#years if not a couple of decades (which must seem like nothing to million year robots)

[transingthoseformers]

"This is my husband, Megatron. He's... Well he's Megatron alright."

"You wound me, dear Prime💖💖💖"

[havenoffandoms]

72 for Geralt/Jaskier?

I meant to post this a lot earlier... sorry about the wait, nonnie. I hope you like it anyway. I'm not sure how it came out in the end after I agonised over this for the past couple of days, but it was fun going back to my Geraskier roots.

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Prompt 72: Character A has a secret. Character B does whatever they can to find out what it is. When they find out, they wish they hadn't.

Warnings: brief angsty episode, mention of Geralt's traumatic childhood

Also, I love that art! Holy Shit!? So of course this had to feature before the fic <3

Travelling with Jaskier had its downfalls.

For one, the bard talks a lot. He never stops, not even in his sleep, and that would drive any man insane if you ask Geralt. He listens to Jaskier waffling about poetry all day, every day, he doesn’t have to endure a lecture on the benefits of iambic pentameters when he’s trying to fall asleep, thank you very much. Jaskier also likes to complain about every little thing that causes him discomfort, which when they’re on the path, ranges from fly bites all the way to sore feet. Travelling with a human also means that they travel considerably slower, unless they’re both riding on top of Roach, but Geralt doesn’t like putting his best girl under that kind of strain very often.

For all of Jaskier’s flaws, Geralt would hate to have to separate from his bard. At least, when Jaskier is close by, Geralt can keep an eye on him and make sure Jaskier doesn’t get himself into any unnecessary trouble. Having Jaskier travel with him gives Geralt peace of mind. He appreciates the singing as well, even if he could stand to tell Jaskier this a bit more often. Geralt deems that his bard’s ego is plenty inflated without Geralt making it worse. Not to mention that life always seems a little bit brighter when Jaskier is around, and the nights are a little less lonely as Geralt gets to pull his bard close and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart. Knowing that Jaskier is safe is the only thing that lets Geralt sleep peacefully at night.

You’d think that after nearly two decades of knowing his bard, Geralt would have figured out Jaskier’s secret by now. Geralt is, of course, referring to Jaskier’s near supernatural ability to always come up with coin when he and Geralt need it most urgently. Geralt has no idea how the bard does it - his songs are popular, granted, and on a good night Jaskier makes enough to buy a nice room for the night and the better pieces of meat from the kitchen. Still, being a bard doesn’t pay that well, not even if you were as famous as Jaskier. Just last week, Geralt’s horse and most of his belonging were stolen by bandits, leaving Geralt travelling on foot and too poor to afford to buy a new horse. Two days later, Jaskier came trotting up to their camp atop a gorgeous mare, looking mighty pleased with himself but refusing to tell Geralt how he managed to afford to pay for the horse.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole her, Geralt, my dear?”

“Not in a million years,” Geralt admitted deadpan, pulling an offended squawk from his songbird.

“Just because I’m a bard you don’t think I can steal a horse?”

“I don’t think you could ever steal a horse because you’re as stealthy as the proverbial bull in the porcelain shop.”

It’s not just the horse, though. Geralt’s armour needed replacing and good armour doesn’’t come cheaply. Geralt doesn’t hire the services of just any blacksmith or armourer to craft his weapons and protective gear. He has his regular suppliers, the ones he always goes back to because he knows that their work is reliable and of the highest quality. And even though these people know Geralt by now, even offer him a friends and family discount on occasion, their wares still come at a hefty price. Geralt, as it turns out, didn’t have the coin to replace his armour for a few months. He desperately needed new boots, though. A new pair of breeches wouldn’t hurt either, and his silver sword broke in half whilst fighting a particularly vicious griffin a few weeks back.

Geralt didn’t even mention all of this to Jaskier. That didn’t stop the bard from going ahead and commissioning a brand new suit of armour, new silver and steel swords, as well as a few casual clothes for Geralt to wear on the warmer summer days. All of this must have cost an arm, a leg and a fucking lung, and yet Jaskier acted like he didn’t just break the bank all for Geralt’s benefit. He didn’t even get anything for himself and that realisation had Geralt feeling slightly embarrassed about the gesture.

“You don’t have to buy me all this stuff, Jask.”

“I know that, dearest,” Jaskier assured him, eyes soft and an easy smile playing on his lips, “but I wanted to. Only the best for you, my sweet witcher.”

The mystery of where Jaskier managed to find the coin to pay for all this remains unsolved, despite Geralt’s questioning. Well, if Jaskier won’t outright tell him, then Geralt will just have to investigate the matter by himself.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."

Request a prompt

[hannigramficrecs]

Newly Added Fics 5/16

Hello everyone, sorry again for the slight hiatus! I’ve replied to all the messages in my inbox (at least the ones that were sent to me before this past friday), so if you asked me something before that, be sure to check out my replies!

As usual, I’ve emboldened the fics I really liked and italicized the ones that are incomplete.

Looks Like Love by luvkurai [words: 5,987] — (AU)

After his sister's wedding, Will kisses his childhood housekeeper (and first love).

Betrothed by slashyrogue [words: 3,932] — (AU)

In one month he would marry a total stranger.

Titan Arum by ProxyOne [words: 64,614] — (AU)

Will is a botanist, working in the greenhouse of the local Botanical Gardens. He is getting his life back on track after his divorce, but he can't help but notice someone who keeps coming back to his greenhouse to draw, day after day. A man who seems to have been paying very close attention to him...

Find Me In The Dark by Rising_Phoenix [words: 40,131] — (AU)

After a fateful accident, the marriage of Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter has reached its end. Grief and the inability to stop them from falling apart has brought an irreconcilable distance between the formerly deeply devoted couple. While Hannibal is apathetic towards his husband, ignores him, and is withdrawn, Will has started an affair with fellow teacher Francis and drowns his desperation in more and more alcohol. 

Light of All Lights by whiskeyandspite [words: 20,377] — (AU)

Dracula-like fic without any of the vampires

The Stage Just For You by CarnivalMirai [words: 6,494] — (AU + Age Gap)

Will has landed himself the role of Odette for world-famous choreographer Hannibal Lecter's rendition of The Swan Lake.

There Will Be Bells by Entropyrose [words: 36,639] — (A/B/O)

In Georgian England, male omegas are very rare diamonds. Baron and Baroness Graham have a plan to build their wealth and social status by offering their son Will's hand in marriage to a mysterious older Duke, an Alpha named Lord Hannibal Lecter. Will's personal feelings need not apply.

Alpha Mart by slashyrogue [words: 63,164] — (A/B/O)

Will needs an alpha. After years of fake knots, half-assed suppressants, and his own damn hand during heats he’s reached the end of his rope. He doesn’t do dating so he decides to waste his life savings and hype with the current trend. Alpha Mart.

Enchanted By Your Name by CarnivalMirai [words: 9,207] — (A/B/O + PWP)

“Now, my husband would prefer it if I got the job done quickly.” He says, slashing down the back of each gag as he passes each man, watching as the silk falls gracefully to the floor. “However, I want to have some fun. Considering you’ve troubled my husband so much… it’s only fair, right?” One of the men whimpered fearfully. Or: The name "Will Graham" is a name you'll only ever hear once.

I've Been Building Black Ships by cloudsarefluffy [words: 8,116] — (A/B/O + AU)

Alpha Hannibal moves to the States with his sister Mischa after being overtly done with the fancy life of a count, and his blind omega neighbor gives him an insight into love that he never quite expected.

A Rare Find by hit_the_books [words: 5,379] — (A/B/O + AU)

Life as an omega bookseller can be quite lonely. However, as the owner of Graham’s Books, Will Graham is reasonably content. That is until he meets—long-time customer and crush—Doctor Hannibal Lecter in person for the first time. Attraction blossoming between them both, Will agrees to a dinner date with the good doctor.

We All Have a Hunger by 1ntothew1ld [words: 12,260] — (A/B/O + Age Gap)

Hannibal will ensure a properly slow and painful death for an alpha who allowed a beautiful young omega to go to waste as this one has. Too skinny for his own good, a stuttering and humble mess. The likes of the omega in front of him belonged at Opera houses and in million-dollar mansions, not scrounging for his next meal. Meek and afraid in some disheveled row house. When he finally looked back up the alpha had to conceal the utter punch to the stomach that meager glance was, blue eyes full of innocence but also hunger.

The Doctor Is In by Kummerspeck7 — (A/B/O + PWP)

Will nearly scoffed. "You can't expect me to believe you'd want anything other than a delicate flower to adorn your side, keep your ostentatious home, bare you the exact number of children you want--No more, no less-- all while being available at your whims." "Not at all." Hannibal disagreed. "I would no more put a wilting flower in my home than in a bouquet given as a gift. Tell me, Will, is that how you are treated? Forbidden from work, cloistered inside and used at Mr Brown's discretion?" "My Alpha's discretion." Hannibal looked pointedly at the curve of Will's neck, free from a single scar. "Not yet he isn't."

Teenage Wildlife by writtenbyizzy [words: 10,163] — (Age Gap + Sugar Daddy)

While reluctantly prowling Grindr for a sugar daddy to pay for his dog Bean's vet bills Will comes across Hannibal, and gets far more than he bargained for.

Just As Poised As I Remember by CarnivalMirai [words: 5,721] — (Age Gap + School)

When Will was in high school he had an incredibly handsome psychology teacher-- tall and sharp with a thick European accent. And now, a decade later, said psychology teacher-turned psychiatrist... just swiped right on him.

We Can Chase the Dark Together by K_R_Closson [words: 16,615] — (Fantasy)

Will tips him and Hannibal off the cliff. Instead of hitting the water, he wakes up in his bed, several years in the past. His first, and only, priority is to find Hannibal again.

We Killed a Dragon Last Night by inameitlater [words: 88,150] — (Fantasy)

Will remembers falling. He wakes up months before Jack got him to work for him. Months before he met Hannibal for the first time. Free from his past he decides to change events and meet Hannibal again.

My Only Constant Is You by TheSilverQueen [words: 25,369] — (Fantasy)

Hannibal Lecter is an immortal who can never die. Will Graham is a time traveler who can never stay in one place. Perhaps that is why they are perfect for each other.

Motinos Kalba by Lyla_Joy [words: 6,040] — (Fluff)

Five times Hannibal Lecter spoke Lithuanian on accident and one time he meant too.

You Make Me Feel (Good) by sourweather [words: 7,190] — (Fluff)

Will Graham has sensory issues. The world gets too loud, he gets overstimulated easily, but most of all he hates being touched. He never expected someone to work so hard to make him comfortable, to be so patient with him.

Pick Me Up by sourweather [words: 6,053] — (Fluff)

Will doesn't go to bars much. He doesn't end up needing a ride home much. But when he does get drunk, he always wants to ask Hannibal to pick him up.

Hard to Get by JSinister32 [words: 5,561] — (Jealousy)

Will and Hannibal had been broken up for six months. When confessions are made during a work function, can they find it within themselves to forgive?

Polar Opposites by Lyla_Joy [words: 19,513] — (Kidnapping)

“Says the cannibalistic serial killer who knocked me out and is now holding me hostage,” sassed Will. The Ripper didn’t smile but his eyes crinkled in the corner. “Please call me Hannibal.”

Fate Is A Keen-Eyed Hound by LydiaFearing [words: 5,890] — (Mischa)

Hannibal may be a successful, charming psychiatrist but Mischa worries that her brother is lonely so she gifts him a puppy. Hannibal reluctantly falls for his little dog but wants to get involved with time-consuming FBI work and not just anyone can be allowed to look after his pet. Luckily, Alana can recommend a boarding kennel in Wolf Trap.

The Significant Other: The Will and Hannibal Edition by house_of_lantis [words: 18,431] — (Murder Husbands)

After their terrible and abrupt break up, Will and Hannibal attempt to maneuver through their social circles, side step ongoing gossip, and deal with the fact that Will knows the truth of Hannibal. Through impossible odds, Will and Hannibal do find their way to each other again.

Dancing with the Beast by proser [words: 86,347] — (Murder Husbands)

In order to catch a mediocre serial killer, Will must pose as Hannibal's date for a series of pretentious social events. Hannibal is dramatic and jealous as ever, and Will is having a great time without the encephalitis. Of course, it's a love story.

Arriving at the Crossroads by HigherMagic [words: 7,558] — (Mpreg)

"You haven't been my psychiatrist for a long time," Will echoes. "But you've been my friend. You've helped me. With…" He gestures vaguely to his head. "When my brain was on fire. On consults. When it's dark and I need a guiding light." "It pleases me very greatly to be a source of comfort and reassurance for you, Will," Hannibal says. "I have wanted to be that for you, for a long time."

The Hanged Man by justhavesex [words: 13,076] — (Mpreg)

Will Graham had never wanted children before, but he had never considered it to be a consequence of his omegan brain not finding anyone worthy, but the moment he had met Hannibal Lecter he had been filled with want. In which a dinner party one-night stand results in a pregnancy that changes Will's entire life.

I Don't Even Like Lana Del Rey by perpetuallycaffeinated [words: 4,328] — (PWP)

The tension and low thrum of arousal were making Will speak impulsively. He knew this, but he’d just finished his drink. There was nothing he could use to stop the question, blunt and presumptuous and rude. “So, what, you’re my daddy?”

A Bad Combination In The Dark by perpetuallycaffeinated [words: 1,957] — (PWP)

When a nerve wracked Will Graham accidentally cuts his hand on Dr. Lecter's letter opener, things quickly get out of control.

The Best Bait by sourweather [words: 3,327] — (PWP)

Will is a good fisherman, he knows which bait to use for his catch. Will seduces Hannibal at a party by being sexy.

Whimsy by justheretoreadhannibalfics [words: 3,001] — (School)

Doctor Hannibal Lecter is standing in as a teacher while Professor Graham is out of town on a case. The students start to kind of like him, and become very invested in his love life.

Callipygian by ProxyOne [words: 2,260] — (Season 1)

Hannibal has a lot of sketches of Will, which he normally keeps safely away. One day though, Will shows up unexpectedly and Hannibal is caught unawares, and unprepared.

L'appel Du Vide by sourweather [words: 5,413] — (Season 1)

Will is hiding things from his coworkers. From himself. But Doctor Lecter knows.

Friends Don't Frame Friends: A Lesson for a Clueless Cannibal by LadyFelixTristis [words: 5,041] — (Season 1)

Ear? What ear? Will Graham doesn’t try to thwart Hannibal Lecter’s plans for him. He just does. By accident. And then on purpose.

For All My Pride, You Were the Fall of Me by nobetterlove [words: 13,212] — (Season 2)

After being released from the BSHCI, Will grabs the dogs he can't live without and leaves without a trace

Letters to God by CarnivalMirai [words: 4,698] — (Season 3+)

Will writes letters to Hannibal every day after his incarceration. But they never make it.

Blankets, Coffee Cups, and Christmas Morning by sourweather [words: 6,352] — (Season 3+)

Hannibal wants to enjoy the domesticity. The love, the closeness, the being Known. But something about his life with Will makes him want to lash out.

All These Fictionary Tales by ProxyOne [words: 18,492] — (Season 3+)

After the fall, Hannibal is presumed dead. Will has been declared dead. But Will isn't willing to believe that Hannibal would just abandon him like that 

Seduction by BloodunderMoonlight [words: 7,086] — (Season 3+)

“For fuck’s sake, Hannibal.” Will glared at him, brimming with wrath he had only seen behind Will’s gun. He had no doubt Will would draw out a knife from beneath the duvet or pillows, but clearly words were enough to make him gobsmacked—“Are you a fucking virgin or monk? If all these can’t get you to bed then I don’t know what can.” Hannibal stood gaping at Will.

Blood, Cedar and Dog Hair by sourweather [words: 3,351] — (Season 3+)

Something terrible happens while Hannibal is in prison. Something he never prepared for.

Hidden Potential by sourweather [words: 20,789] — (Soulmates)

The first time you make eye contact with your soul mate, you see a vision of their greatest accomplishment. They call it your Peak. Unfortunately for Will Graham, his soul mate's Peak is a vision of blood and horror. Fortunately for Hannibal Lecter, his soul mate's is too.

Karoliai by slashyrogue [words: 4,577] — (Sugar Daddy)

Will works at a jewelry store. He has worked there for three months and sold less than any other person there. His boss tells him to sell something by the end of the day or he may not have a job tomorrow. If there was one thing Will hated more than having to talk people into buying jewelry they didn’t need, it was trying to do it two days before Valentine’s Day.

[wolfstar-in-color]

July Colorful Column: Remus is a Crip, and We Can Write Him Better.

There is one thing that can get me to close a fic so voraciously I don’t even make sure I’m not closing other essential tabs in the process. It doesn’t matter how much I’m loving the fic, how well written I think it is, or how desperately I want to know how it ends. Once I read this sentence, I am done.

It’s written in a variety of different ways, but it always goes something like this: “You don’t want me,” Remus said, “I am too sick/broken/poor/old/[insert chosen self-demeaning adjective here].”

You’re familiar with the trope. The trope is canonical. And if you’ve been around the wolfstar fandom for longer than a few minutes, you’ve read the trope. Maybe you love the trope! Maybe you’ve written the trope! Maybe you’re about to stop reading this column, because the trope rings true to you and you feel a little attacked!

Now, let’s get one thing out of the way right now: I am not saying the trope is wrong. I am not saying it’s bad. I am not saying we should stop writing it. We all have things we don’t like to see in our chosen fics. Maybe you can’t stand Leather Jacket Motorbike Sirius? Maybe you think Elbow Patch Remus is overdone? Or maybe your pet peeves are based in something a little deeper - maybe you think Poor Latino Remus is an irresponsible depiction, or that PWPs are too reductive? Whatever it is, we all have our things.

Let me tell you about my thing. When I first became very ill several years ago, there were various low points in which I felt I had become inherently unlovable. This is, more or less, a normal reaction. When your body stops doing things it used to be able to do - or starts doing things you were quite alright without, thank you very much - it changes the way you relate to your body. You don’t want to hear my whole disability history, so yada yada yada, most people eventually come to accept their limitations. It’s a very painful existence, one in which you constantly tell yourself your disability has transformed you into a burdensome, unworthy member of society, and if nothing else, it’s not terribly sustainable. Being disabled takes grit! It takes power! It takes a truly absurd amount of medical self-advocacy! Hating yourself? Thinking yourself unworthy of love? No one has time for that. 

Of course, I’m being hyperbolic. Plenty of disabled people struggle with these feelings many years into their disabilities, and never really get over them. But here’s the thing. We experience those stories ALL THE TIME. Remember Rain Man? Or Million Dollar Baby? Or that one with the actress from Game of Thrones and that British actor who seemed like he was going to have a promising career but then didn't? Those are all stories about sad, bitter disabled people and their sad, bitter lives, two out of three of which end in the character completing suicide because they simply couldn’t imagine having to live as a disabled person. (I mean, come on media, I get that we're less likely to enjoy a leisurely Saturday hike, but our parking is SUBLIME.) When was the last time you engaged with media that depicted a happy disabled person? A complex disabled person? A disabled person who has sex? No really, these aren’t hypothetical questions, can you please drop a rec in the notes?? Because I am desperate.

There are lots of problems with this trope, and they’ve been discussed ad nauseam by people with PhDs. I’m not actually interested in talking about how this trope leads to a more prevalent societal idea that disabled people are unworthy of love, or contributes to the kind of political thought processes that keep disabled people purposefully disenfranchised. I’m just a bitch on Tumblr, and I have a bone to pick: the thing I really hate about the trope? It’s boring. I’m bored. You know how, like, halfway through Grey’s Anatomy you realized they were just recycling the same plot points over and over again and there was just no WAY anyone working at a hospital prone to THAT MANY disasters would stay on staff? It's like that. I love a recycled trope as much as the next person (There Was Only One Bed, anyone?). But I need. Something. Else.

Remus is disabled. BOLD claim. WILD speculation. Except, not really. You simply - no matter how you flip it, slice it, puree it, or deconstruct it - cannot tell me Remus Lupin is not disabled. Most of us, by this point, are probably familiar with the way that One Canonical Author intended One Dashing Werewolf to be “a metaphor for those illnesses that carry stigma, like HIV and AIDS” [I’m sorry to link you to an outside source quoting She Who Must Not Be Named, but we’re professionals here]. Which is... a thing. It’s been discussed. And, listen, there’s no denying that this parallel is a problematic interpretation of people who have HIV/AIDS and all such similar “those illnesses” (though I’ll admit that I, too, am perennially apt to turn into a raging beast liable to harm anything that crosses my path, but that’s more linked to the at-least-once-monthly recollection that One Day At A Time got cancelled). Critiques aside, Remus Lupin is a character who - due to a condition that affects him physically, mentally, emotionally, and intellectually - is repeatedly marginalized, oppressed, denied political and social power, and ostracized due to unfounded fear that he is infectious to others. Does that sound familiar?

We’re not going to argue about whether or not “Remus is canonically disabled as fuck” is a fair reading. And the reason we’re not going to argue about whether or not it’s a fair reading is because I haven’t read canon in 10-plus years and you will win the argument. Canon is only marginally relevant here. The icon of this blog is brown, curly haired Remus Lupin kissing his trans boyfriend, Sirius Black. We are obviously not too terribly invested in canon. The wolfstar fandom is now a community with over 25,000 AO3 fics, entire careers launched from drawing or writing or cosplaying this non-canonical pairing. We love to play around here with storylines and universes and races and genders and sexualities and all kinds of things, but most of the time? Remus is still disabled. He’s disabled as a werewolf in canon-compliant works, he’s disabled in the AUs where he was injured or abused or kidnapped or harmed as a child, he’s disabled in the stories that read him as chronically ill or bipolar or traumatized or blind or Deaf. I’d go so far as to say that he is one of very few characters in the Wide Wonderful World of media who is, in as close to his essence as one can be, always disabled. And that means? Don’t shoot the messenger... but we could stand to be a tiny bit more responsible with how we portray him. 

Disabled people are complicated. As much as I’d like to pretend we are always level-headed, confident, and ready to assert our inherent worth, we are still just humans. We have bad days. We doubt our worth. We sometimes go out with guys who complain about our steroid-induced weight gain (it was a long time ago, Tumblr, okay??). But, we also have joy and fun and good days and sex and happiness and families and so many other things. 

Remus is a disabled character, and as such, it’s only fair that he’d have those unworthy moments. But - I propose - Remus is also a crip. What is a crip? A crip - like a queer - is someone who eschews the limited boundaries placed on their bodies, who rejects a hierarchy of oppression in favor of an intersectional analysis of lived experience, who isn’t interested in being the tragic figure responsible for helping people with dominant identities realize how good they have it. Crips interpret their disabilities however they want, rethinking bodies and medicine and pleasure and pain and even time itself. Crips are political, community-minded, and in search of liberation. 

