” 

“So you think she meant the curse itself was her spy.” 

“Yes. Does that sound crazy?” 

“Not at all. This curse certainly had some peculiar qualities. There was that wind, for example, the way it seemed to follow us around.” 

“Yes! And the way I always felt I was being watched.” 

“I suppose there’s no chance of getting Zelena to tell us, now she’s defeated.” 

“Probably not, though I plan to do my best to get it out of her. But who knows how long that might take, so in the meantime do you think you could write down everything you remember about it?” 

“Aye, of course I can. I’ll make a log of my observations, and Henry’s as well. His input will be more useful than mine since he knew the old Storybrooke far better than I did.” 

“That would be perfect. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

They reached the gate of the diner and paused for a moment beneath the arch to allow Robin to catch up with them. When he did, all three exchanged a glance, and Robin took Regina’s hand. 

“Well,” said Regina. “Here goes nothing.”

~

Emma sat herself on a stool at the counter and placed her order with Granny, whose eyebrows rose almost to her hairline as she wrote it down. 

“I’ll get that for you right away,” she said with a probing look that Emma entirely failed to notice. She tapped her fingers absently on the formica countertop, smiling as she watched Henry greet all the people still in the diner and tell them eagerly all about how he had helped break the curse. 

“So,” beamed Snow, taking Emma’s hand and letting her thumb trail significantly across the ring on it. “Congratulations, you two.” She turned her head so her smile encompassed Neal as well. “I’m so glad you found each other again and can be a family.” 

“Ah,” said Emma, glancing at Neal. He gave her a shrug, and a smirk. “Um, actually—” 

“But when did it happen?” Snow was frowning now. “My memories of the curse are really foggy, but weren’t you both here the whole time? When did you have a chance to get married?” 

“Mom, it’s not actually—” 

“Who got married?” asked David, coming over to join them. “Emma?” 

“Yeah, actually I married—” 

A broad grin broke across David’s face and he took Neal’s hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Should I give you my protective father speech now, or is it too late for that?”

Considering our kid is nearly fourteen and was born when I was hardly older than he is now, I’d say yeah it’s a bit too late, Emma thought irritably. “Dad—” 

“We’ll have to have a celebration, of course,” said David, and Snow nodded eagerly. Emma felt the situation spinning rapidly out of her control and Neal, true to form, was being no help at all. 

“GUYS,” she shouted, drawing reproachful looks from Bashful and Doc, who were at the other end of the counter. “Please would you just listen.” 

Snow and David's jaws dropped in unison, and Emma seized her advantage. “I’m not married to Neal,” she told them firmly.  

“But the ring—” Snow began. 

“You’re still not listening, Mom! I’m not married to Neal.” 

Comprehension began to dawn on her parents’ faces. “But… who then…” stuttered Snow. 

Neal’s smirk deepened, and Emma took a deep breath just as the bell on the door chimed and Killian appeared, trailed by Regina and Robin. His eyes found hers immediately and she sent him a pleading look. 

“Killian,” she informed them, reaching out her hand to grasp his hook as he approached. “I’m married to Killian.”  

“What?” Snow cried. 

“Who?” asked David. 

Neal chuckled. “Hook,” he said. 

“Hook—” David frowned in confusion. 

“Aye, mate.” Killian came to stand behind Emma, his feet braced firmly on the floor and his jaw set. 

“Wait, wait…” David shook his head. “You’re married… to Hook?”

“To Killian, yes. For over a year now.” Emma slid off the stool and positioned herself in front of her husband, directly between him and her father, planting her own feet as David’s jaw worked and his eyes flashed. 

“But he’s… he’s…” 

“Don’t say ‘a pirate,’” sighed Emma. “Please. You always say that like it’s the worst thing anyone could ever be, and it’s really not.” 

“I mean, it’s not great,” said Neal. 

“And anyway he isn’t one anymore,” Emma continued, ignoring him. “He traded his ship for a magic bean so that he could find me in New York and bring back my memories, and now he owns a bookstore.” 

