#Black Folks Never Die... WE Immortal

[3rdeyeblaque]

Today we venerate Hoodoo Saint Harriet Ross Tubman aka Black Moses on the 110th anniversary of her passing🕊

Whew! A legendary Freedom Fighter, Mama Moses wore many decorated crowns as a mammoth Abolitionist, chief Conductor on the Underground Railroad, an expert Hunte and Lumberjack, a Nurse, an armed scout & spy for the Union Army during the Civil War - becoming the 1st Woman to ever spearhead an armed military assault. Later, she opened her door to the elderly, sick, & disabled, and advocated for them until her death.

Born Araminta "Minty" Ross as the middle child of 9 siblings to enslaved parents on a plantation in Dorchester County, MD, she suffered a massive blow to the head that would spur a lifetime of seizures, headaches, deep slumbers, & visions. She went on to marry a "Free" man by the surname of Tubman & took on her mother's first given name, "Harriet". In 1849, her husband, parents, & siblings were set to be split up & sold off. Under the cover of darkness, she fled the plantation solo on foot and followed the North Star to escape the jaws of slavery by way of Philadelphia, PA. She'd survive13-19 rescue missions back into the Antebellum South, liberating over 300 souls, as the most infamous Conductor on the Underground Railroad who, over the span of a decade, had "never lost a single passenger", which dubbed her the nickname, "Moses". The bounty for her life maxed out at $40K. Freedom wasn't free & Mama Moses never hesitated to remind her passengers of that. She carried herbs to silence a crying baby and pulled a gun on any cowardly man who might give away their position.

"You'll be Free or Die. " - Mama Moses to her passengers on the Underground Railroad.

Venerated as a Hoodoo Saint to many, Mama Moses was a Seer, a Clairvoyant Dreamer, Dream Interpreter, a Revolutionary Conjurer Woman & Rootworker - born to parents of the same cloth. She received Divine messages & Ancestral knowledge/wisedom through prophetic visions & dreams. Mama Moses proudly attributed her unparalleled death defying success to her Divine guidance, Conjure, Rootwork, intuitive gifts & her faithful willingness to trust/follow them.

Folks have a tendency to grossly undermine, if not outright ignore, the significant pillars that Hoodoo Cosmology, Religion, & Tradition played in her life and in her fight for freedom. Recently, archeologists uncovered her "spirit cache" at her family's home in Maryland; these were some of the Blackbelt Hoodoo staples of her time including: glass bottles - for protection against evil spirits, a figurine made it iron nails - possibly a something akin to an Nkisi, a copper button, perfume bottle topper, and other red & blue items.

Mama Moses transitioned peaceful & free at her home/on her land in Auburn, NY where she is rests at the cemetery in Auburn, NY. She is still expected to be immortalized on the $20 bill USD, however that promise has yet to be met.

We pour libations & give Mama Moses her 💐 for her bravery & selfless service. May she bless the elderly, disabled, young, women, & Workers who seek/fight for freedom.

Offering suggestions: Milk, Apples, & Orange flowers

🌟 FINAL copies of The2023 Hoodoo's Calendar are available for purchase (once sold out, that's it)! Subscribe to the official e-newsletter for the latest updates & exclusive content access. https://thehoodoocalendar.square.site 🌟  

[stesierra]

I am not a short story writer. Everything I touch turns into a novel usually. But I did write a short story once! Here it is. YA fantasy I guess. Maybe someday I'll write a novel set in this world. Trigger warning: the MC is a ghost.

The Unfamous Dead

After I die, my house stands empty for three damn years. The iron memorial cross Mom put up outside topples at the end of year one. Year two, it’s nicked by a drunk. He’ll probably batter someone with it. Iron’s heavy.

Year three, the landlord brings a man and woman to tour. All three stare right through me, even when I start dancing. Dancing’s easy when gravity doesn’t affect you and you can’t hurt yourself. Being dead isn’t so bad. I tell myself that a lot, especially when I start thinking about how things could’ve been different. If I hadn’t been so eager to move out at the end of high school. If I’d agreed to stay in a dorm. If someone from our band had stayed the night and noticed the stroke that killed me, a week before classes started.

A stroke’s the last way I’d have chosen to die, if anyone had given me a choice. It’s fast, but it happens to people all the time. If you’re a young man, that’s weird, but no one will remember you for dying that way. You won’t even get an article in the newspaper.

A month after the tour, a family pulls up in a U-haul. The doors open to spill children and houseplants out onto the cracked driveway. There are two kids and two parents, the family traditional. They don’t have a dog. Too bad. If dogs can see ghosts, maybe it could’ve pointed me out to its folks. I’m never going to get famous haunting a bunch of idiots who can’t see me.

The boy is ten, the girl maybe six. His hair is puffy and black and in need of a trim. Hers is done up in cornrows. Their parents let them tear around the yard and ruin the dandelion field until everything’s out of the truck. Then their mom shepherds them inside with a hand on each kid’s shoulder.

The dad leads the way into the house and straight through me, calling back over his shoulder, “Honey, where did we pack the microwave?”

“It’s in the big box with the linens, remember?” The mother steps past me, but the kids stare with rounded eyes. The little girl’s thumb drops from her mouth, and her black eyes glisten alarmingly.

I’ve planned for years to scare the bejesus out of the first idiots to move into the house I haunt. I didn’t expect it to be kids, okay? I make a quick change of plans.

From behind the door of the coat closet, where I take shelter, I have a front row seat for the family’s first fight in their new home. The parents tell their daughter she’s got an overactive imagination and should act more like her brother. The daughter is outraged. The brother, who saw me too, says nothing.

“Scaring children now, David?” asks the angel beside me.

“Shut up,” I say, and press farther back into the closet. Great. She’s here again.

Maybe I should have mentioned before that there’s an angel hanging around here. She showed up a month after I died, bothering me about moving on, and she never left. She’s an odd, colorless creature, more felt than seen. She flickers dimly next me. “This will make you famous? Perhaps you ought to give in and pass on.”

I shake my head. I’m not having this conversation again. I’ve always yearned to be famous, and why should dying change that? But when she gets started, she goes on about me damaging the fabric of reality. She must be immortal, because no one with a time limit would waste years stalking a dead guy.

“Children see things the rest of the world cannot. It will be difficult for you to avoid them while they live here. But there is an easy solution—”

“No, seriously, shut up. I’m not leaving, and you’re not even a real angel, I’m pretty sure.”

“You’re the one who called me that,” the angel says.

“Shut up.” Like I said, she’s more felt than seen. When I met her, I named the parts I felt arms and legs and wings because not naming them made me feel even more nuts than just being a ghost already did. She’s got wings. What else could she be?

The upstairs doors clatter open and closed; the kids must be over their tantrums and picking out rooms. I press my insubstantial knees to my chest and wait for nightfall.

That night, the parents settle down with a six-pack and a couple of books. Maybe their cable’s not connected yet. The kids are nowhere to be seen. I creep up the stairs. The angel follows.

The little girl’s shoes are outside the first bedroom door. Down at the end of the hall, another door is shut. I pass through it. There’s not much to see inside. Mom and Dad dragged a bed in and put a sleeping bag down on it, under which the boy is now curled. Music books are piled on the floor next to a disassembled IKEA bookshelf, and a black electronic keyboard lurks in the corner behind the bed. The blinds on the windows are open, and the gibbous moon casts down light that washes the color from everything. Pale and ghostly, I fit right in.

I lean down over the bed. I can feel the angel at my back, watching. I whisper in the boy’s ear, “You know, piano’s for chumps. Forget piano. Guitar is where you want to be.”

The whites of his eyes are vivid against his dark skin. He sits up on the bed and pulls the shirt of his Spider-Man pajamas tight. He sticks out his lower lip and says, “My parents want me to learn piano.”