Remus is a character who struggles with his disability, sure. But he’s also a character who leverages his physical condition to attempt to shift communities towards his political leanings, advocates for the rights of those who share his physical condition, and has super hot sex with his wrongfully convicted boyfriend ultimately goes on to build community and family. Having a condition that quite literally cripples you, over which you have no control, and through which you are often read as a social pariah? That’s disability. But using said condition as a means through which to build advocacy and community? Now that’s some crip shit. 

Personally, I love disabled!Remus Lupin. But I love crip!Remus Lupin even more. I’d love to see more of a Remus who owns his disability, who covets what makes him unique, and who never ever again tells a potential romantic partner they are too good for him because of his disability. This trope - unlike There Was Only One Bed! - sometimes actually hurts to read. Where’s Remus who thinks a potential romantic partner isn’t good enough for him? Where’s Remus who insists his partners learn more about his condition in order to treat him properly? Where’s sexy wheelchair user Remus? Where’s Remus who uses his werewolf transformations as an excuse to travel the world? Where’s crip Remus??

We don’t have to put “you don’t want me” Remus entirely to bed. It is but one of many repeated tropes that are - in the words of The Hot Priest from Fleabag - morally a bit dubious. And let’s face it - we don’t always come to fandom for its moral superiority (as much as we sometimes like to think we do). 

This is not a condemnation - it is an invitation. Able-bodied folks are all but an injury, illness, or couple decades away from being disabled. And when you get here, I sincerely hope you don’t waste your time on “you don’t want me”ing back and forth with the people you love. I’m inviting you to come to the crip side now. We have snacks, and without all the “you don’t want me” talk, we get to the juicy parts much faster. 

Colorfully,

Mod Theo

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

champagne problems (part 1)

here's my first part of my modern no magic "champagne problems" singer-songwriter quarantine thomastair AU! happy birthday to @foxglove-airmid even though I don't think it's your birthday where you live anymore (and I still haven't posted zia's birthday fic, it'll happen I swear)!

no content warnings for this part (besides maybe quarantine), but future parts will include discussions of mental illness, substance abuse, and a suicide attempt

obviously, the song alastair "wrote" in the fic is not mine, it's by taylor swift! and a few of the lyrics have been changed!

Masterlist | AO3

Thomas breathed out a sigh of relief as he lugged his suitcase up onto the fifth floor landing.

“‘Ere we are,” Piers announced as he unlocked the door.

Thomas was utterly exhausted, such was the result of taking a redeye flight across the Atlantic during a global pandemic, but any idea of rest that he’d had was interrupted when he heard the sound of piano flood the apartment.

“Ah, sorry about that,” Piers nodded, “One of my flatmates, the walls are paper thin. He can’t record at the studio right now, but he’s trying to finish his EP, so it’s been a bit noisier around here. He’ll take a break soon, hopefully.”

Thomas shook his head. “It’s no problem. Thank you, again, for allowing me to stay here. I’ll be looking for my own place as soon as the quarantine is up.”

“Of course. You’ve got the couch as long as you need it. Couldn’t just hang you out to dry, could I? Although, you did pick a god awful time to move to the city, if I do say so myself.”

Thomas sat down on the couch and tried to make himself comfortable. It was more comfortable than the flight or the airport, at least. “I know… I considered postponing the move, but the visa was so difficult to get, I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity. They say this will all blow over in a couple of weeks, but borders are closing and I heard talk of them suspending all pending visa applications. I didn't know how long it would be if I waited, if the job was even still here for me at all.” Although at first entrance, the music had seemed to be a nuisance, it now comforted him. It wasn’t bad at all, in fact, it quite reminded him of the days Alastair’s playing had filled their flat…

“Where did you say you were working again? At a record company?”

“Yeah. I’m just doing pretty basic stuff for now, but if I ever do want to record my own music, I’ve got to start somewhere.”

“Hm,” Piers said, gesturing to the room the music was coming from. “Perhaps you’ll get on with him well, then. Would you like some tea?”

Thomas nodded and Piers went to start the teapot. Piers continued, “Though I suppose he's more of the tortured artist type. Very reserved, quite prickly. I didn't even meet him until a couple weeks after I moved in here because he was off in some psychiatric hospital.” Thomas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was never one for gossip. “My other roommate’s nice, though, I think you’ll like him. He-”

“How did you end up in New York, again? I don’t think I ever asked.”

Piers dove into the subject change quite readily, explaining his uni - or college - years in New York City and his decision to stay afterwards. Thomas had tuned most of it out, truthfully. It wasn’t that he was trying to be rude, but he was rather exhausted, and Piers was wearing thin on his patience.

As the kettle started to whine, Thomas heard the musician begin to sing, and he froze. It sounded so much like Alastair. But it couldn't be, could it? With over 8 million people living in the city, he would not end up in Alastair's apartment by accident. His Alastair was certainly reserved and prickly, but it wasn't possible. It must be like all those times he thought he saw him on a street he'd never walked or heard his laugh in a café he'd never been to. Just his mind, tricking him. Even if he knew that voice so well, despite not hearing it in so long.

“It’s quite good, isn’t it? His first single just dropped.” Piers asked, bringing over his cup of tea. He hadn’t realized it, but he’d been staring intently at the door.

Thomas took the cup. “Hm? Yeah, I guess. Thanks.”

“You should look it up. It’s called “champagne problems” by Simurgh. That’s spelled- Well, it should come up.”

The name Simurgh sounded familiar, but Thomas couldn’t put his finger on where he knew it from. At Piers’ insistence, he pulled out his phone and brought up the song. As he skimmed through the first few lines, a cold feeling settled in his stomach.

“You booked the night train for a reason So you could sit there in this hurt Bustling crowds or silent sleepers You're not sure which is worse”

“Simurgh,” Thomas realized.

“Yeah, I think it’s Arabic or something.”

It took Thomas a moment to process that Piers was responding to him. “It’s Persian.” He was certain that Alastair would have some very stern words to say if he heard Piers confusing the two, actually. Thomas had admittedly let his Farsi skills deteriorate quite a bit since the breakup, but he was fairly certain the name came from the Shahnameh. There was no doubt in Thomas’ mind now: he was staying in Alastair’s apartment, and Alastair’s first single was about one of the most painful days in Thomas’ life. “I, er, I used to study it.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right!” Piers launched into a tangent that Thomas tuned out as he read through the rest of the page.

“Because I dropped your hand while dancing Left you out there standing Crestfallen on the landing Champagne problems”

“Thomas? Are you alright?”

He realized then that his hand was trembling so badly that his tea nearly spilled. He used his other hand to steady it. “Oh, uh, yes, I’m just tired.”

“Perhaps you should rest. I can ask Alastair to quiet down for a while-”

“No!” he exclaimed rather too forcefully. “No, that’s not necessary. I’d just rather not talk, if that’s alright.”

Piers nodded.

Thomas kept reading.

“Your mom's ring in your pocket My picture in your wallet Your heart was glass, I dropped it Champagne problems”

Of all the songs, why did he release the one about him? Why was it about a memory still so painful in Thomas’ heart, all of these years later? He remembered it so well, standing there, alone, shattered into a million pieces.

“You told your family for a reason You couldn't keep it in Your sister splashed out on the bottle Now no one's celebrating”

He was fairly certain that Barbara had been more excited than even he was, confident that Alastair would accept, and so very proud of her baby brother, all grown up. She’d been furious when it fell apart, but it was her who stood with him during the aftermath, who boarded him onto a train to Edinburgh to visit Eugenia when he couldn’t stand to be in the same city as him any longer, who went through his phone, blocking all of Alastair’s accounts so that he could obsess over him no longer, who comforted him as he wept and held him as he picked the pieces of himself back up again.

And all the more sour was the memory in light of her death.

“Dom Pérignon, you brought it No crowd of friends applauded Your hometown skeptics called it Champagne problems”

He looked up at Piers, who had fortunately become enthralled with something on his phone and was no longer paying Thomas any mind. He lifted the teacup gingerly to his lips, but he felt far too sick to take a drink.

“You had a speech, you're speechless Love slipped beyond your reaches And I couldn't give a reason Champagne problems”

A reason, that’s all Thomas had wanted. Just any explanation. He understood if they were moving too fast, or perhaps he’d misread something, but he just didn’t understand it.

Why? Why can’t you tell me why? I deserve an explanation, Alastair. Please, anything.

I… I’m sorry, Thomas.

Stop it! Stop apologizing! We can just go home and pretend this never happened, please, forget about all of it, it was a stupid idea-

Thomas, stop. I shouldn’t’ve… This was a mistake. I’m sorry I didn’t see that sooner.

That was the moment Thomas felt his heart stop beating.

“Your Midas touch on the Chevy door November flush and your flannel cure "This dorm was once a madhouse" I made a joke, "Well, it's made for me" How evergreen, our group of friends Don't think we'll say that word again And soon they'll have the nerve to deck the halls That we once walked through”

Despite the nearly two decades Thomas had spent in London before Alastair, it was never the same without him. He saw him everywhere he went, despite knowing he was thousands of miles away. After graduating uni that May, he accepted a spot at a graduate program in Spain and didn’t look back.

“One for the money, two for the show I never was ready so I watch you go Sometimes you just don't know the answer 'Til someone's on their knees and asks you "You’re the only one I want by my side, What a shame you’re fucked in the head," you said”

Those were the words that haunted Thomas’ nightmares, even now.

It’s you! It’s only you for me! It was always going to be you! But I can see now that I was never going to be enough for you, you and your secrets and walls and your lies. It’s a shame… it’s a shame you’re so fucked in the head, Alastair. You’ll never truly love anyone, will you? You’re not physically capable of it.

Alastair hadn’t responded. Thomas had wanted a rise out of him, any reaction at all, despite knowing how lethal and volatile Alastair could become when provoked. But there was nothing. Not a flicker of anything in his steeled expression. He’d simply looked down, apologized again for any pain that he’d caused, and left.

That was the last time they’d spoken.

Thomas and his sister left for Edinburgh that night, and when he’d returned to London, Alastair was gone.

“Well, you'll find the real thing instead Who'll patch up your tapestry that I shred And hold your hand while dancing Never leave you standing Crestfallen on the landing With champagne problems”

Thomas couldn’t imagine giving his heart to anyone again, not now and certainly not then. He’d dated in Madrid, but it had always stayed casual. He’d made sure of it. He could see now that he and Alastair had gotten together quickly, moved in together quickly, done all of it very quickly. After all, he’d fallen hard and fast. He gave all of himself to Alastair, and he’d nearly lost all of himself in the process.

“Your mom's ring in your pocket New picture in your wallet You won't remember all my Champagne problems

“You won't remember all my Champagne problems”

Now, he wondered what the rest of the story was. He’d convinced himself that Alastair had never loved him, that he was heartless and cruel, though he’d known that wasn’t true. Could Alastair have written this song if he’d never truly loved him? Perhaps he was a sociopath.

Thomas felt like he should run. Like he should pick up his bag and dart out of the apartment before Alastair could notice him, find some hotel somewhere with undoubtedly extraordinary high rates and just pretend like this never happened. He could get back on a plane and go back home to his parents and delete his phone browser history and pretend like this was all just a bad dream. But he could not move.

He didn’t know how many minutes had passed before Alastair’s door opened. He looked up with a start.

“Thomas,” Alastair breathed. He stood wide eyed, flushed.

“Do you two already know each other then?” Piers asked.

There was a moment of silence before Thomas cleared his throat. “We used to,” he said, looking down.

“I, er, I forgot that your friend was coming today,” Alastair told Piers. “It’s quite a long journey from London, you should have told me, I would have been quieter.”

Thomas considered correcting him for a moment, but decided not to. “Don’t worry about it. I heard you had your first big release. Congratulations.”

Alastair gave an awkward nod. “Thank you. Right, well, I’ll just…” He rushed over to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of water from the fridge. “I’ll try to be a bit quieter.”

“Don’t- It’s fine, really. In fact, I’m sure there’s some hotel in the area I can stay at for now, actually-”

“Well, don’t leave on my account,” Alastair interrupted. “We agreed to let you stay here, and the city’s a bloody mess right now. I’ll stay out of your hair, Thomas.”

Thomas only nodded as Alastair disappeared back behind his bedroom door.

Thanks for reading! Taglist (ask to be +/-): @stxr-thxif @chaos-and-starlight @zosiaenrique @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @jem-nasium @fortheloveofthecarstairs @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @shadowrunner2000 @thewarthatsavedmylife @fair-childd @itsjusta-j-really

[dontshootmespence]

Christmas Gift Exchange

Summary: As Christmas approaches, Rossi decides to host a Christmas party for the team, complete with gifts, great wine and of course, delicious Italian food.

Pairing: None. General fic.

Word Count: 691

Warning: Fluff, my dudes.

A/N: This fulfills my season 4/ s4 bingo square for @cmbingo​. This has nothing to do with season 4 it’s just in that season so I can have this team and because I said so.

As Emily approached the towering mansion, she smelled something so rich and decadent she thought she might drown in her own drool. Of course she knew that Rossi was a best-selling author worth millions, but this house (if that’s what anyone could call the behemoth before her) was intimidating to say the least. She’d been with the team for more than a year but she was still feeling a bit out of place. The only thing keeping her from running back to her car was whatever heavenly sent was wafting from the house.

“Emily! You’re the second one here.” Beyond Rossi’s shoulder she could see Penelope. Sunshine in human form. Seeing her there made her relax a bit. “Sit, relax, have a glass of wine.”

Emily quickly sauntered up to the kitchen island and poured herself a glass. “What are you cooking? It smells amazing.”

“That, my dear, would be spaghetti carbonara with garlic bread.”

Before long, everyone else had arrived with bags in hand, filled with gifts for everyone. Though Emily hadn’t been with the team for all that long, she prided herself on being an amazing profiler, so she hoped she had gifts that everyone would like. 

Instead of making a big thing out of sitting down and giving gifts, they gave each other their presents throughout the evening in between sips of wine and bites of Rossi’s exquisite carbonara. Garcia wound up with most of her gifts before everyone else - a couple colorful dresses, new pairs of shoes from JJ and Emily, a blinged out phone case courtesy of Rossi and a couple random knick-knacks to add to her desk at work. 

What could anyone get Rossi that he didn’t already have? Mostly everyone got him as old a wine as they could possibly afford, even cracking open a couple of the bottles throughout the night. While filling up her second plate of pasta (no shame), she handed Hotch the gift she got for him - a fleece blanket with a picture of himself with Haley and Jack, for those moments he couldn’t be with them. He was never one to cry, but Emily was convinced she saw a tear in his eye, so she took that as a win. 

Morgan must have seen it too, because he snuck up behind her and looked down at the pile of gifts. “Let’s see how well we did with each other’s gifts.”

“You’re on.”

Emily was intrigued by the gift’s weight and couldn’t help but laugh as she peeled back the wrapping paper. “The Complete Works of Vonnegut. Morgan, I love you.” Smiling, she motioned toward the gift she’d gotten him. “Now you.”

As he excitedly ripped open the paper, Morgan clapped his knee. “Emily, a first edition Vonnegut? You do know me.”

“I couldn’t help but embrace our love of the man himself.”

With wine flowing through their veins it seemed like time stood still in the best way. Stomachs got full with food and libations and eventually everyone gathered on the couch where Emily was laying her head on Morgan’s shoulder. JJ got lots of cute clothes and a some amazing shoes and Spencer came away with a brand new chess board from JJ, some first editions of books he loved and a box set of Metallica CD’s courtesy of Emily. “How did you know I like metal?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets.”

Eyes grew heavy as the sipped at more wine and Rossi went to his refrigerator to grab some Italian pastries he’d gotten from his “guy” down in DC. “Best baker in the district, I’m telling you.” Instead of heading home, he offered his many guest rooms for them to stay overnight. 

A chorus of yummy noises rumbled through the room as they bit into their pastry of choice. Emily picked some bocconotti cookies filled with coffee and chocolate, which she shared with Morgan in exchange for a bit of his cannoli. Throughout her life, Emily had rarely felt like she belonged, but as they all sat in awe of Rossi’s bedecked Christmas tree, she knew she was where she was meant to be.

[plainlo-inthemorning]

Shine a Light, part 6

A Loki series/Lokane fic. Rating T.

Previously: Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5

He is already spinning around and bracing himself as his boots touch the concrete, half expecting to see the beast come tumbling towards him.

But the air is mercifully still where the door has snapped shut.

The evening sky above him is heavy with clouds, and a light mist of cool rain touches his face.

Cool.

He looks down at his hands. They are still shaking from the adrenaline, but no longer blue. Nor do his clothes feel rough against his skin.

Did he consciously change back to his Asgardian form as he went through the door? He is not sure. Whatever the shape or shade, his body feels oddly disconnected from his brain and Loki idly wonders if using the tempad so much within a short time span might be affecting him on a cellular level.

Then again, if that was the case would the Minute Men and analysts at the TVA not have been suffering from chronic time travel fatigue?

Who knows, perhaps they did. A number of them certainly looked worn out.

Tempad “jetlag” (an apt mortal word) or not, unwillingly running into variants upon variants of old enemies on this treacherous timeline coupled with the incessant longing for her has caused Loki’s grip on reality to slip ever more from one destination to the next.

What reality? a mocking voice in his head whispers, sounding maddingly similar to the little devil clock.

You have no idea where you are, who you are or where you’re going. You’re a man out of time, for all time, always.

He straightens and draws in a few deep breaths, surveying his new surroundings: A narrow brick terrasse. At the back wall, a glass sliding door reveals a room covered in darkness, but as nothing moves inside (his night vision remains far superior to that of mortals), Loki turns instead to take in the view of … London.

There is a taste of early spring in the air, and before him as far as the eye can see, the rooftops and spires of the city stretch out into the distance.

Millions of little lights flicker in the dark and the fumes of traffic and city grime mix with whiffs of different cuisines drifting out of air vents.

He has been here once or twice before, though not in decades, and there are whole clusters of towering structures of glass and steel that he does not recall from on his previous visit.

The house by the ocean in 2016, Budapest in 2015, New York in 2014 and now London in what he assumes must be 2013. As methodical as the backwards count has proven to be, as confusing are the destinations and varying seasons.

Only they cannot possibly be random.

Free will is an illusion.

The eerie feeling that even this, his ill-thought-out ‘quest’, is being guided by an invisible hand in charge of his destiny is so dispiriting it’s comical. He can’t quite decide whether to feel perversely honored that some higher being – a version of He Who Remains? – would take interest in toying with him, or furious that he has been singled out for this preposterous punishment of drifting through another Loki variant’s timeline.

It is no use dwelling on either emotion. He has no one to measure his pride against, no one’s expectations to live up to expect for his own, and, frankly, by now that bar is scraping the floor. There is no telling where the female variant of him went and Loki has no means of contacting the TVA or the analyst-interrogator even if he wanted to (he really does not anymore).

Loki unclenches his fists.

Seeing as each destination may have been an intentional set-up for whatever bizarre reason, the question is which character from his past he will encounter in this place. He vows to himself that no matter who he bumps into, he will attempt to reactivate that silver tongue of his and gather actual, useful information.

No more chaotic exits.

Provided no one tries to kill him on sight or squash him through a wall.

The terrace is furnished only with an old sun chair and a few plants, but the room beyond the glass door appears very lived in, with books stacked on the floor and several shelves, a large couch, a couple of armchairs, and what looks to be an adjacent kitchen area with a dining table.

Amazing how most mortals spend their years in such small, crowded dwellings.

Using only his magic, he slides open the door. It makes a low swooshing sound. Quiet as a cat, he steps over the threshold.

//

It hits him immediately, like walking into a wall: The scent of lavender.

And Thor.

The apartment is quiet, but they were here and recently.

He has been delivered right to them.

Loki is once again frozen in place.

His initial plan when knocking out that man in the canteen at the TVA and stealing his tempad was to find Thor and Jane at the scene of his own moral redemption (well…) on Svartalfheim. Where he supposedly saves their lives. Find them and use the momentum of their unfiltered gratitude to deliver the news that, most regrettably, the universe is likely coming to an end if they do not devise a plan together to prevent a multiversal war – preferably enlisting the help of Thor’s colleagues, too, and in the best of scenarios, Asgard.

Seek out Thor before saving Jane’s life, and Loki would have to first win his brother’s trust in the aftermath of the attack on New York. Find Thor after Svartalfheim, and there would be the small matter of explaining how the variant faked his own death and, after having thus broken Thor’s heart again, took the throne of the Realm Eternal.

Not an ideal conversation starter, even for them.

From the reel, he knows that there were other moments, much later, when he and Thor would become friendly again. After Ragnarok, before his end.

But Loki also knows that this need to get to Svartalfheim has as much to do with her as it has with Thor. Perhaps even more so.

Something important transpires between himself and the brown-eyed scientist on that brutal, barren planet and if it is the last thing he does, Loki will find out what it means.

It does not make any more sense now than it did when he sat in the kill me kind of room, transfixed by her face, but if he had had any initial doubts as to whether he was simply imagining the magnetic pull of her, those had been effectively shattered to atoms when she threw her arms around his neck outside the white house.

“Where did you go, handsome?”

Nothing on this timeline seems to be playing out as it should. Which of course also means that the events on Svartalfheim may never have occurred at all.

On this timeline, a variant has more or less befriended the Avengers in the years after New York when, according to the proper Loki fate, he should have been on Asgard. And, in a few years from now, the variant will somehow be with Jane.

Jane, who has stayed in this very apartment. With Thor.

Briefly, Loki is back to wondering if Thor dies and how, but then he remembers what Bruce said about their “family soap opera” and Loki’s “victory”.

Could it be that he and Thor actually fought over Jane?

As much as he wishes it otherwise, even Loki finds it hard to believe that his variant would have beat the God of Thunder in a fight. The might of Mjølner is formidable. And though his brother has not quite discovered it himself yet, Loki has always suspected that Thor has his own kind of magic.

Then there is Jane: Without having ever conversed with her, Loki would be surprised if Jane would appreciate being treated as a prize to be won.

He is getting a headache. A rare thing for a god, but there is no putting the puzzle together with so many pieces missing from the board. Since he has no hope of using the tempad to transport him off Midgard, maybe the best thing to do would be to just wait here and see if Jane and Thor come back. He has been specifically sent here, has he not?

Without really noticing, Loki has moved to the blue, puffy couch. He sits himself down and leans back into the soft cushions, letting out a sigh. When was the last time he slept or ate anything? There is a sense of fresh paranoia as he realizes that he cannot remember doing either at the TVA, expect for when he fell asleep during research.

“Time works differently at the TVA. You’ll see”.

He stretches his legs out in front of him and yawns. On the wall opposite from the couch is a paper calendar: 2013.

He takes in the rest of the apartment but does not magic any of the lights on. There is the open kitchen, a tiny hallway with a coat rack and a few pairs of shoes, and two more doors to the left of where he is sitting.

Getting up suddenly feels immensely tasking, but Loki nevertheless hauls himself to his feet and goes to inspect the other rooms. First, there is the washroom. The scent of lavender is stronger in there, even more inviting, and spotting a stack of fresh towels on a shelf, he considers taking a shower. It is not as if he cannot easily use magic to uphold appearances (wait, were there showers at the TVA?), but that is no substitute for the soothing feel of warm water running down his body, relaxing his tired muscles.