“He traded his ship?” 

“Yes.” 

“Really?” 

“Aye, mate, really.” 

“For Emma?” 

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Emma,” said Killian, trying to infuse his words with all the weight of the emotions behind them. “I love her.” 

David’s jaw relaxed a fraction, and his glare grew slightly less murderous.

“So hold on,” Snow said, placing a soothing hand on David’s arm. “Let me try to understand this. Are you saying you two weren’t cursed?” 

“He wasn’t. I kind of was? It’s hard to explain,” said Emma. “Or, I guess not hard so much as long.” 

“We have time,” said David, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Emma sighed. “Okay. So basically, Killian learned that I was in danger in New York and he did what he had to do to get to me as soon as possible. He restored my memories and together we figured out what the danger was, and in the process we learned that Storybrooke must be back. I decided to come here to investigate. He didn’t want me to, but I insisted. As soon as I crossed the town line Zelena appeared in the middle of the road and when I swerved to avoid her I hit a tree and was knocked unconscious. While I was out she dosed me with a powder that had a similar effect to the curse. It took my memories away and gave me new ones. Of course I didn’t know any of this until I managed to break through the effects of the powder and remember everything again.” She shivered as she recalled how awful it had been, believing herself married to Walsh. Unable to remember Killian when she was awake, or even give him much useful information in their dreams. 

“It took Killian a year to make the preparations he needed so that he could get into Storybrooke undetected by any magic, and during that time he lived in New York and took care of Henry. He had to learn all about how our world works, how to drive a car and use a computer and run a business. He did that all by himself because I wasn’t there with him, because I didn’t listen when he told me to wait.” Her voice broke as tears began to flow down her cheeks. Snow moved to comfort her but Emma waved her mother away, instead leaning into Killian when he wrapped his arm around her waist. 

“He never gave up on me, though,” she continued, “and when the time was right he came to Storybrooke, helped bring my memories back again, and then figured out what we needed to do to break the curse.” 

“He took care of Henry?” David’s expression had softened to something very nearly not hostile, just on the edge of accepting. 

“Yeah, Grandpa.” The diner had gone silent as Emma told her tale, and now Henry came to stand next to Killian, pressing close against his side. “He’s my dad. Stepfather, technically, but my dad in every way that counts.” 

Killian found himself swallowing over a lump in his throat, and blinking back tears, and the next words he heard nearly ended him. 

“He saved my life,” Neal said quietly. 

Every eye in the room turned to stare, and Neal, for once, did not smirk. “In the sheriff’s station, earlier today,” he explained. “Zelena and Hook and me both pinned down, and I couldn’t breathe. Emma was headed for Hook, to save him, and he told her no, she needed to save me first. If he hadn’t done that, I’d be dead.” 

Slowly the eyes shifted their focus, fixing on Killian, who flushed bright red. “I was never in any true danger,” he said gruffly. “Some time ago, Emma placed a number of protection spells around me. They’ve proven remarkably effective against Zelena’s magic. I knew I could withstand whatever she threw at me, but Neal could not. That’s, er, why.” 

“You still saved his life,” said Snow. “Whatever the reason.” 

“Well, yes. I mean of course I did,” said Killian, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

David’s face was stern but his eyes warm as he uncrossed his arms and held out his hand. “Welcome to the family,” he said. “Killian.”

~

Some time later, after Emma had finished her peculiar meal and was tucked into a booth chatting with Henry and her parents, Killian found himself at the counter again, this time with a tumbler of rum and his thoughts, when Neal appeared at his side.

“So, I guess I owe you thanks,” he said. 

“I told you, I was never in any danger.” 

“Still. Thanks.” 

Killian turned to him, unsure whether to feel hurt or angry or something else entirely. “Do you really think I’d allow you to be killed if it was in my power to prevent it?” he asked. “Really?” 