“You always do what your parents want you to do?”

He straightens then, gaze challenging. “They wouldn’t like me talking to a ghost.”

I take a seat over the bed, cross-legged in the air. The angel is behind me, but he doesn’t see her. “Well, you’re old enough to make your own decisions, aren’t you?” I stick out a hand. “David.”

He reaches out and brushes his fingers through mine. “I’m Anthony.”

***

Anthony is a breath of fresh air, sweeping out the staleness that’s clogged this dump for the last three years. At night, when we talk about bands and music and why piano’s for stiffs, he tells me he’s not afraid of ghosts. Hell yeah, he’s afraid of ghosts. I can tell. I was a ten-year-old boy once, too. I avoid his sister; she’s not any closer to pissing herself at the sight of me than he is, but she doesn’t try to hide it like her brother.a

The kid is a prodigy. He spends hours every day tapping out songs on his keyboard. He writes them himself. If he’d apply himself to a decent instrument — say, a guitar — he could make something out of his life. Black kid songwriter jams with the stars — can’t you see the headlines now? He could be famous. He could make me famous. A ghost that’s your best friend, that’s practically begging for a single, isn’t it? But Anthony doesn’t have a guitar, and no one ever got famous by having a piano solo written about them.

Anthony gives his eighth piano concert and turns thirteen before a brightly wrapped pear-shaped present with a long handle shows up under the Christmas tree. It’s acoustic. Cheap-ass grandparents. Up in his room after Christmas dinner, as he fingers the strings experimentally, I mutter, “It’s somewhere to start, at least.”

Anthony glances down at the guitar and babbles some shit about the model and make and how it cost five hundred dollars.

“Whatever. It doesn’t have a plug.”

The angel makes herself known then. Her face is set in a frown. “Do you persist in trying to make the child over into yourself? You are no better than his parents, who you complain are pushing him into music too young and denying him a childhood.”

I ignore her, like usual when Anthony’s around. He thinks I’m weird enough without me talking to people he can’t see.

Couldn’t see. Now, his head turns toward her. He sets the guitar gently down on the bed beside him. “I love the piano, and I only do as many concerts as I want. I’m thirteen, not a kid. What the hell are you? Why are you in my room?”

The angel vanishes.

Anthony clambers off the bed, staring at the empty spot where she was. “David, why was there an alien in my room? Where did it go? Why does it know you? Do you really complain about Mom and Dad?”

“An alien? She looked like an alien to you?”

“It didn’t look human, like you.”

“She didn’t look like an angel?”

“It sure didn’t look like any I’ve ever heard of.” He hesitates and picks up his new guitar to cradle against his chest. “That’s not what you really are, is it?”

I put my hands up. “Whoa. Of course not. I’m dead David, your buddy. Look, I’m going to go get that thing out of our house. Okay? I’ll go and do that.”

I don’t give him a chance to argue. I can move fast when I want to.

The angel is downstairs, standing with wings and arms folded, dourly watching Natasha play her video games. The girl doesn’t notice; she stopped seeing me years ago.

I stalk up to the angel. “What the hell was that?”

Her eyes are colorless and too large. “I told you, David. You are damaging reality by staying here.”

“Because he could see you? How is that damaging reality? You’re real, aren’t you? You’re really here, just like I am.”

“The Intangible and Tangible are separate realms, David. You damage that separation. If you hadn’t stayed, Anthony would have outgrown seeing the Intangible outside of dreams, just as his sister did.”

“If they’re so separate, why can he see me at all?”

“Humans filter what they see through their limited comprehension. They can comprehend ghosts more easily than other things. Creatures of greater power are beyond them. Due to your meddling, the boy may see me now, but he cannot see me as I truly am.”

“Can I?”

She doesn’t answer. On the other side of the room, Natasha punches out a virtual bad guy, and “K.O!” flashes bright across the screen.

The angel’s face has never held much expression, but now her still features seem secretive. I say, “I’m not doing anything to reality, am I? You’re hiding. Your people, whatever they are — which is not angels, by the way — are hiding, and I’m helping him see you!”

The angel turns towards the frost-painted front window. I can see through her to the boots and mittens in a pile by the front door. Her voice is as cold as her face. “You have your way, then, David Fundley. I hope that you come to realize you are ruining his life before it is too late. It is already too late for yours.”

With that last passive-aggressive comment, the angel is gone.

***

Two years pass. I rejoice in living — ha ha — in an angel-free space. Anthony thinks I’m a hero for driving the “alien” away. I bask in his admiration like a hideous lizard on a sunny rock. Sure, she left on her own, but he doesn’t need to know that. Anthony shoots up half a foot when puberty hits him hard, and he gets real quiet while his voice breaks. I tell him after school, as he clings to his piano and plays away his stresses, that at least he’s not a singer.

Three days after his fifteenth birthday, I try to convince him to take up singing.

“If you just play piano and guitar, you’ll never front a band,” I tell him.

Anthony keeps playing Rachmaninoff’s third concerto, his hands rippling across the keys like a crab caught skittering and tumbling in the surf. “I’m a concert soloist. I’m not going to have a band.”

“Well, not if you keep on the way you have been.”

He ignores me. I let him alone.

Downstairs, the windows are thrown open to the spring afternoon. His parents aren’t home; Anthony’s old enough for them to trust him with the house. A robin sings, its lilting voice slow and soothing compared to the pounding intensity of Rachmaninoff. Strange, there’s usually more than one of them. I step up to the window screen. A smell hits me, sour and sickly, like an old bag of lettuce rotting at the bottom of a refrigerator. I grimace. Has some kid been smearing dog shit on the siding? Has some animal crawled under the window and died?

I walk around the living room. The same death smog comes in all the windows. What is this? I turn back to the first window, and the shock of what I see hits me like another blood vessel bursting in my brain.

There’s a thing on the other side, staring at me and drooling. It’s winged, like the angel, but it has too many wings and too many eyes, eyes that pop from every gnarled knuckle. And believe me, with as many limbs as this crawling monstrosity has, it has a lot of knuckles.

“Oh shit!”

It leans its big, snouty face towards the window, then jumps up to cling to the side of the building with claws the length of my hand. For a moment, all I can see is its belly. Then it tears the screen off, and it is too big to fit through but it does.

I run. The house has never felt so much of a trap as it does now. I scream up the stairs, “Anthony! Get out the window! Run! Run run run run!”

The doors to the downstairs rooms are open. There’s no basement, no hidden crawlspace, nowhere to go but up. I hit the stairs and pray Anthony’s already thrown the fire ladder out the window and climbed to safety. I pray that someone has left a door closed upstairs and the monster can’t tear hinges off as easy as it can screens.

The monster stampedes up the steps behind me.

I reach the top of the stairs. All the doors stand open.

“David! In here!”

I don’t waste time despairing that Anthony is an idiot and couldn’t climb out a window to save his fucking life. I jump into his room, and just as the monster comes up the last of the steps, Anthony slams the door in its face.

“You were supposed to get out,” I snarl at him.

The monster scrabbles at the door, a sound like twenty dogs on a hardwood floor, and then the handle turns. The door flies open, and the monster lunges inside. Anthony meets it with an empty guitar case to the head, but the case bounces like rubber. Then the monster’s on me, claws sunk deep. Dying hurt worse, I tell myself as its furnace-breath sears my insubstantial face. Dying hurt more.

I’m lying.

For an eternity, there’s nothing but claws in my soul and rotten breath in my face and Anthony’s screams in my ears. Then, without warning, the monster releases me, and I shoot back out of its grasp like a greased eel.