Yes, he will shower. And cast a spell on the apartment, so he will be alerted if anybody attempts to enter.

He takes a small comfort in his powers being restored.

Loki reckons the other door leads to the sleeping chambers but just to be sure, he magics it open with a flick of his wrist.

A window with closed blinds. A wooden bookcase to one side, volumes and magazines piled high. An old, white wardrobe with brass grips. A pile of clothes strewn haphazardly on the thick yellow rug on the floor near a large, unmade bed.

Unmade – and not empty.

//

Loki stands perfectly still, one hand still raised.

Why did he not sense that someone was here?!

Seeing as Clint (Bird-Eye?) managed to surprise him in Budapest, perhaps Loki’s “wolf’s ears” really are failing him.

Even so, his nose is working just fine. Unless …

Then he knows. Of course.

His tongue tastes bile.

Inching closer, he sees the black hair spilling over the madras. His own lean, sculpted body whose long limbs and handsome Asgardian features Loki has never felt less appreciation for than right this very moment.

The variant is deep asleep. And half-naked under the sheets.

Something twists in his stomach at the scene. Something small and pathetic and evil that wants out. A foul, winged creature batting against his ribcage with sharp claws.

He takes another step forward.

How has the variant not been alerted to his presence yet? He seemed strong – very strong – in 2016.

Loki studies his twin’s face. His own exact face. Same high cheek bones, same long, dark lashes against a pale complexion. Only this close, the man’s skin has a faint ashen sheen to it. A few tiny beads of sweat glisten on his temples and, yes, Loki hears it now, his breathing is slightly labored.

He is injured. Enough to dull his senses.

It is not the madman from the Void, as Loki had feared after their first encounter. His energy is quite different from any of the other variants, and Loki suspects he may be the closest to a perfect double that he’s encountered yet (and please, let this one be the last. No more variants or Loki will forget which life was his own).

Stepping so close he can lean over the bed, the reason for the variant’s sedated state becomes evident:

Tied around the man’s mid-section, just about visible over the sheets, is the upper edge of a large bandage. Loki sniffs. Yes, he can sense the wound and the ugly tinge of dark magic still surrounding it, like a poisonous signature: This was inflicted by a blade of the dark elves. The variant has come from Svartalfheim after all.

The cut must have been near fatal, but from the smell of it, it is healing well, aided by the variant’s own powers and what can only be human medicine, judging by the clinical odor.

Even so, why was he not taken to the healers on Asgard?

Because he is evading his punishment for the attack on New York, Loki guesses.

Thor and Jane must have brought him to London instead of delivering him back to Odin. Although thanks to Heimdall’s watchful gaze, the All-Father will be aware of what has transpired. In his condition, the chances of the variant being able to use his magic to shield himself from Heimdall are next to none.

Still, he is here. No one has come for him yet.

Loki does not know which is stranger: That the variant is legitimately, badly injured and not currently in the process of dispatching Odin off to some home for the elderly in New York, or that Odin has allowed the variant to be taken to Midgard instead of the dungeons.

Presumably neither the All-Father nor Thor are aware of the variant’s role in Frigga’s death.

Though he tries to shake them off, the images remain crystal clear: The queen mother, killed by one of Malekeith’s monster.

A shiver suddenly runs through the variant’s body on the bed and Loki holds his breath. The man shifts under the sheets but does not wake.

So, dear ‘brother’, your Nexus event was that you nearly died for the people who care for you instead of following up your heroism with deceit, as I would have done.

What sentiment.

The winged creature growls.

Loki could kill him right now.

Kill him and take his place.

It would be easy, so easy to slit his throat. It is not as if he has not committed murder before.

“I don’t enjoy hurting people. I don’t enjoy it …” But this is not ‘people’.

This man is a murderer as well.

The variant has already veered spectacularly off course from his fate, and yet there are no Minute Men next to his bed, holding him accountable for his “crimes against the sacred timeline”, nor will he be apprehended in the following years.

This man got “the Time Keepers’ stamp of approval”, just like the Avengers.

It is so monumentally unfair it is enough to make Loki’s fingers grasp for an invisible dagger. The variant’s existence makes a mockery of the life that was cruelly stolen from Loki by the TVA and for that he loathes him with every fiber of his identical body.

Why should the variant have any more right to live?

Because he will make her happy.

Loki forces himself to rein in the rage. The man will play a part in Jane’s life.

He stares at his sleeping double.

The variant is worthy.

Or just simply unbearably, ridiculously lucky.

No matter what, he must live, but if Loki stays here much longer, he fears the variant’s chances of making it past 2013 will rapidly decrease by the minute.

Loki cannot stand to look at him, nor will he contemplate the fact that the variant is comfortable enough in the apartment to discard his clothes.

If he does, he will stab him to death. And relish in it.

Loki is about to magic himself away to find somewhere nearby to wait for Thor and Jane’s return, when a noise reaches him from the hall outside the apartment.

Someone is coming towards the front door, keys in hand.

Jane.

//

He should leave immediately. Disappear before she can turn the key in the door.

But he does not.

Still looking at the sleeping, half-covered form in front of him, something finally snaps instead. The winged creature shrieks in delight.

A quick spell ensures that no sounds from outside the sleeping chamber can reach the variant, no matter how light his sleep becomes.

Another one renders all the light switches in the apartment useless.

Then Loki swiftly picks up the clothes from the floor, looks it over, and changes his own black outfit into what he is holding: A dark green, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of soft, well-known black leather pants that makes him feel both a bit homesick and a lot stronger.

Don’t do this, don’t do this.

A voice, not the clock this time but his own. He ignores it.

He does not know what Jane’s relationship with the variant is of this time or what state of mind she expects to find him in, but she has let him stay here – and right now, she is alone.

Her fingers weaving through his hair while the sun beat down on his back.

His conscience will not allow him to kill the variant, yet Loki cannot resist the temptation to be him.

Again.

But just for a heartbeat or two.

This last part he promises to himself and to her, though it does nothing to bury the shame.

Perhaps he did not change at all during his time at the TVA. Perhaps his true, villainous self just lay dormant, biding his time, while various oppressors walked all over him.

Is a stolen moment with her worth more than his honor? Is it worth jeopardizing his one chance of enlisting Thor’s help?

Yes.

Yes, it is.

This is lowest you have ever sunk.

Shut up.

He steps out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him, but not before catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the wall. His hair. The variant’s hair is noticeably longer. He cocks his head to the side once and the difference is levelled out.

In the hall, Jane is fiddling with the keys. When the lock clicks, Loki is sitting on the blue couch again, trying to appear casual while his pulse is racing as fast as when Bruce turned green before him.

And there she is.

Hair windswept, cheeks flushed from the cool evening air, wearing a dark green parka, jeans and boots.

Her eyes find his in the low light and a warm smile spreads on her face. His heart leaps into his throat.

“You’re back”. She does not stop to take off her jacket or attempt to turn on the lights before coming towards him and, unsure of what to say, he stands up. She stops in front of him, apparently a little unsure of the situation herself. She bites her lip.

“So how did it go?”

Her voice sounds at once both concerned and hopeful and her eyes are wide with expectation.

She is searching for some sort of positive affirmation and so Loki smiles down at her and says the only thing that seems fitting:

“It went well”.

Jane exhales loudly and her smile returns. “It did?!”

“Yes”, Loki replies, grinning at her (her smile is too infectious) and hoping she will not ask him to elaborate on whatever the subject is.

“Of course it did! I mean, you’re still here, aren’t you? Oh Loki, I’m so insanely relieved!” Jane laughs and looks like she is about to throw herself into his arms (automatically he reaches for her) when she stops herself mid-motion. “Sorry! I nearly forgot. Again!”

She takes one of his hands in both of hers, and Loki swallows hard as her fingers softly caress his with unmistakable intimacy.

“But seriously, you two didn’t fight, like fight-fight, did you …? I hope Thor didn’t …”. She trails off and looks at him questioningly.

“No. No, we didn’t fight. Don’t worry. We both … behaved”. Loki tries to catch up while keeping his replies as vague as he hopes he can afford.

The variant and Thor have had words, and Jane has worried about the outcome. Could it have been a discussion of whether to return Loki to Asgard? But then why has Thor not come back to the apartment?

In fact, why go anywhere else to talk at all, with the variant being as beat up as he is?

Because he and Thor both expected a row not suited for the indoors.

“Okay, you sit, you’ve moved around enough for one day. I’ll fix us something to eat and you’re going to tell me everything”. Jane gently lets go of his hand, then shoots him a teasing smile. “Unless you’ve emptied the fridge. Again”.

“Um”, is Loki’s inspired contribution to the conversation.

“Uh oh, pasta it is then”, Jane laughs, and goes to shrug off her jacket and boots in the hallway, revealing an open flannel shirt with a white T-shirt underneath.

Was she wearing the same thing that day in the desert town? It looks familiar.

Jane flips a light switch next to the coat rack and makes a “huh”-sound as nothing happens. She tries a lamp next to the dining table with the same result.

“Has the electricity gone again? Was it out when you got back?”

“Ah, yes. It was”.

“The landlord seriously needs to fix this, that’s the third time this week…good old London”. Jane scoffs but does not sound all that bothered.

“Can you work a little magic for us?”

When Loki does not move, Jane walks up to him (now even shorter without her footwear) and lightly places a hand on his arm, nudging him back on the couch. “Sit. And shine a light, please”.

He lets her push him down, and her hand moves up to rest on his shoulder. Now he is the one looking up at her. She is standing between his legs and there it is, the affection in her eyes that almost makes him forget that he is not the man it is meant for.

He wonders for how long he can get away with not saying anything remotely coherent before she suspects something’s amiss.

Obeying her wish, he holds out his palm and a small, orange flame appears, casting a warm glow on both their faces. Motioning with his fingers, he makes the flame float elegantly over the low coffee table in front of the couch where it stills in the air.

“I was thinking more along the lines of just making the electricity come back on, like last time, but okay, that is very pretty too”. Jane looks at the little light with wonder and Loki thinks he sees the stars in her eyes again.

Then her attention is back on him. Her fingers brush against his hair. They linger by the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I don’t know if it’s relief, but it’s almost like you look a bit … different”. Jane’s eyes roam his face, his hair. “Do you even still have a fever?”

Before Loki can answer her hand is touching his forehead.

Jane shakes her head in surprise. “It’s much better than this morning. Maybe it was good for you to get some real air after all. It has been almost three weeks …”

How easily she touches him. How sad that he's not used to being touched anymore.

He has only to lay his hand on her forehead in return and he could use his powers to reveal glimpses of her past (yes, he kept many of his gifts from the female on Lamentis).

More specifically, what has happened between her and the variant.

But not without revealing himself in the process.

Her left hand is still on his shoulder while the other now travels down the side of his cheek. He leans into her touch and closes his eyes, just breathing in the scent of her skin when he feels her bending down and locks of her auburn hair tickle his face.

He opens his eyes and looks right into hers, inches from his.

You have not earned this.

You are deliberately, selfishly, monstrously taking advantage of her.

I am a monster.

And then her mouth is on his and he does not say no.

To hell with his soul.

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

For a second, she thinks she feels him tense up.

But as soon as her lips melt onto his and he immediately, hungrily reciprocates the kiss, everything is right again.

Crazy, sure, but also oh so right.

Jane literally never wants to stop kissing him.

She actually told him exactly that the other night. Or, accidentally blurted it out as they were coming up for air, since she is falling for him so fast her brain apparently cannot keep up with her mouth.

Immediately she had felt embarrassed, but it did not last longer than it took for him to raise a teasing eyebrow at her and pull her close again. “Why, Doctor Foster”, he had purred in that low voice that he absolutely knows makes her go weak, “by all means, please…(and he’d kissed her) don’t…(another kiss) stop … (kiss) Ever”.

Then he had leaned back a little, still gently cupping her face between his large hands, and flashed her the most gorgeous, happy, wickedly lascivious smile she had seen on him so far.

Not many people radiate smoldering sex appeal while simultaneously suffering from the agonizing pain of a wound inflicted by an alien sword, but of course Loki pulls it off with flying colors.

From there on, there had been no returning to ‘movie night’.

Now, trying not to break the kiss, Jane carefully moves to sit herself down on the couch as well, making sure not to press against him. For two weeks, they have been making out like teenagers whenever they are alone. Somewhat hindered by his injuries, obviously, which prohibits him from moving much – it is both very, very hot and insanely frustrating.

The first time she had kissed him, he had been too stunned to move a muscle anyway.

The second time, he had nearly ripped the wound open again.

Since then, they have tried to take it slow, although on more than one occasion, Loki has been all but begging to throw caution to the wind – “I’ll heal!", “It doesn't hurt!” (said as he looked like he was going to pass out), and, Jane’s favorite, “It might make me heal faster”.

His impatience would be quite funny if it was not because Jane was feeling just as dizzy with want.

She has been going for a lot of runs in Hyde Park lately.

“Do you have a death wish?!”, she had asked him teasingly at one point when he had spontaneously grabbed her hand as she passed him the kitchen and pulled her tight against him, only to groan loudly in pain when her body collided with his bandage.

Then he had looked suddenly very serious and let her go, and she had instantly regretted the comment.

She knows enough about his past not to joke about things like that.

“Oh. Oh, no”.

That was all her mind had been capable of thinking when she and Loki had locked eyes in the palace on Asgard, right after she had slapped him (surprising both herself and everyone around her).

He had looked down at her with his trademark arrogant smirk, except as soon as Thor and Sif had turned away, his gaze had turned infinitely softer, and Jane had felt something monumental start to shift inside of her.

Something that had nothing to do with the Aether coursing through her veins.

Not long after that, on that awful, doomsday-looking planet, he had saved her life. Twice in quick succession. And for a horrifying second, it had looked like he would die right in front of her.

The memory makes her involuntarily shudder a bit and, drawing her legs up on the couch so she can twist to face him more directly, she runs her fingers through his long, silken hair, and nips at his lower lip… and is startled when his head jerks. For real this time.

Jane draws back.

“Are you okay?”. Perhaps things did not go as smoothly with Thor as she had hoped.

It was a big ask after all.

Once more she feels a sharp pang of guilt. It is not just her and Loki’s worlds that have been turned resoundingly upside down in a matter of one turbulent month.

Loki seems lost for words, and the sadness flooding his face shocks her.

He is far from okay.

In fact, he looks close to tears. Were it not because she had just felt his cool forehead, she would have assumed it was the fever flaring up.

Jane feels her stomach tie itself into a knot. They are taking him away from her before they have even had a chance be together.

Or, even worse still, he has regretted everything about their unlikely union.

“Jane, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry…”

Here it comes, Jane thinks as nausea builds. Erik is about to be proved right about him.

She lets go of him. He is clearly wrestling with himself.

And he does look different. Is this what him dropping the mask looks like?

It is more than just his facial expression, it is his entire posture. Even wounded and half delirious with fever, Loki usually carries himself with no small amount of pride.

His eyes are so lost.

What the hell is going on?

“Just tell me, Loki”. Jane tries to disguise how alarmed she suddenly feels. His touch is the same, and yet it is like a stranger is taking over the man in front of her.

He inhales deeply and runs both his hands through his hair. Entirely without wincing as he lifts his elbows above his chest, she notices.

“Okay”, he begins. “Jane…” (the way he says her name, like he is tasting the word) “…you have every right to hate me for what I’m about to tell you. I truly deserve nothing less.”

She feels the tears welling up.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Her voice breaks and Loki has the audacity to look taken aback.

“Are you being dragged back to Asgard, or are you dumping me? After trying so hard to get into my pants?!”

It comes out way too harshly, and Loki appears genuinely flummoxed.

Also, his face has gone red.

“Oh, Jane, no, he’s not going to… He won’t leave. I mean- ”

“What?” A chill runs down her spine.

“’He’? ‘He’ who? Thor?”

Before he can answer, they both jump a little as her phone suddenly goes off in her bag by the door.

That inane ringtone.

She still has not changed it.

Erik. She promised she’d let him know as soon as …

Jane wants to ignore it, but then her mentor will most likely keep calling and she cannot put it on silent from the couch. Loki probably could though, but she is not about to ask.

“Wait”. She holds up a hand and gets up.

While rummaging in the bag, a single tear runs down her cheek. No. She will keep her composure and listen to what he has to say like the commonsensical grown-up woman that she is.

Was.

She’s only just begun to get to know him properly, so why does it feel like she won’t be able to live without him?

She pulls out the damn phone and presses the button on the side.

The she straightens up again and turns. “Okay, Loki …”

Jane gasps.

The room is dark. And empty.

No, he didn’t!

“Loki!”

No answer.

She stalks over to the couch and frantically looks around. Nothing.

“Loki, don’t you dare!”

The phone vibrates in her hand. Shaking all over, Jane answers the call. “Erik?”. Her voice is very small. “Yes, hi, Jane, it’s me. Listen, has Loki gotten back yet?”

She starts crying. “Erik, he left. He was here when I came home and just now, he disappeared! He didn’t even say goodbye.”

She can hear how desperate she sounds.

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?” Erik sounds confused.

“He is gone! I turned my back on him for one second and he vanished!” Jane’s voice breaks.

“Look, Jane, I really can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe you misunderstood him? He came to see me not two hours ago after that thing with Thor and, well, let’s just say he went out of his way to make a case for himself. And you…”

“What? What did he- ”

“Jane?” Darcy’s voice cuts through. She must have taken the phone from Erik. “The lunatic is absolutely batshit crazy about you, okay? Stop blubbering. He’s probably just bored and fucking with you since you’re not actually f- ”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Muffled sounds, as Erik wrestles the phone back.

“Come on over, Jane, okay? We’re all still at the lab. Ian’s made tortillas if you can believe it”.

“But…” Jane wavers. Is Loki really playing a joke on her?

Erik is not taking no for answer: “Jane, don’t indulge these little games of his, okay? Come have dinner with us, and I’ll tell you what he told me before. And if he isn’t back later tonight, it’ll be my pleasure to enlist Thor to beat the crap out of him. It’s long overdue”.

Despite herself, Jane cannot help but smile.

“Okay. I’m coming over”. She exhales. The feeling of unease is subsiding a bit.

“Good girl”, Erik says. “Tell her to bring beer!” Darcy shouts from somewhere in background.

Jane hangs up and puts on her boots again. Loki and Erik had an actual conversation with no casualties?

She grabs her jacket and slams the front door behind her.

He really is infuriating, that prince of hers.

If he turns up later, she will make him pay dearly for scaring her.

No making out for a week.

(Yeah, right.)

To be continued in part 7 ....

This was supposed to have been the final chapter. Only 'someone' needed extra time star gazing. Please forgive me him!

[sohotthateveryonedied]

No Matter What

Read here on AO3!!

Summary: 

Bruce figures out that his son isn't straight from an early age.

That doesn't make him love him any less.

- Eight Years Old -

Bruce is finally starting to get a hang of this parenting thing.

The first few months were rough, there’s no disputing that. Bruce lost track of how many times he panicked and called Leslie Thompkins whenever Dick burst into tears over something and Alfred wasn’t home. Not to mention all the times when Alfred would leave Bruce on his own for dinner, insisting that one must learn how to raise a child without a butler to help. Bruce fed the kid burnt chicken nuggets and garlic bread for two nights straight. Now, though? Bruce is immensely proud of how far he and Dick have come. He’s even taken to attending PTA meetings, if only for the free coffee and doughnuts. He hears the front door open right on time, then wet boots hitting the floor. Dick had a half day today to make room for meet-the-teacher night later. Bruce isn’t looking forward to spending two hours sitting in a chair made for eight-year-olds, listening to a teacher in plastic pearls talk about an elementary schooler’s oh-so challenging curriculum. At least he’s only got the one; he has no intention of having more kids after Dick. Bruce busies himself with his mostly unburnt slice of toast, one ear trained on the footsteps through the foyer accompanied by unceasing chatter that Bruce has grown quite fond of over the months. “—and then they let us outside for recess even though it was raining, and I went on the swings and my hair got all wet and it was so cool.” “That explains the muddy clothes,” Alfred says. “Sorry, Alf. I’m not immune to mud puddles.” “It would appear so, Master Dick.”

The two of them enter the kitchen, Dick working his elbows out of his yellow rain slicker to reveal the school uniform beneath. His cheeks are rosy, his eyes bright. “Hiya, Bruce!”