Neal shrugged. “I mean, we’ve certainly had our differences. In Neverland, and then with Emma. You might want me out of the way.” 

Killian raised an eyebrow. “Because of Emma? I can assure you there is no need.” 

“Yeah, trust me man, I’ve picked up on that.” Neal accepted a beer from Granny and stared at it in silence for a moment. “You really love her, then?” 

“Aye. I do.” 

Neal nodded. “I can see it. In her too. She loves you, and so does Henry. And I—I’m really trying not to be an asshole here, but I gotta be honest. It feels like you’ve stolen my family. Again.” 

Killian took a gulp of his rum. “I do understand how it might appear that way from where you’re standing, though I promise you there was no theft involved. Either time.” He cast Neal a challenging look. “You wouldn’t ever let me tell you about your mother, in Neverland. Are you willing to listen now?” 

Neal’s mouth twisted. “Will it help?” 

“I suppose that depends on the way you listen.” 

“I don’t know if there’s any good way to listen to you talk about her.” Neal retorted. “You realise that you’ve fucked both my mother and the mother of my kid. Do you have any idea how weird that is for me?” 

“I absolutely do.” 

“It’s just—it’s gonna take me a while. And I’m not making any promises. I don’t owe you anything and you sure as hell don’t seem to feel you owe me. Did you think about me at all when you were moving in on Emma?” 

“No, I didn’t. Because I never ‘moved in on Emma’ as you so charmingly put it. And because my relationship with her has nothing to do with you.” 

“Then why did you promise to back off?” 

“At the time I didn’t know just how connected Emma and I truly are. I knew how I felt, and that there was potential that someday she might feel the same. But I also knew that putting pressure on her to make a choice between us when she’d only just rescued Henry, and when not very long before she’d thought you were dead, well, there was no way that could end well for me. And as I told you then, I intended to play a very long game if necessary.” 

“Not that long though, was it,” Neal sneered. 

“Some of the longest years of my life, being separated from her,” muttered Killian to the last drops of his rum. “Especially this last one.” He glared at Neal. “I meant that promise when I made it. But truthfully, when I learned about the way things ended between you—how you left her by choice when all I wanted was to stay by her side forever—I regretted it.”

“I didn’t—I didn’t have a choice.” 

“I understand that’s what you think. But your abandonment hurt Emma deeply in ways she still sometimes struggles with. And I find that very nearly unforgivable. If it were anyone else, Bae, anyone at all, I wouldn’t even try. But for the memory of your mother and of the boy you were, and for Henry’s sake, I am prepared to wipe the slate clean. If you will as well.”

Neal snorted. “Why should I?”

“Just because you and Emma aren’t romantically involved, that doesn’t mean you can’t be part of her life, and Henry’s. They both care about you, as do I.” 

“So you want me to be part of your sweet little family?” 

“I have wanted that for literal centuries.” 

Neal’s scowl deepened as he fiddled with a loose bit of formica on the tabletop. “Tell me about my mother,” he growled. 

 “She loved you,” Killian replied. “That’s the main thing you need to know. She thought about you every day, told me stories of you all the time. But she was not the sort of person who was really cut out to be a parent. Can you understand that? How she could love you deeply and still not be able to be a good mother to you?” 

“I—” Neal frowned, thinking of himself, and Henry. “I think maybe I can.” 

"She was desperately unhappy in the life she had before we met. I’ve done some reading on the subject and I believe she suffered from what the psychiatry of this realm calls ‘clinical depression.’ She felt hopeless to the point of despair, and though she tried to disguise it with carousing in the tavern and seeking any sort of distraction from her feelings she could find, she knew deep down that it could never be enough. She was worried that her pain would drag you down too, and she couldn’t bear to see that happen. She thought that by leaving you with a loving father who would give you the best life he could that she was giving you your best chance, and she hoped very much that when you were older she could seek you out and you might allow her a place in your life again. I’m so terribly sorry that never came to pass.” 