I push myself up on the floor and find the monster’s head level with mine. I scramble away, but it doesn’t move. A shining sword is run through what passes for its spine. As I watch, the monster collapses into gooey black liquid that puddles across everything. A moment later, it dries up and flakes away, leaving nothing behind but a terrible smell of decay.

A translucent hand stretches out to pluck the sword from the floor. The angel is back.

I meet the angel downstairs after Anthony’s finished throwing up. Her sword is nowhere to be seen now. “I told you that staying could have terrible consequences, David,” she says.

I just nod. I want to ask what that was, but I know she won’t tell. “So. Was what Anthony saw there filtered through his own limited comprehension, or did he see the same sick thing I did?”

She cocks her head. “He saw a monster, yes.”

“It wanted to eat me.”

“For some creatures, a loose soul is a tender meal.”

“Would it have gone after the family after it chowed down on me?”

“Perhaps. The boy, most likely, because he could see it.”

Because he tried to defend me. I stare at the wall. “If I left now, would he outgrow seeing supernatural things?”

The angel’s eyes are eager. “With nothing to remind him, he would become normal. It would protect him.”

“Let me think about it.” I turn and walk away, and the angel doesn’t follow. I don’t need to think. I just need to be away from her.

It wasn’t Anthony seeing ghosts that brought the monster — the demon — down on this house. It was me. It’s always been me that brought strange things to this house: angels, demons. Acoustic guitars.

Anthony’s outside of his room, trying to sand the claw marks out of the door with his dad’s tools. I tell him I’m leaving.

“You can’t leave,” Anthony says.

“I have to.” I remember what grief felt like when I was alive and had a throat to clench, eyes to sting. “I’m not calling anything else like that down on you. Okay? But you have to promise me something.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“Promise me you’ll always remember. There are things in the world that are not normal, and they want to feed you the lie that they don’t exist. Pretend you can’t see them, but don’t forget. If you forget, you’ll be their sheep, like everyone else.”

“You could stay and watch my back.”

“No, I can’t. I’m dead. You have to go out and play piano concertos. I’m stuck to this building until I decide it’s time to leave. That’s now, I think.”

Letting go must be easy. It’s not an action, really. It’s stopping. Stopping the strain to cling to the world with my fingerprints, to retain the memory of a face, of hands.

I hate long goodbyes. I let go.

I’m nothing more than a shadow of mist when a last thought comes to me. “And if you ever get a chance to bust humanity out of its brain-washing, promise me you’ll take it! That would be awesome!”

I don’t know if he heard me — there wasn’t much me left to hear — but he waves a scribble-covered piece of paper. It might be a song about me, or a grocery list for all I know. I pretend it’s the former as I step into nothing, into all the potential afterlives in the universe, and wait to see what comes next.

@anonymousfoz

@moremysteriesthantragedies

@elizababie

@sm-writes-chaos

@bellascarousel

@palebdot

@Hyba

@da-na-hae

[hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon]

This is largely for @ryebreadlord

So...something about Jersey does weird things to the people who come from it, and subsequently the music they make, which explains two of my favorite bands being My Chemical Romance and The Gaslight Anthem. due to being raised on the latter and falling head over heels in love with the former at age fourteen, the discographies of these bands exist in conversation in my head. can I rationally explain these conversations? the answer is: sometimes!

Basically, this is why The Spirit of Jazz (Gaslight Anthem) and Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back (MCR) are married in my head.

To begin, there’s a few superficial similarities between the songs:

In the second verses of both songs there are mentions to dark haired lovers and a special relationship between the narrator and their lover:

“ So what now, lover with your long black hair? If I cut you open, baby, I can repair. Bandage your wounds with the salt on my tongue. And I'm the only one around here ” (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ I'm the only friend that makes you cry, You're a heart attack in black hair dye” (My Chemical Romance)

Both songs loosely allude to a vague form of immortality via movies and music, suggesting that the narrator is aware of the story they are telling:

“ The Cool is dead, baby, go on to sleep, Rest your weary head and love a better me, And in the morning we'll start over again, That's how they do it up on the screen “ (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ They say we're never leaving this place alive, But if you sing these words, we'll never die” and “ This ain't about all the friends you made, But the graffiti they write on your grave” (My Chemical Romance)

These are superficial similarities, but they allow me to get the ball rolling and thoughts percolating.

To me, the songs are just similar enough in ideas and concepts mentioned to plausibly create two perspectives of one narrative. Two snapshots of one story, if you will, with the individual context of each song creating a larger narrative. Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back has a narrator who is simultaneously desperate and hopeful, screaming for their lover to get out and save themselves while also saying that as long as they keep hope and beauty in the world, none of them will truly die. The Spirit of Jazz has a narrator who is nostalgic, remembering previous times with a lover and waiting for that lover to return, while still professing their love. To me, these narrators are one and the same, just separated by time. At first, the narrator is young and in a desperate situation, sending their lover away for their safety. Later, they are waiting, wondering if they will ever see that lover again. At no time do they ever doubt their devotion to each other, there is the question of whether they did the right thing.

To compare the choruses:

“ Was I good to you, the wife of my youth? Not another soul could love you like my rotten bones do, So I will wait on the edges in between, These New York streets where you and I would meet” (The Gaslight Anthem)

“ We can leave this world, leave it all behind, We can steal this car if your folks don't mind, We can live forever if you've got the time “ (My Chemical Romance)

These are in conversation with each other. In an earlier time, the narrator and their lover wanted to run away, and claimed they would live forever. Later, the narrator is waiting, perhaps forever, for their lover to come back to them. The Gaslight Anthem song mentions waiting multiple times throughout the song. In the lens I’m using, this can be viewed as the narrator waiting at an arranged safe point after being separated, and wondering if their lover is ever going to meet them there.

Additionally, both songs make references to times when the narrator has saved their lover from pain, both self-inflicted or otherwise:

“Get off the ledge and drop the knife, Not a victim of a victim's life, Because this ain't a room full of suicides, We're believers, I believe tonight” (My Chemical Romance)

“And only I can heal your wounds, Only I can heal your wounds, When you can't go on, when you can't go on, When you can't go on, when you know, hold on” (The Gaslight Anthem)

Finally, one of the more blatant similarities with the narrator describing their lover:

“ But I'm a cannonball to a house on fire, And you're slow like Motown soul” (The Gaslight Anthem”

“ You're the broken glass in the morning light, Be a burning star if it takes all night” (My Chemical Romance)

Both of these songs describe the narrator’s lover as moving slower or ‘taking all night’, which supports the narrative I’m establishing. Of course the narrator is giving their lover time to escape, the lover moves slower and needs time(a whole night) to get away. And of course the narrator, much later, is still waiting for their lover to reappear, they take their time like soul music does. I also love how both lines shown here reference the lover in close proximity to fire and destruction.

Both songs are also oddly hopeful! Save Yourself I’ll Hold Them Back continuously states that the narrator and their lover are going to live forever, while The Spirit of Jazz remembers the old times with only fondness and repeatedly states that the narrator will wait as long as it takes to see their lover again.

To sum up: To someone who listens to a lot of sad yet oddly hopeful rock music from Jersey, these songs have a lot in common and can form a narrative when put together. Go listen to them, I provided links. Stay tuned for when I compare more songs!

[medlabmech]

So, here's a fun prompt!

What is a film/game/book/anything that has an all over the place, wack as fuck aesthetic and vibe....and yet it still works for you and you can't help but find it endearing?

I'll go first! For me it's the 2011 film "Immortals" with Henry Cavil

Among others, this acid trip of a film based on Theseus has stuff like:

A mural with the artstyle that modern Greek churches use to depict saints and bible scenes. In an ancient Greek setting

The titans aren't giant. They're regular sized folk with flaky, pitch black skin, who zerg rush you and die in slow mo. Also the movie seems to say that gods and titans are one and the same, Immortals who can kill eachother and that "titan" is a degoratory term for those who lost the war

The McGuffin is a bow that shoots energy arrows. This is treated as the most OP thing ever.

