#<-is trying desperately to believe that and refuses to acknowledge the alternative

[birdyverdie]

Not to vent on main but this has been a truly shit year

[maple-the-awesome]

Friend or Foe || Part 1/3

Part 2 || Part 3

Pairings: Four, Hyrule, Legend x GN Reader

Overview: Link visits an alternate world without its hero and, more importantly, a version of you without your Link. Unfortunately, it seems even the smallest of details can lead to disastrous results. In spirt of October and Halloween, I've decided to do a little evil prompt because none of the Links have enough emotional damage yet😈

Zelda Masterlist 💙Fandom Masterlist

Four has known you since childhood, both of your families having been good friends for generations. You've always been peas in a pot together with a level of closeness that results in a lot of ‘old married couple’ jokes. You're usually the first person Four returns to after his adventures, never sparing a single detail as he knows he can trust you with his life if it were to come down to it which makes this situation so perplexing...

This you is nothing like his dear friend back home. You don't have that same sweet smile that makes his heart do loops of delight, rather a wicked grin that makes his stomach turn in disgust. When he heard murmurs about an evil magic-wielder terrorizing this world, it would've been his last guess that such a person could look exactly like you - same face, same name, same everything!

"What an interesting assortment of weapons, especially this one!" Four bites back a snarl when this cursed version of you holds the Four Sword high into the sky with a teasing smirk, "It's practically dripping with magic. Where did you get it? ...Still not going to answer me? Oh, but you were so talkative earlier - what, with all your meaningless questions and desperate begging.”

Trapped behind cold iron bars, all Four can do is watch helplessly as you search through the rest of the items you’ve stolen from him, making little comments here and there which he refuses to acknowledge (he’s learned from Vaati that responses are only encouragement). The others should be here to rescue him soon anyway. In the meantime, he’s trying to make sense of this whole situation as he has been since you first caught him.

'This just can't be our flower. I refuse to believe it. They'd never be so cruel to us like this! They're our friend!' 

'Of course they aren’t, you idiot! There's no way they'd be evil at all! This scum is an imposter and the second we get out of this prison we'll teach them a lesson about why they shouldn’t dare tarnish an angel's name like -!'

'- Calm down. We're in a different version of Hyrule which means this is more than likely this kingdom’s version of -'

'- Hogwash! Don’t you dare finish that sentence! They'd never act like this even in a different world!'

'I don’t want to believe it either, however the fact of the matter is it isn’t impossible. Think about it. Everything about this world is similar to our own excluding our existence. There is no hero meaning we weren’t ever there to protect them. Did you think about that?'

'...No...'

'That's so sad!'

Four must agree with his arguing thoughts. Although this you isn't the one he has waiting for him back home, he can't help feeling some pity towards you, refusing to believe you could simply be born evil. Something led you down this path you currently trek, and maybe this world isn't necessarily within his range of responsibility, however he still feels a bit guilty for not being able to help any version of you, here or there.

Hyrule met you shortly after meeting Zelda which was natural considering you were the eldest child of the crown. He must admit he's unfortunately never gotten the chance to know you too well, seeing as you have so many responsibilities that keep you busy while he, himself, is often sidetracked venturing through a broken world, yet nevertheless, he does know you to be a kind and generous leader - someone he’s always admired very deeply which is why he’s having so much trouble accepting you could ever be like this…

This kingdom has a sort of sadness that flows throughout the dusty sky and crumbled grass. Legend mentioned something about visiting a kingdom like it before, although Hyrule wonders now if all aspects of the Vet's experiences would match. He would ask, however such a question wouldn't be appropriate at the moment given as both heroes have been brought to their knees, spears held close to their heads to keep them submissive (not that it gets rid of Legend's scowl).

When Hyrule first laid eyes on you while being forced him to take a knee in front of your throne, he had been relieved, so certain that you'd immediately wave off your hostile guards and take note of the obvious misunderstanding that has occurred, after all this traveler is a dear friend of yours who should be treated as such. Alas, Hyrule shivers instead, frozen under your cold gaze as you glare down upon Legend and him.

"These are the heroes you found? I thought they'd be taller - more a threat than little mice," You sigh boredly with your head rested against your hand, although you do take a second longer to admire Hyrule, smirking at the boy who unlike his feisty friend looks absolutely petrified to be in your presences. 

Pushing yourself off your throne, you approach the poor boy and kneel before him. Despite his attempt to flinch away, you still succeed in running your hand against his cheek, "...Oh, but you're a cutie, aren't you? A rare gem in a world so broken."

At least you're aware of the current status of this kingdom. Hyrule would like to think that with some bitterness in mind, however he actually manages to feel sympathetic while watching you wander back to your throne, not missing that frown upon your face. 

It’s then that he’s reminded of a story his friends and him were told upon arrival here - that this world’s hero had died tragically many years ago. There’s no evidence that this world’s current state is because of you which means you could’ve simply inherited a cursed throne and allowed your own heart to hardened under the depressing circumstances, a fate Hyrule fears might have easily occurred to his own version of you as well if not for the support you had received from your siblings and himself. If only you weren’t alone in this world. Maybe then you could have become a beloved queen here, too.

Legend denies that he ever knew you; it hurts too much to accept otherwise. For the short time that he had known you, you had been a light in his life, always so sweet and magical in a way that could lift even the darkest of thoughts. There's a side of him who wishes every night that he'll be blessed with a dream about you because much to his dismay, that's his only way of seeing you again. He'd give anything to meet you in person once more even if for just a second, but not like this...

He's trying hard to keep the scowl on his face - trying to act unintimated, trying to act annoyed - despite how much his heart is aching deep down. He can feel his eyes burning. He can taste iron as he bites down upon his lip, praying to Hylia he'll wake up any moment now.

Promptly after arriving in this Hyrule, the Chain had received several warnings from locals about a ‘demon’ which lurks in the night. They claim that the creature only ever appears in the shadows, preying upon weak minds and cursing them with cruel nightmares. 

Legend, of course, dismissed it all as a story meant to scare children, even going as far as to give Warrior a hard time for being jumpy while the group was setting up camp in a forest right outside of town. Unlike some of the others, Legend doesn’t care if the wind whispers or how certain trees around them look like faces, and he was actually sleeping quite well amongst it all until getting up to go to the bathroom. 

Walking back into camp, he had been alarmed to notice a cloaked figure hovering right above Wild, their hand outstretched towards his head as the Champion shifted and whimpered in his sleep. Everyone else appeared to already be in similar states of distress, even Time’s stone expression crinkled in pain.

"HEY! GET AWAY FROM THEM!" Legend was quick to shout, catching the monster's attention before drawing his sword which he had thankfully taken with him earlier. He planned on fighting off the beast then hopefully waking the others from their nightmares, yet instead he found himself trapped in one of his own when the cloaked figure removed their hood.

Now he can't move, frozen in terror as he tries desperately to shake the feeling...No...No, it can't be you. This is a trick - an illusion the monster has created to mess with him. You would never stain your beautiful face with such a wicked smile. You'd never hurt anything or anyone the way this thing already has!

Regardless of his doubt, Legend can only shake as you approach a lot faster than he can process, likely aided by your ability to effortlessly float his way. Whether due to a spell of yours or a result of his own weak will, he doesn't jerk away like he wants to when you run a hand over his cheek, cooing in a mocking way, "Aw, get a lot of nightmares, do you honey?"

"N-No. Not at all," He manages, at last finding the strength to swing your way which is an action helped by closing his eyes. If he can't see your face, he won't have to battle his concern over hurting you; he can better convince himself that you aren't truly here as you've never been.

"Liar," You easily dodge him, using merely two fingers to grab his sword midair. Keeping it in place, you lean forward, your breath making his legs wobble as the tears finally begin to prick in the corners of his eyes, "I can read your thoughts - see your fears…Oh, but this is far worse than any nightmare you've had, isn't it, my dear? Far worse than any I could bestow upon you with my magic. Poor thing. You miss them terribly, don't you? If that's the case, then you shouldn’t avoid me so. Soak it up. Remember what I look like. After all, it's the last chance you'll ever get to reach out and touch me."

[agent-cupcake]

Crybaby

Pairing: Sylvain Jose Gautier x f!Reader

Synopsis: Sylvain likes making you cry, that's the plot.

Warnings: explicit smut, dub/noncon

Tags: dacryphilia, rough sex, dirty talk, slight infantilization

Word Count: 4.8k

Notes: This was a short little doodle that popped into my head while I was trying to sleep and then, and then, and then. I'm not sure I'll ever post the things I've been trying to work on but whatever, here's some good ole fashioned nastiness. Also trying to find good photos of Sylvain to use as a banner quickly got annoying so I gave up.

Pathetic, stupid girl. That’s all you were, and it was all you could think as you found yourself back in the same place you always went. Hiding from everybody else. Crying all alone because you couldn’t contain your emotions like a normal person. Running away. But even if it was juvenile and misguided and stupid, what else were you supposed to do? Quickly excusing yourself seemed a better alternative than letting everybody see a grown woman crying at her own party. Over the cruel antics of an infamously womanizing man, no less. 

Dabbing at your eyes, you tried to regain your composure. It shouldn’t have bothered you so much. You shouldn’t have let him get to you. He was mean, and cruel, and you were only giving him what he wanted by reacting like this.

You needed to go back to the party, to smile, and prove that you weren’t affected in the least. Stop being such a pathetic crybaby. Grow up. 

“Oh, there you are,” Sylvain said, his voice startling you out of your slump against the wall, all of the hairs on the back of your neck standing straight up and heart set to racing. 

How had he found you? Of all the hiding spots you had, this was your favorite for escaping from parties. It was your secret, your little alcove, an out-of-the way corner far away from the noise. He didn’t belong here. 

“Sylvain,” you acknowledged, unable to say anything else, your eyes darting behind him to your only possible escape. In your state, you had effectively cornered yourself. All alone with Sylvain. Again. 

“I was wondering where you ran off to. We all got worried when you ran off so fast.” He spoke as if he was relieved to find you. As if he hadn’t tracked you down on purpose. As if he were utterly ignorant to why you had run in the first place. 

“I don’t wanna talk to you,” you said, refusing to look him in the face directly because then he’d see your red cheeks, he’d see the tears clinging to your eyelashes and he already knew but you didn’t want to give him the pleasure of seeing it too. Hopefully the shadows covered the most damning evidence, although you weren’t sure it mattered. 

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you said louder, glaring hard at his boots. 

“I know,” he said, raising his hands and eyebrows in innocence. So amiable, so approachable. So believable. “We don't have to talk, but I need you to know that I was just joking around earlier.”

“It’s fine,” you said curtly, desperate to refuse him any other reaction, hoping he’d get bored and leave it alone.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“I’m not,” you told him, although the increasingly shrill tone in your voice said otherwise. You hated yourself for it, hated Sylvain for making you so upset. Hated the whole ugly, awful situation. 

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”  

The handle you had on your emotions had been weak to begin with, but that finally set you off, the horrible cruelty sending a rush of overwhelming, despairing dizziness right up to your head. “Yes you did!” you exclaimed, unable to hold your tongue even though you knew you should have. 

“No, I hate seeing you cry,” he said, acting surprised by your accusation. Then he shrugged, dark eyes narrowing a little. “It’s not my fault you’re so sensitive.”    

"I’m not!” you told him, unable to quell the flare up of helpless indignance. “It’s you. I don’t understand why you’re so mean to me. I never… I don’t understand.” 

Although you weren’t sure why, that had been the exactly wrong thing to say. You could tell by the set of his shoulders, by the shift in his expression. If it were a play, you had just given him his cue.

“You didn’t seem to think I was being mean the other night,” Sylvain said. “Or the night before that. Actually, if I remember correctly, you seemed like you were having a good time.”

A furious flush crawled over your face, hot enough to leave you lightheaded, blazing with shame and disgust and regret. “No. That wasn’t….” 

“Wasn’t… what? Your fault?” Sylvain asked, his eyebrow raising slightly. “Right. Nothing is ever your fault. Not as long as you flash everybody those big doe eyes and act like you're a victim.”

“That’s not it,” you said, but there was no strength to your words. Not out of a lack of conviction, but because if you spoke any louder you’d definitely cry. "I…"

He waited, but there was nothing else you could think of to say. 

“You really have no idea what else to do, do you? Well, everybody else might believe it, but I don’t.”

“I don’t care what you…” You shook your head, trying to regain even a shred of composure. “I don’t care. You're a… a…” 

“What?” Sylvain prompted. “What am I?” 

“A bully!” you exclaimed suddenly, loudly, hands balled into ineffectual fists at your sides.

“Really? I’m a… bully?” he asked incredulously. “Seriously? I swear, you’re such a kid sometimes.”

Your eyes burned with fresh tears. Tears of anger, of humiliation, of exhaustion. “Just stop. Leave me alone.” 

“Stop what?” Sylvain asked. “I came to apologize. You’re the one making such a big deal out of it.” 

“I’m not!” 

“You are. Just like earlier, all I was doing was playing around but then you had to go and make me look like the bad guy.” He hesitated, taking a step closer. “Hold on, are you gonna cry?” 

Your chin wobbled, your throat swelling up, your hands shaking. “No.” 

“Go on,” Sylvain invited. “Prove my point. You want me to feel sorry for you, right? You want me to fawn over you like everybody else.”  

“I don’t!”

“You don’t?” he asked, feigning surprise. He waved it off a second later, smiling like it had been a joke. “Ah, don’t give me that look. I get it. It’s all about the attention.” 

“I don’t want attention,” you insisted, the burning getting worse. Burning your cheeks, like embers behind your eyes. 

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Yeah, you do. And you wanna know how I know?”

“No, I’m… I’m done. I’m going back,” you said rather than answer, holding your head high with a brittle sort of strength. You would walk past him, and it would be fine. You didn’t need to be scared. Last time—no, this wouldn’t be like last time. If you set boundaries, if you were firm, it would be okay. Holding your breath, you began to scurry past him, your entire body tense enough to snap. 

“Wait, hold on,” Sylvain said, grabbing you around the waist when you were close enough. You protested with a yelp, trying to escape his grasp, desperate to get away. Because that worked so well before. 

“I’ll scream,” you told him, pushing at his hands, your heart beating so fast you worried he could hear it too.

“No you won’t,” he said with an easy-going sort of exasperation, crowding you further into the corner before letting you go. He wasn’t physically restraining you, but you were just as trapped. Between a rock and a hard place. “Just calm down, okay?”

You sniffed, trying to compose yourself. He was right. If you screamed and somebody came, what would they think? What would Sylvain tell them? 

“Right… What was I saying?” he asked. “Oh, yeah. The reason I know you want attention is because even though you know I’m no good, even though you cry about how much of a bully I am, as soon as I made a move on you, you were more than happy to go along with it.” He smiled, teeth glinting in the low light as he shook his head. “For most girls, the Crest and title is enough, but you’re way more simple than that. You know, it’s pretty pathetic.” 

“No,” you told him, shaking your head desperately to reject his words. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t. “I-I want to go back.”

“Stop being such a baby,” he teased, reaching out to ruffle your hair. You flinched, slapping his hand away. That made Sylvain freeze, his smile dropping. Instead he braced his arm on the wall behind you, your chests nearly touching with each of your frantic breaths. “Fine, fine. If you tell me to stop and mean it, I’ll stop.” 

“Stop!” 

“That’s the best you got?” he asked with an incredulous little laugh. He was close enough that you could feel the puff of air, smell the wine on his breath. “Really?” 

“Sylvain, stop!”

“That was even worse.”

“Please, stop,” you begged, breaking down now because he wouldn't listen anyway, no matter how you said it. It was all just make-believe to trick you into doing exactly what he wanted. Foreplay. And you knew that, so where was the steel in your voice? 

“This is your problem. Nobody’s ever gonna take you seriously when all you can do is whine at them.”

“I’m not whining!” 

He didn’t even have to respond to that, the raised eyebrow and nonplussed set of his mouth said more than enough. 

“I’m not,” you told him again, your voice weaker. 

Sylvain rolled his eyes. “Hey, don’t worry. It’s cute.” 

The compliment had you frantically trying to think of an escape. Knowing that it was doomed. This was all heading in an obvious direction, it probably had been his intention from the second he chased you away and you just played along, never smart enough to catch wise to his plots. 

“When you pout like that, I guess I do feel a little sorry for you,” he said. “I know what’ll make it better.” 

He cupped your chin to raise your head up. Gently, at first. When you tried to pull his arm away, those fingers dug into your jaw and cheeks, holding you in place.

“We have to… go back…” you said. “Otherwise people are gonna…”

“Talk? Yeah, I’m sure they will.” 

Sylvain kissed you before you could respond. Your mouth was open for his, and it didn’t matter if that was intentional or not, only that his tongue tasted like wine and it was really setting in that there was nothing you could do to stop this. He kissed like a romantic, his other hand dropping to cradle your head, holding you in a way you were sure had convinced dozens of girls of his affection and passion. 

That’s how he had been the other night too, trailing hot kisses down your body while you trembled, burying his head between your thighs until you were too wrought with pleasure to do anything other than let it happen, believing him when he told you how beautiful you were, how much he cared about you. 

Lies.

“Please, Sylvain,” you said, breaking the kiss enough to breathe. “I don’t want to.” 

“Don’t want to… what?” he asked softly, nudging your chin upward. 

You stared at his chest with blurry vision, refusing to meet his eyes. “I don’t want to… to do… anything.”

He laughed, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, let’s be honest, you never do anything. I don’t really care. The whole pillow princess thing suits you. So just relax and let me take care of it. You’re getting pretty good at that.”  

“No—nn-” Sylvain cut off your objection, grabbing a handful of your skirt to pull it up. Not all the way, just enough to get his other hand beneath the bunch of fabric. Your body bucked in an attempt to displace him, your thighs clenching, but a hard knee between your legs kept them open enough that he could rub against you over the barrier of your panties. 

“You look so confused whenever I touch you,” Sylvain said. “Before you start acting like you don’t want it, at least.” 

“I don’t!” You insisted, pushing at his arm. Sylvain didn’t budge, grabbing one of your wrists and pinning it to the wall. His other hand turned so his fingers could curl, wedging silky fabric between your pussy’s outer lips to drag forward, stopping when you unintentionally jerked in response to the pressure on your clit. You weren’t turned on, but you knew that was going to change if he started rubbing your clit the way he had last time, drawing blood between your legs to meet the demand of stimulation. Even if it was a completely physical, uncontrollable reaction, he would take it as proof that he was right.    

“I couldn’t figure out why at first, but I think I got it now.” 

You shook your head, barely able to follow along with his words as he continued touching you, grinding against your clit with those dirty little circles. If anything, the extra friction of your panties made it better. 

No. Not better. Not good. 

“You can’t believe that you’re not getting your way just by crying and whining,” Sylvain continued, uncaring that you weren’t really listening. “Because the princess always gets her way, doesn’t she?”

A soft whimper left your mouth, your head shaking in tight little motions to deny his accusation. “No,” you whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut to delay the tears that were finally welling up, retracing the salty tracks from before. 

Sylvain laughed breathlessly, delighted. “You’re such a crybaby. I know you love it. You can’t get enough of me. That’s why you’re acting like this. You have no idea how to get somebody’s attention without throwing a fit.”

More tears slid down your face even as your body writhed against his, that tight ball of need building up beneath his relentless touch. Sylvain caught the tears with his lips before kissing you again, groaning in response to your nearly inaudible whine at the taste. Your pussy tightened, the muscles clenching around the hollow ache of nothingness, of need. The memory of his fingers, of his cock, made the absence that much more noticeable, a desire you only knew because of Sylvain.   

His tongue explored your mouth while you anxiously lagged behind, unable to meet his intensity as your body teetered ever closer to the crest of pleasure, all you could do was try to hold on, to keep your eyes squeezed shut in an attempt to block it all out. 