“So you can barely forgive me leaving Emma for her own good, but you justify my mother leaving me for mine?” Neal snarled. 

“The circumstances aren’t entirely the same, but I take your point. I understand you find it difficult to forgive your mother, and me. But make no mistake, Neal, Milah intended to escape her life, one way or the other. I offered her a preferable alternative to some of the others she was considering, and I like to think she was as happy with me as she could have been. Sometimes there are no good options available and you simply have to take the least bad one.” 

“Like I have to choose between hanging around here and watching you be happy with my ex, or leaving and not seeing Henry anymore.” 

“Aye. Like that.” 

Silence fell between them again, heavy with resentment. Neal drank deeply from his beer, his knuckles white around the handle of the mug. When it was empty he set it forcefully on the counter and turned to face Killian. 

“I’ll take that clean slate,” he said. “I’m definitely not saying I’m ready for us to be happy families, okay, and I might never be, but I’m tired of holding on to this  anger. And hey, if you can stop being angry anyone can, right?” 

Killian nodded, swallowing over the lump in his throat. “Aye. I’d say they can.” 

-

Epilogue coming soon! (like later tonight soon!)  LINK TO THE EPILOGUE

-

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[jess-rewatches-prodigalson]

Episode 6: All Souls and Sadists

My thoughts are heading your way.

SPOILERS AHEAD

0:40 - “No as a white man. We’re terrible.” hahaha I hate Martin on principle but that’s hilarious - and somewhat truthful. 

1:00 - Notice how Ainsley and Malcolm have similar facial expressions when talking to their father? They both do this thing where they sort of smile and look at the ground in a “Dad’s crazy” kind of way. It’s almost like they think their Dad is endearing in a very frustrating and dysfunctional kind of way? They also both shake their heads and close their eyes a lot when talking to Martin. Even the tones of voice that they use with Martin is similar. They start speaking to him calmly and softly but they end the conversation angry, frustrated and desperate. You can really tell that they’re siblings. 

2:32 - “It’s not the right one.” How did the car salesman know Malcolm was looking for a specific car? If I were the salesman I would’ve interpreted that as “It’s not the right car for me. What else can you show me?”...and then show Malcolm a used Honda Civic or something.

3:50 - Malcolm is completely losing it. He’s so desperate. You can see how much pain he’s in during this scene. Look how sad his eyes are. You can tell how close to the edge he is. Also - is this foreshadowing? Is this why Malcolm looks so broken in the 1x19 promo pics? Is he going to revert back to his mute, scared 11 year old self?

6:35 - Despite how broken Malcolm looks in Gabrielle’s office, he looks and acts remarkably put together in this scene. He’s calm, rational, and professional. He’s also subdued. 

6:43 - There’s a look that Dani gives Malcolm right here. She’s concerned about him. Rightfully so. His behaviour is wildly out of character. This is maybe the calmest, most serious he’s ever been at a crime scene. 

7:30 - Dang. This woman is OCD and very numb to her husband’s murder. Did she even care about her husband? I mean I know they were getting a divorce but I would be more upset than she is if my neighbour died - and I don’t even talk to him. 

8:20 - Right here. Malcolm just stopped profiling. He’s trapped inside his head. Overwhelmed with empathy for the little boy who just lost his father. Overwhelmed with the realization that this woman and his own mother feels the same way about their children. He and Ainsley are Jessica’s everything. 

8:30 - See this look in Malcolm’s eyes? That sadness and empathy? That’s a good man right there. That’s not a killer. 

9:00 - You know, right off the bat, this kid is off. No child who has been through trauma that recently is comfortable talking that openly and calmly about how they feel (or how their rabbits feel) because they haven’t had time to process how they feel yet. 

9:15 - You know. I feel like the fact that Martin appeared to be such a good dad to Malcolm during the first 10 years of his life really compounded Malcolm’s trauma. It ruined Malcolm’s ability to trust. It ruined Malcolm’s ability to look fondly at his early childhood memories. 