Theseus is constantly seen wearing pants. Like....a modern pair of long pants.... In an ancient Greek setting

Every single fucking city is built on a cliffside. This Greece seems to be just cliffsides and Giorgio de Chirico painting vibes

Oh, did I mention that the film uses the "Mexico" colour filter?

The headgear in this movie are INSANE. Whoever was the costume designer for this was having a FEILD DAY. We have stuff like: Ares' helmet has a mohawk of swords. Poseidon wears some bizarre, oversized ornate seashell earmuff looking....thing. some oracles wear a whole fucking chandelier on top of their heads. The main villain's helmet can best be described as a cross between the Hollow Knight's head and a vagina dentata

The whole Theseus myth is worked like this in the film: Theseus has to bury his mom in a goddamm labyrinth for some reason. The thread of Ariadne is Theseus' OWN BLOODY FOOTPRINTS he makes by slicing his leg open. And the minotaur is the villain's bull themed BDSM luchador henchmen (who also smashes some dude's balls earlier in the movie)

There is a part where Athena is hiding her presence with what is essentially magic body painting. This is never brought up again.

I will say tho the final battle where the gods are fighting the titans is EPIC. It's this bloody spectacle where every titan killed flies independently in slow mo, like MK 11 fatalities

I'm so curious to see your replies!!!! Tag your fave mutuals if you want, but this post is for all my followers to see!☺️☺️

[evilminji]

T.I.F. (The Imaginary Friend) (gonna use female pronouns cause now am thinking of writing a Fic) IS kinda like Dark shadow? In a way? And the vestiges. Which I don't think I'm explaining to folks well, tbh >.>

They get re-skins and abilities over a Core Self, if that makes sense? Like, imagine if Dark Shadow was just... blank. A not white, not black, not even grey... Nothingness outline of a vaguely Human-ish bipedal person. There you go! That's T.I.F.! Their True Face, as it were.

They will NEVER look like that.

Because they are a dress up doll. An Imaginary Friend. Here, now and forever, to go on grand adventure with you. To grow up with you. Except... it didn't work out like that. Because Japan has some serious Quirkism bullshit going on.

It got bad.

And T.I.F. had to redirect their targeted "Friend" anchor to something that WOULDNT keep blasting them with health destroying paradoxes. T.I.F. is and until the point of transfer always WAS, basically connect to Hiro. But! While their WAS a mental component? Like all muscles you gotta work on that. It was atrophied.

They were connected in the sense that "we share metaphorical blood vessels" not "we talk to each other or a friends".

She was the limb that got tired of the abuse, got up, cut itself off, and left.

Yet still she shared his circulatory system. His nerves and neurons.

She couldn't opt out.

Would randomly get new skills or freckles or taller/shorter. Might wake up suddenly one day with pink hair. Because that's what HE thought would be cool in a Friend. What HE wanted or needed. And while she could cut him off MOSTLY to protect herself, too preserve her health, as his Quirk? She physically can not cut him out entirely.

He always will have at least X% access. What ever that may be.

Which someone FAR more skilled in Quirks? Takes advantage off, obviously. Because AfO is a diiiiiiick.

However! You brought up a VERY interesting point about the "stored emulation"? Which I HAD NOT considered? With time and effort, she can probably force her appearance back to what SHE wants to to look like? Would there be, in the sudden absence of "Friend Data", a Reset to her preferred appearance?

Like pushing with your whole body weight against something... only to have it suddenly disappear.

Suddenly all those skills and traits and even muscles. Gone. Poof! She is a reality bending Quirk, yes, but the reality she bends is limited to pretty much JUST her and her immediate surroundings. Tiny lil bubble. And all of the built up changes were just... deleted.

Can she even still cook? Speak Japanese? She... she thinks she's shorter...

But MAN it would be fascinating (and horrifying, from her perspective) to have AfO contrast and compare Quirks? Cause she would be interesting, as a Quirk, largely BECAUSE she does not "reset" at transfer.

Meaning she is just as immortal as he is. AND something he can shape to his will, being a Quirk that responds to its holders wants needs etc. A "friend".

The man DOES like to collect things. And hear himself talk about how right he is.

Thanks! She fucking hates it!

As for if he stole Dark Shadow? Murder. Just... Murder. Like? Hysterical, grief-stricken, tear your kingdom to ASH, "let us burn together you DEMON FROM HELL!" Type vengeance murder. Cause he would have definitely killed tokoyami. And Dark Shadow is sentient enough that it would carry over.

Kinda like plugging the tower of a computer into a new screen. It's all still there... but over here now. Possibly in a new house even.

It's why I FIRMLY believe? AfO does NOT have a collection of sentient Quirks.

Like? When the first few started popping up? He obviously went *leans over into screen* Oooooh~? Do tell? But those Quirk were busy being Ride Or Die trying to protect their people. It was Us Against The World.

Thanks Mr. Give n Take Quirks guy, but we good.

Soooo.... he didn't ask.

It IMMEDIATELY ended badly. Like? INSTANTLY. They went fucking FERAL on him and directly for the throat. Just STRAIGHT "drag us BOTH to hell, so I can watch you BURN" levels of fury and frothing at the mouth hatred.

Needless to say?

Less then ideal.

But, oh. MAYBE it was just THAT Quirk! Surely THIS one will-... no, no, tried to kill me. This one? Murder attempt. This one, perhaps? Gutted me like a fish. Hmmm... well this is just strange. It can POSSIBLY be that I am doing something wrong! That MY horrendous people skills and moral code of a diseased sewer rat, could POSSIBLY be be what leading to this outcome!

Maybe I just need to be sneakier.

Nnnnnnope. Still tried to kill me, since they figured out what I did pretty much immediately. Well... well NOW I'm just insulted and see this as a personal challenge. How DARE Quirks not immediately love me and want to be collected by me. I'm BETTER.

So? He's kept trying.

They're ALREADY an incredibly rare Quirk type. And he? Has made it FAR worse.

My WIP fairy hates me. But like... in that homoerotic Nemesis sorta way, I swear.

Cease an desist, woman! (I scream into the void, knowing damn well she, being my own brain, SHAN'T.)

Cause NOW? Now I CAN NOT stop Pondering, with a Capitol P, the life of a Sentient Quirk. The trials and tribulations. The indignities and sufferings. Countless micro-aggression and out right dismissal of sentience. The reduction to the EXTENSION of another.

You are not a person.

You are JUST a Quirk.

An organ that "thinks" itself separate, in the way knees spasm when struck just so. The child you are attached to just needs to get better CONTROL of you. Your words and actions are actually THEIRS. You are simultaneously an unruly animal and strange adult, not allowed near other peoples children.

Why are you trying to follow this four year old into their school? Why are you SITTING out side a pre-school? Are you stalking that child?

You are a grown adult. Connected to a random Japanese child.

The child is expected to "control" you.

Punished if they do not.

No one is listen to EITHER of you, as you try to explain the situation. The child is upset, scared, and does not have the emotional maturity to understand why you are not to blame. All they can understand is that you appeared and everything became stressful and "bad". They started getting punished. Have to share their room now.

Do you even have rights? If you get hurt, get MAIMED, what will happen to you? Can you hold a job? Own land? Open a bank account? Fuck it! Can you have a RELATIONSHIP?

If you went out RIGHT NOW and punched a purse thief, would the FOUR YEAR OLD be arrested?

If the kid grows up, becomes a hero, and you do secretarial work... does his license cover you? If YOU wanted to become a Hero, would he be your hero partner? Could he technically sit in a corner and let you work?