“Hey, champ. How was school?” “It was awesome. It was raining all day and at recess there were a ton of puddles all over the playground and a million worms. I didn’t touch them though, ‘cause the teacher said not to.” “What snack would you like, Master Dick?” Alfred asks, taking Dick’s discarded raincoat and folding it over his arm. “Can you do ants on a log?” “Coming right up, sir.” Dick heaves himself up on the bar stool beside Bruce, his sock feet kicking against the lower cupboard. Bruce spreads marmalade over his toast. “Tell me more about school. Any fights today?” “Nope,” Dick says proudly, flashing his gapped teeth. Dick and another boy got into a scuffle on the first day over a comment about whether Dick’s parents being from the circus meant they were part monkey. It’s a miracle Dick only gave the kid a nosebleed and didn’t break anything. The principal let Dick off with a warning since it was his first time at a normal school, but Bruce has a feeling the only reason he wasn’t expelled was because his guardian is the most powerful man in Gotham City. Bruce had a stern talk with Dick when they got home about the importance of controlling one’s actions. Traveling the world in a circus train car doesn’t do much to help one’s impulse control. He also banned Dick from watching television for the rest of the night, but Dick’s crocodile tears swayed him to balance it out by letting him have ice cream before dinner. That’s good parenting, right? “I even made a friend,” Dick says. “Oh? What are they like?” “His name is Caleb and his desk is right next to mine, so we talked during reading time. Then he gave me some of his chocolate during lunch and we played on the swings together at recess.” “Ah, the wonders of childhood friendship,” Alfred says from where he’s slicing up a celery stalk at the other end of the counter. He sounds relieved, and Bruce finds himself matching it. Dick has been at Gotham Elementary for almost a week and hasn’t made a single friend until now. Bruce can’t tell if that is more because of Dick’s circus background or because he is a tan-skinned boy with the barest of Romani accents attending a predominantly white private school. Sometimes (all the time) Bruce loathes being associated with Gotham’s high society. If you’re not white, straight, and rich, you are automatically shunned in their minds. “He sounds great, Dick.” “Yeah! And he’s got really pretty eyes too. I can’t tell if they’re brown or green, but they’re sparkly like glitter.” Bruce arches an eyebrow. “You must like him a lot.” He takes a bite of his toast, making eye contact with Alfred over the boy’s head. Alfred doesn’t react but for a twitch of his mustache. Dick nods, focus switched over to the plate Alfred slides in front of him. Dick takes a celery stick and picks off the first raisin coated in peanut butter, licking it off his thumb. “I hope he talks to me again tomorrow. Alfred, can I bring an extra snack to lunch tomorrow so I can share it with him?” Alfred smiles. “Of course. I will pack a second cupcake in your lunchbox tomorrow morning just for him.” “Thanks, Alf.” Dick goes right back to eating his ants on a log, cheerful as ever, completely unaware of the swarm of question marks buzzing around in Bruce’s head. Huh. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- Eleven Years Old - Bruce gets home from a three-hour business meeting, his sandpapery eyes aching to close and stay shut for...let’s go with ten years? That should be enough. He loosens his tie and prepares to go upstairs to his bedroom where he’ll spend the next decade of his life hibernating, until he sees his ward on the living room sofa. Dick is lying on his stomach with his face buried in a throw pillow, as if he’s waiting for the sofa to swallow him whole. Must have been a bad day if he’s not sliding down banisters and flipping over chairs like usual. Sighing, Bruce goes over. “Dick? You alive over there?” “Mmph.” At least he’s conscious. Bruce sits on the arm of the couch, shaking Dick’s thin shoulder. “Come on, kiddo. Use your words.” “Mmph.” “Bad day, then?” Dick nods. “Do you want to tell me what happened?” Dick shakes his head. Bruce sits back with a frown. “Alfred?” he calls. Alfred pokes his head in. “Yes, Master Bruce?” Bruce gestures to their anguished preteen. “It would seem that our lad had a rough day at school. He wouldn’t tell me what, but I’m making his favorite casserole for dinner. Hopefully that will perk him up.” Bruce turns back to Dick, who hasn’t moved. “C’mon, Dickie. Sit up so I can see your face.” Reluctantly, Dick forces himself upright with one last groan into his pillow. His hair is mussed, standing up on one side. There’s a pillow crease on his cheek. He sits back against the sofa, miserable. “Better.” Bruce prods Dick’s ribs which earns him a giggle, goading the kid into sliding over a few inches so Bruce can sit beside him. Dick leans into his side immediately and Bruce puts his arm around him. “Now, tell me what’s got you down.” “I want to transfer schools.” “How come?” As far as he’s known until now, Dick has loved middle school. His childhood took a bad turn when his parents’ ropes snapped, but preteen life is at a good start. Until now. Dick’s gaze is trained on his sneakers, kicking them where they hang over the edge of the couch. “Some kids in my science class were talking crap about me.” “Don’t say crap.” “Can I go to a new school? Please?” “What did those kids say about you?” Dick picks at a dime-size hole in his jeans. “They called me gay,” he says quietly. Bruce tightens his arm around the boy, his heart panging. Of course someone had to bully Bruce’s kid. As if his life hasn’t already been hard enough without stupid teenagers making it worse. “I wasn’t even doing anything wrong. I was just talking to my lab partner, and the guys at the next table over started whispering about us. Then they started throwing papers.” “Did you tell the teacher?” “No. But I know she noticed. Everyone did. She just didn’t do anything about it.” That sets Bruce’s blood to a boil. Teachers have a responsibility to protect their students, no matter what. What gives her the right to turn a blind eye to bullying, just because a couple of students might not fit the agreed-upon standards of “perfect” upper class society? “I’ll set up an appointment with the principal,” Bruce decides. Dick’s eyes get wide. “Bruce, no. Please. It’s fine, really. I don’t want this to turn into a big deal.” “What did you do when it happened?” Dick shrugs. “Nothing. My lab partner stopped talking to me, so I just asked to go to the bathroom and didn’t come back until the bell rang.” Bruce sighs. Middle schoolers are the worst, every last one of them. (Except for Dick, of course; he is perfect.) “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Kids can be cruel—especially at your age, when they start learning new words that they don’t understand the way they should. They think some words are insults or something to be ashamed of when they’re not. Most kids grow out of this. Too many don’t.” “People suck,” Dick mutters. “I don’t even know why they were saying all that stuff. I’m not...I’m not like that” Bruce bites his cheek. He’s going to have to be careful about this. “Dick, do you know what being gay means?” “Duh. It’s when two guys date each other. I’m not stupid.” “I know you’re not stupid. But gay can mean a lot of things. Men can like other men, just as women can love other women. Like Kate, for instance. Then there are bisexual and pansexual people who love all genders, and asexuals who don’t like either.” Thank god Bruce thought ahead and read some LGBTQ+ research books all those years ago when he first began to suspect that Dick wasn’t heterosexual. “And transgender is when someone doesn’t identify with the gender they were assigned at birth. Sometimes people feel more like a man, a woman, neither, or both.” “...Okay?” “I just want to make sure you understand these things, because part of being a respectful person means respecting others for who they are. And if you don’t completely understand the label they identify as, then it’s your job to try and understand it the best you can.” “Why?” “Because too many people in this world judge others for things they can’t control, and that’s not right. No one should have to feel like they were born wrong. And I want to make sure you know this, that way you can be better than those who choose to hurt others for things they can’t control.” “Does that mean the guys who made fun of me are bad people?” “I’m sure they aren’t. They might just be confused because they don’t understand that being gay isn’t anything bad or dirty. The people in this part of Gotham...they don’t accept a lot of things. They think that being queer or a person of color means you don’t deserve respect, and that’s wrong. It was wrong of those kids to tease you and your lab partner the way they did.” Dick nods slowly. “I’m not gay.” “I know. I just want you to be aware of these things. And if you ever have questions or need to talk, you can always come to me.” He ruffles Dick’s hair. “Even when other people are nasty, remember that I love you no matter what, got it?” Dick shoves Bruce’s hand away and smoothes his hair back out, grinning. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- Thirteen Years Old -

What’s the difference between a growth spurt and a shark? 

Dick doesn’t have any sharks. “We’re home!” Dick announces. He and Alfred stumble into the house, their arms filled with all kinds of shopping bags. With Dick shooting up half an inch nightly these days, he’s growing out of his clothes at a rate even Bane would gawk at. Bruce and Alfred can barely keep up with the kid. “Want to see what I got?” “Show me, pal.” Bruce sets aside his tablet and pushes his reading glasses up on his head. (He does not have poor vision, thank you very much. Leslie just made him get a prescription as a precaution, that’s all. He’s still young by anyone’s standards, just ask Selina.) Dick starts pulling clothing out of the boutique bags, showing off every one of his new sweaters and pairs of Alfred-approved jeans. After ten minutes that Bruce desperately tries to look interested during, Dick pulls out what looks like a t-shirt that’s been sliced in half horizontally. The fabric is bright pink with a chibi whale on the front. “This one is my favorite,” Dicks says. His grin is blinding. Bruce stares for a long moment, his brain a lagging computer drive. “What is it?” “It’s a crop top. You know, like a belly shirt?” Memories from Dick’s Kim Possible phase flash in front of Bruce’s eyes. “Alfred let you buy that?” “Yeah?” Dick’s smile flags. He lowers the crop top, suddenly self-conscious. “Do you not...like it?” “You were supposed to get winter clothes, Dick. For cold weather.” “So?” “That’s clearly something you’re supposed to wear during the summer.” Dick pouts. “But I like it.” He holds it up against himself, twisting this way and that like an amateur model. “Sorry, kiddo. You’re not leaving the house in that until springtime.” “Oh, so Robin can wear tiny shorts in the winter, but Dick Grayson can’t wear a harmless crop top? I smell hypocrisy.” “Yes, because Robin has thermal leggings and a built-in heater in his uniform.” He looks back at the pink monstrosity, at Dick’s pleading eyes. “I would be open to negotiations if you’re willing to wear a sweater under it.” “That’s not how fashion works, B.” “I don’t care. You can wait until it gets warmer out to wear it.” “You’re such a drag,” Dick whines. He lifts his dozens of shopping bags and goes to leave, then turns right back around. “What if I wear a jacket over it and promise to keep it closed whenever I’m outside?” Bruce considers that. “Fine. But not below fifteen degrees, got it? And if I see you outside for even five seconds without the jacket, I’m confiscating the Xbox. Deal?” “Deal.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- Fourteen Years Old -

Something is different about Dick today. You’d think his boots were made of helium with the way he floats through patrol, and then smiles into his late-night milkshake like it did his homework for him. Bruce sits beside his Robin on the roof of Wayne Tower, silent for as long as he can bear before he can’t hold it back any longer. “Did anything interesting happen today?” “Huh?” Dick looks up as if Bruce pried him and his thoughts apart with a crowbar. “You’ve been...different. Happy.” “Am I not usually happy?” “No, you are. Just seems like you’re...extra happy, for whatever reason.” A blush dusts the kid’s cheeks. He sips his chocolate shake and shrugs. “Dunno. It was just a good day. Nothing special.” Yeah, and Bruce is a goddamn unicorn. Still, he knows better than to pry where Dick doesn’t want him. It’s a delicate thing. “If you say so.” “I got a hundred on my English essay,” Dick offers. It’s a start. “Was that the one on Grapes of Wrath?” “That was last month. We’re on Animal Farm now. It’s not my favorite.” “Yeah, I wasn’t a fan of Orwell either. Shakespeare was okay, but I preferred his tragedies over his comedies.” “Of course you did.” That makes Bruce laugh. He’s not worried; the two of them are high enough that no one can hear it. Bruce even has his cowl down, his face exposed to the cool air. “They had quinoa burgers at the cafeteria today.” “Mm-hm.” Dick is dodging something, beating around whatever bush he wants to talk about. Bruce can be patient while he figures it out. “And I spent some time with Barbara after school.” “Oh?” “Yeah. We walked home together and we took this old path through the park. Then we kissed.” Bruce chokes on his milkshake. He coughs, his sinuses burning and eyes watering. When he recovers, he says, “That’s...that’s great, chum.” “Yeah.” Dick can’t stop smiling, a true schoolboy in love. “And she asked if I wanted to patrol with her tomorrow night, but I said I needed to check in with you first.” “I don’t see why not.” It’s not like Bruce hasn’t patrolled without Dick before. Sure, he misses the company on the few days a week he’s alone, but he’s not about to deny Dick the thing he clearly wants. “You sure? You look...freaked out.” “No, no. That’s...great, that you kissed. Congratulations.” Awkward. He’s so fucking awkward. Stop being awkward right now. He doesn’t know why this is messing with his head so drastically. Bruce has listened to Dick moon over girls for the entirety of his pubescence, talking about them like they’re goddesses he’s forbidden to look upon, Barbara included. And Bruce has seen the way Dick and Barbara interact with each other in between muggings, always talking with their heads bent close like they’re the only two people in the world. Who would have thought Batman could be a third wheel? “I’ve liked her for a while now, but I didn’t know if she liked me back and I was too nervous to ask.” Dick’s face goes even pinker. “Kissing her was cool.” Part of Bruce’s brain jumps at the realization that, holy shit, Dick just had his first kiss, my little boy is growing up, what a milestone. The other part is far less happy about this new development. Yes, Bruce has seen Dick win brawls with men three times his size. He can fly the Bat-jet on his own, knows six languages, and is even leading his own superhero team. And yet, all Bruce can think is, no, not my little boy, he’s just a baby, Batgirl is corrupting his innocence and She Must Be Stopped. With great effort, Bruce holds it all back. He’s read the parenting books, he knows that it’s important to be supportive when they’re at this age. “Good to hear. I’m happy for you.” He pats Dick on the shoulder. “Thanks, B.” ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

- Sixteen Years Old - “Hey, Bruce? Can I talk to you?” Bruce doesn’t look up from the metal flakes he’s testing. “What is it?” “I can come back later if you’re busy.” “No, I’m just analyzing some samples. I’m looking for residue from one of Zsasz’s blades.” Dick steps forward, tentative for once. “Need any help?” “I would like for you to come out with whatever it is you clearly need to tell me.” Dick snorts quietly. “Nice phrasing.” “What?” “I think I’m bisexual.” Bruce turns around, forgetting about the samples entirely. Dick’s arms are crossed over his chest, his eyes skipping between everything that isn’t Bruce’s face. At sixteen years old he’s finally tall enough that he doesn’t have to crane his neck to look at Bruce anymore. “You...think?” “I am. I’m bisexual.” “Okay.” “Is that cool with you?” The question shocks Bruce. “Of course it is.” Did Dick honestly think this would change anything? Has Bruce done something wrong, made Dick think that he wasn’t loved unconditionally? Dick squints, appraises Bruce’s reaction. “You knew, didn’t you.” “No.” “Bruce.” “I knew a little bit.” Dick rolls his eyes. The tension slips from his shoulders. His arms uncross. “Of course you did.” “Well, you weren’t exactly subtle about it.” “What the hell does that mean?” “Language,” Bruce chides, more out of habit than anything. “And do you realize how often you would come home after elementary school complaining about stupid pretty boys?” “That was just me being dramatic.” “I’m not disputing that. But they were still crushes, pal.” “I figured you thought it was just a phase.” Bruce shrugs. “Maybe for the first few days. But trust me, I have known you liked boys since you were a kid.” “Then why didn’t you just say so? It took me years to figure this all out, and you’re telling me you’ve been sitting on this info the whole time?” “Because this is your truth, not mine. I knew that you would tell me about it when you were ready. And you have.” Dick is clearly fighting a smile. He bites his lip instead, runs a hand through his mop of black hair that not even Alfred can wheedle him into combing anymore. “Well, I’m heading to the tower for the night, so don’t wait up, ‘kay? Kay. Good talk.” He goes to leave, but Bruce stops him. “Hang on. Why choose now to tell me?” Dick stuffs his hands in his pockets—an obvious tell. “No reason. I just...wanted you to know. Just in case.” “In case of what?” “Oh, you know.” Dick waves his hand in a gesture that clarifies absolutely nothing. “Life happens. People meet each other. You know how it is.” Bruce’s soul implodes. “You have a date?” “I never said that.” “You implied it.” “Real detectives rely on evidence, not theories.” Dick winks. “Tell me who it is. Are they a civilian? A hero? Do they come from a respectable family?” If it’s Roy Harper, Bruce might have to bury a body tonight. Especially after learning about Harper’s drug problem. Dick is too pure for someone like that. Or—heaven forbid—that Wally West kid. Dick is already walking away. “See ya, Bruce!” “You come back here, Richard John Grayson! Do I know him? Does he know your father is Batman?” Dick’s cackle echoes around the cave. “It had better not be a speedster!”

[laurenmm62017]

Lights on Yavin 4

This is for the Kalluzeb Reverse Bang! @kalluzebminibang

Art is by the talented @drunkenmantis! Go check out their piece~

Summary: Kallus and Garazeb finally spend some quality time together on Yavin 4 after the Battle of Atollon. Zeb gets called away for multiple missions in a row, and what does Kallus do about it?

Pine like a love-sick teenager, of course.

Kallus knew it wouldn’t be easy, openly joining the Rebellion. He had given more than a decade of his life to the Empire, and just because he was a spy for the Rebellion for a year doesn’t mean people have forgotten his origins.

The higher-ups of the Rebellion had interviewed him for any information they thought was valuable to the cause. Clearance codes, secret bases, anything he could remember. Oh, and did he mention the lie detector that they strapped to his chest? Because that was very efficient and smart of them, honestly. He was impressed, especially by their intelligence director, General Davits Draven. He was the one who strapped the machine to him, the one asking the most questions about his intel, the one pressing him more and more and more until he was ready to pull his hair out.

General Draven was… not cruel, really. Just extremely wary of him.

Which is wonderful for the Rebellion, but couldn’t they at least give him some bacta gel for his leg? They kept him in “debriefing” for a few more hours after that, and by the time he was released, he was utterly exhausted. All he wanted to do was get some bacta on his leg, some food in his stomach, and then pass out for an entire year.

As he walked out of the meeting room, ready to find the medical tent, or room, or whatever, he spotted the most unexpected person waiting for him.

Zeb stood against a stack of crates, obviously pretending to inspect his bo-rifle. As soon as the door opened, he looked up and his eyes immediately landed on him. His heart skipped a beat as Zeb walked over to him.

“Finally freeing you, eh? What do you say we head to medbay and then we can head back to the Ghost?”

“You must have read my mind, because that’s exactly what I was thinking. Lead the way?”

Zeb grabbed his hand gently (no, he is most definitely not blushing, thank you very much), and led him through the winding passages of the enormous temple that the Rebels had made their base. There were so many twists and turns, it was hard to keep track. Strategically sound, in his opinion. If anyone infiltrated the base, they would be hard pressed to find the most vulnerable people on base.

The medic who attended him was kind, but exhausted, since they were still looking over other victims of Atollon. He just asked for some bacta, but the medic brushed him off and began a full medical examination of him.

Zeb stood out of the way, but he was always in the corner of his eye as the medic poked and prodded and slathered in bacta and his leg set in a cast. Then he was told not to put too much pressure on it, come back in a few days to get it removed, and was sent off with Zeb to the Ghost.

He spent his recovery aboard the Ghost, while everyone recovered from the Battle of Atollon. Most of that time was spent in Zeb’s room, the galley, or the cockpit with Hera.

Kallus got to know the remaining members of the Spectres as well as he could in the week that he spent recovering, and in return, allowed the walls around his heart crack just a little bit.

He learned that Hera liked her caf with a splash of milk and a pound of sugar. She found and repaired Chopper herself during the Clone Wars. She liked to hum to herself while doing repairs on the Ghost. She’s not quite forgiven him for his time in the Empire, but he didn’t expect her to.

He learned that Rex, one of the few clones left in the fight against the Empire, was great at teaching. He had spent his time on Atollon running drills and such with new and old members. He was friends with, or at least knew of, everyone who came from Atollon. He spent his spare time talking with those two clones from Seelos on a secure channel.

And Zeb.

During his time as both an ISB agent and Fulcrum in the Empire, he had basically memorized Zeb’s file and could recite it backwards. But here on the Ghost, with Zeb taking care of him, he found he had known nothing about the Lasat.

Sabine may be the artist of the group, but Zeb could make a fair number of trinkets and other items. He had made custom chronometers for everyone. He made most of the silverware and utensils onboard. He had programmed their dejarik table.

Zeb was attentive to him, especially during the first few days of his recovery. He assisted with changing his bandages around his ribs and made sure he never had to walk too far.

Zeb didn’t linger on unimportant things. Sure, the obvious thing was Lasan, but like he had said on Bahryn, it was behind him, and he’s moved on. The next thing was Atollon. Zeb was just glad that Kallus was here now, and that the majority of Atollon’s personnel were now of Yavin 4.

Zeb worried a lot. Not about little things, about things that mattered. Do they have enough supplies, rations, ammo, and the other essentials? What was the Empire’s next move? Were Kanan, Ezra, and Sabine alright? They should have checked in by now.

Zeb was funny. They spent their final rest day in the common room, Kallus plunged himself into any intel that the Rebellion could throw at him before he was assigned an official position. He sat at the dejarik table while Zeb and Rex were neck deep in a game, throwing snippy remarks at each other. Kallus occasionally tuned in and chuckled along with them, causing the two to stare at him the first couple it happened. He stared intensely at his datapad, and tried his best to ignore the reaction of his laugh. But every time it happened after, Zeb grinned fiercely at him.

On Kallus’ last night aboard the Ghost, he and Zeb were in the common room, eating one last meal together before he was assigned to a section within Rebel Intelligence. Everyone else was off doing other things to prepare for their first mission off of Yavin 4, but Hera had given Zeb the night off, but they knew it was so that they could spend time together. Who knows when is the next time their schedules will sync up and they can sit like this again.

“Hey, up for a little hike?” Zeb asked, standing up after finishing up his portion.

Kallus blinked, before shoving the rest of his ration into his mouth and standing up from the table. “Of course, I am. Where to?”

Zeb grinned and motioned for him to follow him off the Ghost. The two of them disembark and Zeb walks straight into the jungle. Kallus hesitates at the edge. “Zeb?”

“What? Scared of the dark?”

Kallus smirked, thinking back to the ice cave. “Of course not. But we don’t know what lives in this jungle. It could be dangerous.”

“Kallus. Do you trust me?” Zeb comes back to the edge of the forest, and holds a hand out to him.

Kallus stares at the extended hand, takes a deep breath, and takes hold. “More than anyone else.”

Zeb leads Kallus into the darkness for a few minutes before they come to the base of a smaller, more hidden temple, similar to the one the Rebel base is now in. The pair follow the base a little bit before Zeb boosts himself up onto a ledge not far from the ground, helping Kallus climb up and together, they scale the side of the temple until they are above the treeline.

“Yer leg alright?” Zeb asked, steadying him on the last step, where it led to a platform covered in leaves and moss. It seemed like it’s been a while since anyone has been up here.

“Yes, it’s fine, I just need to sit for a bit.” Kallus replied, rubbing it a little, following Zeb over to a small rock, and settled there, before turning out to face the night sky.

“Oh wow…” He breathed in awe.

It was a completely clear night. Millions of stars sparkled behind the single ring of Yavin 4, framing a moon off in the distance perfectly. Down below, he could see the lights of the main temple, housing the largest Rebel cell currently active.

Emotion swelled in his chest. “How did you find this place?”

“Went to clear my head that first night we were here. The brass kept ya so long, I was getting antsy. So I just… wandered and found this place. Wanted ta show you before we left tomorrow.”

Kallus felt tears begin to build behind his eyes, but he refused to cry, to show weakness in front of his closest friend. “Thank you, Zeb. This is a gift I couldn’t have hoped for.”

“Any time, Kal. Any time.”

Read the rest on Ao3!

[creatorofclay]

Welcome back to observations with your favorite Kamski obsessed roleplayer. Last time, we talked about the actual location of Elijah's villa (boy was that a pain to dig back up too), the exact location of it on Belle Island. Today, it's time to discuss inside.

So, credit where credit is due, I want to thank @nock-and-bolt for their post about it that caused me to dig myself because, wow. I actually bought the game on PC and paid for the freecam (from otis_inf on Patr.eon) to dig because I am absolutely desperate. Hope you enjoy!

For my research purposes, I will be focusing on the parts of the rooms you don’t get to see normally, since the pool room and waiting room are explored enough in game... As well as a bunch of other things, wow this post got long LOL woops.

Okay, so, first off, I have said this before and I will say it again. This place is UGLY. But, I don’t get modern design, so we will move on from that. Second, the place is literally aesthetic only, I swear to you. There are at least 20+ different chairs/couches that you can see just in the main parts of the house. There’s no reason to have that much sitting space unless you either host people a lot, which I highly doubt he does, or its for design and nothing else. It doesn’t even include what we can’t see on the other side of the house, its just the rooms we CAN see. 

Its not a place you live, this is like a museum. Or office or some showroom.

The left side (facing the building) is the only part that I believe is the living space and it seems to be very small. But, knowing that Kamski has an appreciation for Japanese culture, and that I personally believe he’s absolutely a minimalist, this would make sense. He doesn’t need more than this small corner of the house for the kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. 

Roughly this size which, like I said, is probably enough for him. It would be the size of basically a studio apartment except more utilized because the living room and dining room are the other side of the house. 

But, moving on from the outside. Now, nock-and-bolt showed us what was behind the door that Chloe walks through in the pool room, but what I am curious about now is the farthest right door in the waiting area.