Suddenly, Sylvain pulled away. The loss of pressure on your clit made your eyes snap open, your hips jumping forward. He obviously noticed the reaction, his lips red and wet, his eyes alight. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to leave you high and dry,” he said, pushing your panties down enough to make room for his hand. 

“I do—oh-” Was your wonderfully eloquent response when he pressed two fingers into you. Longer, thicker, more insistent than your own. You trembled and gasped and moaned, your pussy sucking his fingers deeper, your hips bucking against him. You squeezed your eyes shut again, not wanting to see whatever expression Sylvain was wearing when he started laughing, his fingers scissoring and teasingly thrusting, dragging against your walls in a way that had you squirming helplessly. 

“With as much as you cry, I wouldn’t think you could get so wet,” he told you. “Guess you just want it that bad, huh?”

You gasped, squirmed, your fingers tightening in the front of his shirt, your other arm uselessly fighting against his grip. "No," you said weakly, trying not to make any noises he might take as affirmation. 

“Use your big girl words. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you hate it when I finger you. Tell me you hate it when I make you come.” 

“You’re… you’re wr-ah—” Your objection cut off with a sharp gasp, your body jerking in response to a particular curl of his fingers which must have been what he was waiting for because of the horribly sharp smirk he was wearing when your panicked eyes opened and met his.

“You know, now that I think about it, you really can’t do anything like a real adult. Throwing fits, running away when you get your feelings hurt… Even when we're fucking, all you can do is whine and cry and beg for me to take care of you.” 

Sylvain got you to prove his point without trying, curling his fingers, pushing them deep enough to fill that anxious ache of need, making you gasp and tremble, holding onto him even tighter for stability. 

“If you didn’t have somebody taking care of you at all times,” he told you, his voice a little lower, a little more mean, “you’d be completely helpless.” 

“No.”

“Can you even make yourself come? Have you tried?”

“Ss-stop.” 

“I bet you haven’t. Why would you when you’ve got me around to do it for you? You’re so spoiled. Fuck, it’s a good thing you’re cute.” 

The praise, his fingers, the way his palm ground against your clit with each pass, you tried to ignore it, to shut everything out, but you couldn’t. Tears dripped down your cheeks and you moaned for him, your pussy squeezing his fingers as the feverish build of pleasure threatened to snap. “I… I can’t…”

“You think? ‘Cause I think you can.”

“No, I can’t,” you said—you whined.  

It didn’t matter. A few thrusts more was all it took and you did, trembling and gasping and crying as you came, hitting your head against the hard wall when your body arched against him. The pain did nothing to distract you from the swell and burst of pleasure, the heat spreading out and fizzing like champagne bubbles in your core, all the way to your flushed cheeks and open mouth. Sylvain didn’t stop, didn’t slow down, dragging it out until you were writhing for another reason entirely. 

“Sss-sto-stop!” you said, pushing him away. 

“Why? Did you come?” he asked, feigning ignorance. “I thought you couldn’t.” 

“Stop,” you begged again.

“No,” he said. “Unless you were lying. I mean, I thought I felt you squeezing me extra tight, but…” 

“I did!” you exclaimed. “I did, I did, so please-” 

Finally, Sylvain pulled his fingers out of your spasming pussy, smiling like he’d won. You wilted, half glad to be spared the discomfort of oversensitivity and half disappointed by the fresh ache of emptiness. The contradiction was like a slap in the face, your body betraying you all over again.

“See, it’s not that hard to be honest,” Sylvain said. “So go ahead, admit it.” 

“Admit what?” you asked softly, wetly. 

“Admit that you’re a slut, and all you want is to get fucked by yours truly.” How he even managed to wink at you while saying something so profane, you had no idea, only that it made you flush so hot your ears stung. 

“You… you’re awful,” you told him.

“I’m a good-for-nothing asshole, yeah,” Sylvain agreed. “But at least I’m honest about it. You can’t even do that.”

“I-I’m not…”

“Yeah, you’re just a poor pathetic little crybaby getting taken advantage of by the mean, mean bully. Right?” 

“But… but you are,” you told him. Sylvain snorted derisively, peeling you off the wall and flipping you around, guiding you into a graceless stumble forward until you were facing the window. There wasn’t much of a view up here, especially not on a dark night like this. Sylvain pushed you down, forcing you to hold onto the window ledge for stability. Ignoring your complaints, he flipped your skirt up, kicking your feet apart a little. 

“Sylvain, please stop, I do-don’t-”

“Stop squirming around so much,” he told you, shoving your panties down. The fabric strained, pulled taut between your thighs. He used them to keep you still while undoing his belt and pants. “Don’t you think I deserve something too? I’ve been pretty nice, all things considered.” 

All you could do was wheeze in response, caught off guard by the sudden pressure of his cock pressing between your folds. Given the poor light and the position, there was a bit of fumbling. He clicked his tongue in annoyance and withdrew, letting you relax slightly. This wouldn’t work. Not in such a shameful position, not here where you could be found.

“Yeah, just like that. Relax for me,” Sylvain said sweetly, his voice contrasting with the harsh palm forcing you to bend down even more, your thighs burning as you rocked forward on your toes. When his cock returned, it was slick with saliva, easily pushing past your outer lips. As soon as you felt the head press between the tense muscles of your entrance, Sylvain’s hips snapped forward. 

He groaned low in his chest, one of the few honest things to come out of his mouth that night. You whimpered. Even if your body was tense, Sylvain had no issue pushing until his hips met your ass. You were wet and, despite any mental rejection on your part, ready for this. The stretch wasn’t the discomfort of your first time, but the heady weight of something that should have been natural and beautiful. Sylvain grabbed your hips to adjust himself within you, manipulating you into position while you scrambled to hold onto the stone with sweaty hands, your legs trembling. 

“I have no idea why you make such a big deal out of this. You obviously love it,” Sylvain said, satisfied. You gripped onto the window ledge a little tighter, your face scrunching up with more tears as he pulled out. Slowly, luxuriating in the sensation. Your pussy clenched down around him, your hips rolling before you could get enough control over yourself to stop. “Don’t get me wrong, I do too. Most of the time, I don’t really care, you know? Sex is… well, it’s sex. You have a girl one, two times, and the itch is scratched. But you… I don’t know what it is, either.”

The only answer you could manage was a stuttered, “Aaa-aa-ah-” when Sylvain pushed back in, pushing you onto your toes again as he filled you all the way. You didn’t do anything to stop him. Your body accepted it eagerly, your inner walls fluttering as you adjusted to his size, providing a fresh wave of wet arousal to soak his cock as he wiggled your hips and pulled out. Pathetic, embarrassing tears dripped onto the floor. 

“Next time we do this, I’ll need a mirror,” Sylvain said, his voice raspy. “I’ve never met a girl that cries so much when she comes. I didn’t think I’d be so into it, but—fuck.” He groaned, his hips clapping loudly against your ass. Even if he wasn’t talking and groaning, even if you weren’t whimpering and gasping and sniffling with each inexorably deep thrust, the vulgar sound of skin slapping skin would have been more than enough of a giveaway to what was happening to anybody passing by. 

Worse than that, worse than anything else, was that Sylvain knew what he was doing. He targeted your g-spot by using the grip he had on your hips to grind you on his cock, to keep you in place for him as he thrust harder, faster so you had no chance to keep up, to sort out the assault of stimulation and pleasure. You shook, tense enough to snap, your fingers clawing at the stonework for stability as your body drew inward, everything within you focused on the growing heat.  

“Please,” you gasped, desperate for it. Later you could blame the insanity of pleasure, of lust, of need. That’s what you did before, the way you denied blame. “Please ta-touch me, I-”

“What, now you want to come? I thought you hated this,” Sylvain teased. A helpless moan left your open mouth, tears and drool dripping onto the floor as you were rocked back and forth. “Heh. Maybe if you keep begging.” 

As he spoke, Sylvain twisted your hips, his cock grinding against your inner walls, pushing so deep you’d probably feel it if you pressed on your abdomen. The sound of his voice, the intensity of fullness, the mindless lust and despair, it hit too hard and you sobbed and hiccuped and moaned and came and you didn’t mean to, but your pussy desperately clamped down around him, your hips tilting upward, your back arching as that contentious ball of heat just snapped, filling you with pleasure, white hot and wonderful and feverish. Some part of you was grateful that he didn’t stop, or even slow down, just kept fucking you through the orgasm, letting you ride it out. 

“Seriously?” Sylvain asked with a short, hoarse laugh of disbelief. 

As the high faded, you tried to squirm away, a helpless sob wracking your body as the shame caught up with you. Sylvain didn’t let you go. If anything, he was being more rough, more frantic. 

“Most girls need more than that to come, but you couldn’t even wait for permission,” he said.

“Nn-no, I-I didn’t me-mean to.”

“Yeah?” Sylvain asked, mockingly indulgent. “It wasn’t your fault, was it, baby? You can’t help it, right?” 

You shook your head, knowing any answer you gave would just feed into his cruelty. 

Sylvain paused, leaning over to pull your torso upward. His fingers dug hard into your wet cheeks, his other arm holding your hips in place so he could keep going. 

“It’s fine, I don’t think I can last either,” he said, softer now, his hand raising to grope your tits through your dress. At this point, he was practically rutting into you. Using you. 

All you could do was whimper and whine and sob, just trying to hold on, unable to keep your pussy from squeezing him as he fucked you, writhing back against him helplessly because even this felt good. Terrible and cruel and good. 

“Later,” Sylvain said, his voice hoarse. Speaking because it made you react, got your pussy to tighten around him a little harder, made you whine a little louder. “Later, I‘m gonna give you a reason to cry, yeah? If you wanna… wanna act like a spoiled brat, I’ll treat you like one. Gonna look so hot swallowing my cock… Tied to my bed, begging me to fuck you… Covered with hickies…” 

“Sylvain,” you whimpered, hating the anxious, dark mixture of heat and fear his threats filled you with. He groaned even louder, his mouth opening to let out a low, sensual sigh that only worsened your feeling of helpless need, his hips slapping against your ass so hard it almost hurt. “Plea—ease, it-”

“Yeah, beg for it,” he told you eagerly, crushing you against him while he sought his end. 

“Nnngh-”

“Beg me to come inside of you… maybe you can keep it from slipping down your thighs when we go back. Otherwise you’ll get it all over your pretty dress.” 

You whimpered, sobbed, but that wasn’t much of a choice. Better inside of you where nobody would see, you could remember the mess from last time. 

“Please come inside of me,” you asked. Begged. You sounded desperate. You sounded like you wanted it. “Please, Sylvain. Come… inside..” 

Sylvain groaned, pressing his face against your neck as his hips lost any and all sense of tempo, his cock buried deep inside of you as he came with a loud, open sound that shuddered apart, holding you tight as he did. And then there was just stillness. Harsh breathing and heat and sweat and the stench of sex. He laughed a little, still breathless. Blissed out. “That was good,” Sylvain told you, kissing your neck before pulling out and letting you go. 

You stumbled forward, holding onto the window ledge, panting and shaking. Aware of the emptiness inside of you and the slick feeling of his cum drooling out of your cunt. No matter what he said, you didn’t think you could return to the party. Everybody would know. With shaking hands, you pulled your panties up, let your skirt fall back into place. You could hear Sylvain fixing his clothes too, but you didn’t want to look at him. You didn’t want to exist. 

“Guess I’ll go back first, give you some time to clean up,” he said, his voice mostly back to normal. 

“Okay,” you said, nodding. 

“You alright?” 

“Yes.”

“Hm. By the way, I meant it,” Sylvain told you, grabbing your wrist to turn you around and look at him. He didn’t really look that much worse for wear. Not like you felt. He smiled, dark eyes bright and smile slightly too sharp. “About later. Don’t think you’re off the hook just yet.”

You pulled your arm away, your chest tightening with panic and fear and excitement. Despair. Hatred. Self loathing. “No, this can’t… it can’t happen again.” 

“What are you gonna do—whine at me to stop?” he asked. “Cry and hope that I’ll feel bad? C’mon, baby. I know you liked it.”

You didn’t say anything, glaring at his chest in an attempt to keep yourself from responding to that taunt. 

“That’s what I thought,” Sylvain said. Not in a mean way. No, he sounded friendly, approachable. “I’ll see you later, babe.”    

[branwendaughterofllyr]

branwen please share with us some more BNFs/JoLa tea ☕️ thank you kindly x

I’m probably going to regret this but I couldn’t resist lol.

I actually feel bad for a lot of the BNFs, including JoLa. The end of GoT wasn’t really fun for most of them, and most of them have left the fandom. JoLa has pretty much abandoned her tumblr, and good for her honestly. I think she’s a very silly, even over sensitive person, but she genuinely believed that she was going to be right. She hates being called a BNF and denies she ever was one, which is par for the course for her. She would alternate between denying she was invested in jonerys as a ship and commissioning jonerys fanart.

Her takes on Dany were honestly pretty hilarious in their tone deafness, which led to a lot of joking about her in my circle. She was really, really into Tyrion, which, uh, okay. The “curtain of light” theory has become pretty infamous now, and I cannot emphasize enough how seriously it was taken by some of the BNFs on tumblr. Big BNF poorquentyn (is he still around? Didn’t he convert to Jonsa at one point?) responded a lot to JoLa and nobodysuspectsthebutterfly back in the day.

I’ve screenshotted some of my favorite posts, most of which are from like 2015-2018.

I mean come on, Dany and Jon bang and have baby Drogo to save the world beyond the curtain of light? SPECTACULAR. I wish I was on those drugs.

And it’s amazing because on one hand I’m like “yes! The power of love as humanity’s greatest strength is a theme of ASOIAF!” And on the other hand I’m like “and where do Dany and Tyrion come into this at all????”

Beloved, read a single Sam chapter, I’m begging.

My personal favorite is how she justifies Dany ditching Meereen after she’s wrecked the place. Look, slavery was an inherently unsustainable system, and Dany did everyone a favor by wrecking everything and then flinching off.

Which, like yes, Dany did a good thing by trying to end slavery but also it’s a millennia old system??? It’s pretty stable, and Dany hasn’t really done a great job implementing change, and things are going to be way worse after she leaves, and any positive changes aren’t going to come at her hands. (and also has she really ended slavery? really, really?)

The Titanic comparison????? AMAZING. 

Dany is the lifeboat come to save the entire world. 

The best part is by far the tags

NEVER SAY THE BNFS DIDN’T GIVE US ANYTHING.

I loved these tags so much that one of the lovelies on the Jonsa discord made me this back in the day.

SHE’s SHOOTING STAR<3

THERE ONE MOMENT, GONE THE NEXT BUT FOREVER WONDEROUS TO BEHOLD

Who needs permanent political change, long lasting growth, and tree planting when you could have her <3

She can’t stay and actually fix any problems, she has a continent to set on fire and a curtain of light to fuck under. 

It’s crazy how such wildly different interpretations can come about from the same text, and it’s rather satisfying to me personally that I am in fact not crazy and what I was seeing the narrative is actually there.

The Tyrion humping and the refusal to acknowledge that maybe magic nukes bad actually are what cracked me up to no end.

Yes, the real enemy is the cold, but also maybe Fire and Blood is not the end-all be-all solution???? Like, just think about it for more than five seconds. Did the chapters about the destructiveness of fire mean nothing to you? Did WF, the home of the heroes at the heart of the story, going up in flames ring no bells???? Did Arya’s escape from a fire described like a dragon, where she desperately kissed the mud when she realized she was still alive not set off any alarms???? Literally anything that has to with trees??? No? Okay.

I cannot even begin to unravel her Bran takes, so I’m not going to try. 

And lest I forget, JoLa also supported Sansan and even Creepyfinger at various points, sooooooo. I took her assertions that she’s a big Sansa fan with a pile of salt.

But nobody go harass JoLa’s account please. The only reason I’m talking about this is because it was literally years ago at this point, and she’s moved on and I’m reminiscing about the horrible old days. JoLa was actually a pretty civil and nice person (I think it was nobodywhosuspectsthebutterfly who was the combative one), if very silly and wrong. 

[rahirah]

Smashed Review

So I was going through a bunch of ancient zip files on my hard drive, and I found the review of “Smashed” that I wrote immediately after it aired.  I have to say that it holds up surprisingly well, probably because I’m inherently pessimistic.  Have an historical document:

I am moved to write an actual review.  Yay, me.

In this week's episode of BtVS, Smashed, everyone's craving something, and almost everyone is lying to themselves about it.

Willow's craving surcease from heartbreak.  Despite the front she puts on for her friends, she is deeply depressed about Tara's departure, but refuses to acknowledge Tara's reasons for doing so.  She describes their fight to the others as a minor misunderstanding, oblivious to their unease as she gets deeper and deeper into the magic hole.

Amy's craving a simpler life.  She can't deal with the three-year lapse of time since she was last human.  She's shell-shocked by the changes in the world and doesn't want to see her father, hinting that he didn't know that she'd taken up magic.  Given that her father divorced her mother over Catherine Madison's use of magic, Amy's fears that having to explain the reason for her disappearance to him will end badly aren't trivial ones.

Buffy's craving Spike's hot, tight little body, and possibly more, and the implications of her desire terrify her.  She cannot bear to admit it, to herself or to Spike.  She spends the episode denying her attraction to him and desperately trying to push him away, to hurt him so badly that he leaves before he can hurt her.

Spike's craving Buffy's respect.  Driven to distraction by her alternating affection and disgust, after seven episodes of mostly exemplary behavior, Spike finally snaps and reverts (or tries to revert) to the Big Bad, spurred on by his apparent discovery that the chip no longer functions.

Tara acts as the sole real adult in this episode.  She is still drawn to Willow, and acknowledges as much, while realizing that for her own good she can't give in to her craving.  She also makes an effort to make Dawn feel better, making her the only person in the episode willing to put her own pain aside for someone else's sake.

Willow and Amy drown their sorrows in a binge of irresponsible spellcasting at the Bronze before heading out for bigger and better things.  When one contrasts Spike's behavior with Willow's in this same episode, it's difficult to see much moral difference between them.  Both are rejected by the woman they love.  Both act out their hurt and anger on others.  In both cases, no one ended up hurt, but both cases could equally well have ended in tragedy.

The episode draws several parallels between Buffy's attraction to Spike and Willow's out-of-control use of magic.  Just as Willow refuses to take responsibility for Tara's leaving her, Buffy refuses to take responsibility for her actions in initiating the kissing with Spike, blaming it all on spells or depression over Giles's departure.  During the conversation in the Magic Box, Buffy is disturbed by Anya's assertion that the responsible, 'good' people are the most dangerous when they finally go bad.  She is unwilling to believe that Willow is dangerous, and denies that 'everybody' can be seduced.  She is obviously worried about the similarities between Willow and herself, two 'good girls' who have gotten a taste of something powerful, seductive and possibly dangerous.

We are meant to draw the conclusion that Buffy is addicted to Spike, and that this is as undesirable a condition as Willow's magic abuse.  However, it's not at all clear that it's Buffy who's the worst off in their liasion. Compare the Spike of "Bargaining" to the Spike of "Smashed."  It's not a pretty picture.  In "Bargaining" Spike had a good working relationship with the Scoobies, a good family relationship with Dawn, and was coping with existence reasonably well.  He was still in mourning for Buffy, but by no means incapacitated with grief, and was doing something productive with his unlife.

Enter Resurrected!Buffy, and seven eps later, Spike is isolated from everyone except Buffy, due to his anger at being left out of the loop regarding her resurrection and Buffy's entrusting him with her secret.  Spike's words to Buffy in the teaser fit him far better than they fit her; she still has family and friends she can turn to if she chooses to do so; Spike has no one and nothing left.  He's given up all his alliances, human and demon both, for her sake.  There's too much simmering passion between them for them to be just friends, but Buffy refuses to let them be anything else.  Although Buffy repeatedly repulses him, sometimes with behavior which can only be described as gratuitously cruel, Spike never once considers leaving.  She is his addiction, as much or more than he is hers.