If no one could TELL, over an internet connection, then surely that should prove SOMETHING? Right?

And! The question NO ONE ever seems to ask!

Could..... could you LEAVE? Do people have the right to force you back? If you don't WANT to be some kid's Quirk? You're sentient. If, unlike Dark Shadow, you are not PHYSICALLY connected, but tethered by distance?

Could. You. Leave?

Just "Allright, I'm out. The way you're all treating me is unacceptable. See ya never." And walk out the door? You'd be able to gain distance as the kid grew older. As long as you hid? You be homeless, without papers, but free.

A sentient Quirk means free will. Means you don't HAVE to do shit. It's like being born with a twin, not a slave. And that Twin does NOT have to put up with your bullshit. YOU are the one asking THEM to work with you, after all.

This? Of course, ALSO just ABSOLUTELY BEGS the question? What if that four year old grew up to be a BASTARD? Just... NO self reflection or empathy. Everything is everyone else's fault, always. And they want a NEW Quirk. One that won't question them.

So they sell theirs, buy a new one. Probably die off screen trying to throw it around.

What happens to you THEN? Pain, obviously. Like... massive, massive amounts of pain. You ARE a Quirk. You're being ripped out by your metaphorical roots. By the NERVE ENDINGS. But? Do you... for lack of a better word, "reset"?

Are you back infront of "your" person? Or do you stay, safely, where you are? Both would be fascinating, honestly. Because I imagine All for One? Does NOT get sentient quirks often. If at all.

They'd sooner kill themselves.

After all, if your choice is "kill yourself and your beloved twin" or "be ripped apart and watch them die horribly, then be used to go against everything you both stood for"? You weep and promise to make it fast.

Then you make it fast.

It's... really annoying, I'd imagine, for All for One. It's not necessarily that he WANTS a sentient Quirk. But they are INTERESTING. And he likes interesting.

He also likes owning things that can't leave. Ever.

So of course he'll poke and prod at the Quirk. It will inevitably be a nightmare, either way. Because EVERY Sentient Quirk has some degree of communication aspect to it. Just because the original holder never figured it out, doesn't mean HE can't.

And while your range may now be much, MUCH bigger? Because the fucker is strong as hell? How useful is that... if he can talk to you when ever HE feels like it? Day or night. 24/7.

And that's assuming you don't reset. God help you if you reset. Because THEN your STANDING infront of, most likely, pre-face-smash All for One. Who's looking at you like he just won a Mildly Interesting Prize and you would PREFER HE NOT. But what are you gonna do?

Walk out again?

You think THAT'S an option here?!

I mean... you can and do TRY. But, obviously not. So like? Fuck ™.

THEN the question becomes? Would YOU go to Tarturaus. Are you a hostage? Or an accomplice? You have the same level of power and authority as a cat, deliberately knocking pages of tables and cups to the floor, but... like? Oooooh~ oh yeah! THATS gonna slow him down! His empire crumbles beneath the sheer MIGHT of your petty inconveniences!

*trips the doctor again*

Fffffuck you.

[harrelltut]

卍 abracadabra… abracadabra… abracadabra… I Now [NWO] Magically INVOKE [MI = MICHAEL] ALL [MA] Primitively Ancient [PA = SUPERNATURAL] Black SOULS of Magically INVISIBLE [MI = MICHAEL] Phantasmic Bodies of SIRIUS Black [B] Memory intEL [MELanin] from Inner Earth’s [HADES] HIDDEN Nubian Underworld States of Atlantis [USA = LEMURIA] since I BEE So SUPERCONSCIOUS of My Biblically Black [Ancient] Egyptian [BAE = COSMIC] ORIGINS from QUANTUM BLACK ATLANTIS [QBA = BABYLON] on HARRELLTV® 卍

[givemewallywestorgivemedeath]

Zatanna just drove her house into the speedforce one time and I feel like we should talk about it.

Did they call it 'the speedforce'? No but I think it's important to remember that 'the speedforce' was a jokey placeholder name that the speedsters came up with and used so much that it accidentally stuck.

Zatanna and the rest of the cast of Justice League Dark travel to what they call 'the Heart of Chronos'. They describe this dimension as 'the source of all time for every universe'.

Now I ask of you, can there be two dimensions that are the source of all time for every universe? I'm going to go ahead and say no. My conclusion here is that there are just two very different names for the same place. There is the Star Wars joke name and there's the creepy magic name.

But hold on folks, that's not the only similarity.

See, people connected to the speedforce have to deal with the omnipresent threat of the Black Flash. This is an entity (or entities, plural, there's more than one) that seeks to usher speedsters to death. You could say that the Black Flash is a Speedster Grim Reaper. The Black Flash typically looks like a zombie Flash in an all black suit, has glowing red eyes, superspeed and if it touches a speedster the speedster will die (or sometimes turn into one). And not 'die' as in go into the speedforce, no, they will actually die. The Black Flash usually shows up to collect a speedster before they're supposed to die and, in some cases, goes after speedsters who have ripped the fabric of time one too many times. One notable way speedsters have escaped these so called Black Flashes is when Wally ran to the end of time and lured it outside of time itself. Death cannot exist without time and thus it stopped existing.

Now, Justice League Dark visited the Heart of Chronos (also called the center of time) because they'd accidentally ripped the fabric of time while time travelling and those rips were threatening to destroy the fabric of reality.

And what exactly was emerging from those rips in time? These guys:

Zatanna called them 'time gremlins'.

Now right away the similarities are stark. They are all black, they have glowing red eyes, they emerge from rips in time and go after the people who created those rips and they kill anyone they touch (but sometimes they corrupt people). But the really insane part? You wanna know how the magic guys briefly kept safe from them?? They stopped time. The 'time gremlins' couldn't operate without time.

The interesting part of this is that we don't have an origin story for the Black Flashes at all. We just know that sometimes the previous Black Flash infects a new speedster and corrupts them into the new Black Flash. But the Time Gremlins do have an origin story.

The are Pralaya's thoughts personified. Pralaya is the void basically. The opposite of everything and anything. "Call me the Darkness that proceeds the light of creation... Without the Nothing that I embody, the Everything that you so cherish, could never exist." Whenever time is ripped Pralaya is awoken and is able to access everything through the cracks in time. The time gremlins are sent out to usher everything back into darkness so that Pralaya can reset the cycle and begin creation anew.

And I honestly have got to say... this makes the Black Flash make a lot of sense. This makes everything make a lot of sense. Think about it, why would the speedforce send out a Grim Reaper to collect speedsters before they're supposed to die if they go into the speedforce when they die anyway? Doesn't it make more sense that the sentient entity that is the void is sending them out because her entire goal is to reset everything and having a bunch of immortal guys chilling within the speedforce kinda circumvents that. She's trying to get them before they get in there.

And why does the Black Flash look like a Flash and have superspeed? Because he's literally just a corrupted speedster being used to hunt down other speedsters.

The way that Pralaya calls the time gremlins 'thoughts' is just so similar to how the speedforce sometimes personifies 'thoughts'. If they are truly equals and opposites then it would make sense that they would be able to do vaguely similar things.

I've always wondered how the Gorillas in Gorilla City knew all about Barry becoming a Black Flash and how it'd affect everyone. And how the Cult of Cicada knew that the speedforce was the key to reversing death. Where did this lore even come from? But if the speedforce is actually codified into myth as 'the Heart of Chronos' then suddenly it makes a lot of sense why this is accessible information for cults.

Also look at how they show this corrupting black goop that turns people into the Black Flash in the Flash comics. It's the same thing. Wally calls it 'the death aspect of the speedforce', Thawne calls it 'the negative speedforce', but it really really just seems to be Pralaya's power.