9:46 - Again. This kid is weird. “I think she’s not that sad.” What? What child talks like this less than 24 hours of the death of a parent? He’s calm and articulate in a way children in emotional pain rarely are. It’s strange.

10:35 - I love how Malcolm is interacting with this kid the same way that Gil interacted with him as a kid. Because Gil made Malcolm feel safe when his whole world fell apart and Malcolm wants Isaac to feel safe. It warms my cold, dead heart.

10:55 - Malcolm’s self-deprecating humour is really heartbreaking. 

11:28 - Tell me I’m not the only one whose heart breaks when Malcolm asks Ainsley if she’s okay. It’s something about the way his eyes widen. He looks so concerned for his little sister and I love it. 

11:45 - I love Ainsley BUT the severity of her ambition is a little concerning. However, I don’t blame her. Chances are the only time Jessica ever showed Ainsley any attention (between her alcoholism and worrying about Malcolm) was when Ainsley achieved something extraordinary. Makes me wonder what kind of a student Ainsley was like in school. What kind of extracurriculars did she do as a child? 

12:00 - Jessica’s behaviour in this scene is wildly inappropriate but also completely understandable. She’s so concerned with her children’s well-being. She always is. It’s why she meddles in their lives and tries to order around her adult children as if they’re 10 years old. Her personality in general is a little extreme, cold, and controlling. I’ll say it again - Jessica lost everything except her children when Martin was arrested. If Jess had some true friends who stuck by her then (or now) I bet she would’ve been less of a controlling force in her children’s lives. 

12:46 - Holy crap. Is Malcolm sleeping with that photo? He’s pulling it out everywhere. The car dealership. His psychologist’s office. His Mom’s house. I know he’s in a fragile mental state right now but that level of obsession with a photograph is not healthy. 

13:09 - Has anyone else been trying to figure out what time of year the Surgeon was arrested? So far the flashbacks look too warm to be between November - February (when there’s usually snow) but we’ve also had confirmation that Malcolm was in school. Therefore, it was during the school year. So it was either in September, October, or sometime between late March - early June? I’m thinking it’s probably closer to June because that’s when camping season generally starts? Anyone else have ideas?

14:20 - I’m genuinely surprised Jessica didn’t make Malcolm stay the night after that little outburst. He looks positively terrified. He’s clearly looking off into the distance because he’s hallucinating. You’d think she’d jump on that and keep him at her place for the night. 

15:08 - Martin might be the most dangerous criminal in Claremont because he’s so manipulative. Watch him try to manipulate Stanley. Martin is clearly doing it deliberately. Martin is so desperate for attention that he’ll do and say anything to be the center of attention. He always has an ulterior plan. Ugh....actually it kind of reminds me of a much more extreme version of Ainsley....which is slightly concerning.

17:00 - UGH. Gil why did you have to walk in now? Dani was just about to get Malcolm to talk about what’s bothering him. She was so concerned about Malcolm you could see it on her face. It was beautiful.

17:21 - I love that JT says what we’re all thinking. Where do you get a stat like that? 

18:25 - I wish we could’ve seen the scene where Malcolm has to convince Gil to let him get beat up for a potential sadist. That would’ve fuelled my heart for days....also Tom Payne looks super attractive in this gym outfit. 

20:15 - You know, I don’t think Malcolm is a masochist. I think he’s so depressed and in so much constant emotional pain that sometimes he forgets that his life is important. He forgets that he matters to people. He subjects himself to physical pain because it numbs out the emotional pain. He’s not a masochist - he just needs an escape.

20:49 - There’s Papa Gil. Look how annoyed he is. He totally wants to give Jake a piece of his mind for trying to hurt Malcolm. You can see it. Too bad he won’t because it was technically consensual.  

21:56 - Seriously? How fast is this woman and how quiet is she? Dani looked away for maybe 5 seconds and didn’t hear the woman book it toward her? Nah. I don’t buy it. 