When Spike accidentally discovers that he can hit Buffy without pain, he believes that the chip has malfunctioned.  The solution to his problem is obvious: when he was bad, Buffy might have hated him, but she respected him. Spike can endure, just barely, without Buffy's love, but he can't bear her lack of respect.  Spike goes out and stalks a woman, then treats his prospective dinner to a rant about how Buffy takes him for granted.  His victim tells him she's sure he's not evil.  Spike denies it, stating that he's evil, and dangerous, and hasn't forgotten how to be a killer.

Spike's motivations in this scene are, as usual, opaque and open to multiple interpretations.  After weeks of being the ball in Buffy's game of Kiss/Kick The Spike, and years of feeling ineffectual and powerless due to the chip, he's getting an undeniable rush at having, as he thinks, the power of life and death over mere mortals again.  At the same time, his speech to the woman he tries to bite makes it clear that far from chowing down on the nearest warm neck because that's what vampires do, his attack is All About Buffy, a desperate attempt to prove to her that he's someone who cannot be ignored or used at her whim.  The woman's attempt to convince Spike that he's not evil can be seen as an indication that he isn't, really, or, in view of the fact that Spike does attempt to bite her, a jab at the gullibility of those who believe him capable of real reform.  In the end Spike bites, or tries to, but he must work himself up to it, and his speech about how evil he is sounds as if he's trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.  It's worth noting that in this scene, and no other, Spike's hair is mussed up, which usually indicates emotional vulnerability on his part.

The scene is both encouraging and discouraging in terms of Spike's personal growth.  Encouraging because Spike is clearly not forced into biting the woman because of his vampire nature; he does it purely out of hurt, anger, and spite at Buffy, and must work himself up to it even so.  This means that in other circumstances it's possible for him to choose differently. Discouraging as it demonstrates that Spike has, as yet, no concern for people outside his personal circle.  As in the Bronze scene in "Crush," the fact that he hesitated at all is worth noting, but I have little doubt that had the chip really been on the fritz he would have killed the woman--perhaps with regret at severing all ties with the human world, but she'd be no less dead for that.  Getting through to Buffy is more important to him than anything else.

And it is all about getting through to Buffy.  When his biting attempt fails and Warren confirms that the chip is still working, Spike is not disappointed in the slightest.  In fact, he appears pleased.  He doesn't make any attempt to have Warren disable the chip, and doesn't even seem to consider the possibility, though Warren expresses interest in how it works.  Spike doesn't care about regaining his ability to kill per se; the attack on the woman was only a device to get through to Buffy, and now he has a new angle.  If the chip is functioning, and yet he can still hit Buffy, then Buffy, who called him a thing, is now a thing herself, something other than human, something, at last, on his level.

Spike still loves Buffy, but at this point he's given up on winning her love by rising to her level.  With good reason; Buffy cannot admit that he's capable of being on her level, because that would make him too much of an emotional threat.  The greater her attraction to him is, the more strenuously Buffy must tell herself, and him, that Spike is a non-person, a thing, nothing she could possibly relate to on an I-Thou basis.  She cannot deal with the change in their relationship even though she's the one who's initiated it.  She wants Spike's emotional and physical support, but she's unwilling or unable to give him anything at all in return.  Buffy is using him, whether she intends to do so or not.

In order to reach Buffy, Spike must break through her walls, tear down the pedestal both of them have placed her on so they can finally see eye to eye. He doesn't intend to hurt her--much--but he's more than willing to take and dish out pain if necessary.  Buffy's post-resurrection difference, whatever it turns out to be, has finally given him physical parity; while she's still stronger than he is, she can no longer beat him up at will.  Physical parity is the first step to emotional parity; now that Spike can fight back again, Buffy can no longer dismiss or ignore his attempts to communicate by punching him and walking off.

Buffy doesn't want to believe that she came back as something other than human, refuses to believe Spike when he tells her that's the reason he's able to hit back now, and attacks him in a fury, trying to get him to take the awful truth back.  Buffy taunts Spike that he fits into neither the human nor the demon world and accuses him of loving not her, but the fact that she can beat him up.  Spike's final dig at Buffy is a little strange: he tells her not that no one loves her (which would be obviously untrue; even as they fight, he tells her that he loves her) but that she has no one to love.

And this is the crux of Buffy's problem: wrapped up in her own pain, she has no love to give anyone else--not Spike, not Dawn, not Willow, not even herself.  There's no way that Buffy's pain is going to magically go away; it's real, and it's going to take a long time to deal with.  Her spirit guide told her last season that she had the power to forge love out of pain, and this is what she must learn do in order to heal.  When Buffy claims Spike has come nowhere near hurting her, and he asks if she's afraid to give him the chance, it's very clear that they're not talking about physical pain.

In Smashed Buffy finally gives in to her physical desire for Spike, but she's still denying any possibility of an emotional connection.  That there is an emotional connection there can be little doubt; if Buffy truly felt nothing but lust for him, she wouldn't be so completely terrified of admitting it. It's the emotional consequences of loving yet another person who may betray or abandon her that she fears.

Again, the final scene is open to multiple interpretations.  Buffy and Spike's battle is savage foreplay, not a serious attempt to incapacitate one another.  (Note the complete lack of the fancy moves both of them showed off in the fight scenes in Tabula Rasa.  In Smashed, their moves are as raw as their emotions.)  They do considerable property damage during the fight, but when the fighting turns to passion, they literally bring the house down. Some reviewers maintain it's a sign that the affair is a doomed one, bound to destroy everything around it.  A more optimistic theory is that the building crumbling around them as they make love signifies that Spike has successfully torn down the walls around Buffy's heart.  And yeah, it is making love, not just shagging, at least for Spike; his expression in those final scenes is that of a demon who's as close to heaven as he's ever going to get.  The two of them maintain eye contact throughout, even after falling through the floor, and it's interesting to note that in this their first encounter, neither one is  on top.'

Sometimes destruction is necessary before you can start to build anew.  But unless Buffy can confront what's been revealed honestly, and admit that she does need to start building, then it won't be long before the two of them destroy one another. They know too much about one another.  Already their complete absorption in their own problems has left Dawn alone and miserable, deserted by her sister and her protector.  Tara can no longer fill the gap all by herself.

As far as the Spike-redemption front goes, at this point it's going to be all but impossible for Spike to make any further progress without positive reinforcement from someone.  Isolated from everyone except Buffy, who's in no condition to offer help and advice to anyone, much less a conflicted and infatuated vampire, it's hard to see where he's going to get it.  The Scoobs have never been very good about giving a helping hand to people who are trying to reform; just ask Faith.

Unfortunately, the events of "Smashed" may have taught Spike the lesson that in her current condition, being bad is the only way to get Buffy's attention and respect.  (Not to mention major nookie.)  I see more backsliding in his future.  The only bright spot is that Buffy now has proof positive that once able to attack her, Spike did not make any serious attempt to kill her (unless screwing her to death counts).  Buffy doesn't know about the attack on the woman, and if ME's track record for brushing aside the trials and tribulations of the ordinary joes the Scoobs are supposedly in the business of saving holds, she may never find out, but learning that Spike is still willing to attack people isn't likely to make Buffy more amenable to a real relationship with him.

The addiction metaphor is pushed even harder in the previews for next week's show, Wrecked.  Willow, eager for more power, seeks out a warlock who can reportedly increase one's ability to do magic.  Buffy attempts once again to give up Spike cold turkey, while he informs her that it's useless; from now on she'll crave him like he craves blood.  I'm fairly sure that we won't be able to fully comprehend the significance of Smashed until much later; Wrecked is undoubtedly a companion episode along the lines of Surprise/Innocence and Reprise/Epiphany.  Eventually, perhaps, Buffy will realize that some addictions--like those for air, water, and food--are necessary for life.  The need to love and be loved is among those necessary addictions, and whether with Spike or someone else, Buffy's going to have to give in to it or, in an emotional sense, remain forever one of the walking dead.

[ocd-kenobi]

Why do you think Obi-Wan stayed a padawan for so long? It’s arguable that if Qui-Gon hadn't found Anakin and desperately wished to train him, he wouldn't have put Obi-Wan up for the trials. 

(I had such a hard work day yesterday, so I am going to self-indulgently woobify Obi-Wan without restraint.)

It's because Obi-Wan is a convenient little ego-boost and emotional punching bag for Qui-Gon to keep around.

Your question begs the inverse question: what would be the performance indicators that would make Qui-Gon, and the council, deem Obi-Wan ready for the trials? What would he have to be doing differently in order for Qui-Gon to accept him as ready?

And that's really hard to figure out, because we see evidence of Qui-Gon constantly moving the mark (in TPM movie, but even more so in books about that era and before.) If Obi-Wan senses something in the force and Qui-Gon doesn't, then Obi-Wan is being overly paranoid. If Qui-Gon senses something Obi-Wan doesn't, then Obi-Wan is an idiot. If Obi-Wan is proven right about everything, then he's arrogant for thinking he knew better in the first place. And god forbid Obi-Wan gather enough self-confidence to suggest that he might be ready for the trials; then he's "headstrong and has much to learn about the living force."

It seems that the only way Obi-Wan can do right is to be and think exactly like Qui-Gon at any given moment. Which is impossible, because they have very different relationships to the force. (Obi-Wan honors this fact; Qui-Gon dismisses it.) Alternatively, Obi-Wan can do the right thing if he just blindly obeys Qui-Gon's wishes (which he has to magically read his mind for because Qui-Gon doesn't communicate clearly, to make the challenge more spicy,) but blind obedience is so antithetical to progressing to be an independent Jedi knight supposed to work in conversation with the force itself, so making Qui-Gon happy is the opposite of progressing in his training.

Qui-Gon talks a lot of talk about embracing difference in lifeforms and going with the flow, but he refuses to go with Obi-Wan's flow or even acknowledge the value of Obi-Wan's different point of view. But I don't even think Qui-Gon sincerely wants Obi-Wan to be like him; I think he enjoys the power trip of watching Obi-Wan bend over backwards trying to meet his expectations, fail, hate himself for failing, and bend over backwards to try to meet the next expectation. Obi-Wan is not his "preferred" type of boy (the Anakin and Xanatos type with tons of midichlorians whom HE discovered and could have as his timeless legacy) so he's not invested in building Obi-Wan up to be something Qui-Gon can be proud of. Obi-Wan's function for Qui-Gon is not to be his future legacy: it's to emotionally wait on him, to make him feel smart and big by comparison, and to provide insight from the force for Qui-Gon to use or ignore without acknowledgment.

And Qui-Gon's interpretation is what the council hears. It's not like the council is monitoring Obi-Wan's growth; they're just hearing Qui-Gon talk about how arrogant and shortsighted he is or whatever. And Obi-Wan is a professional at self-doubt and self-hatred, so even when he knows on some level that he's right about something, he still internalizes Qui-Gon's disapproval and fundamentally believes that he's done something wrong by being right. That's why Qui-Gon can keep him for so long! I think if Obi-Wan had more self-worth, then a) he wouldn't be as fun to gaslight and Qui-Gon would get bored of him sooner and b) Obi-Wan might seek out a different perspective on his progress and realize he's being actively held back.

I guess I feel like if Obi-Wan, at any point, was sent to a different Master, he would have graduated faster, and would be just as effective a Jedi knight, if not more.

[smells-like-mettaton]

soriel, 1 (chocolate) for the ask game?

Like a Box of Chocolates

Rating: G Word Count: 2734 Read on AO3: here

---

"Ok. I brought a few choices," Sans said while sitting with his back to the door. He pulled a plastic sack full of chocolate and chocolate-adjacent treats out from under his shirt.

"Oh, you did not have to do that." The voice behind the door sounded embarrassed.

"It's no big deal." He shrugged instinctively, though she wouldn't be able to see it. "Not like I candy things like this for you very often."

The lady laughed, even though the pun was a stretch. She was a great audience like that.

"I cannot argue with that. After all, it is the choco-thought that counts."

Sans let out a wheeze. Man, she had him beat in the bad jokes department. He needed to up his game.

"What can I say, I'm a sweet guy." That joke would work better if she could see his wink.

"You certainly are, my friend."

Sans blinked. He hadn't been prepared for the genuine warmth in her voice. Now he felt something like a melted chocolate himself.

"Uh. You'd better wait and make sure I didn't pick out garbage before you say that." He chuckled nervously and spread out the chocolates in the snow.

"Alright. Hit me with your best choco-shot."

He laughed out loud at that one too. She could really squeeze some mileage out of chocolate puns.

"First off we have the MTT-Brand Chocolate Mettaton. Which is exactly what it sounds like. Chocolate in the shape of everyone's favorite robot superstar." He scanned the back of the wrapper. "Contains sequins and glitter, but it's still monster food, so probably won't cause any more indigestion than Temmie Flakes. Still, wouldn't blame ya if you passed on that."

The lady laughed. "I do not know this 'Mettaton,' but he sounds like someone…"

Her voice trailed off, the way it always did when she neared a personal topic. It seemed to be happening more and more often lately. Sans didn't know if that was a good sign, or if he needed to do a better job of distracting her.

"Someone I know would have liked that," she finished clumsily.

"Welp. It's yours, then." He attempted to slide it under the door.

Attempted. The thick block of chocolate wouldn't fit through the narrow space.

"What are my other options?" The lady asked, not seeming to hear his failure.

(Or just ignoring it. The way they always ignored things they didn't want to acknowledge.)

Oh well. He'd deal with that later, if she wanted to.

He picked up the next box and rattled it. It looked thin enough to fit under the door.

"I think this one's called, uh, pocket?” He couldn’t tell for sure, since the box was labeled in a language he didn’t recognize. Where did Alphys get this stuff? “A pal gave it to me. They’re like chocolate-covered sticks, I think."

"Not precisely what I was looking for, but I would love to try it regardless," she said. "If I am allowed to have both options, I mean. If not, I should probably stick with the Em-Tee-Tee."

Sans bit back a snort. So she hadn't heard after all. That made this a lot more awkward.

"Do you wanna hear the other options first? Wouldn't want ya to have any regrets."

"Oh! There are more?"

She sounded as surprised as a kid finding an extra fry in the bottom of their Grillby's bag. He couldn't help grinning.

"Yup. Next up is a chocolate spider donut—”

“Made by spiders, for spiders, of spiders?” The voice seemed on the verge of laughter again.

His eyesockets widened. “Uh… welp. Guess you don’t need the whole spiel, huh?”

“There is a spider bakesale right around the corner from my home,” the lady explained. “I believe they are saving for a… ‘heated limo’? To travel safely through Snowdin. I wish I could help them, but I did not think to take much gold when I…”

Another dead end. That was fine, Sans could piece together enough. Not that her personal life was any of his business, anyway.

“If it makes ya feel any better, they really raked me over the coals for this one.”

“It does not!” came her quick reply. “I only asked for a chocolate bar. Not for you to spend money that you need on me.”

Geez, this lady was too good for him. As if Sans ever really went out of his way for anyone.

Except Papyrus, but he was family. And sometimes Grillby, if he felt bad about failing to pay his tab for too long. And Alphys, but he owed her for screwing off after space-time blew up in their faces.

And now, the lady behind the door. The lady he didn’t owe anything to, except a few good laughs.

Who was he kidding? Those laughs were more important to him than anything.

“Eh, it just cost me one day of selling ‘dogs. Donut worry about it.”

“Very well. Since it was for a good cause, I will not grill you any further. But please tell me that was the last chocolate you purchased for me.”

“It’s the last one I purchased.” He grinned. While she couldn’t see his expression, she must have heard the but in his voice.

“Please tell me you did not steal any chocolate for me.”

“Geez, lady, what do you take me for? I’d never commit petty thievery.”

“Well, that is reassuring.”

“Yep. Gotta save room for the real high-dollar crimes. Like the illegal hot dog stand.”

The voice behind the door went silent. He wished he could see her face now more than ever. His own grin slowly slid from his skull.

“Everyone knows about it,” he reassured her. “If the King really wanted to shut me down, he’d have done it a long time ago.”

“Oh, I am not judging you for that. I am sure the law is rigged against you if the King has any say in it.” Her voice was surprisingly bitter.

His real problem was that he couldn’t ever find the necessary documents to get licensed in food preparation. His birth certificate was presumably in whatever alternate dimension his old man had blasted them out of.

“You are judging me for something, though,” he realized. The chill of the snow seeped into his bones, but he didn’t dare adjust his position. Somehow he felt that if he moved, she would disappear.

“I am not. I was only thinking about…” She sighed. “It is complicated. There was a time when I could have helped you, but it is long past.”

“Help me? Look, lady, the ‘dog stand is fine. Promise. Better than fine, since I don’t gotta pay taxes on it.”

She chuckled at that.

“Very well. Forgive a silly old lady for worrying.”

“Done.” He smiled, settling back against the door more comfortably.

He should’ve known she’d have a problem with his illegal activities, though. She was a classy lady, and he was… him. Why had he even brought it up? It wasn’t a great joke. Did he really just want her to know?

Eh, whatever. She wasn’t mad, so no harm done, right?

“I would like to know how you acquired this other chocolate, if it was not through your sticky fingers.” She sounded like she was grinning.

“Huh? Oh.” He blinked and dug out the last chocolate of the bunch. Blue dusted his cheeks. “QC—that’s the lady who runs the shop in town—gave ‘em to me for free. They’re called, uh, kisses.”

QC had a knowing look in her eyes when she’d offered the bag of chocolates to him. It was his own fault for implying they were for a girl. Everyone already thought he screwed around in the woods on his shifts, and with the way gossip travelled in a small town, everyone at Grillby’s would be asking about his girlfriend tonight.

“Kisses,” the lady behind the door echoed. “This is not one of your jokes, is it?”

“Not this time. Sorry to disappoint.” His grin felt too tight. “They’re, uh, tiny chocolates. Kinda cone-shaped? QC makes ‘em herself, so they’ve gotta be good.”

“Oh.” Oddly, the voice did sound disappointed. Sans couldn’t imagine why. Not like he could kiss her through the door, even if he had lips. And even if there was some unlikely timeline where she wanted a kiss from him.

He wanted to thump his skull back against the door, but there was no point in worrying her like that.

“In that case, I will take the kisses. They will be perfect for…”

He was sure she would leave it at that. Cover up with some non sequitur.

So his eyesockets went wide when she said, “for the anniversary of my child’s passing.”

“Oh.” He let out a strangled little laugh. “I—geez, I’m sorry. If I’d known—”

“You would have what? Spent even more money on this silly old lady, who cannot even leave to buy her child’s favorite chocolate?” Her voice was firm. “No. I thought you deserved to know, after the trouble you went to, and because you shared your own secret with me today.”

“My ‘dog stand is hardly a secret,” he said, still feeling a little shaky. She had a kid? A dead kid?

Well, who in the Underground didn’t have skeletons in their closet? Metaphorically or literally. She was still his best friend. If she wanted his pity, she would’ve said something sooner.

“Regardless,” she said. “It is in the past. Forget it, if you wish. But please do not treat me any differently.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said sincerely. If there was one thing he was good at, it was maintaining the status quo. “So, uh. These chocolates. I kind of wanted you to have all of ‘em, if that’s alright with you.”

“It would be rude to refuse a gift, would it not?” She sounded like she was smiling again, to his relief.

“There’s just one problem. Uh. Don’t think they’re all gonna fit under the door.” He rapped on the stone surface with his knuckle for emphasis.

“I did not assume they would. The recipe I gave you before hardly passed through.”

Sans blinked. “Then you—huh?”

“I will open the door just a fraction. It can only be done from the inside.” She paused, like she was gathering a breath. “I would ask that you do not look. I promise I will not peek, either.”

Sans’s ribcage tightened. She was going to open the door. She would be right there, with no stone between them.

The thought opened a desperate floodgate within him. He hadn’t realized just how badly he wanted to see her, to know her, to live off of more than just scraps and unfinished sentences.