I think I remember seeing concept art that made it out to be what looked like it could have been a room, there was a bookshelf behind the door. I always assumed it was a home office or something, and its what I personally have worked with in my headcanons. But, nope. Thats actually wrong. 

Its just another hallway into this main living room. Which makes sense, sort of, if the kitchen and other things are on the other side of the waiting area. So you don’t always have to walk through the pool room to get to the other side of the house. But, whats super neat, that I love about this, is the stuff on the shelf here. Its just a few things but boy are they interesting. 

A floral vase and a couple weird, modern art pieces. I really don’t like Elijah’s style, I can’t stress that enough here, but its again clear how much of a minimalist he is. But, there is also one more thing:

What looks like some sort of Greek inspired vase the highest on the shelves. I did a bit of research to figure out what its supposed to be and what I could find seems to be referring to a nostos, which is “is a theme used in Ancient Greek literature, which includes an epic hero returning home by sea.” Which I only found from reading about Odysseus who was most known for his own nostos that took his 10 “eventful” years after the decade long trojan war, the subject of the Odyssey, one of two major ancient Greek epic poems attributed to Homer.

Crucial themes in the poem include the ideas of nostos (νόστος; "return"), wandering, xenia (ξενία; "guest-friendship"), testing, and omens. Scholars still reflect on the narrative significance of certain groups in the poem, such as women and slaves, who have a more prominent role in the epic than in many other works of ancient literature. This focus is especially remarkable when considered beside the Iliad, which centres the exploits of soldiers and kings during the Trojan War.

I am pretty sure the symbolism in the game is pretty obvious by this point, but this is just interesting because the vase is not something anyone would EVER see in the game. Its behind a door you can’t open, that never opens, and tucked away in the corner you would never see. But, it is still important for Elijah Kamski as a character. Assumed trials and tribulations, as well as the 10 year gap? Its just too coincidental. But, thats a whole other story honestly, and I don’t really know the most about Greek Mythos to be talking about it right now. 

Some other small things from this weird house that I thought were interesting. Just textures really, but detail. The marks on the cellos may be my favorite because it means they’re being used. Probably played in that chair sitting beside them. 

ALSO THIS? Theres one chair that isn’t pushed in equal with the others. ONE. Its literally like an inch out further than the other 7 chairs. Someone was sitting there recently. 

Now, these are interesting. because they--

--are literal tubes. I’m assuming these are for the androids. Maybe where they go when they aren’t in use or doing something. Or just. Charging? Stations? I don’t know, it could literally be a spawn point for them, but I think they are purposely placed and its interesting to me that they are placed like pedestals in front of the tv. Like he just likes to look at them standing there. Like a weirdo. 

Now we have this door. This door that I thought went somewhere because I didn’t notice it from the outside before but. Nope. It just goes outside. 

So I watched a video recently that was someone looking at $40 million NYC apartments and I realize what this door must be. Its the only way to get fresh air in this bitch. None of the other windows are made to be opened, anywhere in this villa. So, there has to be one. Its just weird to me that its at the far end overlooking the pier. 

I just have a love hate relationship with this place. Its aesthetic, but the aesthetic is modern and weird. This place, what we can see of it, is not a living space. This is an office. What you show off to show how much money you have. I’m curious what this place looks like during the Kamski ending. All dark even though I think all these lights he has on are NEVER turned off. We shall see...

Also when Chloe goes to talk to Elijah she stands at this door and doesn’t move until shes ready again. He’s spawned in the pool by this point. Sure, when she goes to open the door again, she appears a few steps back so she can walk up to it, but my heart wants to believe she was told to just stand there and make them wait LOL. 

There was also a very human reaction from Chloe when Connor appeared to be standing in her way. I had stepped in so Kamski would start swimming and went behind the door to see where Chloe got the robe from (im sure she just pops it out of thin air because its just floating under the house) but she didn’t force him to step aside for some reason, like she has done before. She just... Waited there behind him.  She reached behind her head, rubbed at her neck, motioned like she was impatient like... “God is this guy really going to just stand there and play with a quarter or is he going to move?” She even tapped her hand a couple times against her thigh. It was.... Strange to see.

In conclusion... Is there a conclusion? This is just a collection of things I discovered. If I find something else interesting, I will share. For now, thats all. uwu I went overboard and this is really long but.... I don’t call myself obsessed for nothing........

[tsarisfanfiction]

Fic Recs: Thunderbirds

A while ago I did a Scott!whump Fic Rec.  This time there’s no theme.  Just Thunderbirds!  Characters and genres vary wildly.

Got put in the mood to do this the other week, and after trawling through all my AO3 bookmarks/FFN favourites, and then the archives themselves because I’m terrible and forget to save fics, here are a bunch of my personal favourites.  As always, only complete fics feature (there are many fantastic ongoing ones, but I’m lazy and don’t like having to update fic statuses).

This list is also long.  100+ fics long.  So it’s under a cut to save everyone’s sanity.  There’s also a spreadsheet version of it that I’ll make available if you wanna search by character/genre/universe etc.

Ratings are all using AO3′s Gen/Teen/Mature, so for FFN “K+” fics, I shoved them in either Gen or Teen, depending on my personal opinion.  Likewise, genres are done using FFN’s method for conciseness, so AO3 ones I just kinda guessed.  Only the major characters are listed.

I’ve tagged (attempted to tag, tumblr please behave) authors where I know their tumblr.  If there’s any I haven’t tagged that anyone knows, let me know!

And one last thing before the recs: If there’s anything in particular you want recs for, whether it be a character, a theme, a trope, a fandom, etc. just let me know and I’ll see about putting one together!

Δv/Δt by @tb5-heavenward [Gen; Family; John, Scott; 4k] Deceleration is a function of velocity over time.

A Break In Routine by @loopstagirl [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Virgil; 15k] They put themselves in danger time and time again. That doesn't mean they can always walk away from it again though.

A Father by rosefields [Gen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Jeff; 3k] Scott Tracy has been under a lot of pressure since his mother died. But he can cope, it’s not a problem. Jeff know that, his oldest is strong and capable and he doesn’t need his father. Right?

A Guide to Valentine's Day (and how to exploit it) by Silverstar [Gen; Friendship; John, Penelope; 1k] In which John and Penelope pretend to go on a date to make the most of the discounts offered on meals for couples, because Valentine’s Day is about all kinds of love, including the platonic kind. A Seed Once Sown by @darkestwolfx [Gen; Friendship/Humour; Ned, Tracy Family; 4k] Believe it or not, they did have a garden on Tracy Island. It looked a little like a… tip. And that was being kind. A Son By Any Other Name by @space-baegel [Teen; Family/Angst; Scott, Tracy Family, Penelope; 83k] [AU] Cursed as a child, Scott Tracy lives a life in which everyone he encounters must follow all of his given commands. A Summary of Events by PanicPixieDreamGirl [Teen; Family; Tracy Family, Kayo; 3k] This is best described as ‘a look at how IR might function in the real world’ except obviously it’s not quite the real world because it’s several decades in the future and also after a war. A Typical Morning by @louthestarspeaker [Gen; Family/Humour; Tracy Brothers; 6k] The Terrible Two are scheming, Virgil just wants to be sleeping, and the brothers are faced with a bit of a situation. A typical morning in the Tracy household.

Access Denied // The Subject of Virgil by @gumnut-logic [Mature; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Virgil, Scott; 5k // 8k] He found a way. All Alone by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Grandma; 5k] Scott reaches breaking point for looking after his brothers so Grandma Tracy takes charge of the situation, and her son. Babies and Brothers by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott, Jeff; 3k] He may grow into the world's most protective big brother, but even Scott needed time to get used to the idea of younger siblings. Back Story by @thunderbirdcarebear [Gen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott; 6k] That rock slide while rescuing Kat Kavanaugh has left Scott with more than just a few bruises. Bedtime by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Scott; 1k] “They’re my family.” Bring Our Starman Home by @lenle-g [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Family; John, Scott; 28k] When a meteor hits Thunderbird 5 while shields are down, the Tracy family think John is dead for sure. Scott has prepared himself to fly up in TB3 with Alan to retrieve a body, for John couldn't possibly still be alive after that... could he? Bruised by @gumnut-logic [Gen; Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Virgil; 2k] Sometimes the prescription is simple, if unexpected. Buckle by Teobi [Gen; Family; Scott, Grandma; 1k] She finds him sitting at his father's desk, when everyone else has gone to bed. Candy Strippers by Chobrowny [Gen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Virgil, Gordon; 1k] The boys are unintentional candy stripers, visiting a childrens hospital in IR gear. Career Day by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Outside PoV, Alan; 7k] It is Career Day at school for eleven year old Alan Tracy. He has just lost his father. Who will he invite? Communications by nhsweetcherry [Gen; Adventure/Humour; Tracy Brothers; 4k] Random, short snippets of conversations between the guys. Some funny, some more serious. Coping Mechanism by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Angst; Virgil, Gordon, Scott; 7k] “I get you guys are busy and I’m spoilt that you all visit when you can, but honestly, this isn’t about me. This is out of character for Virg.” A pause. “And I miss him, okay?” Dare To Hope by i_amnerd [Gen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, John; 1k] Not for the first time, Scott wishes that little brothers came with some kind of training manual or instruction booklet. Denied by @thunderstorm-bay [Teen; Family; Gordon; 4k] Gordon is frustrated after "Deep Search" and "City Under The Sea". Different by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; John, Kayo; 2k] John Tracy is different. Dinosaur Dilemma by @godsliltippy [Teen; Action/Adventure; Gordon, Alan; 14k] Never in a million years would International Rescue have thought they would be rescuing victims from dinosaurs. Alan's excited, Virgil is... well, Virgil, John's out of his element, and Gordon is terrified. Edge of the World // Here Be Dragons by Corbyinoz2 [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Adventure; Gordon, Virgil, Scott; 47k // 114k] When returning from a rescue mission, Thunderbird Two is attacked by an unknown force. As Virgil and Gordon plummet towards the ocean, their chances of survival will depend, as it always does, on each other. Every time it snows by allandmore [Teen; Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Gordon; 5k] A simple mountain rescue goes wrong for International Rescue. Gordon battles the elements and his memories, and Scott has a tough decision to make. Exhaustion by @sugar-fiend [Teen; Suspense/Angst; Alan, John, Scott; 9k] A rescue mission in space is interrupted with deadly consequences… Expected & Unexpected by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Gordon, Virgil, Scott; 1k] He had brothers. It was inevitable, but sometimes unexpected. Facts of Life by Kaeera [Teen; Drama; Scott; 5k] There are some situations – lying on a floor in a pool of your own blood, for example – that really put things into perspective. Famous Last Words by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott; 2k] All Scott wanted was for everyone to be quiet so nothing else could go wrong. That was apparently too much to ask. Fires of Adversity by NKala99 [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Alan; 39k] Not everyone is supportive of Alan’s new and improved attitude towards school. First Times by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family/Humour; Scott; 3k] In which Scott forgets the speed of Thunderbird One, Virgil and John come up with a new form of torture and Gordon is after revenge. Just a normal day in the Tracy household then. Five Times Alan Flew Another Thunderbird by Silverstar [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Family; Alan; 61k] ...and the one time he didn't. Five Times The Floor Was Not Lava by Silverstar [Gen; Humour/Family; Tracy Brothers; 5k] ...and the one time it was. Flat Packed by @hedwigstalons [Gen; Humour; Scott; 600] A simple mission leaves Scott minus two brothers and plus one headache Game On by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott, Virgil; 12k] As their future Field Commander, it was up to Scott to make sure his brothers were ready for duty - physically as well as mentally. Grudgingly Human by Yarnaholic [Mature; Angst; Scott; 4k] Scott faces some old demons while trying to talk down a man standing on a building ledge after a rescue. He Is, They Are by ThatGirlSix [Teen; Family; Tracy Brothers; 90k] Fixing what was wrong with their family was going to take longer than the span of a Disney movie, but they'd get there eventually. They lived on an island. It wasn't like there was anywhere else to go. He's WHERE? by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Virgil, Scott; 1k] Virgil's reaction to finding out that the Hood is in Thunderbird Two... His Part by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family, Angst; Scott, Virgil, Tracy Brothers; 4k] It started off as a mild annoyance. Holiday From Hell by @loopstagirl [Teen; Family, Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Virgil, Jeff; 158k] It was supposed to be the break they all needed to put the last year behind them and take a step forward. But things never do work out that easily for the Tracys. Homecoming by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott, John; 2k] There are times when only a big brother can help. When something seems to be on John's mind, Scott steps up to the challenge. I Dream of Genie by @godsliltippy [Teen; Action/Friendship; Penelope, Gordon; 50k] Penelope stumbles across a treasure that could bring more frustration than she bargained for. Illusion of a Saint by AlternateReality1 [Teen; Spiritual/Suspense; Scott, Hood; 92k] There’s an enemy admist their ranks. He’s hidden in plain sight. The question is… when will the illusion be shattered? In Enemy Hands by Claudette [Gen; Adventure, Drama; Scott, John; 62k] When the secrets of International Rescue are offered for sale to the highest bidder the Tracy family must act quickly. However, their secrets are not the only thing that is at stake. In The Trunk by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Virgil; 1k] “Why don’t you ever listen to me?!” It Wasn't Me! by @janetm74fics [Gen; Family; Gordon, Scott; 3k] It's not like it isn't the first time Gordon had accidentally hurt one of his brothers, but this time? When his dad doesn't believe him Gordon decides to find the one person who will make everything better. John Tracy hated taking public transport by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Friendship; John; 2k] Every trip he buried himself in his own world whether it be his work, research, a good book or even a movie. He shut the world out and more importantly anyone who sat next to him.  Sometimes this was not possible.  Because sometimes they spoke to him. Just Another Rescue by teddy0bear [Gen; Family/Adventure; Scott, Virgil; 16k] A rescue turns into a hostage situation Just Let It Go by @angelofbenignmalevolence [Gen; Family; Scott, Gordon; 1k] Scott was just trying to get a little work done. Alan and Gordon were working on Alan's schoolwork. What could possibly go wrong? La tarte aux pommes d'or by Yarol2075 [Gen; Friendship; Scott, Mechanic; 400] Scott needs to thank the Mechanic - it really shouldn't be so hard. Labyrinth by TB's LMC [Mature; Horror/Supernatural; Scott; 12k] One minute Scott Tracy’s at Mobile Control directing a rescue. The next, he’s in a fight for his life. Line 'Em Up Bartender by @madilayn [Teen; Friendship; Scott, John, Colonel Casey; 800] Scott, John and Colonel Casey find a way to cope with one of Jeff's speeches at a Charity Function. Living Like Kings by CLynnB [Gen; Family; Tracy Family; 35k] The world wants to know more about the Tracy brothers. So Lady Penelope takes it upon herself to show the world just who they are. Through YouTube. Making Changes by @madilayn [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Tracy Brothers; 17k] Jeff Tracy has gone missing and International Rescue has to make some changes to cope with this. Merman by @janetm74fics [Gen; Family; Gordon; 700] He'd always wanted to be a merman. Ever since he was old enough to swim and read, his life had been filled with the sea and the things in the sea. A twist of fate may just give him that wish. Missing Scene: The Uninvited by Juud18 [Gen; Family; Scott; 2k] In between Scott being found by Lindsey and Wilson, and the scene where Scott, TinTin, Virgil, Brains, and Wilson and Lindsey are sitting at the campfire. Mission Impossible by @loopstagirl [Teen; Family/Adventure; Scott, Gordon; 55k] Being selected for his first solo mission should have been exciting for Captain Scott Tracy of the Air Force. But there was something else at play. Something dangerous and deadly. Something that could cost him more than his life. Monsters in the Dark by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott, Virgil; 3k] Scott was used to checking for monsters to keep his little brothers happy. He just wasn't so used to actually dealing with said monsters. More Than I Bargained For by puppetonalonelystring [Teen; Action/Hurt/Comfort; Scott; 13k] Scott attends a Yale reunion party thinking that it cannot turn out any worse than the last one. Unfortunately, things are never simple for the Tracy brothers - when things turn complicated for Scott he has to depend on his brothers to help sort the situation out, or the secrets of International Rescue will be exposed Never Too Late // Never Too Lost // Never Too Long by @loopstagirl [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Family; Scott, Jeff; 58k // 75k // 138k] As the family deal with grief, Scott must face his fears and grow up, whilst Jeff battles between being dad and being a successful businessman. But what will it take to bring the two of them back together again? On Their Side by @gumnut-logic [Gen; Family/Humour; Colonel Casey, Gordon, Virgil; 1k] She trusted these boys with a great deal. Once In A Blue Moon by WhatHaveWeDone [Teen; Hurt/Comfort; Virgil, John; 3k] It was an aligning of the planets when John and Virgil got to work together. Out of Your Mind // All in Your Mind by @loopstagirl [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Gordon, Tracy Family, Hood; 75k // 149k] They can defy the odds and snatch people from the jaws of death on a daily basis. But sometimes, not all dangers come in a physical form. Over and Out by @thunderbirdcarebear [Gen; Hurt/Comfort/Family; Scott; 5k] An incident at an earthquake rescue leaves Scott frustrated when he’s injured. Parameters by @drdone [Teen; Family; Scott, John; 1k] “Just pretend to be my date” with John and Scott - in a non-shippy way. Picnic by ThatGirlSix [Teen; Family; Gordon, Virgil; 13k] Every Tracy has a type of job they hate, be them car crashes, hotel fires, mine collapses, whatever. Gordon absolutely hates tornadoes with a passion. No, really, he hates tornadoes. His life would be so much better if they never did another tornado job ever again. The rest of the family is starting to think so, too. Plus One Tracy by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Humour; Tracy Brothers, Kayo; 2k] So which Tracy is right for you? Pranks and Tempers by shadowfox8 [Teen; Angst/Family; Alan, Scott, Gordon; 8k] It was only supposed to be an innocent prank, but Gordon didn't bargain for more. Questions Like A Whirlwind by @darkestwolfx [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, John; 6k] He couldn't put it into words. He wasn't sure they'd understand if he did. He felt like a child, he felt like a murder, he felt… like he'd lost something and had no clue how to put it back in place by himself. Rescue by taralynden [Gen; Hurt/Comfort/Drama; Scott; 26k] On the way home from a rescue, Thunderbird One crashes and it’s up to Scott’s family to save him. Scott Series: Fallen Brother by QuestRunner [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Alan; 11k] In a rare chance to bond with his youngest brother, Scott takes Alan with him on a simple mission to repair a damaged satellite. With tempers running high, the boys find themselves arguing over the roles they play in International Rescue. When Alan slips off a cliff, it’s up to Scott to save his brother and mend their broken relationship. Scott Series: Hidden Pain by QuestRunner [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Family; Scott, Virgil; 4k] Scott suffers from a mysterious pain in his abdomen, but continues to push the limits on and off the field. Scott Series: Negative Split by QuestRunner [Teen; Family/Adventure; Scott, Virgil; 6k] Scott recruits Virgil as his fellow running partner for an upcoming 10K. When a mission takes a turn for the worst, Scott must put his running skills to the test before his whole world comes crashing down around him. Second Helpings by mcj [Mature; Family/Romance; Gordon, Alan, Grandma, Tin-Tin; 10k] Gordon Tracy's point of view of a VERY precarious romantic situation! Second Round by @darkestwolfx [Gen; Family/Humour; Virgil; 4k] All he wanted was a shower. Why did shopping have to be so complicated? And why did he always end up going? Next time, Scott could be lumped with the responsibility, smaller craft or not. Shattered by @singmetothesun [Gen; Hurt/Comfort/Family; Scott, Gordon; 2k] One Tracy brother leaves his feelings bottled up, until the smother hen catches him out. Shiver // Smacked by @loopstagirl [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Family; Scott; 44k // 4k] When one of the Thunderbirds is infecting with something deadly, will the rest of the Tracys be able to save one of their own? Or are they about to be torn apart by grief again? Sidelined by @drdone [Gen; Family; Scott, Alan; 1k] Scott's sidelined for the time being and decides to ask Alan about college. Six Point Five by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Humour/Hurt/Comfort; Virgil, Scott; 1k] “So, Mr Tracy, on a scale of one to ten how would you rate the pain you are in?" Sky Candy by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Humour/Family; Virgil, Scott, Gordon; 4k] It was a pterodactyl sized bird. Possibly an elephant with wings. Sleeping Wounded by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Scott, Virgil, Fischler; 14k] Scott Tracy punched Langstrom Fischler. Sometimes by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott; 1k] Sometimes, Scott hates being the oldest. But are there some hidden perks... Stuck Like Glue by @drdone [Gen; Family; Scott, Virgil; 2k] Scott is stuck to Virgil like glue. Literally. Summonings by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott, Jeff; 2k] Alan isn't the only one in trouble at the beginning of Spring Break in regards to the 'birds. Swamped by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Virgil, Gordon; 1k] So here he was standing in his undershorts on top of his 'bird in the middle of the ocean for all nearby female aristocrats to see. Take a minute by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Virgil, Scott; 2k] A mechanical fault forces Virgil to take a minute in the middle of the Australian Outback. Terror After New York by @loopstagirl [Gen; Family; Scott, Gordon; 2k] It was all over. The rescue complete and everyone back safe and sound, finally. Yet it didn't seem as if everything had yet been put behind them entirely. The Antarctic Incident by @space-baegel, @tb5-heavenward [Teen; Adventure/Drama; Tracy Brothers; 9k] Thunderbird Two goes down in the middle of an Antarctic blizzard. The Assignment by Kaeera [Gen; Humour/Drama; Scott; 10k] Twelve year old Scott struggles with a writing assignment. Honestly, when you have four younger brothers, it can be hard finding time for yourself. The Bite by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Angst/Hurt/Comfort; Virgil, Scott; 1k] “I need my big brother, not his sacrifice.” the devil vs Gordon Tracy by @tb5-heavenward [Teen; Family; Gordon, Scott; 6k] Being a discussion about the namesakes of some lizards. The Fire by mcj [Mature; Family; Tracy Family; 22k] “Sometimes all you need is a little quiet reflection." The Hardest Thing by eriphi [Gen; Family; Scott, Jeff; 5k] How do you manage a billion dollar business and parent four growing boys at the same time? It takes something serious to make Jeff realise that he isn’t managing as well as he thought. The Most Dangerous Game by @godsliltippy [Teen; Action/Adventure; Scott, Gordon; 23k] Scott and Gordon find themselves unwilling participants. The One Where John Gets a Hug by Silverstar [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Angst; John; 21k] Spending months by yourself has never been advisable behaviour, and John's never been good at asking people for help. Or: the Tracys learn the magical art of communication, with a load of hugs thrown in for good measure. The Proof is in the Jello by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family/Hurt/Comfort; Gordon, Alan; 3k] “Call it what you want, but I’m not going to let you rot in that room.” The Silent Conversation by mcj [Teen; Hurt/Comfort; Scott; 5k] The sound of sirens, a flash of light and waking up under a pile of rubble. How can Scott survive knowing help just might not come? The Spider Incident by Silverstar [Teen; Humour/Family; Virgil, Tracy Brothers; 5k] It takes a certain kind of bravery to save the world... it takes a different kind of bravery to remove a spider from the shower. Or: there is a spider, and the Tracy boys are disasters. The Splinter by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Virgil, Jeff; 1k] Now he had backup. The Venetian Venture by @tb5-heavenward [Teen; Romance; Gordon, Penelope; 11k] Penelope takes Gordon on a mission to Venice the waffle house blues by @akireyta, @tb5-heavenward [Teen; Family; Tracy Brothers; 5k] Wherein a bunch of boys sit around a restaurant, eating breakfast food and dozing on and off and talking about life. To Raise Havoc by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Havoc, Hood; 1k] They had to come from somewhere and he was more than she ever expected. Tomorrow Never Knows by Silverstar [Teen; Hurt/Comfort/Angst; Gordon, Alan, Scott; 110k] Things had not gone according to plan, to say the least. Now they were trapped on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere with no hope of rescue and increasingly slim chances of survival. To make matters worse, the Chaos Crew had shown up. This was not going to be a fun week. Triple Jeopardy by Purupuss [Teen; Drama; Tracy Brothers; 217k] One inventor and one set of plans. But triple trouble for the Tracys and International Rescue. V.T. Green by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family; Virgil; 23k] “Did you discover this, Brains?” He frowned. There was something familiar about this. Maybe they had discussed it recently. “Oh, no, this is V. T. Green. The man is brilliant.” We'll Be Home For Christmas by @gumnut-logic [Teen; Family/Friendship; Virgil, Tracy Brothers; 68k] The boys can’t fly home for Christmas, so they have to find another way. Weathering the Storm by tiylaya [Teen; Adventure/Angst; Scott, Gordon; 102k] When an unexpected storm shipwrecks a holidaying Jeff Tracy and three of his young sons, they’re thrown into a situation far more dangerous and complex than anyone initially realises.