23:00 - Dani is a badass. JT is a total big brother look at how concerned he was for Dani. I love it all. 

23:15 - Proud Gil is everything. <3 

23:45 - This little pep talk that Gil gives Malcolm is precious. Gil is Malcolm’s Dad in all the ways that matter. Look at how concerned Gil is about Malcolm. Gil knows. He knows that Malcolm is spiralling. *sigh* My heart is breaking.

24:10 - Again. Where did JT go? Sometimes JT just disappears in the middle of an episode with no explanation. 

25:15 - “It’s what you say to a kid.” Is it Gil? Because you’ve spent the past twenty years of your life trying to ensure that Malcolm is okay. Why do you think Malcolm is so cut up about Isaac’s current predicament? It’s because Malcolm is trying to be as good a man as you are and he thinks that he’s failing.

26:04 - Why is this dude always half-naked? Seriously. This whole episode he’s shirtless. 

26:21 - Do you think Ainsley dated much in high school? Given the way Jessica is currently treating her boyfriends I can’t imagine that it would’ve been easy for Ainsley to date. 

27:10 - THIS. I feel this. “Everything I know has been coloured by your resentment”. This is real. My Dad was abusive. He left (court-ordered, long story) when I was ten. Everything my brother and I know about our Dad and his past is coloured by our Mom’s resentment. Even though we know he was a bad guy, we still wish we could’ve met the guy that Mom fell in love with. We wish we could have happy stories about his past that aren’t coloured by his mistakes. Ainsley’s reaction here is totally justified. Sometimes you’ll do anything to find the one story that reassures you that your Dad wasn’t a total loser. 

27:36 - “Did you love us?” That one hurt. The real answer is no. He didn’t. He’s a psychopath. He’s incapable. And deep down Ainsley knows that but look at her eyes. You can see how desperately she wants to believe her that her Dad loves her. Ugh. Martin is scum. He’s such a good manipulator. I hate it so much.

32:50 - This whole scene with Malcolm barging into the interrogation room is amazing. I mean I have nothing to point out that isn’t blatantly obvious but holy moly this is a good scene. Makes you wonder if Gil was ever worried about Malcolm becoming like Martin.

37:00 - A wild JT has reappeared.

38:00 - This scene is perfect. The juxtaposition between Bright and Isaac is beautiful. The insight to Malcolm’s childhood is heartbreaking. The empathy on Malcolm’s face is heartwarming. The concern on Gil’s face. You can really see who Malcolm might have become without Gil. 

40:30 - This Gil and Malcolm conversation is perfect. “Not on my watch.” My heart is full.

42:00 - Does Malcolm have any sense of self-preservation? I know he’s desperate but hanging out at a junkyard in the middle of the night is a bad idea. 

Thanks for hanging out. Catch you again soon.

[aspoonofsugar]

Hi ! I'm re-watching Psycho Pass and there's one thing disturbing me that I thought you might have some idea of an answer ... I have the impression that Makishima has a fair answer to free will, system sibyl etc, but that the story didn't know how to integrate it with the original idea of following people who had agreed to serve the system Sibyl, so they made this character a murderer in order to facilitate the thing and balance - good bad sides for the narrative. Is it just me or ... ?

Hello anon!

Makishima, like all the other characters of the series has been written in a way so that he can be used to explore the ideas and themes the story wants to explore. The first thing about Psycho Pass that was probably born was its world aka the idea of a dystopian society which works in a specific way. Starting from there, they decided to develop the story in a way which both used and subverted many tropes used by dystopias. One of the tropes they subverted was the one according to which the hero of the story has to fight the system. In Psycho Pass they chose to write the person fighting the system as a negative character. The result was (imo) a very fascinating and complex character who says many true things, but is also hypocritical and unjustifiable.

I would say that Makishima has been written in a way that explores the positive and negative aspects of Sybil.