She once had a child. She had some kind of beef against the King. She wanted to give charity to spiders, but didn’t have enough money. All these facts he filed away, tucking them into the grooves in his ribcage.

It would be enough. He’d duct tape those gates shut again, if he had to. He wasn’t going to betray the trust she’d shown him.

“Got it. You don’t wanna be smitten by my good looks, I understand,” he joked.

(He had a feeling it would be the other way around, if anything. Not that quality of jokes translated to quality of appearance—he would know. If it did, he’d have biceps like his brother.)

“It would be tragic. Much too high a price for you to handsome chocolate to me.”

“Heh, I’m sure you’re a door-able too. But I’ll keep my sockets shut, since our friendship hinges on it.”

That got a raucous laugh out of her, the kind that started off high-pitched and quickly became something of a snorting bleat. That sound was sweeter than chocolate to him.

...Man, his pals at Grilby’s would be right to dunk on him. He was a massive dork.

“Alright,” she said once she caught her breath, “if you are ready, my friend…”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Better choco-late than never, huh?”

That one only got a snort, but he wasn’t sure if that was because the pun fell flat, or because she was nervous. As far as he knew, she hadn’t been outside of the Ruins in years. And here she was, trusting a sentry—someone whose job it was to keep a look out—to turn a blind eye.

It was a good thing he’d never been good at his job.

Stone ground against stone with a dramatic rumble. His eyesockets stayed shut. Warmth emanated from somewhere near his shoulder, and he lifted the bag of chocolates.

His small hand brushed a large fur-covered one. A shiver trailed down his spine. One small touch shouldn’t have done so much to him, but—but she was real. She was more than just a voice behind a door. Which he knew, but knowing and feeling could be worlds apart at times.

She took the bag, and the moment was over. But the door didn’t close.

“My dear friend,” she whispered, her voice sounding closer than ever. “Would it be presumptuous to ask another favor of you?”

“‘Course not. Glad to do a favor for my favor-ite person.” He kept his tone light, unaffected by the swirling emotions inside him.

“If I could… oh, dear, this is embarrassing.”

He resisted the urge to open his eyes, to see what look might be on her face.

“It has simply been so long… may I hold your hand a moment longer?”

He felt the marrow heating within his bones.

“That all? I gotta hand it to ya, you made me think you needed an arm and a leg.”

She chuckled before awkwardly fumbling to grasp his hand again.

Heat poured from her palm into his phalanges. Aside from the fur, there were several spots of soft skin—probably paw pads. Was she a dog monster, like the Canine Unit in town? She didn’t make nearly enough dog jokes for that to be the case. Her laugh sounded more like a goat’s, but she obviously didn’t have hooves. Maybe she was some kind of chimera? You didn’t see those often nowadays, but then again, no one saw monsters from the Ruins, either.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice as soft as the snow that began to drift around him.

“Not disappointed?” He asked, only half-joking. “My hand can’t be as comfy as yours.”

“Ah, but it is all your bone. And that is wonderful to me.”

“Geez, old lady.” He was grateful she couldn’t see his blush. “You’re pretty fur-fect yourself.”

When she laughed, her body shook all the way down to her hand. The feeling more than made up for all the G he’d spent on chocolate and donuts.

Suddenly his hand was being lifted up, and then something soft pressed against his knuckles. His soul flared erratically, and his eyes nearly flew open. If they had, he was sure his left eyelight would have been blue from shock.

“A kiss for a kiss,” she said slyly. “It is only fair.”

“Heh heh…” His voice shook with more than laughter. “Technically, that was one kiss for a bag of kisses. Pretty sure that math doesn’t square up.”

“Oh, you are quite right! One day we will have to circle back and rectify that.”

He practically had to cast gravity magic on himself to keep his eyes from flying open.

“You—huh?” He said intelligently.

“Perhaps not soon,” she clarified. “This has all been… a lot, for me. But thanks to you, my dear friend, this day has not been so bitter as I am used to.”

“Uh, no problem, then. With all that chocolate, I hope it’s sweet.”

Sweet as the anniversary of a death could be, anyway. He grimaced. Maybe that joke was too soon, but she just squeezed his hand before finally letting go.

“I do think it will be,” she said softly. “I will look forward to hearing more of your punny jokes tomorrow.”

The door scraped shut, and he hesitantly opened his eyes. He couldn't help inspecting the door to see if anything changed. Pressing his still-warm hand against the smooth stone.

“Heh. Good luck getting rid of me now.” He grinned.

Then he tucked his hands in his pockets, where her kiss remained like a tattoo on his bone.

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XIII

Part I - - - - - - Part II - - - - - - - - - - - -  Part XI - - - - - - Part XII

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Cody waited impatiently in the entrance room to the hall of healing, ignoring the surprising number of Jedi who drifted by aimlessly. 

As far as he could tell they were coming in just to stare at him, make meaningless small chat with the tight lipped receptionist, glance around, approach as if almost to talk with him, then drift out again without having accomplished anything.

Embarrassingly, it took him several minutes to realize why they were behaving so oddly. In his defense, a) he didn’t have much of a baseline for Jedi behavior in temple. 

And b) when numerous vod had approached him today to try and find out ‘why the General had missed last night’s conference,’ and ‘why Cody had been unreachable for large chunks of time, that was seriously unlike him,’ and ‘why had Cody gone to the Jedi Temple and stayed there for hours upon hours yesterday morning,’ and ‘why haven’t you taken your bucket off today,’ and ‘why has no one gotten a comm reply from General Kenobi since Ghost Company went drinking,’ and ‘why isn’t Skywalker answering comms,’ and ‘why do the Jedi seem so riled up today,’ and ‘why are you and Rex so tense,’ and, ‘are you going to the temple now,’ and ‘what the kriff happened to my desk,’ well.

They just asked directly.

He had grown so inured to unfamiliar Jedi silently willing him to answer their own jedi-variations on ‘What the fuck is going on with Obi-Wan’ that he almost didn’t notice when Windu came to stand next to him. 

“Here as a visitor?” He asked the Master stiffly. He was almost feeling wound-up enough to fight for his place in line. 

“No, I’m waiting to speak with Skywalker,” he replied, temporarily placating the Commander.

An unfamiliar Jedi Cadet with a short braid on the side of their head walked in, attempting to look casual and failing miserably. The small furred padawan stared nervously at Cody and Mace, and actually managed to open their mouth. Windu raised a brow. They immediately snapped their jaw shut, bowed, and scurried out. 

Cody watched through the window as they joined a group of even tinier Jedi. After a brief conversation with lots of waving limbs from all parties, the group turned in unison to make eye contact with Cody’s visor. Cody inclined his head slightly. They all ran off, practically tripping over their robes.

“Wasn’t sure if the eyebrow would work,” Mace muttered. “It’s been 50/50 today.”

“I’ve just been hiding whenever I can,” Cody confessed.

Mace winced. “My apologies for the delay in putting out a statement. We’re still trying to work out - an adequate substitute. At least for the upcoming campaign.”

Cody nodded, “I assumed as much."

“I assure you, we’ve taken your thoughts into consideration. You’ll receive a notice of the Council’s final decision before we send out a mass bulletin.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Fortunately, finally, Anakin stomped into the atrium, followed closely behind by the Nautolan soul healer. 

“Ah, Knight Skywalker, do you have a moment? I’d like to have a word with you.” 

Anakin startled at Mace’s words, but recovered quickly when he noticed the slow moving crowd just outside the door. “Of course, Master Windu,” he said with a bow.

“Commander Cody, would you care to follow me?” Aerdo said with a smile.

Cody and Anakin exchanged grim nods as they passed one another, following the Masters in opposite directions.

- - - - -

- - - - -

“The situation in the expansion region is deteriorating rapidly. We had already intended to send the 212th to moderate the situation after Umbara’s latest declaration. But increasing separatist activity in the sector means that we cannot afford to delay or under-commit. The hyperlanes are being taken, and with them, republic control over crucial supply lines is now threatened. We must deploy the third system army, the day after tomorrow at the very latest. They’re our best equipped force for the situation, not to mention the only uncommitted division large enough to make a meaningful impact. There is no viable alternative.”

Anakin nodded at Mace uncertainly. He had been keeping up with troop movements before everything, and, trying to keep himself sane, had even checked the news in between cutting off the Chancellor and visiting Obi-Wan only to find him unresponsive again. But...why exactly was the Master of the Order telling him this?

“You’re not seriously thinking of sending Obi-Wan? I mean even if he miraculously wakes up tomorrow...”

Master Windu sighed. “No, of course not. Which is why I’ve asked you here.”

“You...can’t be asking me to lead them?” Anakin asked, feeling lightheaded.

“I admit, the council did consider it. You are the one of our most successful Generals. Not to mention the one most familiar with Obi-Wan’s troops. Between the fact that the 501st is also needed on Umbara and every other Jedi’s unwillingness to step in to the position, your name came up multiple times.” Mace pinched the bridge of his nose while Anakin stared uncertainly.

“No, I have not brought you here for a promotion. I want to speak with you about your opinions on candidates for the 212th...as well as to ask if you believe yourself capable of leading the 501st without...losing yourself. I’ve finished reviewing your civilian casualties and consider your observed losses- tolerable, at least.”

Windu looked exhausted at having to say that out-loud and Anakin fidgeted, biting his tongue.

“As long as you are under the supervision of another Master, and if you swear to me on Obi-Wan’s life that you will report yourself if you find yourself slipping- I leave the command of the 501st up to you.”

Anakin felt queasy. How could he help Obi-Wan if he was half a galaxy away, on what sounded like a long, protracted campaign. If he refused to go, that would leave both the 501st and the the 212th without their generals. Or...was this how he could help? Carry one of his burdens for him? He was more than ready to lead! Probably! He had been leading! Part of him longed to charge into battle immediately- wash off his helplessness with blood. Anakin didn’t know how to fix Obi-Wan mind, but he was good at fighting, good at war.

And that thought brought back the ever-lingering cold. How could he trust himself? His...violence... it might have driven Obi-Wan to suicide. He still didn’t know! And if he left he wouldn’t know for months! He promised Obi-Wan not to kill again- how the kark was he supposed to do that while being a General?! Did ordering people to kill count, or was that worse?

“I need to think about the 501st ,” Anakin whispered.

Master Windu nodded. “I appreciate that. You have until dawn tomorrow to decide- in the mean time, let’s discuss the 212th.”

“Who’s the top choice?”

“Master Pong Krell. He’s actually our only choice that wouldn’t require reorganizing other assignments significantly.”

“He’s...a good duelist.” Anakin said, trying to think about what he knew of the Besalisk, “What division does he command?”

Windu grimaced. “That’s actually why he’s the best choice... Of the troops he’s had direct command over since the start of the war, over 85% are dead. He’s never lost a battle but...”

Anakin closed his eyes, “Right.”

Plenty of excellent fighters among the Jedi made terrible generals. He’d have to look over the Besalisk’s military record- it could just be terrible luck. Plo Koon had lost an entire division to the Malevolence, but he still was one of the best.

“When you say he’s the only choice...”

“Most Masters I’ve breached the subject with were extremely reluctant at the thought- I don’t want to force anyone into a position beyond what they’re willing to handle.”

“I guess that makes sense...but it seems...off?” Anakin trying to articulate his uneasiness.

“Our method of ‘promotion’ has a tendency to elevate those who should perhaps not be taking on more responsibilities.” Mace acknowledged grimly.

“Because... good Jedi aren’t really ok with war. And you’re only promoting Generals who are fine with the whole thing?” he said thinking of himself. “Or can’t say no?” he added bitterly, thinking of Obi-Wan.

“It’s not an ideal situation” Mace agreed, lines around his eyes growing.

Anakin scrubbed a hand to his face. He had been doing more thinking about the ‘concept’ of war and violence in the last two days than he had the last two years of actual fighting. There hadn’t been much point before, war was happening regardless of his feelings. Not to mention the fact that there wasn’t time to quibble over these sorts of things in the field. As much as he was desperate not to disappoint Obi-Wan again, he didn’t really enjoying being forced to consider this stuff now. It made him...itchy.

“Have you considered just putting Cody in charge of everything?” Anakin finally asked.

“Of course, but the Senate would never approve...”

- - - - -

- - - - -

- - - - -

“...With those few exceptions, the only major thing left to restock is perishables. But that’s more your department than mine, sir.” 

Cody finished his report. 

Obi-Wan continued to lay still, looking frail in the large medi-bed. The restraints made the image that much worse.

“Fuck.” 

Cody swore and, for the first time since crawling out of bed that morning, yanked off his helmet.

“General. General Kenobi. Obi-Wan can you hear me.” he said hoarsely, leaning over the bed.

The General didn’t move.

“Obi-Wan if you can hear me- try and shift around a little bit. Blink. Do anything. It’s me- Commander Cody. I- please, sir. Just do anything, they said you- you did this on purpose so please confirm you’re in there. I’m- shipping off soon and, I- I just need to know that you’re going to be ok. Please. Anything.”

Cody hovered absolutely motionless, watching for any sign of response. But Obi-Wan continued as he had been, lifeless but for his slow and steady breaths. 

Cody collapsed to his knees, vision spotty. Gasping for air, he rested his head on the side of the bed, desperately trying to pull himself together. 

After several long moments he pulled of a glove, tentatively reaching for Obi-Wan’s hand. It felt cold.

“General, if this is some sort of- dark force attack twitch your hand, ok? Please. We’re trying to understand- we’re here for you, just clench your hand if you’re under attack and someone will come to help.”

Cody paced his breaths to Obi-Wan’s, pulse slowing down to match the wrist in his grasp.

“Obi-Wan, why are you doing this? I don’t understand.” Cody rasped. 

“You- you told me I was one of your best friends. You- I don’t know why you think so highly of me but please you have to know I think the universe of you. We all do, but I really do. You don’t have to fight anymore if you don’t want to, we’ll protect you, you know that. You have to know that. But I can’t- I can’t imagine the rest of the war without knowing you’re alright somewhere.”

Cody pressed Obi-Wan’s hand to his forehead, choking back a sob.

“You said you had a ‘last mission.‘ I don’t know what that means. You’ve talked about after the war- I don’t get why your life has to end with a mission. I'm not sure if I understood anything you said, but I’m right here and I would never hurt you. I don’t know what you saw but I would die first, ok? I want you to know that I would gladly die before hurting you so- so you don’t have to worry about whatever vision you had. Just wake up and tell me what I have to do and I’ll do it.”

Cody sat on the floor, clinging to Obi-Wan’s hand and continuing to breathe. 

Eventually, the door clicked open behind him. 

“Commander Cody? I’m terribly sorry but it’s been an hour...” Healer Aerdo’s voice came trickling in.

“I understand- is there time for me to say goodbye?” Cody rasped, not looking back. 

“Of course.” 

The door clicked shut and Cody stood jerkily.

“Goodbye, General Kenobi. Obi-Wan. I’ll take care of the men for you while you’re- resting. Please, I know I say this a lot but take care of yourself, ok?”

Cody pressed Obi-Wan’s hand to his forehead one last time before reverently resting it on the bed. Pulling his helmet on roughly, he turned sharply and marched out the door. 

Obi-Wan remained determinedly still.

Next: XIV

[robininthelabyrinth]

Tedious Joys - Chapter 3 -

- Ao3 link -

“Truly, Lao Nie, you are blessed to have such a talented son,” Wen Ruohan said, and if it were anyone else it might have even been a compliment, sincerely meant.

But Wen Ruohan was an ancient monster, two generations older than Lan Qiren – though you couldn’t tell by looking at his smooth young-seeming face, and only his eyes told the truth of it – and possessed of both a longstanding grudge against the Nie sect and the apparent sense that all good things in the world ought to belong to him and him alone.

He had only two living sons at present, the younger one only a little older than A-Zhan, now called Lan Wangji, and neither of them had yet displayed any particularly fine qualities – understandable for little Wen Chao, who was little more than a spoiled princeling, but the tone in Wen Ruohan’s voice boded no one any good.

“It is, no doubt, a credit to Sect Leader Lan’s excellent teaching,” Wen Ruohan added before Lao Nie could respond, and he raised his cup to toast Lan Qiren. Etiquette required that Lan Qiren acknowledge the toast, which he did with a stiff nod, but he disliked this line of conversation more and more.

“Starting to regret not sending your own boy there, are you, Hanhan?” Lao Nie laughed, and Lan Qiren devoutly wished that his friend would leave him out of whatever strange ongoing thing he had developed with Wen Ruohan, half rivalry and half challenge, hatred and affection both. Who in their right mind would call the fearsome Sect Leader Wen such intimate things like “A-Han” or “Hanhan”?

Lao Nie, that was who.

Wen Ruohan bared his teeth at Lao Nie in something that might be mistaken for a smile. Lan Qiren averted his eyes from the whole debacle, thinking to himself that he would need to advise Lao Nie that he could either invite their fellow sect leader into his bed or have Lan Qiren as a friend but not both. Lan Qiren’s entire life had been thrown into chaos by other people’s choices in that regard and he was not inclined to endure any more of the same if he could help it.

The jade pendant he had taken to wearing on his belt for easy access was warm against his leg, as it often was when he was thinking ungracious thoughts – he’d had something of a breakthrough with Jiwei shortly his affirmation of friendship with Lao Nie, achieving perfect resonance between blade and pendant, and he was very pleased even if he didn’t actually have any evidence that it was helping. He’d tuned a similar pendant with Baxia for Nie Mingjue, who wore it around his neck to help seep off Baxia’s rage, and though there were no dramatic effects, Lan Qiren thought that he seemed steadier for it. Though that might also just be how Nie Mingjue was starting to grow into himself, both in terms of becoming a teenager (Lan Qiren’s best estimate was around thirteen) and in terms of his ever-increasing height.

Children at that age were especially tricky to convince to listen, so Lan Qiren had allowed Lan Xichen to select the pendant and act as messenger to hand over the gift, thinking to himself that their mutual friendship would do more to convince Nie Mingjue to wear the thing than any esoteric explanation relating to cultivation. He had been proven right, and the fact that Lan Xichen smiled brightly every time he saw his friend wearing it was an unexpected but welcome bonus.

Sadly, Lao Nie was not so easily convinced, but again then he was an adult, with his habits set in stone, harder to change. His style had always been simple and stringently austere; he hated having any sort of weight on him but for his saber, his guan and his braids, and not even the threat of his pending eventual death would change his mind about that. As a result it was Lan Qiren who wore the pendant for him, meditating with or playing for Jiwei whenever he could and doing all he could to strengthen the resonance between the two items even at a distance.

It was Lan Qiren that wore the jade, even though it hung heavy and swollen with Lao Nie’s spiritual energy, and Wen Ruohan that glared each time he saw it, and really, if Lao Nie could just stop whatever dangerous game he was playing, Wen Ruohan could go back to disregarding Lan Qiren as the mediocre replacement for the far more dangerous Qingheng-jun.

Instead of…well, whatever wrong idea Wen Ruohan had gotten into his head about him.

About them, perhaps.

Some people thought everything was about sex, he thought disdainfully, and then had to suppress a flinch at the abrupt stab of pain – He Kexin had died earlier that year, fading away suddenly and unexpectedly, and for all that Lan Qiren had not liked her it was still a shock to think that she was gone.

He had been the one to find her, which he supposed was lucky in comparison to the alternative. It had been during one of his visits, coming as he always did to report to her at the midpoint between her children’s monthly visits, and even now, months later, he found himself starting to walk towards her house on those evenings, found himself mentally making a note of things his nephews did as if he were still preparing the reports that he would have given to her if she had still been there.

His brother had never cared for such reports.

His brother…

Lan Qiren had had to tell him that the wife he had sacrificed everything for was gone, talking through the door in the hope that he would be listened to and heard, and perhaps the only benefit of his brother’s cold and endless seclusion was that he didn’t have to hear his brother’s response to such news.