[oscopelabs]

‘America’s Not a Country, It’s Just a Business’: On Andrew Dominik’s ‘Killing Them Softly’ By Roxana Hadadi

“Shitsville.” That’s the name Killing Them Softly director Andrew Dominik gave to the film’s nameless town, in which low-level criminals, ambitious mid-tier gangsters, nihilistic assassins, and the mob’s professional managerial class engage in warfare of the most savage kind. Onscreen, other states are mentioned (New York, Maryland, Florida), and the film itself was filmed in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans, though some of the characters speak with Boston accents that are pulled from the source material, George V. Higgins’s novel Cogan’s Trade. But Dominik, by shifting Higgins’s narrative 30 or so years into the future and situating it specifically during the 2008 Presidential election, refuses to limit this story to one place. His frustrations with America as an institution that works for some and not all are broad and borderless, and so Shitsville serves as a stand-in for all the places not pretty enough for gentrifying developers to turn into income-generating properties, for all the cities whose industrial booms are decades in the past, and for all the communities forgotten by the idea of progress._ Killing Them Softly_ is a movie about the American dream as an unbeatable addiction, the kind of thing that invigorates and poisons you both, and that story isn’t just about one place. That’s everywhere in America, and nearly a decade after the release of Dominik’s film, that bitter bleakness still has grim resonance.

In November 2012, though, when Killing Them Softly was originally released, Dominik’s gangster picture-cum-pointed criticism of then-President Barack Obama’s vision of an America united in the same neoliberal goals received reviews that were decidedly mixed, tipping toward negative. (Audiences, meanwhile, stayed away, with Killing Them Softly opening at No. 7 with $7 million, one of the worst box office weekends of Brad Pitt’s entire career at that time.) Obama’s first term had been won on a tide of hope, optimism, and “better angels of our nature” solidarity, and he had just defeated Mitt Romney for another four years in the White House when Killing Them Softly hit theaters on Nov. 30. Cogan’s Trade had no political components, and no connections between the thieving and killing promulgated by these criminals and the country at large. Killing Them Softly, meanwhile, took every opportunity it could to chip away at the idea that a better life awaits us all if we just buy into the idea of American exceptionalism and pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps ingenuity. A fair amount of reviews didn’t hold back their loathing toward this approach. A.O. Scott with the New York Times dismissed Dominik’s frame as “a clumsy device, a feint toward significance that nothing else in the movie earns … the movie is more concerned with conjuring an aura of meaningfulness than with actually meaning anything.” Many critics lambasted Dominik’s nihilism: For Deadspin, Will Leitch called it a “crutch, and an awfully flimsy one,” while Richard Roeper thought the film collapsed under the “crushing weight” of Dominik’s philosophy. It was the beginning of Obama’s second term, and people still thought things might get better.

But Dominik’s film—like another that came out a few years earlier, Adam McKay’s 2010 political comedy The Other Guys—has maintained a crystalline kind of ideological purity, and perhaps gained a certain prescience. Its idea that America is less a bastion of betterment than a collection of corporate interests, and the simmering anger Brad Pitt’s Jackie Cogan captures in the film’s final moments, are increasingly difficult to brush off given the past decade or so in American life. This is not to say that Obama’s second term was a failure, but that it was defined over and over again by the limitations of top-down reform. Ceaseless Republican obstruction, widespread economic instability, and unapologetic police brutality marred the encouraging tenor of Obama’s presidency. Donald Trump’s subsequent four years in office were spent stacking the federal judiciary with young, conservative judges sympathetic toward his pro-big-business, fuck-the-little-guy approach, and his primary legislative triumph was a tax bill that will steadily hurt working-class people year after year.

The election of Obama’s vice president Joe Biden, and the Democratic Party securing control of the U.S. Senate, were enough for a brief sigh of relief in November 2020. The $1.9 trillion stimulus bill passed in March 2021 does a lot of good in extending (albeit lessened) unemployment benefits, providing a child credit to qualifying families, and funneling further COVID-19 support to school districts after a year of the coronavirus pandemic. But Republicans? They all voted no to helping the Americans they represent. Stimulus checks to the middle-class voters who voted Biden into office? Decreased for some, totally cut off for others, because of Biden’s appeasement to the centrists in his party. $15 minimum wage? Struck down, by both Republicans and Democrats. In how many more ways can those politicians who are meant to serve us indicate that they have little interest in doing anything of the kind?

Modern American politics, then, can be seen as quite a performative endeavor, and an exercise in passing blame. Who caused the economic collapse of 2008? Some bad actors, who the government bailed out. Who suffered the most as a result? Everyday Americans, many of whom have never recovered. Killing Them Softly mimics this dynamic, and emphasizes the gulf between the oppressors and the oppressed. The nameless elites of the mob, sending a middle manager to oversee their dirty work. The poker-game organizer, who must be brutally punished for a mistake made years before. The felons let down by the criminal justice system, who turn again to crime for a lack of other options. The hitman who brushes off all questions of morality, and whose primary concern is getting adequately paid for his work. Money, money, money. “This country is fucked, I’m telling ya. There’s a plague coming,” Jackie Cogan says to the Driver who delivers the mob’s by-committee rulings as to who Jackie should intimidate, threaten, and kill so their coffers can start getting filled again. Perhaps the plague is already here.

“Total fucking economic collapse.”

In terms of pure gumption, you have to applaud Dominik for taking aim at some of the biggest myths America likes to tell about itself. After analyzing the dueling natures of fame and infamy through the lens of American outlaw mystique in The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Dominik thought bigger, taking on the entire American dream itself in Killing Them Softly. From the film’s very first second, Dominik doesn’t hold back, equating an easy path of forward progress with literal trash. Discordant tones and the film’s stark, white-on-black title cards interrupt Presidential hopeful Barack Obama’s speech about “the American promise,” slicing apart Obama’s words and his crowd’s responding cheers as felon Frankie (Scoot McNairy), in the all-American outfit of a denim jacket and jeans, cuts through what looks like a shut-down factory, debris and garbage blowing around him. Obama’s assurances sound very encouraging indeed: “Each of us has the freedom to make of our own lives what we will.” But when Frankie—surrounded by trash, cigarette dangling from his mouth, and eyes squinting shut against the wind—walks under dueling billboards of Obama, with the word “CHANGE” in all-caps, and Republican opponent John McCain, paired with the phrase “KEEPING AMERICA STRONG,” a better future doesn’t exactly seem possible. Frankie looks too downtrodden, too weary of all the emptiness around him, for that.

Dominik and cinematographer Greig Fraser spoke to American Cinematographer magazine in October 2012 about shooting in post-Hurricane Katrina New Orleans: “We were aiming for something generic, a little town between New Orleans, Boston and D.C. that we called Shitsville. We wanted the place to look like it’s on the down-and-down, on the way out. We wanted viewers to feel just how smelly and grimy and horrible it was, but at the same time, we didn’t want to alienate them visually.” They were successful: Every location has a rundown quality, from the empty lot in which Frankie waits for friend and partner-in-crime Russell (Ben Mendelsohn)—a concrete expanse decorated with a couple of wooden chairs, as if people with nowhere else to go use this as a gathering spot—to the dingy laundromat backroom where Frankie and Russell meet with criminal mastermind Johnny “Squirrel” Amato (Vincent Curatola), who enlists them to rob a mafia game night run by Markie Trattman (Ray Liotta), to the restaurant kitchen where the game is run, all sickly fluorescent lights, cracked tile, and makeshift tables. Holding up a game like this, from which the cash left on the tables flows upward into the mob’s pockets, is dangerous indeed. But years before, Markie himself engineered a robbery of the game, and although that transgression was forgiven because of how well-liked Markie is in this institution, it would be easy to lay the blame on him again. And that’s exactly what Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell plan to do.

The “Why?” for such a risk isn’t that hard to figure out. Squirrel sees an opportunity to make off with other people’s money, he knows that any accusatory fingers will point elsewhere first, and he wants to act on it before some other aspiring baddie does. (Ahem, sound like the 2008 mortgage crisis to you?) Frankie, tired of the crappy jobs his probation officer keeps suggesting—jobs that require both long hours and a long commute, when Frankie can’t even afford a car (“Why the fuck do they think I need a job in the first place? Fucking assholes”)—is drawn in by desperation borne from a lack of options. If he doesn’t come into some kind of money soon, “I’m gonna have to go back and knock on the gate and say, ‘Let me back in, I can’t think of nothing and it’s starting to get cold,’” Frankie admits. And Australian immigrant and heroin addict Russell is nursing his own version of the American dream: He’s going to steal a bunch of purebred dogs, drive them down to Florida to sell for thousands of dollars, buy an ounce of heroin once he has $7,000 in hand, and then step on the heroin enough to become a dealer. It’s only a few moves from where he is to where he wants to be, he figures, and this card-game heist can help him get there.

In softly lit rooms, where the men in the frame are in focus and their surroundings and backgrounds are slightly blown out, slightly blurred, or slightly fuzzy (“Creaminess is something you feel you can enter into, like a bath; you want to be absorbed and encompassed by it” Fraser told American Cinematographer of his approach), garish deals are made, and then somehow pulled off with a sobering combination of ineptitude and ugliness. Russell buys yellow dishwashing gloves for himself and Frankie to wear during the holdup, and they look absurd—but the pistol-whipping Russell doles out to Markie still hurts like hell, no matter what accessories he’s wearing. Dominik gives this holdup the paranoia and claustrophobia it requires, revolving his camera around the barely-holding-it-together Frankie and cutting every so often to the enraged players, their eyes glancing up to look at Frankie’s face, their hands twitching toward their guns. But in the end, nobody moves. When Frankie and Russell add insult to injury by picking the players’ pockets (“It’s only money,” they say, as if this entire ordeal isn’t exclusively about wanting other people’s money), nobody fights back. Nobody dies. Frankie and Russell make off with thousands of dollars in two suitcases, while Markie is left bamboozled—and afraid—by what just happened. And the players? They’ll get their revenge eventually. You can count on that.

So it goes that Dominik smash cuts us from the elated and triumphant Russell and Frankie driving away from the heist in their stolen 1971 Buick Riviera, its headlights interrupting the inky-black night, to the inside of Jackie Cogan’s 1967 Oldsmobile Toronado, with Johnny Cash’s “The Man Comes Around” providing an evocative accompaniment. “There’s a man going around taking names/And he decides who to free, and who to blame/Everybody won’t be treated all the same,” Cash sings in that unmistakably gravelly voice, and that’s exactly what Jackie does. Called in by the mob to capture who robbed the game so that gambling can begin again, Jackie meets with an unnamed character, referred to only as the Driver (Richard Jenkins), who serves as the mob’s representative in these sorts of matters. Unlike the other criminals in this film—Frankie, with his tousled hair and sheepish face; Russell, with his constant sweatiness and dog-funk smell; Jackie, in his tailored three-piece suits and slicked-back hair; Markie, with those uncannily blue eyes and his matching slate sportscoat—the Driver looks like a square.

He is, like the men who replace Mike Milligan in the second season of Fargo, a kind of accountant, a man with an office and a secretary. “The past can no more become the future than the future can become the past,” Milligan had said, and for all the backward-looking details of Killing Them Softly—American cars from the 1960s and 1970s, that whole masculine code-of-honor thing that Frankie and Russell break by ripping off Markie’s game, the post-industrial economic slump that brings to mind the American recession of 1973 to 1975—the Driver is very much an arm of a new kind of organized crime. He keeps his hands clean, and he delivers what the ruling-by-committee organized criminals decide, and he’s fussy about Jackie smoking cigarettes in his car, and he’s so bland as to be utterly forgettable. And he has the power, as authorized by his higher-ups, to approve Jackie putting pressure on Markie for more information about the robbery. It doesn’t matter that neither Jackie nor the mob thinks Markie actually did it. What matters more is that “People are losing money. They don’t like to lose money,” and so Jackie can do whatever he needs. Dominik gives him this primacy through a beautiful shot of Jackie’s reflection in the car window, his aviators a glinting interruption to the gray concrete overpass under which the Driver’s car is parked, to the smoke billowing out from faraway stacks, and to the overall gloominess of the day.

“We regret having to take these actions. Today’s actions are not what we ever wanted to do, but today’s actions are what we must do to restore confidence to our financial system,” we hear Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson say on the radio in the Driver’s car, and his October 14, 2008, remarks are about the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act of 2008—the government bailout of banks and other financial institutions that cost taxpayers $700 billion. (Remember Will Ferrell’s deadpan delivery in The Other Guys of “From everything I’ve heard, you guys [at the Securities and Exchange Commission] are the best at these types of investigations. Outside of Enron and AIG, and Bernie Madoff, WorldCom, Bear Stearns, Lehman Brothers ...”) Yet the appeasing sentiment of Paulson’s words applies to Jackie, too, and to the beating he orders for Markie—a man he suspects did nothing wrong, at least not this time. But debts must be settled. Heads must roll. “Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still/Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still/Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still,” Cash sang, and Jackie is all those men, and he’ll collect the stolen golden crowns as best he can. For a price, of course. Always for a price.

“I like to kill them softly, from a distance, not close enough for feelings. Don’t like feelings. Don’t want to think about them.”

In “Bad Dreams,” the penultimate episode of the second season of The Wire, International Brotherhood of Stevedores union representative Frank Sobotka (Chris Bauer), having seen his brothers in arms made immaterial by the lack of work at the Baltimore ports and the collapse of their industry, learns that his years of bribing politicians to vote for expanded funding for the longshoremen isn’t going to pay off. He is furious, and he is exhausted. “We used to make shit in this country, build shit. Now we just put our hand in the next guy’s pocket,” he says with the fatigue of a man who knows his time has run out, and you can draw a direct line from Bauer’s beleaguered delivery of those lines to Liotta’s aghast reaction to the horrendous beating he receives from Jackie’s henchmen. Sobotka in The Wire had no idea how he got to that helpless place, and neither does Markie in Killing Them Softly—he made a mistake, but that was years ago. Everyone forgave him. Didn’t they?

The vicious assault leveled upon Markie is a harrowing, horrifying sequence that is also unnervingly beautiful, and made all the more awful as a result of that visual splendor. In the pouring rain, Markie is held captive by the two men, who deliver bruising body shots, break his noise, batter his body against the car, and kick in his ribs. “You see fight scenes a lot in movies, but you don’t see people systematically beating somebody else. The idea was just to make it really, really, really ugly,” Dominik told the New York Times in November 2012, and sound mixer Leslie Shatz and cinematographer Fraser also contributed to this unforgettable scene. Shatz used the sound of a squeegee across a windshield to accentuate Markie’s increasingly destroyed body slumping against the car, and also incorporated flash bulbs going off as punches were thrown, adding a kind of lingering effect to the scene’s soundscape. And although the scene looks like it’s shot in slow motion, Fraser explained to American Cinematographer that the combination of an overhead softbox and dozens of background lights helped build that layered effect in which Liotta is fully illuminated while the dark night around him remains impenetrable. Every drop of rain and every splatter of blood stands out on Markie’s face as he confesses ignorance regarding the robbery and begs for mercy from Jackie’s men, but Markie has already been marked for death. When the time comes, Jackie will shoot him in the head in another exquisitely detailed, shot-in-ultrahigh-speed scene that bounces back and forth between the initial act of violence and its ensuing destruction. The cartridges flying out of Jackie’s gun, and the bullets destroying Markie’s window, and then his brain. Markie’s car, now no longer in his control, rolling forward into an intersection where it’s hit not just once, but twice, by oncoming cars. The crunching sound of Markie’s head against his windshield, and the vision of that glass splintering from the impact of his flung body, are impossible to shake.

“Cause and effect,” Dominik seems to be telling us, and Killing Them Softly follows Jackie as he cleans up the mess Squirrel, Frankie, and Russell have made. After he enlists another hitman, Mickey (a fantastically whoozy James Gandolfini, who carries his bulk like the armor of a samurai searching for a new master), whose constant boozing, whoring, and laziness shock Jackie after years of successful work together, and who refuses to do the killing for which Jackie secured him a $15,000 payday, Jackie realizes he’ll need to do this all himself. He’ll need to gather the intel that fingers Frankie, Russell, and Squirrel. He’ll need to set up a police sting to entrap Russell on his purchased ounce of heroin, violating the terms of his probation, and he’ll need to set up another police sting to entrap Mickey for getting in a fight with a prostitute, violating the terms of his probation. For Jackie, a career criminal for whom ethical questions have long since evaporated, Russell’s and Frankie’s sloppiness in terms of bragging about their score is a source of disgust. “I guess these guys, they just want to go to jail. They probably feel at home there,” he muses, and he’s then exasperated by the Driver’s trepidation regarding the brutality of his methods. Did the Driver’s bosses want the job done or not? “We aim to please,” Jackie smirks, and that shark smile is the sign of a predator getting ready to feast.

Things progress rapidly then: Jackie tracks Frankie down to the bar where he hangs out, and sneers at Frankie’s reticence to turn on Squirrel. “They’re real nice guys,” he says mockingly to Frankie of the criminal underworld of which they’re a part, brushing off Frankie’s defense that Squirrel “didn’t mean it.” “That’s got nothing to do with it. Nothing at all,” Jackie replies, and that’s the kind of distance that keeps Jackie in this job. Sure, the vast majority of us aren’t murderers. But as a question of scale, aren’t all of us as workers compromised in some way? Employees of companies, institutions, or billionaires that, say, pollute the environment, or underpay their staff, or shirk labor laws, or rake in unheard-of profits during an international pandemic? Or a government that spreads imperialism through allegedly righteous military action (referenced in Killing Them Softly, as news coverage of the economic crisis mentions the reckless rapidity with which President George W. Bush invaded Afghanistan and Iraq after Sept. 11, 2001), or that can’t quite figure out how to house the nation’s homeless into the millions of vacant homes sitting empty around the country, or that refuses, over and over again, to raise the minimum wage workers are paid so that they have enough financial security to live decent lives?

Perhaps you bristle at this comparison to Jackie Cogan, a man who has no qualms blowing apart Squirrel with a shotgun at close range, or unloading a revolver into Frankie after spending an evening driving around with him. But the guiding American principle when it comes to work is that you do a job and you get paid: It’s a very simple contract, and both sides need to operate in good faith to fulfill it. Salaried employees, hourly workers, freelancers, contractors, day laborers, the underemployed—all operate under the assumption that they’ll be compensated, and all live with the fear that they won’t. Jackie knows this, as evidenced by his loathing toward compatriot Kenny (Slaine) when the man tries to pocket the tip Jackie left for his diner waitress. “For fuck’s sake,” Jackie says in response to Kenny’s attempted theft, and you can sense that if Jackie could kill him in that moment, he would. In this way, Jackie is rigidly conservative, and strictly old-school. Someone else’s money isn’t yours to take; it’s your responsibility to earn, and your employer’s responsibility to pay. Jackie cleaned up the mob’s mess, and the gambling tables opened again because of his work, and his labor resulted in their continued profits. And Jackie wants what he’s owed.

“Don’t make me laugh. ‘We’re one people.’”

We hear two main voices of authority urging calm throughout Killing Them Softly. Then-President Bush: “I understand your worries and your frustration. … We’re in the midst of a serious financial crisis, and the federal government is responding with decisive action.” Presidential hopeful Obama: “There’s only the road we’re traveling on as Americans.” Paulson speaks on the Emergency Economic Stabilization Act, and various news commentators chime in, too: “There needs to be consequences, and there needs to be major change.” Radio commentary and C-SPAN coverage combine into a sort of secondary accompaniment to Marc Streitenfeld’s score, which incorporates lyrically germane Big Band standards like “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries” (“You work, you save, you worry so/But you can’t take your dough”) and “It’s Only a Paper Moon” (“It's a Barnum and Bailey world/Just as phony as it can be”). All of these are Dominik’s additions to Cogan’s Trade, which is a slim, 19-chapter book without any political angle, and this frame is what met so much resistance from contemporaneous reviews.

But what Dominik accomplishes with this approach is twofold. First, a reminder of the ceaseless tension and all-encompassing anxiety of that time, which would spill into the Occupy Wall Street movement, coalesce support around politicians like Bernie Sanders and Elizabeth Warren, and fuel growing national interest in policies like universal health care and universal basic income. For anyone who struggled during that time—as I did, a college graduate entering the 2009 job market after the journalism industry was already beginning its still-continuing freefall—Killing Them Softly captures the free-floating anger so many of us felt at politicians bailing out corporations rather than people. Perhaps in 2012, only weeks after the re-election of Obama and with the potential that his second term could deliver on some of his campaign promises (closing Guantanamo Bay, maybe, or passing significant gun control reform, maybe), this cinematic scolding felt like medicine. But nearly a decade later, with neither of these legislative successes in hand, and with the wins for America’s workers so few and far between—still a $7.25 federal minimum wage, still no federal paid maternity and family leave act, still the refusal by many states to let their government employees unionize—if you don’t feel demoralized by how often the successes of the Democratic Party are stifled by the party’s own moderates or thoroughly curtailed by saboteur Republicans, maybe you’re not paying attention.