Sybil is a system which gives security (both in terms of personal safety and economic security) to the majority (?) of the population, but it does so by sacrificing minorities, contacts with other countries and two main human qualities. It sacrifices aggressivity (even a healthy degree of aggressivity which lets people react when in danger) and the ability to think critically.

These two human attributes are often discussed throughout the episodes and they are often the main theme of single cases. For example, episode 3 shows how aggressivity can’t really be eliminated and so how unhealthy mechanisms are tolerated in order to keep it in check. In the factory the MCs visit bullism is accepted and encouraged, so that everyone’s psycho-pass is kept under control. Similarly, it is shown multiple times how art and creativity are not encouraged by Sybil and that many artists are latent criminals. This is something explored in Yayoi’s backstory, for example, or in Rikako’s one.

Because of this, Makishima is a character who embodies both these human attributes. On one hand he is extremely intelligent and has an amazing culture. On the other hand he uses violent methods to reach his objectives. Tbh, I think that Makishima’s choice to nurture people’s violent sides is partially born by the fact that these parts are the ones Sybil actively represses.

We know that what triggered Makishima into becoming who he is in the series is his realization of not really being accepted by society. As a matter of fact Sybil not being able to measure his psycho pass means that Makishima is not really a human being according to it. Because of this discovery, it is understandable that Makishima would have started questioning Sybil much more than a normal citizen would have done. By doing so, he has managed to understand the system and its short-comings pretty well and he has found that it influences people into repressing aggressivity and into losing critical awareness of themselves and the world. Because of this, Makishima gives critical thinking and aggressivity importance. This happens because Makishima wants to negate Sybil in order to affirm himself (aka a person whose existence is not recognized by the system) and so he uses what Sybil negates.

This is also why Makishima’s attempts keep failing and he keeps discarding people. In the end, the ability to develop critical thinking is not linked to the ability of expressing one’s aggressivity without any restraint. However, Makishima keeps expecting the latent criminals he meets to immediately develop critical thinking just because he gives them the chance to express their most violent parts. Rikako is the best example of this. In the end, Rikako is a girl who is angry because of her father dying and leaving her behind. The system doesn’t give her a healthy way to process this loss and so she ends up harboring negative feelings which cloud her psycho pass until Makishima finds her and validates those feeling and encourages her to express them in a violent way. However, in the end Makishima discards Rikako like he had discarded others because he claims that she is not able to develop a deep enough point of view on things. This is not fair because in the end he is asking a teenager who is venting for her father’s fate to develop a highly deep and informed perspective on things. As if Rikako had any chance to properly think about things in the situation she was in and as if she had not all the time in the world to develop her personal perspective as she grew up.

In short, Makishima is a person who uses violence because Sybil wants to eliminate aggressivity from society as much as possible. What is more, Makishima’s choice is perfectly coherent with the information we are given about his character, his motivation and his past.

Of course, it could have been possible to write a character who embodied these two attributes, but who was more sympathetic than Makishima and had a more acceptable ethical system, but this would have meant not to explore a series of ideas and themes and would have ultimately (imo) made the story less interesting.

For example, let’s consider this scene:

Societies, just like people, have defense mechanisms which keep the truth hidden. The conversation between Akane and Kogami makes clear that what happened because of Makishima has clearly shown a series of contradictions of the Sybil System and its society. However, citizens will keep ignoring them and will try their best to go back to their usual lives. This is an interesting concept and it is linked to the idea that Sybil works not because it is perfect, but because it acts as if it were and people choose to believe it.

What is more, the way Sybil works is firstly introduced thanks to two minor cases: the case of episodes 4 and 5 and the one of episodes 9, 10 and 11.

Mido and Senguji, aka the two antagonists of the two cases, explore themes linked to identity and to the concept of immortality:

Interestingly, they both make references to Plato and their stories explore two different dynamics which will turn out to be key ones to explain how Sybil works.