(Sometimes he wondered if his brother was already dead and rotting away in there, only to scold himself for such inauspicious thoughts. In the end, despite everything, it was still his brother, and surely they had been close, once, the way Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji were, even if Lan Qiren could not remember it.)

He had hoped that Cangse Sanren would somehow hear the news and come to find him, to commiserate – even more than Lao Nie, she could put a smile on anyone’s face – but she did not come to the Cloud Recesses. Lan Qiren hoped it was only that she was busy, or else perhaps had not had reason to hear such gossip as a traveling rogue cultivator, but he feared the worst. The last time they had met she had reminded him, as she did every time, that she had a doom hanging above her head which could not be escaped, and as always they made sure to part on good terms as if that time would be the last. And yet, despite that, he still hoped desperately that he had not lost her, too.

“– such a talented niece,” Jin Guangshan was saying ingratiatingly to Wen Ruohan, who looked pleased – they must be discussing Wen Qing, who was around Nie Mingjue’s age, perhaps a little older, and who already showed all signs of being an extremely talented doctor. She was not Wen Ruohan’s direct niece, being a child of the Dafan Wen branch family, distant cousins at best, but Wen Ruohan had claimed her as his ward and therefore, technically, her skills were his merit, no matter that she had developed them before her abrupt relocation to the Nightless City to accompany the main family line. “Perhaps you might consider sending her to Sect Leader Lan’s lectures next summer, instead.”

“There are separate lectures for women,” Lan Qiren demurred, going for the easy excuse of his sect’s customs. “I believe she has a younger brother? You are welcome to send him once he is old enough, if you like.”

Wen Qing was not at all to Lan Qiren’s taste, as much as he was loath to say such a thing about a girl little older than a child. She had inherited the arrogance of the Wen sect in full: proud and unwavering, convinced of her own viewpoint regardless of any evidence to the contrary, and unwilling to compromise or listen, determined to have her own way. While in her case the traits shaded closer to virtue, such as with her absolutist refusal to use her sword to engage in any of Wen Ruohan’s skirmishes with small neighboring sects, Lan Qiren could see a future in which that very same arrogance would bring her nothing but problems.

If there was one thing that he’d learned from Jiwei, it was that it was not good to be too rigid, too set in your path, or else you would ignore any other solution in favor of walking step-by-step down the path you’d created to your own destruction. It was something he himself was constantly trying to correct in himself, with his love of the rules and very particular habits, and perhaps that was why he could recognize it in others.

Still, she was young, and there was time yet for her to learn better. Maybe he should recommend her for some classes…

“I will consider it,” Wen Ruohan said with a not-smile on his lips. “Perhaps there’s something that the boy can learn from Sect Leader Lan’s…wealth of experience.”

Lan Qiren did not flinch at the jibe, clearly aimed to remind him that he had never left the Lan sect to gain experience the way so many young men did – Wen Ruohan had discovered that particular sore spot years ago, and however skilled he was at picking at old wounds, they would eventually toughen into a scar – but he was somewhat gratified to see Lao Nie’s frown deepen when he heard it.

Still, since Lan Qiren didn’t actually want to get in the middle of the other sect leaders’ personal business, he interjected, “There is still time before we need to think of such things. The children will be grown sooner than we like; we should cherish the time when they’re still young.”

Wen Ruohan rolled his eyes at the platitude, but the conversation moved on to other matters. There was always business to discuss at these discussion conferences, even in the parts that were nominally meant as social events, and of course some of the social discussions were also in their own way business. The birth of a son for Tingshan He clan, yet another daughter for the prodigious Yingchuan Wang clan with all their concubines…

The pendant on Lan Qiren’s thigh burned hotter than ever, and he slid a hand out of his sleeve to press down on it, wondering at the cause. He glanced over at Lao Nie, at Jiwei, and found him scowling in a way that seemed more intense than the usual, his eyes on Wen Ruohan – had he truly just noticed the other man’s disdain of Lan Qiren? Surely not.

Perhaps he was simply responding to Jiwei’s own response, but why the saber would be upset at Wen Ruohan, Lan Qiren truly did not know. There was only so much he could understand without the lived experience of cultivating saber spirit himself, which for all his effort he did not and could not have.

Lan Qiren sent his own spiritual energy to the pendant, trying to press the feeling of calm there in the hopes that the resonance would also help calm Jiwei, and thus in turn Lao Nie, but he had no idea if it was having that effect. Perhaps he would try to play for Lao Nie himself as well as for Jiwei tonight.

Assuming of course that Lao Nie was not otherwise preoccupied…

A loud noise came from the arena below – a giant wave of cheering – and Lan Qiren turned his attention there: it appeared that, as Wen Ruohan must have foreseen, Nie Mingjue had just defeated someone one and a half times his own age in a clean sweep. He was practically glowing with joy and youthful enthusiasm and, yes, sheer overwhelming spiritual energy - had he managed to advance his own cultivation during a performance spar?

Of course he had. Geniuses.

And of course, just as predictably, Lan Xichen was the first one by his side when he left the field, the two of them talking avidly and enthusiastically – perhaps a little too much so for Lan Xichen, just edging outside of the Lan sect rules, but Lan Qiren could forgive the small misstep under the circumstances. Normally he tried to be as strict as possible when teaching his nephews, erring wherever possible in favor of orthodoxy out of his fear that they would end up indifferent to their sect or blinded by passion the way their father was or too mercurial and easily deceived the way He Kexin had been. Still, Lan Xichen had only just become old enough to attend the events and it was only another year before he could participate, albeit only in the most junior capacity; some enthusiasm was understandable.

Truly, he thought as he watched them, it had not been a mere platitude to say that a child’s youth needed to be cherished before it disappeared forever, and all the more so when it was your child. With their mother’s death, his nephews were now wholly in his custody and care, and he thought that he could not have loved them any more if they had been children of his own body.

Unexpectedly, he felt someone’s gaze on him and turned his head to catch Wen Ruohan studying him thoughtfully. When their gazes met, Wen Ruohan did not look away, but only smiled and raised his cup – the second time now he had tried to catch Lan Qiren in a toast. He would probably try to force them all into drinking later. Lan Qiren would refuse, as always, and take his leave early so that he could sleep, and Lao Nie would stay and probably get himself into trouble.

Perhaps Wen Ruohan had some sort of scheme to force the issue. That had happened a few times, although the move was more typical of Jin Guangshan, who liked to set important business meetings in the evening and then insist that they might as well have the conversation at a ‘tea house’ or ‘wine shop’ that barely bothered hiding the fact that it was brothel. On a few instances, he had steered the conversation in such a way that left Lan Qiren no choice but to either drink, lose face, or give Jin Guangshan no face, and of those three options the most palatable was clearly the first. Lan Qiren would therefore drink and, true to his bloodline, almost immediately become extremely dizzy and confused, losing all his senses.

Presumably that had been Jin Guangshan’s goal the first time around, except unfortunately for him Lan Qiren, when drunk, did not become easier to manipulate. Instead, it appeared that he simply lost all control of his ability to moderate his interest in the Lan sect rules or obscure musical theory and would therefore proceed to talk about those subjects at monotonous and excruciating length to anyone who would listen, and several who would really rather not. Lao Nie had told him about it after one such incident, claiming that he had nearly burst a rib laughing at Wen Ruohan’s worsening expression as Lan Qiren earnestly hung off his arm all evening, refusing to be shaken off, and dictating to him the entire history, development, and applicable exceptions of just one of the rules regarding the use of the Lan sect forehead ribbon.

With quotes.

(In his embarrassment, Lan Qiren had responded by muttering something about the importance of citing appropriate authority, causing Lao Nie to nearly burst another rib.)

He wasn’t sure why Wen Ruohan would bother inviting that sort of behavior again, especially when he had already requested in advance that should such circumstances ever occur again, Lao Nie was to have pity on him and drag him back to his bed before he went on too long. And yet – reviewing the day’s proposed schedule in his mind – it seemed likely that Wen Ruohan did have such intentions.

For some reason, it made Lan Qiren worry.

[falcor-thee-luck-dragon]

Love Cuts Deep

Chapter 10- These Are Strange Times

Summary: Could something positive be truly on the horizon? With the random intrusion of though-to-be-dead Scott Lang at the Avengers Facility, your hope for seeing Bucky again may have yet to be a possibility.

Warning: yeah nothing enjoy the ride

Masterlist

-Five years since the Blip-

Throwing on a dark sleeveless top, you suddenly feel the overwhelming urge to sneeze which evidently causes your little furry companion to startle at the unexpected noise. The furry tigress lets out a meow of protest that pulls forth a humored snicker from you, while the little beast sends you an annoyed look.

Recovering her bearings in a flash, she walks across the short wooden dresser like a model strutting on the runway, her thick mane of mahogany and dark chocolate fur glossy and adequately brushed to perfection, just how your spoiled Main Coon, Silver, likes it.

She purrs happily as she begins playing with Bucky’s dog tags that lay across the small dresser top.

“What are you do..? Oh give me that you little shit.” Silver ignores you until she’s rudely lifted and placed firmly on the carpeted floor before you snatch up the valuable memorabilia. Placing it around your neck where it belongs then glancing down to give her a casual shrug, “Don’t give me that look Silv, I bought you a cool bird feathered cat toy like three days ago. What happened to that?” Silver meows, running her head against your worn out old boots as you smile, “Guess it’s as good as dead huh, you little beast. Now you staying or coming with me to find Nat?” Nothing but purrs of affection.

You lean down to gently rub her head before standing up fully and heading for the door, Silver hot on your heels. Soon you’re both traveling down the hallway until you finally reach the large study. Natasha’s on a conference call with Carol, Rodney, Okoye, and the last two guardians of the galaxy, Rocket and Nebula. And by the looks of it, nothing new has been reported. How disappointing.

Soon they all log off, leaving Natasha alone with Rodney who stays to give Nat a little insight into Barton’s violent whereabouts from the last couple years since he’s been rouge. Apparently he took out a whole cartel in Mexico, so he’s been busy. Definitely not keeping up with those group therapy sessions Steve makes you go to to help cope with the loss. Not that you’ve actually been that consistent with them if we’re being real here.

Quickly enough, Rodney logs out, leaving a tearfully conflicted Natasha as she slouches in her comfy swivel chair. Head in her hands as she holds back the waterfall that threatens to spill within her. You take a step forward, leaning casually against a steel rimmed display area for random nick-nacks. “I’d join you in the fun, but I’m limiting my crying sessions between 1 and 2 in the morning on Tuesdays. So, uh....I brought Silver.” You smile, pointing a finger down to your loyal companion, “Well I guess she brought herself but you know.”

Natasha breaks out into a reluctant grin, genuinely happy to have a bit of positive company within her gloom, “And you didn’t even want her to begin with.” Laughs the red head, “Now I never see one without the other.”

You nod with an almost shy smile, “Yeah, she’s alright.” 

You hear soft movement making its way through the hallway behind you just as Silver meows when Steve casually saunters into the room, coming to stand next to your side as the furry beast paws at his shoes, “What are you here for? Doing some laundry?” You tease at the tall blonde.

Steve smiles at your little jab since he’s not usually always present, doing Captain America stuff and whatnot, “Just here to see some friends.”

Natasha chuckles through glossy eyes, “Well clearly your friends are doing just fine.” Steve knowingly nods paired with a small smile, both you and Natasha look relatively well kept and functional as usual. It’s just, there’s a palpable pain and hidden darkness that always appears to simmer lowly on the surface. Just enough for a skilled eye like Steve’s to notice.

“Exactly.” You add, wandering over to sit cross legged on Natasha’s desk as Steve moves to lean against the display, “But if you’re here to tell us to look on the bright side...”

“I’m gonna hit you in the head with this peanut butter sandwich.” Finishes Natasha with a pursued lipped grin as the 90 year old nods. “Um, right. Force of habit.” Admits Steve, pushing himself off the surface to find a seat next to you and directly across from Natasha. 

The three of you keep to a mutual silence for a long moment until he finally speaks, “You know,” Starts Steve thoughtfully, “I keep telling everybody they should move on...and grow. Some do.” He pauses for a moment as you frown, Natasha looking elsewhere as Steve finally continues, “But not us.”

She shakes her head, “If we move on, who does this?”

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be done.” Suggests Steve, he means well of course, but maybe he’s right after all, its been five fucking years with absolutely nothing to make for it. Nothing of any significant progress or even a possible way to fix what's happened. 

Natasha blinks through bleary eyes of saddened green while you pet Silver’s furry mane, refusing to give in to that notion, “No.” You whisper softly, causing them to look at you, “We can’t, it wouldn’t be right...at least,” You let out a gentle sigh, “at least not for me....before all of this, before I met all of you. I had nothing.” You admit thoughtfully, “Not a soul in the world who gave a damn whether I lived or died. Then I found Bucky, then I found this. This.....family. And because of it, I’m better off now then I was ten years ago.”

They keep a respectful silence as your breaths become shaky, teary eyes now trained onto Silver’s little ears, “And I know they’re gone now, believe me I fucking know it, but I’m still trying to be better.” Natasha nods in deep understanding, a couple stray tears falling down her cheeks as Steve crosses his arms.

“I think we all need to get a life.” He muses, his tone light as he tries to pull you two back from the edge of grief. You give him a friendly nudge at his annoying brotherliness, “You first.” He chuckles as you throw him a playful glare while Natasha checks an incoming call.

“Oh, hi! Hello! Is anyone home?” Speaks a man frantically from one of the security cameras, an orange van behind him, “This is, uh, Scott Lang. We met a few years ago at the airport.....in Germany?” Now you’ve got his attention.

“What the fuck?” You mutter in bewilderment at the blue tinged image of Scott as Steve and Nat share a confused glance, the three of you quickly rising to your feet while Scott keeps talking about who he is, how he got here, and what he’s learned about the world so far.

“Is this an old message?” Wonders Steve as he studies the image of Scott who’s still waving his hands up at the security camera.

“It’s the front gate.” Replies Natasha with a hopeful smile.

——

All you came here to do was shoot the shit with Natasha and maybe make some actual dinner, but here you are, laying across the study’s plush couch as Scott rambles on and on about the quantum realm. Whatever that happens to actually be, you’ve never heard of anything like that before, but then again you didn’t know aliens existed at one point. So perhaps anything's possible.

Silver brushes her fluffy head across your fingers as they dangle over the couches edge while Scott keeps at his long-winded tellings of how he got there, what it was like, that he’s been technically gone for only five hours, and now he thinks there’s a way to enter this new plane of existence and travel to a fresh alternate reality. Like through a time machine type deal, or whatever he’s on about.

Apparently he means one before Thanos. But it honestly sounds like a load of horseshit and gibberish coming from a desperate man refusing to acknowledge that this is the new shit reality. There’s no fucking way that’s even goddamn possible, right? No way. 

Maybe?

Drifting back out of your doubtful thoughts, you swiftly move yourself into a seated position as Scott begins to self doubt. Head lowering as he mumbles about how crazy that it. You start chuckling as he throws you an almost embarrassed look. “Scott.” You speak to gather his attention, “Nat gets emails from a raccoon. Your idea is admittedly a bit nuts, but nothings that crazy anymore considering all the wild shit I’ve witnessed in the past six years. So I don’t know, maybe there’s a way.”

Scott flashes a hopeful smile as his brows furrow in thought, uncertainty seeping right back into him, “So, uh...who do we talk to about this?”

——

“Stark! Miss us?” You shout at Tony as he holds Morgan in his left arm, an Ironman helmet grasped firmly in the right. He gives the four of you a less then enthusiastic nod of acknowledgment before wordlessly turning around and taking a step up onto the wooden porch.

You give Steve a shrug, “He misses us I can tell.”

Soon Tony let’s Morgan go off to play with you as you opt in to be the babysitter slash distraction from the grownups who are currently discussing if time travel and gathering the stones for ourselves is even a possibility, or even a palpable option that can be done. You skillfully listen to everything they’re saying as the little Stark shows off her array of multiple plant-life assortments picked from the local greenery.

“So I got this cone from that tree over there and then I put a frog in a glass but dad said I had to let him go so I did.” Babbles on the five year old as you entertain her constant musings.

You raise a brow, knowing her shenanigans all too well, “Is he in the garden?”

She mischievously smirks, sneakily peaking over at Tony who’s seated up on the porch, before giving you a nod, “Yeah. I made him a little house from some flat rocks I found too. I named him Froggo.”

You chuckle, “Oh really, Froggo? I like it, has a nice ring to it.” She nods in delight before walking into her tiny tent to retrieve something new as you catch either Scott or Steve saying something about a time heist, what the hell are they going on about now?

“Y/N! Look at this!” Calls Morgan excitedly while bursting out of the tent to run on short legs over to you who’s seated comfortably in the grass, “I got a cool rock from the lake but I didn’t get to show you last time cause you left early.”

Raising your brows in surprise, though you don’t exactly feel as thrilled as she is, you make sure she knows you care, “Woah! A cool rock from the lake, why Morgan I gotta see this.”

“Look.” She hands you a dull grey rock with a tiny fossil shell indentation on it, “It’s from the dinosaurs.”

Examining the small round object, you nod, “Next thing you know I’ll come back to a whole dinosaur excavation site. Impressive Professor Grant, I’m thoroughly amazed.”

She giggles in excitement, “Y/N I know what that means now.” You give her an inquiring look as she smiles proudly, “That’s from Jurassic Park.”

“And your dad let you watch that, with the big Trex eating the goat and everything?” You tease before handing her the prized object, “Next thing I know you’re going to have a whole dinosaur skeleton in your house.”

“Yeah that would be cool. Thanks ninja turtle.” Cackles Morgan as she hugs her rock, smiling brightly as you throw her a puzzled look before joining in on the laughter. “Okay, now you’ve lost me kid, I can’t say I have any idea what you’re talking about.”

She shrugs innocently, “Dad told me to call you that.” Clearly not understanding what she just called you either. A ninja turtle? The fuck is a ninja turtle?

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.” You muse before looking up to the four of them getting closer to a heated discussion, “Alright Morgs let’s go save your dad before he decides never to invite us back for dinner again.” You add, quickly rising to your feet as she laughs before racing past you, on a beeline for Tony.

You choose to stay out of the conversation and instead wait for Steve, Natasha, and Scott to start walking back towards the car. You lean against the metal as Steve round the corner before catching your eye as he goes down the three steps, “Are we banished from the castle? I was kinda hoping not cause I actually like Pepper’s cooking.”

Steve smiles, “No. He’s not gonna help us is all.”

“Damn that’s shitty.” You retort with a tinge of genuine disappointment, you don’t completely believe this shit is even possible. But dammit if you don’t want them to at least try for all it’s worth. “So what now? I’m guessing you bastards aren’t gonna let this go anytime soon. And cause Tony’s out for the count, we obviously need some different brain power.”

Steve nods while walking closer to the car, “We wanna do this right. So, yeah, we’re gonna need a really big brain.”

Scott turns from Steve to point a thumb in Tony’s general direction, face a mask of confused puzzlement, “Bigger then his?”

-

After a less then pleasant adventure to some cozy little diner in New Jersey where the four of you were subjected to Banner in his weird Hulkness body or whatever the hell he is now. Turns out he was most definitely on board for this time traveling experimentation. Of course he was, the weirdo takes fucking selfies with children nowadays. 

So here you five are now, in the giant glass and metal garage of the Avengers Facility getting things ready for whatever nonsense is about to take place next. The back of Scott’s orange van closed for the moment, keeping hidden some reactor core thing behind its doors. Scott in some safety quantum realm suit while Banner and Natasha stand behind a large intricate assembly of high tech equipment in preparation for the events to hopefully follow.

You keep an amused yet genuinely curious stance off to the side as Bruce gives you a thumbs up, nodding, you face Scott who’s walking over to the van. “Okay, here we go. Time travel test number one everybody! Scott get that bitch open!” You shout with a small bout of rare enthusiasm while he opens up the doors.