More acutely, then, the mutinous spirit of Killing Them Softly accomplishes something similar to what 1990’s Pump Up the Volume did: It allows one to say, with no irony whatsoever, “Do you ever get the feeling everything in America is completely fucked up?” The disparities of the financial system, and the yawning gap between the rich and the poor. The utter lack of accountability toward those who were supposed to protect us, and didn’t. And the sense that we’re always being a little bit cheated by a ruling class who, like Sobotka observed on The Wire, is always putting their hand in our pocket. Consider Killing Them Softly’s quietest moment, in which Frankie realizes that he’s a hunted man, and that the people from whom he stole would never let him live. Dominik frames McNairy tight, his expression a flickering mixture of plaintive yearning and melancholic regret, as he quietly says, “It’s just shit, you know? The world is just shit. We’re all just on our own.” A day or so later, McNairy’s Frankie will be lying on a medical examiner’s table, his head partially collapsed from a bullet to the brain, an identification tag looped around his pinky toe. And the men who ordered his death want to underpay the man who carried it out for them. Isn’t that the shit?

That leads us, then, to the film’s angriest moment, and to a scene that stands alongside the climaxes of so many other post-recession films: Chris Pine’s Toby Howard paying off the predatory bank that swindled his mother with its own stolen money in Hell or High Water, Lakeith Stanfield’s Cash Green and his fellow Equisapiens storming billionaire Steve Lift’s (Armie Hammer’s) mansion in Sorry to Bother You, Viola Davis’s Veronica Rawlings shooting her cheating husband and keeping the heist take for herself and her female comrades in Widows. So far in Killing Them Softly, Pitt has played Jackie with a certain level of remove. A man’s got to have a code, and his is fairly simple: Don’t get involved emotionally with the assignment. Pitt’s Jackie is susceptible to flashes of irritation, though, that manifest as a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and as an octave-lower growl that belies his impatience: with the Driver, for not understanding how Markie’s reputation has doomed him; with Mickey, for his procrastination and his slovenliness; with Kenny, for stealing a hardworking woman’s tip; with Frankie, when he tries to distract Jackie from killing Squirrel. Jackie is a professional, and he is intolerant of people failing to work at his level, and Pitt plays the man as tiptoeing along a knife’s edge. Remember Daniel Craig’s “’Cause it’s all so fucking hysterical” line delivery in Road to Perdition? Pitt’s whole performance is that: a hybrid offering of bemusement, smugness, and ferocity that suggests a man who’s seen it all, and hasn’t been impressed by much.

In the final minutes of Killing Them Softly, Obama has won his historic first term in the White House, and Pitt’s Jackie strides through a red haze of celebratory fireworks as he walks to meet the Driver at a bar to retrieve payment. An American flag hangs in this dive, and the TV broadcasts Obama’s victory speech, delivered in Chicago to a crowd of more than 240,000. “Crime stories, to some extent, always felt like the capitalist ideal in motion,” Dominik told the New York Times. “Because it’s the one genre where it’s perfectly acceptable for the characters to be motivated solely by money.” And so it goes that Jackie feels no guilt for the men he’s killed, or the men he’s sent away. Nor does he feel any empathy or kinship with the newly elected Obama, whose messages of unity and community he finds amusingly irrelevant. The life Jackie lives is one defined by how little people value each other, and how quick they are to attack one another if that means more opportunity—and more money—for them. Thomas Hobbes said that a life without social structure and political representation would be “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short,” and perhaps that’s exactly what Jackie’s is. Unlike the character in Cogan’s Trade, Dominik’s Jackie has no wife and no personal life. But he’s surviving this way with his eyes wide open, and he will not be undervalued.

The contrast between Obama’s speech about “the enduring power of our ideas—democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope”—and Jackie’s realization that the mob is trying to underpay him for the three men he assassinated at their behest makes for a kind of nauseating, thrilling coda. He’s owed $45,000, and the envelope the Driver paid him only has $30,000 in it. Obama’s audience chanting “Yes, we can,” the English translation of the United Farm Workers of America’s slogan and the activist César Chávez’s iconic “Sí, se puede” catchphrase, adds an ironic edge to the argument between the Driver and Jackie about the value of his labor. Whatever the Driver can use to try and shrug off Jackie’s advocacy for himself, he will. Jackie’s killings were too messy. Jackie is asking for more than the mob’s usual enforcer, Dillon (Sam Shepard), who would have done a better job. Jackie is ignoring that the mob is limited to “Recession prices”—they’re suffering, so that suffering has to trickle down to someone. Jackie made the deal with Mickey for $15,000 per head, and the mob isn’t beholden to pay Jackie what they agreed to pay Mickey.

On and on, excuse after excuse, until one finally pushes Jackie over the edge: “This business is a business of relationships,” the Driver says, which is one step away from the “We’re all family here” line that so many abusive companies use to manipulate their cowed employees. And so when Jackie goes coolly feral in his response, dropping knowledge not only about the artifice of the racist Thomas Jefferson as a Founding Father but underscoring the idea that America has always been, and will always be, a capitalist enterprise first, the moment slaps all the harder for all the ways we know we’ve been let down by feckless bureaucrats like the Driver, who do only as they’re told; by faceless corporate overlords like the mob, issuing orders to Jackie from on high; and by a broader country that seems like it couldn’t care less about us. “I’m living in America, and in America, you’re on your own … Now fucking pay me” serves as a kind of clarion call, an expression of vehemence and resentment, and a direct line into the kind of anger that still festers among those continuously left behind—still living in Shitstown, still trying to make a better life for themselves, and still asking for a little more respect from their fellow Americans. For all of Killing Them Softly’s ugliness, for all its nihilism, and for all its commentary on how our country’s ruthless individualism has turned chasing the American dream into a crippling addiction we all share, that demand for dignity remains distressingly relevant. Maybe it’s time to listen.

[hualianff]

To Fall, To Ascend (Is Human)

Haunted Past – Sophism, Isabella LeVan

XL was God’s favorite Angel who helped pioneer the new era where Angels were tasked with watching over humanity. No, XL never despised the humans, nor hated them for taking up all of God’s attention. If anything, XL followed in God’s footsteps, cherishing humans as creatures that deserved everything life had in store for them.

But if XL could wish for one thing, it would be to love as freely as humans are allowed—encouraged–to do. Angels were created out of God’s will, and God had not permitted his children to maintain close relationships of any sort. This meant the nature of Angel-to-Angel romantic relationships was entirely unexplored.

Up until XL had crossed paths with a messenger Angel who had just ascended from Earth.

They didn’t have names like humans gave themselves. XL could only refer to himself as “I” or “me,” and to others as “they” and “them.” God was seen as “Father,” and that one messenger Angel came to be known as “He” and “Him.”

Or simply: “The One.”

They talked more than what was appropriate for Angels who merely worked in the same area, but XL enjoyed those conversations just as much as the work XL did.

Perhaps even more.

When ample time was free of work, XL would invite Him to his own home, which was grand in scale because XL was God’s favorite child, after all. In exchange for a place to stay, He would tell stories of the mortal realm, where humans mingled in their insignificant manner, none the wiser to the influence of the entities above and their creator.

XL listened with eager fascination, and the messenger Angel’s eyes seemed to shine brighter than the rays that graced heaven’s skies.

Like a moth to a flame, XL was drawn in.

God noticed, of course. God had eyes everywhere, especially on his special children. When questioned about the time spent with the same, particular messenger Angel, XL brushed the concern away, reasserting his devotion to his one and only heavenly Father, and left it at that.

The next time XL saw The One, they’re both in the mortal realm, walking amongst humans as if that’s where they were meant to be all along. In that moment, XL felt something akin to a spark within his chest.

Time is relative depending on how you choose to spend it. What must have been one century seemed merely like the ebb and flow of the wind, traveling with no predetermined destination.

Limitless, but not timeless.

And on the day marking the hundredth year of their first encounter, XL—along with the others who followed his example of internalizing selfish desires and thus, abandoning their dedication towards humans—was cast out of heaven. No warning, no pre-amble, no chance to atone for his sins.

XL fell into the dark abyss while the open wounds on his back bled, and bled, and bled, all the way down to the depths of Hell.

If only he could have said goodbye to Him.

When XL fell from grace, the beginning of a seven-day-long thunderstorm took place. The skies were dark and gloomy, not a hint of sun peeking through, and the rain showers never ceased their downpour. Out of the four of the seven days, XL’s messenger Angel was in the mortal realm doing business. When that Angel ascended to the heavens to find God’s favorite had been thrown out of heaven, the messenger Angel rampaged like nothing anyone had seen before. Anguished screams pierced the air, and for the briefest second, the absolution of peace in the heavenly realm became uncertain.

To the human eye and ear, a couple of flashes of lightning and booming thunder was all it appeared to be; the messenger Angel challenged God directly in combat, enraged that His beloved had been unjustly rejected from the place he belonged in the most. No more than three thunder strikes later, the pouring rain eased up, and a mysterious glow lingered in the sky. It flickered briefly before burning out to oblivion.

Once again, God showed no mercy.

The fallen Angels, without their heavenly essence, became a different class of creatures by default. The demons were born just like every other creation, characterized by an innate evil that came with opposing God’s word in heaven. Angels who once completed their orders without a second thought, now monsters who felt the same emotions as humans and had the power to corrupt in the deadliest ways possible.

In the beginning, there were those who loved and those who hated, but they were all killers in the end.

The fallen angels became the original demons lurking in the realm of Hell, responsible for punishing humans who had sinned in the same ways they had. Souls that survived their punishment sentence were then converted into demons themselves to increase Hell’s numbers. These created secondary demons, turned by the original line of ex-Angels. And with this process, the realm of Hell began to grow.

Nothing compared to the beauty, structure, and peace up in the Heavenly realm. XL would know because he contributed to a major part of its establishment. During the first several decades in Hell, XL did not let his emotions consume him. Deep down, he knew that he had done the best that he could. His values would not change simply because he was no longer God’s favorite child.

XL loved humans, so much so that though he had learned of their fickle ways, he still yearned for their simpler life.

Most of all, the one thing that tethered XL to his sanity the most was His Angel. His beloved. They had been together for one hundred years, and XL wished he had one hundred more. But that was the greed inside him speaking.

Truthfully, XL didn’t know if he would see his messenger Angel again. It had been XL’s fault that he led Him down the path of temptation. If not rejected from heaven, would He really want to follow XL down to Hell’s ruins?

Could love somehow prevail to allow XL and His Angel to reunite?

One century passed, and XL scavenged as a lowly demon with very little power. Another century went by, and still, there was no sign of XL’s beloved. XL had patiently waited all this time, but he was not the same creature he was when first falling from heaven.

At the turn of the second century after his fall from grace, XL’s core began to rot. To wither. To warp. Slowly but surely, the corruption overtook his soul. For even the model Angel that he once was, XL could not repress the evilness inside. All the love XL once embodied turned into pure hatred and vengeance.

The time had come for Hell to have its first official ruler.

XL began collecting souls at a terrifying rate, torturing them in hopes of converting them into his subservient demons. Over the process of the next century, XL amassed over millions of disciples, and began conquering the territories of Hell.

326 years after his banishment, XL now bears the title the King of Hell. Other names he is known as including the Great Demon Lord, Satan, and Lucifer. Just like the pitiful God that he had once served, XL rules with a bloody-fist, no mercy or compassion left in his permanently damaged soul.

***

XL wakes up with a choked gasp, curling into a small ball as his lungs wrack with the need for oxygen. He heavily coughs into his pillow, body shuddering in pain, sweating profusely from...whatever nightmare he had been having.

It’s the same one, the third time this week.

When XL’s breathing finally evens out, he shifts onto his back, eyes boring up at the pitch-black ceiling. Blinking his eyes shut and squeezing them shut, XL tries to remember what he had dreamt of.

There were no stark images or familiar faces that stood out; just the deafening, monstrous shrieks of tortured figures, the unbearable heat of the–was it the sun? And the iron scent of blood in the air. The sensations had been vivid...almost too real.

Thinking about the nightmare proved to be too exerting when the throbbing in XL’s head increased ten-fold. Reaching over to his nightstand where a cup of water and a bottle of pills sat, XL robotically swallowed a few melatonin capsules with a huge gulp. He then settles back under the covers, in the comfort—and safety—of his own room.

Moving out of his and SQX’s apartment had been a tough decision. Perhaps the sudden change of environment sent XL’s body into a temporary shock, in need of time to adjust.

But it had been a necessary decision. Especially after XL was miraculously hired by a corporate business in desperate need of a custodian, with a more-than-decent pay, the desire to move into his own space was a no-brainer.

Now, if only XL could get a good night’s rest. He already needs his caffeine fixes throughout the day to properly function. When XL begins his new job next week, he’ll need all the energy he can get.

《II》

[pinelife3]

An investigation: if supermodels are so dumb and vapid, how do they pull artistic geniuses?

This is a picture of Nick Cave and his wife leaving the inquest into their son’s death. Their 15 year old boy fell from a cliff after taking acid and becoming disoriented. 

I cannot even conceive of how terrible it must be to lose a child. The drugs and the cliff make it an episode of Skins (or Euphoria for the zoomers) but that’s your little boy. It was a stupid accident and now you never get to see him again. A teenaged tragedy. Unendingly unfair. 

Ghosteen, the 2019 album from Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, is a complex, existential album in conversation with the death of Nick’s son and his feelings of loss and grief. Nick Cave is an artist - his life’s work is to share how he feels and what he thinks. What he’s expressing with Ghosteen is sorrow and longing - and some larger angst about the purpose of existence.

Through all this tragedy, I’m sure you couldn’t help but notice... who’s the babe with the shiny hair and the fabulous gazongas? That’s Nick’s wife, man! Susie Bick - or sometimes Susie Cave. She was a major model in the 80s and 90s. A model and an artist - it’s actually fitting. 

And what’s more, Susie is the founder of The Vampire’s Wife - a label which has become super popular in the last couple of years. (Fashion people eyeroll The Vampire’s Wife because every dress has the same silhouette, but that’s out of the scope of this blog.)

There is a perception that models are are vapid and unserious. Their job is to look good, keep their mouth shut, and move merchandise. They cannot offer anything profound because their value is surface level. Men and women both push this way of thinking. 

For example, when Brad Pitt was recently revealed to be dating 27 year old model Nicole Poturalski, people were disappointed. Brad Pitt has been a cultural fixture for decades - after all this time, people still find him fascinating. And they expect him to date someone who is equally compelling. Clooney married a human rights lawyer - why is Brad dating someone who makes posts like this on Instagram...

This was Lainey Gossip’s take on the new girlfriend: 

A model, younger, it’s so predictable it’s almost boring.

Nice! I guess we’re all feminists until the woman in question is young and hot. 

It's easy to assume the worst of a person who is unknown to us, but is beautiful and hooking up with someone famous. A million mean thoughts spring to mind. “A model, younger”. That’s scorn. You know exactly what she’s saying: hot but dumb. An uninteresting person. We know what Brad really wants her for... 

If Brad Pitt is compelling to you, how compelling must Nicole Poturalski be to have won and held his attention? Brad Pitt has not been celibate in the four years since he separated from Angelina Jolie, but not until Nicole did we have confirmation of someone who he was definitely seeing. He allowed himself to be photographed with her en route to his French chateau. And what ensued was a weird story - she’s in an open relationship with some old German restaurateur and she has a son? She’s a sugar baby? Why would Brad fucking Pitt get publicly involved with someone who has a messy personal life: why hook up with a married 27 year old and weather months of stories about her open marriage if he didn’t actually like her? Why even be seen with her? The relationship is a little weird - but the reporting on it has been nasty. The new sugar baby angle which has emerged in the last week (late October 2020) is basically calling her a whore. This is the level of suspicion and derision directed at a model dating a public fixture like Brad Pitt. The notion that Brad Pitt would pay for female company or sex is patently absurd. 

If our assumptions about models are correct, why do so many models end up with artistic geniuses? I don’t care about the Victoria’s Secret models who hooked up with the bassist from Kings of Leon. I’m talking about beautiful women who made it with icons, the premier humans of the past century:

MUSICIANS

Nick Cave and Susie Bick

David Bowie and Iman

Kanye West and Amber Rose

Bob Dylan and Sara Lownds

Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall

Mick Jagger and Carla Bruni

Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin

Eric Clapton and Pattie Boyd

George Harrison and Pattie Boyd

Madonna and Jesus Luz

MISC. POWERFUL PEOPLE

Salman Rushdie and Padma Lakshmi

Donald Trump and Melania (lol)

Nicolas Sarkozy and Carla Bruni

Evan Spiegel and Miranda Kerr 

Hitler and Eva Braun (What?! She had a brief career an artist’s model...)

Michael Jordan and Yvette Prieto

Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall 

ACTORS (perhaps not artistic icons... but still creative and interesting)

Matthew McConaughey and Camila Alves

Johnny Depp and Kate Moss

Bradley Cooper and Irina Shayk

Bradley Cooper and Suki Waterhouse

Robert Pattinson and Suki Waterhouse

Vincent Cassel and Tina Kunakey

Halle Berry and Gabriel Aubrey

Leonardo DiCaprio and half the VS roster

Huge congrats to all the models with more than one entry on the list. You’ll note that there is a dearth of female icon/male model pairings - this is kind of interesting but not something I feel like getting into.

To some extent, the prevalence of the artist and model pairing makes sense. Men like good looking women. Rich, powerful men are high status and have access to good looking women. Plus, an artist needs a muse.

Many of the models in the list above are actually iconic in their own right. Like, when someone is having a great day on RuPaul’s Drag Race and looking sleek and skinny and flawless RuPaul might compare them to Iman. People pay $10,000 USD for handbags named after Jane Birkin. 

Conversely, in the case of Amber Rose, she became the most desired woman in the hip hop industry c. 2010 because she was with Kanye. And most especially because she broke Kanye’s heart. Everyone wanted the girl from “Hell of a Life”. People point to that song as being about Kim - it was prophetic, yes, but not written about her.

Anyway. Could an icon, a legend, a genius, make it work with someone who had nothing to offer but a fast metabolism and a beautiful face? Do poreless skin and puffy lips make up for never finishing high school? 

Wouldn’t being with someone superficial or unserious mean the artist was fundamentally boring in some way too? This is increasingly the assumption about Leonardo DiCaprio - seen above photographing his 23 year old model gf for her Instagram. Even Reddit mocks him for his age gap relationships with models.

And here’s where I try to make my point: 

Kate Moss’ daughter, Lila, recently had her modelling debut during Paris Fashion Week. It was big news because she’s celebrity spawn - and of course her mother is one of the most iconic models ever. She was eviscerated. 

On The Daily Mail, the comparisons to her mother flowed. What’s interesting is that Daily Mail readers do not like Kate Moss but they will defend her 90s modelling career with their life. They laud her bone structure, her waifish figure. An irresistible, undeniable face. 

It seems silly to praise someone for the shape of their head and the way their skin fits over it... it’s not a talent, is it? Maybe it is! There is no shortage of hot girls in the world - but there may be a shortage of girls with preternatural charismatic beauty. Lila Moss (left above) is attractive - she even looks quite a bit like her mum. Perhaps in the pic above she even looks hotter than her mum (right above). But Kate Moss is more interesting: less perfect - half her eyebrow is missing, she’s less manicured. She exudes some kind of darkness, newness. Lottie Moss, Kate’s younger half-sister, is a similar story. Obviously attractive, obviously interested in modelling - but she’s lacking something. 

Bella Hadid came from a similar-ish background to Lila Moss (Bravoleb parents, frequent appearances on Real Housewives of Beverley Hills in her teen years, groomed by her ex-model mother) but Bella Hadid has it. She may have risen through the ranks due to nepotism and cosmetic surgery but she is someone people want to look at. She is sought after - not foisted upon us. Again, it’s not because she’s the hottest woman on the planet. She is gorgeous, but on top of that, there’s something beguiling about the angles of her face.

What’s this thing that clicks in your head telling you that Kate Moss’s face is more interesting than her daughter’s? It’s an intrusive thought: her skull shape is pleasing, let your eyes linger. A command: you will not forget that face. 

Iman has it. Look at her. On meeting Iman, Bowie said: "I was naming the children the night we met... it was absolutely immediate." How many beautiful women had Bowie met in his life? How many had this effect?

Can you imagine trying to keep David Bowie or Bob Dylan interested in what you’re saying? Or Madonna? Or Michael Jordan? Most of us do not have a single thought in our head which would be of interest to these people. The models I listed earlier transfixed them. Mick Jagger could have romanced every woman on the planet - but he only wanted Jerry Hall (pls disregard affairs so I can make my point). 

When a model hooks up with an artistic genius, it’s illogical to assume she’s vapid or that the icon is with her for shallow reasons. What we should assume is that she is the most interesting woman that icon has crossed paths with in a long time - which would make her very interesting indeed.

[snowdice]

A Twist of Fate {Part 5} (Everything’s Fine Universe) [Dice Roll 13]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Remus & Janus & Patton, Remy & Patton

Characters: Janus, Patton, Remus, Remy

Summary: It wasn’t unheard of for people to gain soulmarks later in life, but it was quite rare. Usually fate was set in stone. Yet, when one’s fated death was prevented, fate had to make some adjustments.

As he fell, Patton may have felt a strange prickling feeling across his skin. He however, was not paying attention to that, far too distracted and confused. All he knew was that by the time he hit the ground, both of his hands were covered with marks. Later when he went home he’d notice even more in other places, but the ones he noticed when he hit the ground were the obvious ones on his hands.

Then, there was Janus. Janus had only one soulmark on his body. At least. He had only one soulmark that hadn’t been burnt off years ago. When he landed on top of Patton, he did not notice the marks that suddenly appeared on his arms and face. Patton did, however, notice two little designs appear on him: one along the side of his nose and the other right below the scaring on the left side of his face. The second was already colored in by the time they hit the ground.

Universe: Soulmate AU and Superhero AU

Genre: The Dice Roll said fluff and it is… but… it’s more fluff and angst, hurt/comfort-ish

Notes: Child abuse, homelessness, malnutrition, acid burns, platonic soulmates, car accidents mentioned, blood mentioned, death mentioned

My Master Post Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Janus woke in a bed and immediately panicked. A million terrified thoughts about why and how he was in a bed rushed through his mind before he even had a chance to peak open his eyes. Yet, then, through the darkness of his thoughts, he felt familiar little feet digging into his back. With a slow breath, he opened his eyes and craned his head around to find Remus smashed into the twin sized bed with him. He gave his head a few seconds to catch back up with his situation.

The bakery man, Patton. Remus had predicted Patton’s death, and Janus had saved him. That action had changed fate so much that Janus and Remus had both gotten new soulmarks. Janus wasn’t even sure how many each of them had gotten; he hadn’t bothered to check yet. However, he did know that one of the soulmarks belonged to Patton.

It was absolutely terrifying. A parental soulmate. If it had been any other type of soulmate, it would have been easier. The problem with a parental soulmate is that if Patton wanted to, he could basically legally keep them. They were both minors with no biological parents left. Very few people would argue the point even if Janus and Remus went in kicking and screaming. Plus, being forced to stay in one place with adults who refused to listen would be a death sentence, and even if it wasn’t, they’d still be trapped. The blue star on Janus’s face was for all intents and purposes a mark of ownership. As someone who had lived in a cage for a few years, it didn’t exactly sit well with him.