[the-knights-who-say-book]

song lyrics that make me confront my very real and unfortunate attraction to fictional character Gideon Nav

They say we are what we are, but we don’t have to be I’m bad behavior but I do it in the best way I’ll be the watcher of the eternal flame I’ll be the guard dog of all your fever dreams

(Fall Out Boy, Immortals)

He's laying in the water begging God to let him drown So I showed him all my teeth and then I laughed out loud 'Cause I never wanted saving, I just wanted to be found

(Halsey, The Lighthouse)

I'm sleeping on your folk's porch again, dreaming She said, she said, she said, "Why don't you just drop dead?"

(Fall Out Boy, A Little Less Sixteen Candles)

We're going down, down in an earlier round And sugar, we're going down swinging I'll be your number one with a bullet A loaded God complex, cock it and pull it

(Fall Out Boy, Sugar, We’re Goin Down)

I've been around the world and never in my wildest dreams Would I come running home to you I've told a million lies but now I tell a single truth There's you in everything I do

(Imagine Dragons, I Bet My Life)

So take my pockets, take me home Take my life, and take my soul Wrap me in a wedding ring You know I swear I'd give you anything

(Halsey, Ya'aburnee)

Like a moth to light, like a beast to bate And I know the black widow eats its mate It's wrong but I want you tonight

(The Correspondents, Fear & Delight)

I’ve blown apart my life for you And bodies hit the floor for you And break me, shake me, devastate mе Come here, baby, tell me that I'm wrong

(Florence + the Machine, The Bomb)

Sometimes it feels like the side that I'm on Plays the toughest hand, holds the longest stand Sometimes it feels like I'm all that they've got It's so hard to know I'm not what they want

(Tegan and Sara, I’m Not Your Hero)

If you bear a heavy load I'll be your wheels, I'll be the road I'll see us through the thick and thin For love and loss until the end

(Brandi Carlile, Carried Me With You)

I love the world but I just don't love the way it makes me feel Got a few more fake friends And it's getting hard to know what's real

(Fall Out Boy, Church)

The only thing that's ever stopping me is me I testify if I die in my sleep Then know that my life was just a killer dream

(Fall Out Boy, Stay Frosty Royal Milk Tea)

Oh I'm an heiress to goodbye And I, I know it's nothing I can repair, it's Just I'm not leaving you this time I don't feel that young anymore

(Molly Ofgeography, the war)

[davidmann95]

Sooo… Superman and the Authority?

magnus-king123 asked: Your thoughts on Superman & the authority Give it to me...lol

Anonymous asked: Seeing Bezos take his little trip into space the same day Morrison puts out a Superman comic that touches on how far we’ve fallen from the days when we dreamed of utopian futures where everyone explored the stars was a big gut punch. Not used to Superman being topical in that way.

Anonymous asked: What'd you think of Superman and the Authority#1?

This is far beyond what I can fit in the normal weekly reviews, so taking this as my notes on the first six pages, with this and this as my major lead-in thoughts:

* Janin's such a perfect fit for Morrison - the scale, the power, the facial expressions selling the character work, the screwing around with the panel formatting as necessary to sell the effect, the numinous sense of things going on larger than you can fully perceive amidst the beauty and chaos. It's a shame he wasn't around 25 years ago to draw JLA, but I'll take him going with Morrison onto other future projects.

* His intro action sequence is such a great demonstration of why Black actually does have something to offer, and also how he's such a dumbass desperately needing Superman to save him from himself.

* While Jordie Bellaire didn't legit go with an entirely monochromatic palate the way early previews suggested, it's still an effect frequently and excellently deployed here. And glad to see Steve Wands carry into this from Blackstars since there's such an obvious carryover from its work with Superman.

* "Gentlemen. Ladies. Others." Great both because of the obvious - hey, Superman's nodding at me! - and because it's a phrasing that reinforces that this take on him (and let's be real Morrison) is old as hell.

* I'm mostly past caring about whether this is an alt-Earth Superman until it becomes indisputable one way or another, this and Action both rule so what does it really matter? But while there are still a couple signs in play suggesting some kind of division (the Action Comics #1036 cover, Midnighter up to time-travel shenanigans) the "lost in time" quote clearly thrown in after the fact to explain how he could have met Kennedy outside of 5G that wouldn't be necessary for an Elseworlds, the assorted gestures towards Superman's current status quo, the Kingdom Come symbol appearing in Action, and that Morrison would have had to completely rewrite the ending if this wasn't supposed to be 'the' version of Clark Kent going forward as was the intent when they first planned it all say to me that no, no fooling around, this is our guy going forward one way or another.

* Janin and Bellaire making the first version of the crystal Fortress ever that actually looks as cool as you want it to.

Anonymous asked: I like that Superman and The Authority is basically the anti-All-Star; instead of the laid back, immortal Superman who is supercharged, we have a stressed, ageing Superman whose tremendous powers are fading. The former will always be there to save us, but the latter is running out of time and needs to pull off a Hail Mary. Also, he mentions in his monologue to Black that he was "lost in time" when he met JFK, so maybe he is the main continuity Clark. Or he's the t-shirt Supes from Sideways.

* You're absolutely right - the power reversal is obvious and the ticking clock in play seemingly isn't for his own survival but everyone around him as he wakes up and realizes all the old icons grew complacent with the gains they'd made and he's not leaving behind the world he meant to. Both, however, are built on the idea of preparing the world to not need them anymore - it'll still have a Superman in his son, but that'll only work because of the others he empowers and inspires. The question is what happens to Clark if he's not going to live in the sun for 83000 years.

* Clark's 'exercise' here does more to sell me on the idea of Old Man Superman as a cool idea than however many decades of Earth 2 stuff.

* Intergang being noted alongside Darkseid and Doomsday speaks to how much Kirby informed Morrison's conception of Superman.

* This isn't exactly the most progressive in its disability politics but at least it makes clear Black's being a piece of shit about it.

* It's startling how much Clark can get away with saying stuff in here you'd never expect to come out of Superman's mouth. "I made an executive decision" "Privacy, really...?" "You have nowhere to go, Black. Nothing to live for." "There are few people in my life who I instinctively and viscerally dislike, and you've always been one of them." It only works because there's zero aggression behind it, he's just past the point of niceties and being totally frank while making clear none of these assessments preclude that he cares and is going to unconditionally do the right thing every time. He is absolutely, per Morrison, humanity's dad picking us up when we're too drunk to drive ourselves home.

* The story doesn't put a big flashing light over it, but it's not even a little bit subtle having the material threat of the issue be a ticking timebomb left by the carelessness and hubris of generations past.

* Manchester keeps trying to poke the bear and prove his hot takes about Superman and it's just not working. The front he put up under Kelley is gone after decades of defeats, and as Morrison understands what actually conceptually works about him as a rival to Superman underneath the aging nerd paranoia he's exposed as what he absolutely would be in 2021: a dude with a horrific terminal case of Twitter brainworms. I was PANICKED when I heard there was an 'offensive term' joke in this, I was braced for Morrison at their well-meaning worst, but it's such a goddamn perfect encapsulation of a very specific breed of Twitter leftist who uses their politics first and foremost as a cudgel and justification to label their abrasive, judgmental shittiness as self-righteousness (plus it's a killer payoff to a joke from way back in his original appearance). Cannot believe they pulled that off when they're so very, very open about basically not knowing how the internet works.

* @charlottefinn: Manchester Black using his telekinetic powers to force someone he hates to fave a problematic tweet so that he can screenshot it and start a dogpile

@intergalactic-zoo: “Once they cancel Bibbo, Superman won’t be *anyone’s* fav’rit anymore!”

* Friend noted this issue had to be fully the conversation because the whole premise stands on the house of cards of these two somehow working together, and with three 'silent' inset panels the creative team pulls off that turning point.