“Emergency generators are on standby.” Announces Steve as he walks into view from behind some large plastic containers covered in safety rope.

Banner nods, “Good, because if we blow the grid, I don’t wanna lose, uh..” He points a green thumb at Scott who’s getting his helmet ready, “Tiny here in the 1950’s.”

Scott’s head snaps up in an instant, “Excuse me?” He worries.

Natasha smiles while looking down at her touch pad, “He’s kidding.” She sing songs before shaking her head up at Banner, “You can’t say things like that.”

Banner turns around to face a fearful Scott as you snort at the small bout of humor that you did happen to find rather amusing. Then again, you’re not the labs guinea pig, so instead you casually shrug while giving Scott a half persuasive grin and a thumbs up of reassurance, “Bad joke.” You add as Bruce nervously laughs, “Yeah, it was a bad joke.”

Scott nods apprehensively before turning to walk over to the reactor, appearing to believe the two of you, “You were kidding, right?” Asks Natasha as you raise a brow at Bruce in question. Albeit a smidge doubtful he actually one-hundred percent knows what he’s doing.

“I have no idea.” Whisper yells Banner, confirming your suspicions, “We’re talking about time travel here. Either it’s all a joke, or none of it is.” Explains Bruce, suddenly smiling as he lifts his attention back over to Scott, “We’re good!” He shouts with a positive thumbs up of that prominently famous green.

“Oh we’re so fucked.” You mutter humorously while Natasha shares an uncertain look with you.

“Get your helmet on.” States Banner as Scott does just that, “Scott, I’m gonna send you back a week...let you walk around for an hour, then bring you back in 10 seconds. Make sense?”

Scott smiles brightly, waving him off with confidence, “Perfectly not confusing.” He muses with an almost annoyingly positive expression.

“Good luck Scott. You got this.” Encourages Steve while Scott grins proudly. “You’re right. I do, Captain America.” Then just like that’s he’s gone, sucked into the reactor like a crumb into a vacuum cleaner.

“On a count of three..” Begins Banner, “Three, two, one.” Bruce flips some switches as the machine whirs before a second later and there’s Scott. In the body of a teen. “Uh, guys? This doesn’t feel right.” Worries teen Scott as his brows furrow in confusion, clearly not aware of how he looks. This just got interesting.

“What’s going on?” Questions Steve as Bruce urgently flicks more switches. “Who is that?” Wonders Natasha as you snort at teen Scott, snickering at how absolutely ridiculous your life is becoming and the weird shit you’re adding to the list.

“Oh my god he looks so innocent, like before the world hurt him.” You muse as Natasha’s brows raise in bewilderment, giving you a side glance as she focuses back on the person in question. “Is that, Scott?”

“Yes, it’s Scott!” Protests the sassy little 14 year old before whoosh and he’s gone once again while Banner squats down out of view to mess with some more buttons. A hot second later Scott’s back, this time looking significantly different.

“Oh, my back!” Complains the short wrinkly 80 year old man, Steve sending the back of Bruce a troubled look, “What is this?”

“Hold on a second. Could I get a little space guys.”

Steve hastily jogs around Bruce as he makes his way over to you and Nat, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Can you bring him back?”

“I’m working on it.” Mumbles Banner with underlying urgency as he flicks more switches in hopes of getting a better result, whoosh, and Scott’s gone again before reappearing as a...

“It’s a baby.” Deadpans Steve in astonishment.

You burst with laughter, “It’s Scott! Let’s just keep him this way so we don’t have to hear him ramble about how amazing you are, Captain America.” You tease playfully as Steve throws you a what-the-fuck kinda expression. “Y/N! He’s a baby!”

“He‘ll grow.” Adds Bruce as you shrug in agreement. Crossing your arms as you study baby Scott, “Steve you can change the diapers.”

“Bring Scott back.” Urges Steve as he ignores you and Banners amusement of the situation.

“Alright fine.” Chides Bruce, “When I say kill the power, kill the power.”

Natasha rushes past you while mumbling, “Oh, my God.” As you await for Bruce’s fantastic technological skills.

“And....kill it!” Natasha turns the breaker switch downwards and a moment later Scott’s back, this time fully Scott. Whether that’s good or not is debatable.

He stands there, arms open and face twisted in confusion, “Somebody peed my pants. But I don’t know if it was baby me or old me.......Or just...me me.” Speculates Scott as you snort in amusement.

“It was probably just you.”

He sends you an unsure look that’s half offended yet he can’t exactly counter that claim considering he’s just jumped between three different age groups of himself. Bruce claps his hands together before spreading his arms out wide in excitement, “Time travel!” He shouts enthusiastically as Steve shakes his head before turning to walk elsewhere, “What?” Wonders Bruce, “I see this as an absolute win. 

——

In the following weeks after Banner’s half-successful attempt at legitimate time travel, Tony and Rocket have been toiling away tirelessly on Starks actual time machine since he’s agreed to help fix the mess that Thanos left behind. The Avengers base has honestly never been busier; with Tony, Banner, and Rocket working on the giant machine. Everyone else is going about their business helping when needed and hoping for good news.

So here you are now, in the middle of the night with all light sources retired for the evening, hanging out in the kitchen with a bowl of watermelon chunks in your hand, and greatly enjoying the recently rare peace and quiet. Though soon your silent midnight snacking is disrupted when the sounds of human feet padding on tile reaches your ears from down the hallway. Dammit.

The lights flicker on in an instant, blinding your vision for a brief moment before they adjust accordingly to find the blue eyes of Steve, he yelps in surprise, hand holding his chest as he relaxes once more when he realizes it’s just you. Then he does a double take, considering you’re seated crossed legged on the counter with a bowl of watermelon, “Uh, hey there Y/N.”

You nod, awkwardly taking a bite out of your snack, “Steve.”

He raises a curious brow, deciding to step farther into the large kitchen area, “Huh, never seen anyone eat watermelon like that before, but I respect it.” Says the blonde, nodding towards the chopsticks held in your right hand.

“Yeah. Less of a mess.” He nods before taking a Gatorade out of the fridge, “Mind if I sit?”

“Go for it.” He nods before promptly seating himself next to the marble table. “So, eating in the dark? Your inner night owl keeping you from sleeping again?”

You shrug, “I can kinda see in the dark so....yeah, a bit of a night owl.” You admit with a growing frown, not sure why you suddenly feel so down in the dumbs again, “....guess I haven’t really slept well for some time now....well, now since I think about it actually, I probably don’t get as much sleep as your average person.”

“I get that, yeah....I know what you mean.” Lightly chuckles Steve in understanding, taking a small moment of silence to let his mind think of something to sway the atmosphere away from an awkward tension. Parting his eyes away from his clasped hands, he looks up to meet your stoic gaze, “You think all this is possible? I mean they’ve made some real progress and I guess Tony really knows what he’s doing. Still after all this time I can’t help but find it amazing.”

Pursing your lips together in thought, you let a small sigh emit from your parted lips before answering, “I hope so, cause if not. Well, guess that would be as expected.” You admit with a frown, “Maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to go....a fitting punishment for my lengthy list of crimes. I guess that’s fair.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.” Counters Steve as he sends you a sympathetic look, “What happened to you isn’t your fault, neither is what they made you do, or everything Thanos did to the universe....”

“Yeah, guess you’re probably right....it’s just...just so difficult to move on you know? From all of it, everything swirling in my head, and even though it’s been five fucking years now. I still think of that shit, even worse, I still think of Bucky every single day, I miss him.....I just, I miss all of them.” You admit sadly, setting your snack down as Steve takes a moment to reflect on his own losses.

Suddenly his lips curl into a humored smile as he shakes his head, eyes looking down at the table before they connect with your curious ones, “God he was so different back in the 40’s....Y/N you wouldn’t believe the stuff we got up to, jeesh, the stuff he got up to.” Chuckles Steve as you raise an intrigued brow. 

“Alright Rogers care to elaborate?” You press with a growing smile at the thought of Bucky and learning more about him, “Bucky never told me a whole lot about that time. Considering he’ll probably never get the chance, I think I’d like to learn more about him and what shit you people did back then.”

“Aren’t you from the 1950′s?” Inquires Steve with a humored grin as you wave him off.

“Yeah, yeah, I was a baby back then I don’t remember what happened okay,” You explain, “I was born in 53 alright, and let’s not forget I didn’t exactly have a normal childhood.”

Steve nods, “Right. Fair point.....Okay so..” He laughs, “There was this one time and if you knew me back in the day, of course I was getting in an unsolicited scuffle with some boys who thought it was funny to argue with the paperboy.”

Raising a brow, you begin to smile as his eyes light up, “An unsolicited scuffle?” You muse, “Or is this when skinny Steve got his ass kicked by a couple of mangy dogs?”

“Dogs. Yeah that’s probably more fitting, well you know, of course I had to step in and do something.”

“As expected.” You quickly add as he continues.

“Which I did. And let me tell you they were not a fan. Those assholes ran me for two blocks till I got cornered in some market when who would you know it.....Bucky was there, taking some cute strawberry blonde out for a date while he got groceries for his mom.” Chuckles Steve, blue eyes shimmering with the humorous memories coming back to him about his old friend.

You heart subconsciously swells with the thought of Bucky, “Clever man. Sweet talk your girl while doing something useful.”

“Exactly. I would have gotten a bloody nose if he hadn’t thrown a tomato right at the biggest guys head. That thing coated his hair like red paint, then...” Steve balls his fist as he presses it against his mouth to try and keep himself from losing it with laughter, “...then, his friend turned around and smack! Another tomato right in his face.”

Snickering in amusement, you run a hand down the side of your face at the vivid image forming in your head, “oh Bucky..”

“It was pretty damn accurate too. The other guy booked it down the sidewalk before Buck could get him. Then when he started walking towards us, the other guys took off like a couple of scared birds....fortunately leaving me with no bruises that day.” Says Steve proudly, no doubt thinking fondly on that old memory, “Then of course he told me I gotta be more careful and all that stuff, I said I was fine and he want back to shopping with that girl......huh, don’t think I ever saw her again, well....at least with him.”

“Don’t blame her, he sounded like a real ladies man back in the day, she probably got too jealous.” You joke with a small brow wiggle before your smile lessens again, God you miss him so fucking much, “Thanks Steve.....he seemed, so different. It’s just when I knew him, when I first met him that is, Bucky was very different.”

Steve’s face looses it’s once vibrant glow, he keeps a steady gaze set on you now, knowing your time with him was such a chilling contrast to Bucky in the 40’s. You sigh, “I think I would have liked to see that version of Bucky just once, but I liked the Bucky I got after everything we went through.....after everything’s that’s happened. Maybe 40’s Bucky wouldn’t even look in my direction, I’d probably scare the socks off of him anyways.”

Steve shakes his head, “No way Y/N, you’d have him wrapped around your finger so fast, not a doubt in my mind he’d do anything for you in a heartbeat. That’s just who he was, a player yes, but a kind one who treated everyone with respect through that famous charm of his.....and you, you’d have caught his attention in an instant.”

Looking down at your hands, you raise the corner of your lips into a small half grin at the thought of Sergeant Barnes losing it all to the dangerous vixen that is no doubt yourself, now that’s an interesting thought indeed. Bucky in the 40′s, how about that.

“Maybe you’re right, maybe you’re not....but I know one thing. That I’m glad to have even known him at all, he was...so special and he didn’t even know it.” You pause for a moment, lips pursing together as you think fondly of your past lover. Steve keeps silent, studying your disheartened features as you gather your words, “So if, if they can somehow do this....if it’s even actually possible to get those fucking stones again. I’ll do whatever it takes, Steve.”

Whatever it takes.

-

Tagged:  @diegos-butt @minigranger @bibliophilewednesday @holyhumorliteraturelight @lilacs-lavender @a-girl-who-loves-disney @starkssnarks @vikingqueen28 @bizarrebibitch @atomicpersonacheesecake @jmstz @staygoldsquatchling02 @marvelbros-oneshots @shawnartmendes​ @mischiefmanaged71 @jckie94​  @iamasimpingh0e

[a-shakespearean-in-paris]

I'd love to see your take on Cullen's recovery arc as an alternative analysis! I feel like we're only ever presented with the two options of: "he needs to atone!" Or "he was a victim that needs protection!", neither of which I've ever fully agreed with. I think it's a result of the lack of attention given to his arc in DAI, which leaves a ton of room for interpretation, and results in people swaying towards either camp depending on how sympathetic they are towards him and his history.

I totally agree with this. 

The problem with the way Cullen is presented in DAI is that he’s presented in an unambiguously positive light, and as @tokutenshi pointed out in this post (which I do agree with) if your Hawke was hostile to him you don’t get some of his dialogue about questioning Meredith. Additionally if you side with the mages rather than the templars Cullen has some realizations about the Order that you’re not going to hear. It’s too little too late for a lot of people, though I would also argue with what tokutenshi said, he was severely traumatized after the Blight (if you take a female mage Warden in the tower during the Witch Hunt DLC you will get lines that indicate he is suffering from PTSD, notice the lines about him being “twitchy” and “jumpy”) Personally I think we can find a middle ground between Cullen being a victim of manipulation and indoctrination, someone who suffered after experiencing trauma, and someone who works hard in the moment to do some good, whether we can or should call it “atonement” or not. That being said, he does acknowledge in Inquisition that the war against Corypheus is his chance to atone, and he works overtime to the point where it’s commented upon by several characters including the Inquisitor how hard he works.  

By the time we meet Cullen in Inquisition a couple of years have passed since the chantry’s explosion. This is where I will be critical of the writing because I do think the game should have better established what exactly Cullen was doing in the time in between, though we get bits and clues from dialogue if you pay attention: He served as Kirkwall’s knight Commander after Meredith died, and he and presumably Aveline’s guard worked to basically repair the city, as Rylen says in Griffon Wing Keep that there was a lot of rubble, a lot of people without homes. Cassandra noticed Cullen’s work and recruited him to the Inquisition. (Also, keep in mind that the Inquisition was originally going to help quell the worst excess of the mage and templar fighting, restore order because the chantry lost control. Then the conclave happened, it went boom, and suddenly the Inquisition’s purpose became far greater than anyone would have expected. So Cullen as Cassandra’s choice of Commander makes total sense to me, considering he was a former templar and bringing him in basically acted as a symbol to any wayward templar, letting them know that there could be another way. But I digress on that part, haha.) 

I *think* some people are dissatisfied with Cullen’s “redemption” arc in DAI because we don’t really see him fall on the sword or beat himself up for his past. There’s also no moment where he like, faces a mage he maybe knew in Kirkwall or has to deal with the mages not trusting him. Obviously of course there is nuance there as well as Toku and I mentioned--he wasn’t allowed to heal as much as he should have before being shipped to Meredith. However, here’s an interesting bit of dialogue you can get if you pick the right options after Perseverance if you tell him he doesn’t need lyrium:

Quiz: The man you were. You can’t pretend like he never existed.

Cullen: Not even if I wanted to. But I’m here now. I can make that mean something.

Cullen knows he screwed up. What’s more, he doesn’t want to forget he screwed up. But he lives in the moment to make things right. Blackwall’s arc actually shows him falling on the sword and wanting to atone, versus with Cullen it’s implied he has come to terms with his screw ups off screen. He doesn’t continuously beat himself up, he does what he can for the Inquisition to the point where if the Quiz tells him to go back on lyrium for the better of his soldiers, he does, knowing it just may kill him. There is also limited dialogue that challenges his views which turns some people off, but I know for my Inquisitor she’s very much about the now and what they both can do in the now. I won’t blame anyone who wants to be able to challenge him more, but frankly I find the fact he doesn’t continuously fall on the sword or beat himself up interesting. 

All that being said, I do think of his arc as more of one of recovery versus redemption. And to be frank I’m kind of critical of the term “redemption” and what makes good redemption arcs or not. Someone having a “redemption arc” seems to imply that there’s only one road to the top of the mountain when maybe redemption is something you should always strive for? But as for the “recovery” arc: the chantry, IMO, purposely devoids both mages and templars of a personhood or life outside the order and Circle and treats them as objects. Many templar recruits are children and are basically indoctrinated to believe they serve the Maker and they are needed and that they do the Maker’s will. There’s an interesting bit of dialogue you can get if your character is a warrior and talks to Cullen about the templar spec, basically if the Quiz says “templars serve the Maker, I’d do the same.” Cullen basically replies, “uh, yeah, that’s not going to make you righteous, believe me,” implying this was the way he once indoctrinated to think, but he no longer believes it so. Templars are given lyrium for their abilities, but also to placate them, something Alistair says in DAO. 

After Kirkwall Cullen sees where the Order is going, gets an offer from Cassandra and decides that if he removes the “part that kept [him] chained,” he would find his own purpose again. (He says this is your Quiz makes him take lyrium.) In Inquisition we learn he always wanted to protect people. (Our local mind reader Cole says “some templars want to only protect, like Cullen” if you ask him about templars.) And as a kid living in rural nowhere Ferelden, he saw the templars as protectors. Why I interpret his arc as more about recovery than redemption all has to do with Perseverance and the way you as the player can handle it: You can either let him know he can start over, he can endure and one day find a life of his own away from duty and battle, or you can make him take it and thus let him remain indoctrinated to what the chantry taught him, that there is nothing outside of duty and battle. It comes down between a choice of “you are leashed to what the chantry made you till you die” to “you are more and you can recover and make your own life,” which he does do by Tresspasser, romance or not. At the end of the game if you keep him off lyrium he basically thanks the Inquisitor for giving him a chance, letting him know he could be more. Additionally, a lyrium free Cullen in Tresspasser speaks of meeting his siblings again, developing a relationship. If you make him take it forever he refuses to see them. 

I could also see the arc as one of faith, and finding it again. If you keep him off lyrium the prayer in the chantry he speaks is one of quiet reassurance and finding strength through his faith, but if you make him take it the prayer is “blessed are the peacekeepers” and it’s uttered desperately as if he is trying to believe it. He also mourns how far he fell. All this to say that I find it very interesting his writer focused his personal quest around the lyrium and what lyrium represents rather than say, him meeting a mage who lived in Kirkwall or something and him trying to atone to them.  

When I wrote my post about why Cullen gets so much fandom related wank I got a lot of different responses that echoed the same thing about Cullen’s arc not getting a lot of attention. I think there is a lot of good writing there with his personal quest,  but his writing doesn’t fill in every single gap---not to mention people are going to have vastly different experiences on how they played the games till Inquisition. And my examples of dialogue are things you may not get if you don’t pick the right options. And heck, some people only have played Inquisition. 

So, I think me calling his arc in Inquisition a recovery arc has partially been not me trying to justify why I like him, but analyze a differing way a character who has screwed up in the past is written. Blackwall’s arc is a true redemption arc IMO. Cullen’s isn’t so clear cut as a redemption arc, but at the end of the day it is truly about him finding his own purpose again, which leads me to lean more toward calling it a “recovery arc.”

[leviiattacks]

Two Faced | Chapter Five

↳ levi ackerman, the very person who was about to kindly behead you by a surprising turn of events manages to become your loving husband? you would be elated if this was true love, but it's all thanks to a mysterious magic spell that your life is spared. for now at least.

pairing :: duke!levi x duchess!reader genre :: royal au, angst, fluff, slice of life etc word count :: 3k author note :: just got diagnosed with covid so i have a lot of spare time on my hands so ummm send in any requests you have into my ask box i’d love to try doing headcanons!! → next part is here!!

Erwin sees the confused look you have and now he too seems lost as he shifts his line of vision to Levi. At that moment your husband slams his heel and grinds it onto your foot. Squirming around in your seat dealing with the stinging pain you catch on that you can't let Erwin think you're clueless.

Quickly, the look of confusion washes away from your features and you return his smile. "I'm willing to do what I must."

You think you've ruined this entirely because Erwin's eyes dart suspiciously between you and your husband. However, Hange intervenes, the interference seems to be enough for him to shake off any skepticism he senses.