Mido’s story is about a man who lacks a proper self-identity and who has chosen to escape in a world made of avatars. However, Mido has become so obsessed with these personas that he has chosen not to accept the fact that behind them there are imperfect people. Because of this, he is progressively killing these people and maintaining their avatars alive. He claims that after losing their original creators the avatars have somehow become perfect because they have been modified and made better by the ideas people have of them.

This concept is very similar to what Sybil says here:

In other words, Sybil is made perfect by the idea people have of it. This is why the system is so powerful and its society works.

Senguji is a man who has almost completely turned himself into a cyborg. He makes some interesting points:

Basically, he is highlighting how society has become too much intertwined with technology. The journalist’s dependence on her personal computer resembles the dependence of  society as a whole on the Sybil System. What is more, Senguji claims that he is simply a step ahead of the rest of society when it comes to his dependence on machines. However, we are later told so:

In short, Sybil is far ahead of Senguji when it comes to this specific technology and so it is closer to immortality than him ever was.

In synthesis, Sybil works because of these two dynamics and pieces of technology which are commonly found in society. The difference is simply that Sybil has developed them to the extreme.

I really like that the series has gone out of its way to present these aspects in its introductory episodes because it fits with what a dystopia should do. Dystopias should ideally take aspects of the current society and exaggerate them to show how they can be damaging.

This is something Psycho Pass does very well imo because, while the idea of a hive mind who judges people’s mental health and their abilities might seem far away, avatars and cyborgs are not.

In short, Sybil exists not despite people, but because of people and it won’t be overcome until society refuses it, unless a person chooses to use violent methods like the one Makishima endorsed.

Another interesting aspect of the series is the fact that in the end Akane grows, but still chooses not to join Makishima and to work with the system.

Psyhco Pass is a dystopia inspired by some classics of the genre:

Makishima directly quotes and mentions them, so I think there is no doubt about it. In many classic dystopias it is often shown how humanity loses itself to the system so much that in the end the system is somehow accepted. This can happen because of different reasons. For example, in 1984 the main character in the end is tortured and lost the thing he had defined his whole humanity on.

Psycho Pass goes at it in a different way. In the end, the main point of view character chooses the system as a result of a character arc and of some personal growth. It is an ending which is powerful for different reasons and one of these is that when you starts watching the series you would not believe this to be something which can be pulled off in a believable way. This is simply because the society created by Sybil is not a society many viewers could truly accept when they start watching (and hopefully it is not one they come to accept in the end). However, the fact that the story develops in a way that by the end you are allowed to root for characters who want to stop a person who wants to destroy a wrong system is interesting and adds to the complexity of the whole story.

In short, things like the defense mechanisms society uses to protect itself and why people come to accept the system are shown to the viewers very clearly thanks to Akane being the main point of view character instead of Makishima.

That said, I would like to highlight that Makishima’s fair answer you talk about is not really lost because it is accepted as it is by Akane herself:

What Akane disagrees with are Makishima’s methods which she recognizes being born out of envy:

All in all the ending of Psycho Pass is an open ending:

Kogami states that if everyone were to be like Akane Sybil will not be necessary anymore, while the system states that if everyone were to be like Akane the Sybil would have reached its objective. Who is right?

And again:

Akane says humans will keep evolving and conquer Sybil, while Sybil says it will keep evolving and conquer humanity. Who is right?

Let’s finally consider the very last frame:

Is this a reference to Sybil? Or is it a reference to real justice which will conquer Sybil? Or is it simply a reference to Kogami’s character who is chained by his view on justice? All in all these are all questions left open and to which people can give different answers according to their own understanding of society and of humanity.

In conclusion, when it comes to your question, I would say that Makishima was written in a specific way for several reasons among which, as you say, there is the choice of wanting to explore the society through the eyes of people who are initially supportive or neutral to the system because they are much closer to the average citizen than a person opposing Sybil. However, I do not really think this is a cheap reason to make such a choice.

Thank you for the ask!