* So much of this feels on the surface like Morrison bringing back the All-Star vibes with Clark, but when he drops a "That's all you got?" in a brawl you realize what's underlining that bluntness and confidence in the face of failure is that deep down this is still the Action guy too. This dude ain't gonna get wrecked in his Fortress while the other guy chuckles about him being A SOFT WEE SCIENTIST'S SON!

* Bringing up Jor-El made me realize that Morrison already spelled out that this is the final threat to Superman, what he faces at the end of the road:

"Now it's your turn, Superman."

* A l'il Superman 2000/All-Star reference with the Phantom Zone map!

* There's so much intertextuality going on here even by Morrison standards - Change or Die with the old hero putting together a team of morally nebulous folks out to 'fix' everything, Flex Mentallo with the muscleman trying to redeem the punk, Doomsday Clock with the fate of the world hinging on whether Superman can get through to a meta stand-in for an idea of 'modern' comics cynicism, DKR and New Frontier and Kingdom Come and Multiversity and Seven Soldiers and What's So Funny and All-Star and Action and the last 5 years of monthly Superman comics and Authority and probably Jupiter's Legacy and Tom Strong - but none of that's needed. You could go in with the baseline pop cultural understanding of the character and not care about any of the inside baseball shit and get that this is a story about a leader of a generation that let down the people they made all their grand promises to as inertia and day-to-day demands and complacency let him be satisfied with the accomplishments they'd made long ago, looking at a new era and seeing the ways its own activists are dropping the ball. The only thing that fundamentally matters in a "you have to accept you're reading a superhero story" sense is that because he's Superman he's willing to own up to it and listen to people who might know better about some things and try to set things right while he and those who'll take his place still have a chance. And yes, the oldster looking back on their legacy with a skeptical eye and hoping for better from the next generation, hoping most of all that their little heir apparent can fulfill the promise inside of him instead of being a provocating little shitkicker, is obviously also autobiographical.

* The overlaying Kennedy reprisal is such a great visual of a sudden intrusive thought.

* The Kryptonite secret is the obvious "This is going to matter!" moment, but "He lied about his son" is a bit that doesn't connect to anything going on right now so maybe that's important here too? More significantly, the Justice League can't actually be the villains here but that Ultra-Humanite's crew are in an Earth-orbiting satellite makes pretty clear what's up.

* I've said before that between Superman, OMAC, and a New Gods-affiliated speedster this was going to use all of Morrison's favorite things. King Arthur playing a role isn't exactly dissuading me.

* Love the idea that all the antiheroes have their own community in the same way as the capes and tights crew. They definitely all privately think the rest are posers though and that they alone are Garth Ennis Punisher in a mob of Garth Ennis Wolverines.

* Manchester's fallen so far he's gone from trying to convince Superman to kill to convince him to dunk on people for their bad takes and Clark just doesn't get it. Official prediction of dialogue for upcoming issues:

"According to these bloody Fortress scans, the only thing that can restore your powers is an unfiltered hit of dopamine. Don't worry, Doctor Black has a few ideas."

"Hmm. Maybe I'll plant a nice tree?"

"...fuck you."

* Ok I already talked about how great the Fortress looks in here but LOVE this library.

* A pair of pages this seems like the right spot to discuss from Black's original appearance that underlines both his and Superman's inadequacies up to this point:

Responding to the problem of "the government and penal system are hopelessly corrupt" neither of them has any actual notion of what to do about it in spite of their respective posturing beyond how to handle individual outside actors - each is in their own way every bit as small-minded and reactionary as the other. Clark's coming around though, and he's holding out hope for the other guy.

* Superman: Have a lovely mineral water :) proper hydration is important :)

Manchester Black: *Is a dude who can get so mad he vomits and passes out. At water.*

* That last page is the one to beat for the year, and does more to put over the idea of this as an Authority book than that Midnighter and Apollo are literally going to show up. It also feels like Morrison tacitly acknowledging all the ways the premise could go or at least be received wrong - from Superman saying 'enough is enough' to who he's bringing into the fold to go about it - in the most beautifully on-the-nose fashion imaginable. Maybe they'll save us all! Or maybe they'll drown us in their vomit.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

"I have some problems with [Luke] as a character)" was mentioned in your Reylo response post. Very interested in what your thoughts are on Luke! 👀

Do you want me to get murdered?! Well, if I didn’t get lynched for calling Sirius Black a Stephen King villain I can surely do no worse here.

Let’s do this.

Caveat that, as usual, I am wearing a heretic hat and expect no one to agree with what I’m saying.

Luke Skywalker, much like Harry Potter, is not the character the authors and vast majority of the audience seem to think he is. Luke is seen as the true coming of the Jedi, the light side of the Force incarnate, and someone so innately good he was able to redeem his father, restore peace to the galaxy, and restore the Jedi Order.

I disagree with all of this.

I think this is what Luke thinks he did but the truth is far sadder and, well, in general worse.

First, let’s start off with Luke’s hero’s journey throughout the saga.

Luke starts your ordinary guy, he’s not bad by any means, but he’s not particularly good either. He lives in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, part of a relatively well off family, and set to inherit the world’s most boring business: moisture farming. He has dreams of going out, seeing the world, and becoming a great pilot.

Important to remember but what most people gloss over: Luke starts if not pro-empire then neutral towards it. Luke wants to attend flight school, given his desire for glory and adventure, he probably wants to join the empire’s military. He might not like Storm Troopers all that much but the fire of revolution doesn’t burn in his heart the way it does Leia’s.

Now, personally, I like this about Luke. It makes sense to me. Given where and how Luke grows up, given all he’s ever known, I think this makes perfect sense for his viewpoint. He might get hassled by stormtroopers now and then but the empire really doesn’t interfere with his life except in a) propaganda b) offering an escape from his dull existence. What would someone like Luke know about the Rebel Alliance?

The movie however... sort of goes out of its way not to acknowledge this, and this is where I start having problems with Luke. Luke gets Leia’s message about Obi-Wan Kenobi, sees the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen in his life, and gets to embark on this amazing adventure. The story sort of takes it for granted that he then agrees with old hermit, Obi-Wan, that the empire is evil. This is helped because Luke does too.

In other words, Luke’s opinions are very shallow and lack any introspection. Finding himself in the company of Jedi, smugglers, and hot rebel princesses, Luke suddenly goes, “Ah, yeah, I hate the empire!” We never really see him change his mind by reflecting over what the Death Star means/the destruction of Alderaan, the death of his relatives, or his meeting with Darth Vader. Luke seems to be won over... Honestly, it feels like it’s because the Rebel Alliance let him fly a plane before the Empire did.

Then he blows up the Death Star, is a galactic hero/enemy number one of the empire, and he’s full on board resistance man and the next Jedi.

Which brings us to point number two, Luke legitimately thinks he’s a Jedi.

Obi-Wan gives him half a word of advice for maybe half of a day, watching Luke swing a sword around and get shot at by a robot. Yoda trains Luke in a swamp for, generously, maybe a week or so before Luke ditches him (against his advice even) to go save his friends. Luke has 0 training (beat out only by Rey, who wasn’t trained at all). More, he lives in a world where everything he knows of the Jedi is colored by Palpatine’s propaganda and old legends. The Jedi temples have been ransacked and presumably next to nothing of the Jedi culture remains, I can imagine Palpatine as being nothing but thorough in his elimination of the Jedi religion. The Jedi survived in Obi-Wan, Yoda, and in some sense Anakin Skywalker.

They do not survive in Luke. Luke puts on some quasi-Jedi robes, slashes his sword around a few times to save Leia from Jabba, and he says, “Now I am a Jedi!” Luke is that kid, LARPing, yelling “firebolt, firebolt, firebolt!” Only, that is, if the LARPing consisted of him representing a massacred culture thinking he’s it’s sole legitimate heir. So... Luke is playing Cowboy and Indians, and he’s the Indian.