Two hands hold onto your frame and squeeze your shoulders. Hange is standing up and seems ecstatic."You two are just so evil." they cackle to themself and you play along laughing too. You are not giving Levi the opportunity to ram into your foot again. Hange who is practically a personified ray of Sunshine at all times does still seem a little down, you did pick up on it when you entered the room. Maybe it was just you overthinking, that's what you assure yourself with.

Then it settles in your bones. Evil? Blinking you turn to look at Levi hoping for some sort of indication about whatever is going on.

"She wouldn't listen to me at all, said she felt the need to step in and help the Empire in some way." His tone is monotonous, still not sparing you a glance and you want to kick him in the shins. He's usually much more affectionate and you're afraid Squad Leader Hange and Commander Erwin will figure out this is all a facade.

"It's a noble commitment to put yourself forward for such a risky position, I see why you and Lance Corporal Levi are a sound match." Erwin isn't smiling this time but his tone is content.

Mind now buzzing with ideas you want to fall face first into the carpeted floor of the office spread out like a starfish. You would prefer that instead of being left in the dark. Could they simply mention the name of whatever it is you've apparently offered to do?

Levi's clearly grimaces but then he moves to hold your hand rather boldly. Shaking him off isn't an available option because of his strong grip. "She wouldn't listen to me at all. If I had it my way she wouldn't step anywhere near enemy soil." He grumbles.

The fake concern he's trying to lace in his voice is having an effect on his two colleagues, they're eating it up and believe this act.

Enemy soil? Risky position? He has to be stealthily plotting your death because you see no other reason for why you would be sent off to venture anywhere near the enemy. You aren't even apart of their regime, or any regime for that matter, you're itching with nervousness and want to free your hand from his desperately.

The only emotion this man is good at feigning is straight boredom, he ignores the way your hand shakes and squirms, ignores how your palms are dampening with sweat, instead the way he holds onto you only strengthens. It's surprising that no one has said a word about the lack of chemistry between the two of you.

Suddenly Hange looks down at their pocket watch and hurriedly gets to their feet dragging Erwin up with them too. "Y/N, I have something to tell you later on, please do stop by HQ when you can, I expect that will be soon." They then tell Erwin that there's no time to loiter and that there are more important meetings to attend to.

Erwin leans into your ear and whispers. "He seems disturbed that you're putting yourself at risk. He means well." You wish that were the case but it isn't. Despite that the way Erwin tries to explain Levi's behavior is sweet.

Hange gives you a cute thumbs up but makes it a point that you need to speak later on, even as they're both walking out the door Hange keeps reminding you to meet up later on. The abnormal behavior between you and Levi may have been noticed but you know if that were the case Hange would have been more vocal about it.

"Combat classes start soon. We know this will all be difficult, building you up from scratch is hazardous but all in good time you will serve a key role in the liberation of Paradis."

Erwin's parting words are gracious.

And then both the Commander and Squad Leader leave, the room is empty but Levi doesn't even wait for the door to shut behind your two visitors.

He makes it a priority to throw your hand away from his, he's now methodically using his handkerchief to dust his fingers off. It's oddly ironic and enrages you because he's the one who grappled your hand into his grasp. What's the point when those same hands until recently looped around your waist in the middle of the night?

He thinks your hand is filthy, that you yourself are filthy and disgusting. At least that's what you think he thinks.

Crossing your arms over your chest you make your feelings known to Levi. You're frustrated beyond the way words can describe, it's not about how he refuses to touch you. Admittedly that does hurt you, makes your chest swell in remembrance of the old days but you really just want to know what he's put you up to without your permission.

Not speaking you wait for him to take the hint but he doesn't get it or he refuses to acknowledge your existence, something tells you it's the latter because all he cares about is sanitizing his hands.

He always had been a clean freak but when he was enchanted it didn't take much for him to touch you. Part of you wonders if it's the nature of the touch that he wants to exterminate or the fact it's your skin he's come in contact with which is bothering him.

"Care to explain?"

"Touching someone such as yourself romantically gives me the urge to retch." The confession is as acidic as the after taste one has after a late night of drinking, but he has no problem telling you the blunt truth.

"I see." You shortly reply, you weren't asking about that, your question was directed more towards the conversation which just took place with his colleagues but now knowing he doesn't want to touch you has an emptying effect on your chest.

A silent minute passes, maybe two minutes, you're not sure all you're doing is eyeing the carpet thinking about how you would like to be asphyxiated and brought to your end, you can't handle this for much longer.

"Sign these papers, we need your written consent." His voice shows no hints hints of Lev. Last night may have been the last time you had a chance to witness him.

A stack of documents is thrown in front of you and then you see it right at the top of the pile. A sheet filled with general information, eyes skim over the "Purpose of employment" section and you don't know what churns in your stomach. Is it Exasperation? Nerves? Grief? It can't be pinpointed, it could be a mix of all three.

"An Informant."

Rereading the title you hold the paper in disbelief between your palms. "You told your regiment that I would be willing to spy in on enemy kingdoms?"

His hands rub at his forehead, he's not perturbed at all. "Is it in your blood to be ungrateful?" Brutally cynical his tone is rocky.

He moves - not even towards you but for some reason you flinch stopping him in his tracks almost immediately. Narrow ice cold eyes trace your face carefully for any signs of manipulation or deception. Gulping anxiously you know you have to be careful with what you say or do. Getting too comfortable or casual around him is a risk you are not willing to take.

"I don't think you understand. I do not have the abilities nor the skill to do this. I would cause more issues." You cautiously move to grab his arm but before you get there he takes a wide step back. He's clearly defining that there's a boundary. You won't step into his territory not when you've already invaded a large portion of it for so long.

"I am no witch. I still don't understand what happened." You mutter hoping he believes you or at least tries to.

"Then die." Levi hisses. He fixes you with his poisonous stare. "Make it quick."

Curse yourself to a life with this man who every step of the way is hoping for your death - maybe he'll even push you towards it purposefully one day. The alternative choice available is to die by the hands of that same man right now.

Guilt and regret are what you feel, you can't look death in the eye proudly. Not right now. If you can't commit to the promise you made mother then there is truly no point in making your way to the afterlife.

Cowardice is not the cause of death you want to present her with.

With a heavy heart you sign the papers.

It's been a few days since then, you've received training from some of Levi's squad, at first the combat is nerve wracking but you get to a level where you feel comfortable in terms of defense.

Oluo is slow, you've picked up on the way his stance predicts every move he's about to make. You're thankful for that because it makes training easier, he's oblivious to just how easy it is to read his movements and you snigger at that. Today he's trying a new technique, it consists of attempting to dive in the direction of one of your shoulders and suddenly darting at the other. It catches you off guard for a second but it's simple to block him. Jumping back from another surprise attack you lunge forward as if you're aiming for his face. He lights up thinking this is his chance unbeknownst to him you've already seen the open opportunity you've been waiting for. You can change the wager in this brawl. Swiftly ducking you undercut him with one of your legs, his balance has been knocked and he stumbles teetering by a thread.

A solid kick to his stomach is all it takes for him to collapse to the ground grumbling in vexation.

Mikasa has been helping you with one on one combat and the extra hours of training behind the stables has clearly been of benefit.

Thinking back to your training sessions with Mikasa you frown, not because of the way she flipped you and shoved you into the dirt, no that part was quite exhilarating. It's Sasha. She's been on your mind. She has to be feeling left out, that's your fault you've kept her in the dark about joining the regime, how could you attend training with her? Your maid waiting on you whilst you were training? Impossible.

The last problem you wish to arise is everyone finding out you're Duchess Ackerman. No one has to know about that minor detail, in fact when you informed Hange and Erwin of your decision they strongly agreed it would be best to hide it.

"I think we should get you strapped into some gear. See how good you really are in the dexterity department." Oluo is spitefully mumbling under his breath red faced.

Offering him your hand he looks like he wants to smack it away, You don't have time for this, you were planning on dropping by and paying Hange their more than overdue visit after training hours were up.

ODM-gear doesn't look too hard, you're sure you can work out the mechanisms if given some time. Calculating and shifting time blocks in your head you can come to an end at Six, if and only if you're able to rush past ODM training.

"Okay, I admit you were tired today I could tell. I'll strap myself into some gear."

At this new new challenge Oluo willingly takes your hand and you heave him up.

He's got a cocky shit-eating grin sprawled across his face as he pats your back enthusiastically.

"Good luck, you're in for one hell of a ride."

Three dimensional ODM-gear, a contraption that is very different to a sword or dagger. Most soldiers find it difficult to master the balancing of all their body weight whilst simultaneously gliding through the air with the grapple hooks. This is why introductory lessons in balance, momentum and effective weight distribution are a must.

It's been instructed that you won't be using ODM-gear nearly as much as other members of the regiment, you're training to become a spy after all and ODM-gear is very obviously visible when a person is strapped into their uniform. Nevertheless it's still a requirement to be able to use it. It's a hurdle because it's not your forte by any means but you can't continue avoiding it.

When living as the Duchess you deemed it pivotal to only interact with a limited number of Levi's colleagues, those who worked at the estate couldn't be avoided such as Mikasa but apart from that Hange was the only outsider you spoke to (Before Erwin had come along). You don't know if you regret that decision because it's definitely why everyone is cackling as you thrash around, they have no idea he has a wife and if they do they show no inclination of knowing you are that woman.

Sniggers can be heard as you struggle to center your strength fully, your instructor bellows at you. "No, come on. STOP FLAILING AROUND!" Particles of his saliva fly in your face and that only feeds into your embarrassment. Paralyzed you don't know what to do, he tells you to not move around then the next minute barks at you to not give up, repeats that you have the agility level equivalent of a sick child.

You've been stuck in this upside down position for more time than you can imagine, at some point a large majority of the scouts including Oluo double down in laughter whenever you make a mistake - they berate you when you are trying your best.

Legs kicking out you're panicking and want to escape the harness you're in.

Oluo was right, nothing could prepare you for this.

Mikasa when she isn't busy assisting Levi is a part of the regime too, that's why she's grinding her teeth this morning when she walks into the training grounds and sees the whole scene play out right before her eyes.

She wants to desperately step in and stop this because you being forced into ODM training without having your core strength developed is unfair.

Then a yell is heard from the crowd "GO Y/N!! LISTEN TO ME ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS KEEP CALM!" Both you and Mikasa turn to see Sasha standing next to her.

Sasha? Mikasa knows very well how you forbade her to follow you today, you gave her the day off to visit her family.

"I thought Y/N warned yo-"

"I am dedicated in my service to the Lady, if she chooses to do this I will be by her side to support her. She does not have to feel embarrassed."

Members of the corps are eyeing her weirdly when she says "Lady" she doesn't know you're keeping your identity secret, that was the reason for giving her time away, you were afraid she'd slip up and expose you but simply hearing Sasha proudly announce her commitment for you in front of all these people knocks the wind right out of your chest. You've never felt this much importance before.

Sasha's motivation is all you need because by a miraculous turn of events you manage to steady your breathing pattern and find it within yourself to focus on your core. Wobbling shakily the transition is far from smooth but you flip yourself right side up, the muscles in your calf ache and throb with pain but you've done it.

Grinning from ear to ear at your two friends you feel light-headed with relief.

"Took her long enough." Levi sneers. He's made his way to the front of the crowd, you wonder when he got here. Beaming at him you think your presentation might be enough to discourage his usual response. You're incorrect.

"She's a shame to this squad, there is no need in motivating someone of her rank." Shallow breaths puffing out of you it comes to your attention that he's addressing Sasha.

She ignores what he has to say about you and stays silent, any normal person would have their head hanging down in shame but she looks into his eyes with a determination that takes your breath away.

He pays her no mind after that and turns back to where you're still struggling to keep steady. "Don't think you're hot shit." Your bottom teeth dig into your lip, and your throat suddenly clamps down on you restricting your breath. "She's no good at combat, no good at using her gear. Do you only excel at spreading lies, Cadet?" The way he's now completely indignant in the way he speaks stings. He doesn't even bother to sound normal in front of Mikasa or Sasha anymore, it makes you manually hollow your cheeks trying to keep your tears at bay.

Lies, you know what he's referencing. You want to grab him by the collar of his shirt and throw him to the muddy ground. That's what he deserves for prodding and poking at your vulnerabilities.

He doesn't understand the degree at which all these sudden changes are affecting you, in his eyes this is light work and shouldn't impact you at all, that's why when you feel a muscle contraction and reel backwards, rapidly falling back into that cursed upside down position. He scoffs, doesn't even move to check if you're okay.

Whispers circle around you and even some of the cadets who participated in ridiculing you step forward to take you out of your harness. However, Sasha and Mikasa get there first and shoot them with their intense glares, the both of them work on hoisting you out of your gear.

Levi takes one last look at you before he storms away convinced you're faking, what else would a runt like you do to escape the situation?

In his mind you lost your momentum and your ship capsized because of your own self sabotage.

Little does he know all that has truly lost momentum is the inner-workings of your heart and that is all thanks to him.

[k-s-morgan]

Hi! In this fandom we tend to analyse things from Will’s perspective mostly, very rarely we tend to try to understand the plot from Hannibal’s.

That being said, do you think Hannibal knows Will loves him/is in love with him/aches for him as well? To me, personally, he doesn’t know or is very insecure about it. Up until the cliff moment when they hug and almost kiss, it seems to me Hannibal is always trying to “win Will over”, to make Will his own and that he’s smitten with Will but unsure if his feelings are reciprocated.

I personally think that Hannibal is very insecure in regards to Will’s romantic feelings towards him and that’s why he acts out so much on S3 especially. What are your thoughts?

Cheers!

Hello! True - I think most metas are focused on Will. He’s such a strange and complex character, understanding him is extremely difficult at times. In comparison, Hannibal seems so simple :D

I think there are definitely several perspectives possible here. In my eyes, I believe Hannibal *is* certain that Will loves him for the most part, and this certainty helps him keep his faith and overcome even seemingly impossible barriers. Throughout the show, it is portrayed like Hannibal knows Will better than anyone else, including Will himself. He sees right through him during their very first meeting and afterward, and he’s certain of Will’s darkness and true desires before Will accepts and understands them himself. 

Hannibal seems like a huge optimist to me. He’s so confident that WIll is going to want to be a father to Abigail with him, that Will is going to Become, that he’s not going to freak out at Hannibal’s direct approach of “Murder must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in His image?” So I think Hannibal knows that Will loves him way before Will understands it himself - that would be consistent with his other knowledge. 

That’s why Hannibal is so certain that Will is going to forgive him for framing and Abigail. He’s waiting for him to accept it, and to his delight, Will seems to be doing that sooner than expected. But then Mizumono happens and Hannibal is heartbroken. His knowledge of what is and what isn’t became a mix of confused feelings and thoughts, so he could no longer be objective. 

In Europe, after he had time to calm down, I think he started to understand what motivated Will again, but he wasn’t sure. He continued to be torn up, alternating between hope and despair, until Dolce. They reunited, and in that moment, Hannibal got a read on Will again. He sensed love, closeness, and unity. But the moment ended quickly, the knife followed, and Hannibal lashed out again.

It all ended in Digestivo, where the risks of losing Will for real became too high. Hannibal watched Will attack Cordell, likely realized he manipulated Alana, faced him almost dying, and his resolution hardened again. In their break-up talk, Hannibal tries to reason with Will.

Will: The teacup is broken. It'll never gather itself back together again.

Hannibal: Not even in your mind? Your memory palace is building. It's full of new things. It shares some rooms with my own.

It’s as if he’s encouraging Will to look deeper into himself, to see and recognize what’s there. Darkness is closely connected with love in this show, so I think they two go together in all regards.

Will rejects him, and Hannibal gives himself up. I think it’s the biggest evidence of his blind optimism and frantic faith in Will. He’s certain that one day, Will will return to him. That he’s going to understand he loves Hannibal and wants the life only he can offer. Hannibal is prepared to lose years of his life for this fragile chance rather than live without Will, so he’s waiting, quietly hopeful.

Hannibal’s confidence takes some hits after Will plays his cruel games on him. He’s completely devastated after the mic drop, and he sounds so bitter when Will refuses to accept even the fact that he set up Chilton.

Hannibal: Does the enemy inside you agree with the accusation? Even a little bit?

He’s almost hopeless now, both about Will accepting his darkness and his love for Hannibal. This sounds so desperate:  

Hannibal: Will... was it good to see me?

Hannibal is feeling so down, but we can see that this changes when he learns that Will didn’t leave, that Will is planning to fake his escape. Hannibal agrees to this plan, even though he knows that chances are, Will is setting him up again to kill him. He still shows blind faith: he’s firmly convinced that Will loves him enough to choose him. That’s why he looks at him questionanigly in the van - he’s waiting to see what he’s going to do, he’s certain that there must be something. Equally, he’s looking at Will when Francis is about to kill him, hoping, waiting for his intervention.  

So I think Hannibal almost always knew that a part of Will loves him, but he came close to giving up on the fact that one day, WIll is going to acknowledge this. It’s not that he was trying to win him over - he was trying to convince him to accept the truth. In S4, I’d love to see Will being more open about his feelings, and Hannibal’s vulnerable delight and happiness at being proven right.

That’s how I see it. 

[biwenqing]

27, any Wen Qing ship! Hope youre having a good day !

Any Wen Qing ship? Oh, anon you spoil me! I have been enjoying WQ/LQY, so here is a little alternate canon take.  Prompt “Kiss me.”

Luo Qingyang sat at the table beside Wei Wuxian and a-Ning, letting little a-Yuan play with the hilt of her sword, as if this was normal. Normal to have someone from the Jin sect sitting among them. Wen Qing stood in the doorway, watching as Luo Qingyang charmed even Granny with her smile.

“Tell me again!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, leaning towards Luo Qingyang. He seemed brighter and more alive than he had in weeks. Sometimes Wen Qing feared he was keeping himself going with some of the same magic that tied a-Ning to something like life. “You just took off your outer robe and left?”

“Well, I tossed it down in front of them all,” Luo Qingyang said, and there was a hint of pride in her voice. “I don’t wish you could have heard what they were saying, but you know what they are like.”

Wei Wuxian’s face darkened. “I do.”

“I stole a bunch of money and jewelry on my way out,” Luo Qingyang said, moving away from bringing up such memories. Luo Qingyang took from her sleeve a bag and began to empty the contents onto the table. “This is the least of what they owe you, but I thought it might be a place to start.”

Wen Qing moved forward then, as a-Yuan picked up a polished jade bracelet and put it on with a giggle. Part of her mind was already telling her that Luo Qingyang being here was too much, too good to be true. And now she brought out something that could answer the largest of their worries – enough money to provide the food, housing, warm clothes, and livestock they so desperately needed to survive. It had to be a trap, some scheme the Jin would put together.

Luo Qingyang looked up at her as she approached, her expression full of pride like any Jin, but also something that looked like true caring and a linger of rage, remorse, sorrow... The smile on her face faded in the face of Wen Qing’s (so far) quiet rage.

“Jie,” a-Ning tugged on Wen Qing’s robe.

She crouched beside him, giving him her full attention instead, and couldn’t stop the smile that came to her face. A-Ning was here and with her. She wanted to hide him where he could never get hurt. And maybe he felt something of the same towards her because he glanced between her and Luo Qingyang.

Ah. He remembered then. What had happened between herself and Luo Qingyang what felt like a millennia before. Maybe she shouldn't have confided in him...

[…]

“Kiss me,” Luo Qingyang said this with a smile, but it sounded like a challenge. Wen Qing knew what she wanted. Luo Qingyang wanted someone to meet her where she was and to stand at her side. She was filled with ideas of what was just and righteous.

It was such a temptation Wen Qing wanted to take in and pull close. She wanted to run from the horrible things her family was doing, the horrible things she was being made to take part in. Could Luo Qingyang help her escape? The louder part of her just wanted to forget all of that and kiss a beautiful girl as they all spent the summer together in Gusu. To take a breathe, even for a moment.