But.

But, no matter how dangerous Patton may end up being to them, Janus knew with the state of Remus’s visions, they didn’t have a chance on the outside.

Remus had explained exactly what had happened after they “went to sleep” last night. Janus knew already that large changes in fate could potentially muddy a psychic’s vision for a time, particularly when said change personally affected the one having the visions. They didn’t often have to deal with this fact, as Remus was currently one of the two most powerful psychics in the world, his birth having been prophesied as far as hundreds of years ago (bar some important details), and as such small changes didn’t mess with his powers as much as they did other psychics’. However, there had been two instances where his abilities had dampened to a noticeable degree.

The first time had been when he’d helped Janus escape Halo Mark, though he’d still gotten enough feedback to keep them from getting recaptured. That instance had also corresponded to Remus and Janus getting new soulmarks, though each of them had only gotten one that time: the sibling ones for each other.

The second time had been at a seemingly random time. He and Janus had been on the run together for around six months when his visions had suddenly dimmed considerably to both of their distress. Remus had no idea what had caused it but had noticed a change in the landscape of the future when his visions returned the next day. He theorized that it must have been a good change as he couldn’t see many new events, just the absences of some. Remus could only see bad future and past events, so him not getting an influx of new things, probably was a net positive for the world. His best guess was that whatever the change was, it must have caused the sudden and inexplicable erasure of the death of the superhero Moxie Man that had been fated to occur in over two decades.

However, this circumstance was not quite like those two other times, because this time Remus could see nothing at all. Fate was apparently still in flux after Patton’s life was saved. Until it settled, Remus would have no more idea what the future held than Janus. This was a problem considering that Janus and Remus as 12 and 9-year-olds living on the streets and at least one of whom was still being doggedly tracked by Halo Mark, routinely almost died every day. Remus’s visions were what guided them to food and shelter and away from murders and people who would put them back in cages.

Which meant Patton, with his willingness to provide food and shelter and not murder them on the spot for the time being was a known risk and better than the possible alternatives. They may very well still end up in cages or dead, but it was the only chance they had.

So, Janus had let Patton take them back to his house and feed them dinner. He’d accepted the clean clothes and the shower. The only protest that had left his lips had been when Patton suggested they sleep in the closed off basement citing the fact that there was a queen sized bed down there, and if Janus and Remus refused to be in different rooms for the night, it would be more comfortable. Instead, they’d ended up sleeping in what Patton said had been his childhood bedroom, full of posters and pastel colors.

Janus had not wanted to submit to sleep the night before, but his body had been exhausted, so he had ended up asleep after a few hours. At least nothing had happened during the night. He was still okay. Remus was with him, and he could see sunlight peaking through the curtains on the window. He was running on the hope that Patton would keep up the nice act at least long enough for Remus to get his visions back. Though, he was unsure what would happen if Janus and Remus tried to leave.

Janus’s thoughts were brought back to the present when Remus started doing his typical morning squirming. He’d be up in a few minutes. A hand flopped over Janus’s chest and he mumbled something before his feet climbed up Janus’s back. Janus winced as they kicked the back of his neck lightly. The boy’s upper half wiggled and then flopped part way over Janus as his feet continued to kick a pattern into the air. He let out a soft humming sound and eventually his body poured completely over Janus, so he landed in a heap on the other side. He then continued to wiggle.

Janus reached out to grab one of his flailing hands, and after a moment, he calmed down a bit. His eyes flickered open. “Janus?” he asked.

“Mmm.”

He reached out to pat Janus’s cheeks a couple of times. “I’m’wake.”

“I can see that.”

“Go’ ‘orning.”

 “Good morning, Remus.”

There were a couple more moments of sleepy calm. Then, Remus woke up the rest of the way.

He popped up onto his knees on the bed, jostling Janus a bit. His eyes widened when he noticed how bouncy his sleeping surface was, and he bounced a couple of times. “I smell food!” he declared, still bouncing as he said it. “Do you think it’s good food? It smells like bacon. Will Patton burn the house down? I can’t see if he will or not. He cooked good spaghetti last night. Is that easy to cook? Is he a good cook? Will it taste good? Will it just be bacon? That would just be protein and fat. Does he know that? Did you know you can get malnourished if you don’t eat enough carbs even if you’re eating enough calories? You can die from it! Should we go down for breakfast or wait until he comes and gets us? Will he be mad if we pick wrong? Will he never come up to see us if we don’t go down and then we’ll starve to death? Where are my clothes? This shirt’s too big, but it’s really soft. It smells like lavender. Is that his detergent? Did you know eating one of the laundry pods can make you die? I wonder if he uses the laundry pods or the liquid stuff. If I lick my shirt and there is detergent on it, will I die? He washed my usual clothes yesterday after I changed. Will they smell like lavender too? I should check!” With that, Remus bounced out of bed to go grab his clothes.

Janus followed him out of bed. Patton had washed the clothes they’d arrived in, and they were probably now cleaner than they’d been since they’d gotten them. Remus continued to chatter as they dressed about nothing in particular. He seemed rather content in this new environment even while Janus was in constant worry. Of course, he usually relied on his visions to tell him if something was bad and may just instinctually be assuming if he wasn’t seeing anything, everything was fine, so Janus wasn’t sure if he should completely trust the boy’s perspective.

Once they were both dressed, they headed downstairs hand in hand.

“Hi boys,” Patton said when they arrived at the bottom of the steps. He was in the kitchen, but had angled himself, so he had a view of the stairs. Janus wasn’t sure if that was to make sure they didn’t make a break for it or just him being eager to greet them when they woke. “Want something to eat?” He seemed to already understand the power of food, and Janus wondered if that would be used against them soon.

“Yeah!” Remus said with no hesitation, perking up. For someone who only ever saw the worst of humanity, he had been strangely trusting when it came to Patton. His eagerness made Janus bristle a bit.

“Why don’t you come wash your hands and sit. I’m almost done.”

“Do I gotta?” Remus whined.

“Wash your hands?” Patton asked.

“Yeah, I took a shower just last night! I’m clean!”

Janus almost rolled his eyes at that assumption but was too preoccupied with watching Patton’s expression. Patton was frowning slightly, and Janus found himself waiting for his reaction with bated breath. Clearly, he wanted to say yes, Remus had to wash his hands, but if they pushed him would he deny Remus food over it?

Patton dithered. “I would prefer that you did so,” he said slowly after a moment, “as it is a good habit to have. Not washing your hands before you eat can make you sick since you might be getting germs into your mouth. That being said, I can’t make you do anything.”

“Yay!” Remus cheered.

“Go wash your hands, Remus,” Janus instructed firmly before he ran away with the idea.

“Aw,” he pouted, but listened. He wandered off to do as Janus asked, and Janus and Patton briefly met eyes before Janus turned to follow him. Remus had tucked his tongue between his teeth as he stood on his tiptoes to turn the water on. He wouldn’t be able to reach the soap where it was, so Janus reached forward and handed it to him. Janus’s reward for his good dead was a face full of bubbles once Remus got it into a lather. Janus sighed.

Once Remus’s hands were clean, instead of going to the table, he padded off to stand next to Patton as the man finished cooking the eggs. They immediately struck up a conversation about bugs Remus had seen in the last month. Meanwhile, Janus quickly rinsed his face of bubbles before washing and drying his hands himself.

“And then if flew away!” Remus was saying when Janus turned back.

“Aw,” Patton said, “that’s sad, but I bet he had some stuff to do.”

“It got eaten by a bird two days later!”

“O-oh,” Patton said, but shook off his surprise a moment later. “I think my mom had some books about local bugs in the office. Maybe we can figure out what type he was.”

“Really?!” Remus said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Sure,” Patton agreed.

“Ooo, do you have any books on octopuses?!” he asked. “I love octopuses!”

“I’m not sure,” Patton replied, “but we can look, or I can get you one from the library.”

“Oh, and Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapanese beetles… are also pretty cool. Anyway, can we get a book about snakes for Evan.”

“Of course,” Patton said kindly as Janus resisted slamming his head against the counter. “Would one of you mind getting the grape juice out of the refrigerator, please.”

“Okay!” Remus agreed, skipping over to the fridge. Patton watched him go with a slight smile on his face that made Janus want to squirm with something. He couldn’t tell if it was a bad something or not, but it was definitely a something. Patton turned a bit to glance at Janus and quirked his lips up a bit more when he saw him watching. He returned his attention to the stove after a moment and poured the eggs into a prepared bowl. Then, he brought that along with a plate of bacon and toast to the table. He’d already cut up an orange for each of them and set it at every plate.

“He knows about scurvy,” Remus said, nodding in approval upon seeing it.

Patton let out a surprised laugh. “I do,” he said. “Do you like oranges?”

“Fruits are yucky, but it’s better than your body slow breaking down and swallowing a bunch of blood because your gums won’t stop bleeding,” Remus said, grabbing a piece of orange and stuffing it in his mouth.

“I… guess that’s right,” Patton said. “Maybe we can find a source of vitamin C that tastes better to you.”

“I don’t like broccoli!” he proclaimed.

“I’ll make a note of that,” Patton replied, amused. “Would you like me to get you some eggs?”

“Uh huh!”

Patton scooped out some eggs for him and hesitated with Janus before Janus held out his hand to take the bowl from him. He then offered the plate of bacon and toast around the table. “How did you two sleep?” Patton asked.

“Really good!” Remus answered. “I like beds!” Patton grimaced a bit, but Remus didn’t notice, too busy happily making himself an egg and bacon sandwich.

“And you, Evan?”

“Fine,” Janus replied, taking a bite of eggs. He blinked down at the eggs. Janus had made eggs on occasion while on the run, but there was something different about the eggs Patton made. They were a lot fluffier, and they tasted a lot better. In fact, the bacon and even the toast tasted better, though that may have just been that it was fresh bread instead of the day-old stuff they usually got. Plus, there was a lot of food, in fact, he was pretty sure Patton had no idea how much three people could eat in one go, because it seemed like he’d made enough for six. Janus stopped eating when he was full, and it was an odd experience to have two consecutive full meals. He felt a bit tired even though he’d only just woken up.

He felt himself mentally drift a bit as Remus and Patton continued eating. They were much slower since Remus kept rambling, and Patton kept trying to politely pay attention to what he was talking about. This was nice, he supposed. It was almost scary how easily he could feel himself settle around Patton. He couldn’t get attached or used to this. They’d have to leave eventually, he reminded himself harshly.

His attention was brought back to the conversation when Remus just about flipped his plate off the table with the way he threw his arms around. “Chocolate!” he exclaimed.

Janus looked over to see if that display of recklessness would make Patton mad, but it seemed to be the opposite. He seemed to enjoy Remus’s enthusiasm. “Chocolate chip or chocolate cookies?” he asked.

“Both!” Remus demanded.

“Double chocolate cookies then,” Patton said.

“Yay!”

Patton turned to Janus. “Would you like to help us make them?”

Janus nodded. “Sure,” he agreed, surmising they were talking about baking cookies.

“Great!” Patton said. “Can you help me clear the table?”

“If it means faster to cookies, yes!” Remus said, getting up and grabbing his plate and glass.

Janus grabbed his own plate with less enthusiasm and took it over towards the sink. Patton washed the dishes while he directed them around the room to gather different supplies for the cookie making.

Patton had just put the last dish on the drying rack and was drying his hands when the doorbell rang.

Janus immediately panicked because Patton could 100% have called the cops on them before they’d woken up. Patton seemed to sense his panic. “It’s just Remy!” Patton said. “Who… you don’t know. He’s a friend. A soul-friend. I totally forgot he was coming over today after his exam. I’ll ask him to leave.” He darted towards his front door.

Janus leaned over towards Remus. “Be ready to run just in case.”

Remus nodded solemnly even if he looked a bit sad, probably because he wouldn’t be able to make cookies if they had to bolt. Then, Janus followed after Patton on silent feet.

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 6 Part 7

[uwuwriting]

Moments in the life of Y/N L/N

Okay this is LONG. I kid you not it took me like a week to write and I’m so proud of it. It’s a Shirakumo x Reader fic but Shirakumo makes a cameo like three times??? Yall seemed to like the hc with his daughter so here is a some insight in her life and the reader’s. Love yaa. 💖💖💖

rules

warning: blood, description of injuries, angst, mentions of death and unplanned pregnancy, some fluff here and there.

Age 17

They were dancing in his living room. They were having a sleepover just like they did when they were kids and their parents would let them live in each other’s houses for days. Music was being blasted from the speakers of her phone as he was twirling her around his room. Giggles filled the space between them as the exchanged warm smiles and lovestruck looks. The song came to an end but they didn’t part from each other. Laying her head on his chest, she could feel his heartbeat strong and steady against her ear. 

“I could dance with you all day.” she whispered so lowly he barely caught her words. 

“Save your energy for our wedding day baby girl.” he smiled down at her, leaving a peck on the crown of her head. “I can’t wait to call you Mrs. Shirakumo.”

“Yeah I bet by how much you talk about it you dumb cloud. Let’s finish high school first though.” she rested her chin on his chest, their gazes meeting as she matched his soft smile with one of her own. “I don’t want to be that weird married couple that is still in high school.”

“Well we are 17 baby.” he pushed her lightly off his chest, bringing his hand to rest on her cheek. “We can start a family by the time we are 20. I will have opened the agency with Shouta and Hizashi by then.” 

She laughed softly at his words, the future they had in front of them seemed so bright so perfect. Too perfect to be true. As they swayed lightly from side to side neither of them knew what awaited them. How the future they had dreamt together would soon be shattered to millions of pieces.   

Age 20

She was sleeping soundly in her crib. It had been such a challenge to get her to bed that night. The strong winds hitting the house and the howls as they passed by scared the poor three year old to the point that even her mother's embrace couldn’t calm her down. Sky always loved looking at the sky, not only because she would joke that she was looking at herself but also because she got so mesmerized by the clouds. They never scared her, not even when they became dark and angry lightning spewing from deep within them. Storms never scared her. But wind terrified her. The howling and the sheer strength they hold sends shivers down the poor girl’s spine. 

“You really are a handful you know…” Y/N was still in her baby’s room, staring at the ball of light blue hair as she slept soundly. She loved her daughter with her whole being. Sky was her world. She had managed to feel the void that he left behind. She was the reason why Y/N was able to pull herself out of her grief. She was the reason why Y/N found purpose in her life again. His death was the point of no return for her. Accompanied by the sudden revelation of her pregnancy, the emotions had become too much. Too intense for her to handle. She had considered dropping it. Ending the life they had created short. She was scared and alone, grieving for the lost of her love and everything seemed like a black hole, sucking her in. But she kept the baby and she couldn’t imagine her life without her little girl. It had been almost three years since he left this world and despite it all, it hurt just the same. 

Age 23

“Mama, who is that next to you?” Y/N had been typing mindlessly on her laptop for the past hour now. A magazine had asked her to write some exclusive descriptions for some of her photos that they were using. She had come to realize that being a professional photographer was a really hard job. But she was managing. ‘This is a talent Y/N! Look how cool I seem in this one. We are definitely hiring you as our personal photographer when we open the agency!’ Small hands placed a photo on her lap. Sky had been flipping through old photo albums while her mother worked. She seemed to be really interested in her mother’s old albums. 

Now Y/N had come face to face with a memory she had buried deep in her mind. One she wished to never let go of but simultaneously never wanted to relive. Oboro had taken her to a water park for their anniversary. It had been a school day and they had agreed to just skip class and enjoy their day together. She had bought him a Polaroid camera so he could take photos with his friends. She hadn’t met them, their schedules never matching. He had insisted that the very first memory he would make was with her and once the photo had been printed he had given it to her.  

“That’s…” Sky saw the color from her mother’s face drain and she promised to herself that very day that she would never bring this up again. If it hurt her mom it wasn’t worth it. “That’s your daddy.”

Age 26 

Her little girl was about to turn 10. In a few days they would be celebrating her birthday and Y/N couldn’t help but feel sad. She could remember the first time she held her as if it was yesterday. She was in a very bad place back then. Sky was the only ray of light in her life. Moving to another country after the death of the father of her child was a handful for the young mother. But now, after almost a decade in America, she could say with confidence that their lives were pretty good. 

Sky had gotten into martial arts really early on and now could beat anyone up if she wanted, that’s what her two friends said at least. If you asked her however, she would raise her right arm which was broken. I get my butt kicked, no thank you. In truth her arm hadn’t been broken while she was practicing. She broke it on her way to practice but she still blamed the sport for her misfortune. A cat was stuck on a tree and she tried to free it, by climbing on the tree herself. Everything was fine until the branch she was sitting on broke and she came crashing down. Sure she could have used her quirk, make a small cloud and save herself but she prioritized the salvation of the cat. Her mother wasn’t happy when she found out. Now Sky had to learn to do everything with her left hand for the next two-three months. 

“Hey baby, I’ve got something for you.” Y/N picked her head inside the room, her hands behind her back holding onto a small box. 

“Mom my birthday is in two days, can’t you wait?” Sky laughed at her mother’s antics. Sitting down next to her, Y/N brought the box to her daughter’s lap waiting for her to open it. Opening it she was met with a pendant. It had a short chain and a small turquoise stone in the middle. Fiddling with it, Sky felt three engravings on the back.

“It has our initials on it.” Letting out a sigh she pet her daughter’s hair. “It was originally mine with only two engravings but now I’ve added yours as well.” Sky knew who must have given it originally to her mom. She was a smart girl after all, it didn’t take much for her to realize who she was referring to. Launching herself at her mom, she wrapped her arms around her neck burying her face in her hair. Silent tears fell from her eyes. It had been some time since not having him around got to her. She had grown to realize that he was gone and she could do nothing to bring him back. When she was younger, not having a father would usually bug her when she saw others with their dads but her mother helped her bury the feeling. 

“A little gift from your daddy.”

Age 29 

Middle school wasn’t that bad. Now in her first year, Sky was doing pretty well. She would rant to her mother about some of her classmates using their quirks and being obnoxious to those who had lesser ones or none at all. Y/N had agreed to her abandoning martial arts and now she is learning volleyball. They were happy. Deciding for a career had never been a topic they had dwelled upon. Y/N wasn’t worried, her little girl was still young and she had a few years before she would have to start considering her options. 

“Someone from a hero school in Japan came to our class today.” They were eating dinner and talking about their day. Y/N’s first thought was UA. It was the most prestigious school specializing on the hero department back when she was still in Japan. Maybe it was still and they came here to debrief the kids on what the school could provide. Or maybe it was another school. “This lady came to talk to us about hero work and what not. She was dressed weird, said she was a hero who graduated from that school herself.” Y/N had always feared that her daughter would fall into the path of heroism. She wouldn’t- couldn’t hold her back. Her job as a mother was to support and protect. But how could she protect when her baby runs into danger without a second thought? How could she support when she has experienced first hand what the hero world can take from you? How could she be there for her baby if she was afraid that history would repeat itself, snatching the last light in her life away from her?

“I think I want to be a hero.”

Age 32

The call had been short. She hadn’t let them explain everything, just where her little girl was hospitalized. Her baby. Her life. She knew it would lead to this. To her baby being on the brink of death. She didn’t get the details. A large attack had taken place at a hospital and many heroes had been called in, students amongst them as well. Many of those said heroes had been gravely injured or had passed. The villain was said to be ruthless, unforgiving to both the heroes and the surrounding area. It was a tragedy. You have lived through one too many tragedies, she thought to herself as she rushed through the airport. She had gotten on the first flight to Japan and after an agonizingly long journey she was finally here. Hang in there baby please hang in there. 

The taxi arrived at the hospital in an hour. It was packed, swarming with the relatives and friends of the heroes injured in the attack. Soon she spotted a group of kids with the familiar UA uniform. How long had it been since she last saw that uniform in real life? How long since she had been in a similar situation? Would it really end like his story did? Would she really lose the last remnant of him in this world? No! Sky’s story is different from Oboro’s. Sky is different from Oboro. Her baby would survive. 

Pushing through the small crowd she spotted a doctor. 

“Excuse me I’m looking for L/N Sky, she’s a student at UA.” The man looked at her and looked down at a clipboard, scanning through the names of the many patients. 

“Room 573.” And with that he left her in the hallway with no update on Sky’s state, nothing. Looking at the numbers on the side of every room, she searched for it. This was too familiar. Too similar to that day. She didn’t like it. 

568. He’s in critical state.

569. It seems he received severe head trauma from falling debris. 

570. We don’t think he is going to wake up. 

571. He has a few hours. 

572. I’m sorry for your loss.

“Are you here for Cosmic Cloud?” A blond man asked behind her. Her breathing was becoming erratic at this point. “L/N Sky, are you here for her?”  His voice was rough, barely over a whisper. “Hizashi Yamada, I’m one of her teachers.”  She remembered that name, one of Shirakumo’s friends. She nodded not able to find her own voice to respond. Her panic rose at his clouded expression, his eyes losing the little spark they previously had. “I’ll find you her doctor, you can go in.” And with that he left too. 

Pushing the door open she was met with the sight of her daughter, her body was full of bandages, tubes coming from her arms as multiple medicines dripped into her veins. Her heart monitor was steady, a strong beep every second. She had a bandage covering her right eye which was stained a faint red. The air caught in her throat at the sight. It was the same image she was met with 15 years ago. A soft knock came from the door behind her that wasn’t completely closed as she was still frozen on the spot. 

“Mrs. L/N?” it’s the doctor and behind her stands Sky’s teacher. “Your daughter is sadly in really bad shape. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Her right ankle was broken from some rubble while the visor broke while she was still wearing it, thankfully she didn’t lose her eye but it will certainly leave a scar. Her left hand was slashed from elbow to wrist by a sharp object. The worst damage is on her back.” Hizashi was supporting her now, hands on her shoulders holding her up as tears cascaded down her cheeks. How can there be worse damage after all of this? “During the attack she must have been hit by some sort of blade or sharp edge, it pierced her back in three places. We managed to stitch her up but as you can imagine the damage cannot be undone.She... She’s in a coma from the shock, I’m sorry. I’ll..I’ll be around the corner if you need me.” 

A coma. Her little girl was in a coma. This was it. This was were she would lose her too. 

“She was conscious when the medics found her.” Hizashi said. “She was stopping the bleeding of one of her classmates completely ignoring her own.” He paused looking at the hospital bed, his eyes catching a glimpse of the sky blue hair. “They are very alike y’know. A carbon copy both physically and in personality. While she was in my class it was like having Oboro next to me again.” She snapped her head up meeting his eyes that were brimmed with tears. He had figured it out ages ago it seems. Whispering a small apology she turned back to the bed, fresh tears wetting her blouse. 

“I know you are going enough already but….” He sighed pinching his nose a frown making its way on his face. “But you need to know, YOU deserve to know.”

“Oboro is alive.” 

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