As Wen Qing thought, Luo Qingyang moved from where she balanced on a rock, leaning into Wen Qing’s space, standing above her.

Now that she was closer, Wen Qing could see the vulnerability hidden in the challenge. It made Wen Qing hope that maybe, this meant something more to her.

Luo Qingyang tucked a piece of hair behind Wen Qing’s ear, the touch grounding and intoxicating. “What’re you waiting for?”

She was so close that it was easy, pulling her in and kissing her. Wen Qing’s hands rested on Luo Qingyang’s hips and for the moment, she could let all her fear and anger at the world fade until it was just the pleasure of the moment.

[…]

“You don’t trust Mianmian?” Wei Wuxian’s brow furrowed. “Why not? I can have her stay with me, keep an eye on her if you think she might cause harm.”

A flash of jealousy shot through her, so at odds with what she was trying to get across. “No, I’d rather…” She trailed off. What would she rather? Have Luo Qingyang share her little room? Her little bed?

Wei Wuxian was watching with his rare patience that he saved only for those he truly cared about. It could be hard to bear the weight of everything that existed between the two of them. She owed him the full truth.

“It’s complicated,” Wen Qing said, which felt like such an understatement. “She and I… While we were all at the Cloud Recesses, she and I had a… connection.”

Wei Wuxian’s eyebrows shot up and it didn’t take him long to connect the dots. “Wait, you were together?” He tutted, looking absent. “Ah, poor Lan Zhan. He likes her you know.”

Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was not one. She couldn’t let that go without a response. “You think Young Master Lan likes Luo Qingyang?”

Wei Wuxian blinked back. “Yes?”

She raised his hand to threaten him, and Wei Wuxian dodged easily. “You’re an idiot. Lan Wangji having romantic affection for any woman is less likely than the chance I sleep with your brother. And I think you know the odds on that.”

“Ew! Why would you put it like that,” Wei Wuxian dramatically clutched at his chest, before narrowing his eyes at her as the key part of what she said sank in. “Hold on, Lan Zhan-”

“Yes,” she cut him off. “This is not important right now. If you hadn’t figured this out, that’s on you. We need to talk about this ex-Jin cultivator you let in.”

“I trust Mianmian!” Wei Wuxian protested, his indignity bringing him back to the task. He still looked slightly dazed. “And she trusts me.”

“You really think she knew nothing about what was going on in the camps?” Wen Qing asked, the words acidic in her mouth. She was poking her own wound, one she thought never would have to confront.

“Yes,” Wei Wuxian straightened, then moved towards her. He reached out a hand, resting it on her shoulder. “Do you think Mianmian would just standby if she had known?”

Wen Qing didn’t push him off, though she didn’t want to acknowledge how much she needed the comfort. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Trust me then,” Wei Wuxian said. “You know how much we need the help.”

“And if she is a spy?” Wen Qing had to ask.

“Then I’ll deal with it.” Wei Wuxian’s tone was final, taking on the potential burden. His face did soften into worry. “Did she hurt you? When you parted?”

Wen Qing shook her head. “If anything, I probably hurt her. You know what I was dealing with.”

After a moment of silence as Wei Wuxian nodded, he asked, “Can she stay? It would be good to have another cultivator, besides…”

He trailed off and she wasn’t going to finish for him. Right now it was just her. Wen Ning and Wei Wuxian had their power but… Wen Qing looked away. “Fine. Yes, she can stay.”

[…]

Wen Qing now saw Luo Qingyang every day. And it wasn’t like she could avoid her, given how small the Burial Mounds truly were. She was working on the far corner of one of the fields when Luo Qingyang appeared beside her.

“Need some help with that?” Luo Qingyang smiled, and gestured to the rock Wen Qing was trying to dig out.

Wen Qing didn’t have any reason to refuse. “Alright.”

Luo Qingyang knelt in the dirt at her side, hands digging in the soil, brushing against Wen Qing’s own as they tried to find the bottom of the stone. It was silent, and as much as Luo Qingyang seemed comfortable to let that rest, Wen Qing found she couldn’t.

“You shouldn’t have let Wei Wuxian buy potatoes,” was the first thing to come out. Which was a great start… being as prickly as her needles, as a-Ning had once joked.

Luo Qingyang didn’t seem to notice her tone, just laughing at her words. “Oh, it’ll be fine, now that we have some chickens. We can be a little frivolous.”

Wen Qing was surprised by the use of “we”. It had only been nine days since Luo Qingyang began to live with them.

Luo Qingyang picked up her sword, putting the sheath under the rock, getting enough leverage to finally shake it loose. “We can use this on the pen for the pigs.”

“Practical,” Wen Qing said, and she hoped Luo Qingyang knew it for the compliment it was.

From her smile, she did. She hefted the rock and Wen Qing tried not to admire her shoulders. “Pass me my sword?”

Wen Qing picked it up, placing it to balance on the rock. “Thank you for your help.”

“That’s what I’m here to do.” Luo Qingyang’s tone reminded Wen Qing once more of their stolen summer moments before they were on opposite sides of a war. Wen Qing wanted to believe her, as she watched the woman move back across the camp.

[…]

“I don’t blame you,” Wen Qing murmured. The night was cool, the stars could be seen through the reaching trees as she and Luo Qingyang sat watch. The camp around was preparing for sleep, noises of conversations, closing doors, and other evening rituals a calming background.

Wen Qing didn’t know if Luo Qingyang had heard her, until she said, “I never blamed you either. We were caught on opposite sides of power-hungry men who cared for no one but themselves.” She let out a sigh.

Wen Qing looked towards her, to find Luo Qingyang was already focused on her, not the stars. The evening felt a little warmer under her scrutiny.

“Can we start again?” Luo Qingyang asked.

“No,” Wen Qing said, but reached out to rest her hand on Luo Qingyang’s so she wasn’t misunderstood. “But we can try and build something new on top of the old.”

Luo Qingyang tangled their fingers together. “I’ll put in work for that.” The words were a promise, and Wen Qing knew she would fight to keep it.

[dizexplainstheuniverse]

Give up hope.

If the past 2 years have taught me anything, it’s the art of giving up hope.

It’s about a human as it gets to dream, to wish, to imagine, to long for, to crave, to seek after something or someone to fulfil our wants, needs and desires.

Now, I fully believe in following the path of desire. I have absolutely no interest in sitting here and telling you I’m a desire-less puritan – quite the opposite. I’m full of unmet needs and aching yearnings.

However, I am going to try and communicate with you the importance of giving up hope...

Giving up hope doesn’t mean becoming hopeless, or admitting defeat, or becoming a lost cause.

Not at all.

What I’m talking about is giving up hope as an act of surrender.

So long as we hope, we project outwards onto the world, onto others, and unknowingly give our power away to ideas, concepts, and people. We make them, the other, something or someone outside of ourselves and outside of our control responsible for our individual happiness...

Let’s take a look at one very relatable example:

So, like many of us, I spent much of my time at the beginning of 2020 ‘hoping’ that the pandemic would all be over in a few weeks. I begged and bargained with the powers that be to make my lockdown misery end and clung desperately to hope. We all know this story too well…

Did it end?

Did it fuck.

Every few weeks ‘they’ would announce yet another indeterminable amount of time stuck in the prisons we called home.

My dreams of freedom were crushed, over and over again, until eventually – I gave up hope.

I remember thinking, “alright, I get it, screw this, I give up…” and I surrendered to the now. I stopped trying to fight reality with the idea of freedom I had constructed inside my mind in order to try and cope with the current situation.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve done this in my relationships (I’m the fucking Queen of projection - such a powerful imagination… ).

I was either too busy clinging to a version of a person I was hoping they’d turn out to be – or clinging to a situation, scenario or concept of what I hoped relationships could be like – to see what was right in front of me all along.

The grass was ALWAYS greener, or at least I hoped it would be…

The trouble with perpetual un-fulfilment, AKA addiction, AKA the human condition, is that we’re so damn distracted looking for the cure to our pain, hoping it’ll be in the next dopamine hit, that we are literally blind to the abundant nature of reality screaming out for our attention.

There’s a saying, right: “you wouldn’t know it, even if it hit you the face…”

When it comes to love, this has certainly been true for me.

Not only are we blinded by our past conditioning and traumas, but even when we begin to see the love, joy, pleasure, freedom, safety or belonging that’s right in front of us, we’re so fucking terrified to receive it and let it in that we subconsciously sabotage, resist, deny, reject and continue to fulfil the age-old narrative that “we’re just not good enough” or “we don’t deserve it” … or, if you’ve got an extra sneaky-smart psyche “it’s just not good enough for me!” … and off we go again, demanding more, more, more…

Of all the things, situations, and people, I’ve hoped for in my life, the moment I gave up hope and surrendered to the pain of my reality, that’s where true liberation was found.

The trouble is, we aren’t all well equipped or ready to fully feel the depths of the pain that giving up hope brings. It’s scary AF. Especially if we can’t yet see what’s right in front of us. So instead, we fight, we run, we freeze, we appease. We spend every waking moment of our lives looking for the next get-out of feeling the pain from our past.

There’s that other saying: “you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone” - classic. I bet you can relate to that one as well.

It was painful for me to give up on my hopes in relationships. So painful, that I’ve often stayed in alternatively slightly less painful relationships, substituting one pain for another, because facing the pain underneath of the thing I was masking was deeply terrifying – like, chilled-me-to-the-core kind of terrifying. So much so, my mind had created all sorts of elaborate tales about my unworthiness and lack of deservingness to protect me from experiencing that kind of pain ever again. And the masochist in me was indeed thriving.

It was too painful to give up hope, I needed it. I dug my claws in and I refused to let go. Because giving up hope, surrendering to what is real and present right now, meant having to acknowledge and grieve what I was never given but rightfully deserved. We’re talking, of course, about childhood wounds. The pain of that betrayal, the loss of love, care and nurturing from the adults in my life that were ‘supposed’ to care about me was truly heart breaking. Not only this, I felt just as terrified to receive it. I could not trust it that it would not come at a cost of more pain and suffering – just in another form – so why risk it?

I didn’t want to be alone - I couldn’t bare re-experiencing the pain of my loneliness and isolation. I didn’t want to be close - I couldn’t bare re-experiencing the pain of risking abandonment, rejection and neglect.

Oh, my sweet, agonising, disorganised attachment injury. Forever caught in a double-bind. “Can’t live with it, can’t live without it” – there’s another one for ya.

Truly, the only invitation I have for you here if you relate at all to these experiences, is please – give up hope.

Gently, slowly, with compassion and acceptance, feel your pain.

Hold yourself tenderly, allow your heart to break open. Soften your breath, your body, feel your feet on the ground. Release your tears, cry, scream, wail, rage, punch, roar – drop deep into the depths of your pain with such loving awareness for the universal experience of how painful it is to be a human being on this tortured planet.

You are not alone.

For I assure you, what awaits the other side is a freedom, a bliss, an ecstasy more real than any hope.

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[skinfeeler]

you may notice so-called progressive members of religions (including those which are minority religions in ‘the west’) spend much more time on critics of religion than conservatives in their own circles. sentiments such as “X discussion belongs within the community” might clue us in as on why, but allow me to proffer a red thread that i believe i have identified throughout all of this.

it is, obviously, true that critique of religion often constitutes or is a vehicle for assorted bigotries. a certain vigilance can be understandable and i advocate among my peers to not let us become callous of the very real dangers that members of certain ethnic and cultural groups (however one might understand these) face, even people marginalised in and by such religious communities. this is then, in fact, the crux of my project: the acknowledgment that say, ex-muslims aren’t really helped by islamophobia given the fact that it’s not like they’re going to get support from those people peddling it, which is exactly why it’s so tragic that many of them feel there’s no place for them on the left, because so many people on the left refuse to acknowledge that even though islamophobia is well, extant, it’s not like people stuck in certain spheres (among which gay and trans people, women, and all children) are impervious from being harmed just because larger society might not be accepting of those who level that harm unto them. this much then is important: to do right by everyone who must be done right by in whatever way and to leave people’s dignity intact, and to do so in such a way that cannot be co-opted by white supremacists and the like— the most important way to do this is to attack the concept of parental authority, which (culturally) christian conservatives will never accept but will resolve basically all problems that result from the shape of religion as a non-elective membership propagated through the family (as structured by clergy etc etc, whatever).

inoffensive as this clause should be to anyone who claims to be part of the left — which must fundamentally oppose the family for either marxist reasons per engels or for other reasons — even anti-theism which very clearly takes this form is mistaken, usually on purpose, by many religious apologists, to be something it’s not. one of those things that get invoked is the very real white supremacism and imperialist thought that is too endemic in our circles. i’ll admit to tendencies herein appearing from time to time — including in myself, at times, regrettably — but i also insist that a large part of this is simply the fact that while religious people enjoy the benefits of community and avenues for discussion and review, many of us do not: all we have at this stage, sadly, is the diatribes of new atheists who consider christendom an important ‘bulwark’ to protect the ‘occident’ who are useless to anything but an insipid culture war. mistakes are going to be made, and i think some small leeway should be allowed those most ambitious of us who still have a clear and provable dedication to justice and equity (and this is in fact the point of any useful notion of freedom of speech), especially since what we currently have works for nobody except those who want first and foremost to remain comfortable— which is exactly what i believe describes so many anti-anti-theists, but we do in fact need an alternative.

it’s not easy to be leftist and religious and my heart goes out to those who try, even if i don’t ultimately think that where they are heading will allow them to keep their principles coherent and intact: members of one’s congregation and one’s spiritual leaders may tacitly condone or endorse ethnic cleansing in the levant, assorted infant genital maiming rituals, reifications of gender that only those least abject to it can find peace with (consider the humble theyfab), the imperative and exaltation of procreation, to name a few possibilities, which one then is implicitly required to respect in order to remain part of such communities, and i understand the struggle of wanting to be or remain part of those and to have to tangle with that. what i don’t understand then, though, is the abhorrence of people outside such circles who perform critique of the like: i simply do not agree with the fact that certain discussions should stay within the community and they should be well left alone in literally every way with no demands made given the fact that certain members in those communities who this harm is visited upon and whose membership isn’t elective (including all children) do not have voice or agency in those discussions — they deserve support and solidarity across cultural lines, especially as it’s apostates from so many religions who helped me survive and i will owe this to them forever — let alone those in the outgroup who fall victim to the real geopolitical consequences of the substance of certain positions that proliferate in some of these communities, as is now more relevant than ever. this latter aspect is obvious to even the progressive religious apologist, however… at least those conservatives, both inside the congregation and in much more conservative movements don’t threaten what they perceive to be the faith.

an instantiation of this which i will see even most progressive religious people abhor is the notion that any religion is tied, inherently, to not just a nation, but a state. and so they can quibble with their zionist peers and spiritual leaders on this, because both of them have one thing in common: the idea that even if one’s religion/culture is not most meaningfully embodied through state, it is through family, and the criticism of the conservative that the progressive has is not that they are wrong, but merely inauthentic and clinging to something unnecessary, but they are not. i vehemently disagree: the nature of most organised religions has changed through both necessity and acknowledged moral imperative. why can a religion which doesn’t transmit through the family (one of only adult converts perhaps) be envisioned— which in turn wouldn’t depend so heavily on the reification of bodies and family immanent in the aforementioned (a conclusion worth stressing on its own)? if you ask me, it’s a matter of a lack of courage borne from a lack of understanding of history— one may want to read doubt: a history by jennifer michael hecht who is considered jewish according to halakha (for however much that fucking means) who speaks on what the german jews in the 19th century, understanding that they could either stay stuck in the present (and thus have their worldview eventually become as farcical as those who believed that recreating the temple era of judaism was either viable or desirable in any histiographical or theological sense as a result of you know, history historying) or establish those principles which they believed were actually important that could be passed on regardless of how judaism was envisioned before. their work, however hegelian in nature, produced some of the greatest minds even among their apostates, including theodor adorno. turns out that even when people become philosophers rather than rabbis (or ministers, or imams, or gurus), they have plenty to offer, there is wisdom and value in exalting sagehood above the pulpit and how the pulpit must always lay down the law for the mechanisms of familial transmission.

consider second, the ancient greeks: the ancient greeks no longer possess the structures required to exercise their worldviews and theodicies as a bloc (in diaspora or otherwise). regardless, many of their concepts and wisdoms persist in various cultures literally all across the worlds, including mine: their strands of cultural dna have germinated in a larger cosmopolitan phenotype, and i believe this is beautiful and worthwhile in its own right, and in no way whatsoever a loss. sure, their influence might not be recognisable as an enduring culture, but does that make it any less valuable? no, not in the slightest. the fact is, once you are on the other side this is the most normal thing in the world, nobody will mourn it, and everyone who wishes to return will be easily dismissed as entertaining a fantasy. the only way to forestall this is in fact a tautological clinging to the present which will necessarily through the course of history become an immanence of reaction, after all, the prime fallacy of reactionary thought is that it is in fact possible to recreate the past, which is plainly not true except perhaps for aesthetic but which will regardless necessarily be rooted in the current conditions of the world. all that forestalling this progression constitutes is the insistence on the completely artificial. much like the workings of the state are one that imposes a false reality, a phantasm, a reification onto the world, so with family, and literally the moment you stop propping it up it will be superceded. let me repeat that: supercession is inevitable, and the most sophisticated elements of any culture acknowledge this and have for literal centuries (although some cultures are ahead of others in this regard by-and-large). for every generation of a culture persisting as itself, apostates and deviants emerge and at this rate they have done more for the progress within any cultural body than will ever happen within such cultural bodies, which must begrudgingly acknowledge that they are dependent on modernity in order to make any progress at all (and as such, will wither away together with modernity), although of course they will deny this at any front— the adaptation of any covenant is desperately contingent on integration and naturalisation of the apostate and the ‘modern’, or at least her wisdom , which the embodied religious individual will then, of course, pretend to practisee more ‘maturely’ than the apostate because they insist on integrating it in a neutered fashion where it is stripped of future potential of development until the next steal comes along, which is better than fully embodied anti-atheism as the ever-sublating struggle against entropy, for some fucking reason.

this is the promise of ‘externality’ that foucault dreamt of: that there is a way of thinking ‘outside the box’ that allows us to once and for all dispel and move on from the ways of thinking that we cannot think outside of. derrida then disputed him by arguing that there is no outside context. derrida is right— regardless, i remain optimistic: perhaps this cosmopolitan neotenous emergence is a culture in itself, but it is as divergent from what came before as christianity is to judaism, and islam to both christianity and judaism. all it takes is courage, and once the leap of faith has been made, this state of affairs will be the most normal thing in the world. in light of this, the claim that anticlericalism is simply an outwash of christendom becomes obviously farcical and a clear double standard when one considers in juxtaposition their insistence that christianity is divergent from what came before, even though in both cases (christendom versus judaism, anticlericalism versus christendom) perhaps some commonality in language exists and perhaps some people exist who have not managed to estrange themselves from the trappings of christian thought— not to mention the worldwide history of anticlericalism that is yet to be integrated which exists exactly because clericalism necessarily has the same structure and function across all religions. join me in this supercessionist bliss, reject the idea that chronology of thought implies that successors are one and the same as what they draw upon or co-opt, and help usher in the only future world worth conceiving of, resting easy and comfortable in the truthful rejection of the notion that any culture needs to cling to the notion of familial transmission to have any worth at all or that its existence as such is inevitable. the complete and utter nullification of familial logic will happen regardless of whether you want it or not anyway, because it is as artificial as the logic of nation and state and likewise unsustainable and on its death march— this is the one and final eschatology of this world which is not a threat, but a promise, since it will (and can) not be the result so much of repression but of religion collapsing under its own weight, and this much is only uncomfortable to those who are disciples to the family regardless of whether they admit it to themselves or not.