In my opinion, Vader wasn’t so much redeemed as he always had a very high priority in finding his son and keeping him alive. The obvious way to do this would be to take Luke as an apprentice and, eventually, murder Palpatine. Well, that didn’t pan out, and eventually Anakin chooses murder-suicide to save his son’s life. It’s very touching, I’m not knocking the moment, but I do think a lot of that was Anakin vice the inherent goodness of Luke.

Anyways, Luke and pals save the day, they start a new republic and then they learn life is complicated. The new republic fails within decades, worse, it’s feeble and likely torn apart by civil war, strife, and constant infighting. It is utterly powerless, to the point where the First Order easily rises to replace the Empire and take over its vast resources (with Palpatine building a secret sith army on the side no less). That Leia rather than lead an army through the new republic in the sequels is leading her own private resistance army is very telling.

Fitting in with this, Luke starts a Jedi Academy. The prequels, and yes go ahead and slander them all you like but they’re better than many admit, taught us a few things but one of them is that it is hard to be a Jedi. To walk the path of a Jedi is to open yourself up to great temptation to use the dark side, and the dark side isn’t just some strange quirk or sense of duality, it is the equivalent of selling your soul. It is an unnatural action that leads to unnatural abilities. 

You get a bunch of Force Sensitive kids in a room: you better know what you’re doing.

Luke doesn’t. He collects a handful of the remaining Jedi artifacts that Palpatine somehow didn’t destroy, opens up his Jedi School (even teaching his nephew), and within maybe five years the place is burned to the ground, his students murdered by his nephew, and his nephew runs off to join a Sith Lord who appeared out of nowhere (Luke not realizing that this was just immortal cockroach Palpatine). 

Luke then becomes a grumpy old man who just can’t deal, sits on a rock drinking blue milk, and whines that for how shitty of a teach he was that Obi-Wan guy was worse for messing up with his father. Which, frankly, is very in character for Luke.

Luke has never really failed in his life, or at least, never had to recognize his own failure. So, when he does, he a) doesn’t realize what went wrong b) blames everyone but himself c) sits on a rock and waits to die.

So yeah, that’s Luke for you.

A whiney, shallow, stupid, somewhat narcissistic, hero. I... don’t dislike the concept of his character, played more straight I’d love his character, but I dislike that people talk about him like he’s the most noble creature to ever grace the planet and has this inherent understanding of a murdered people that the murdered people themselves never had. 

(All the Jedi were doing it wrong! Luke made the real Jedi Order! Is something I see a lot and... well... say what you will about their philosophies, but this kid who was not a part of that culture “doing it better”... That’s real problematic folks, real problematic.)

[wordynerdygurl]

Skin Deep - Part 6

Author’s Note:  Honestly, this story is nearing it’s ending.  Hard to believe that a little idea I couldn’t shake has now grown into this mini-series!  For all my die-hard homies, waiting for the next installment, I hope this is worth your while!  If you’re new here, take a look around, see if you like anything and please, let the management know if you have any questions!! As always, writing like this requires the emotional support of people and pets.  My dogs, Murphy and Winston, get me through a lot of plot bunnies just by being stalwart companions.  My husband, graciously, lets me take these flights of fancy when I probably should be paying better attention to him and his day... and some of my besties here on Tumblr make it possible for me to do this for you guys.  @sammy-jo1977​ , my sister from another mister!  Couldn’t/ Wouldn’t do it without you! To all the folks who follow me... My Minxes!  Love you all!  Stay well, be kind, and remember that Love, really does conquer all!  If you want to be a Minx, send me a note, I’ll happily add you to my tag list! Lastly, be sure to like and share anything that you see on Tumblr that catches your eye.  Creative types, we need the constant validation, you see?  Without it, like an unwatered plant, we wither on the vine and perish!  Be kind to those who help you through the day and reblog! Skin Deep Part 5 - click here for the previous chapter! Pairing:  Loki x Reader, Steve, Valkyrie & Thor all make appearances Summary:  Continued from Part 5, You and Loki put your plan into action, returning to Farmhouse.  When you encounter Steve again, you learn there’s more than two sides to this story. Warnings:  Loki’s POV and perspective, including mentions of his time under Thanos.  I’m re-writing MCU history here, but some of the main beats are the same, so look out for SPOILERS for Dark World, Ragnarok, and a touch of Infinity War.  The SNAP never happened because, reasons.  

Empathy used to seem such a human emotion.  Loki had no time for that on Asgard, not when Odin denied anything as frivolous as feeling.  Hiding in plain sight was the means to survival and if that made the young prince sneaky and sly, so be it.  By placing those parts of himself under lock and key; the parts that hurt, the ones that ached, Loki found it was safer to disconnect from others than subject himself to their suffering too.

Operating under the influence of Thanos and his minions when he held the scepter, Loki had purposefully divorced connection of any kind from his mind.  It was dangerous.  Weak.  And moreover, it allowed Loki to do what Thanos commanded without really experiencing the horror, the havoc, of his actions for himself. 

  Who could hear the screams of women when the voice of Ebony Maw subliminally chanted all the ways that one could be dismembered at Thanos’ hands should Loki fail?  What man would shed a tear after the near constant beatings doled out by Black Order members, just for the fun of it?  How could someone care about a house, a car, a city, when they no longer cared about themself? Losing the Battle for New York had consequences far beyond the destruction of property.  With Thanos’ hold over him vanquished, the walls around his heart, constructed in youth, crashed and burned like the dream of ruling Earth.  Suddenly and completely out of reserves, Loki was powerless.  And he felt everything.  The fresh hurts caused by his manipulated ambitions in the hands of Thanos. The furious feelings of his brother, the inadequacies of his character, the feeble needs that drove his wild ambition washed over him unceasingly.  Anger.  Loss.  Lunacy.  Loki learned a hard truth in that moment.  He was a monster.  A freak.  A creature beyond hope and salvation; proving his adoptive father right and his own hopeful heart wrong.  Bitterness soured the fallen prince. Endless hours in isolation on Earth, which continued in his father's house, had Loki believing he had no chance of seeing the world outside again, and it hardened his heart further.  To feel was so painful, so raw, and so humane.  Why bother anyway?  All that emoting, those high spirits, all they really did was expose you to derision.  What was grief to a goblin?  What was horror to a monster?  What was love to a villain like him?  An evil, conspiring demi-god, with a mind bent toward domination.  A damaged, destroyed, deity alone and in pieces.  Who would ever give someone like Loki Odinson a chance?  Why should they?

Turning to his mother, Loki did everything but ask for forgiveness.  In long rambling talks, her projection to his jailed person, the pair talked around ideas of guilt and innocence, of fate and fortune, of destiny versus desire, yet Loki never heard the words he needed in order to truly find peace.   

If Frigga was aware of her son’s need for absolution, Loki would never know, as their last exchange was harsh and full of anger.  Another stroke of loss, crippling now, because there was nothing Loki could do to change any of it from inside his prison cell.  No illusion could conceal the painful ache that consumed him entirely. 

Those days were dark, even for a soul as dusky hued as his own, and Loki’s thoughts followed a similar path.  If there had been a way for him to shake off this immortal coil, free himself of the burden of living, Loki would have done so and been glad.  Death was welcome compared to all this longing and heartache. But life, even a nearly immortal one, was funny. 

When Thor provided a chance at redemption, Loki snatched at it, in his own detached way.  He played hero, rescuing Jane, aiding his brother.  And if he took a bit more in the form of deposing his arrogant, aging father, who would be surprised?  He was Loki, God of Mischief, after all. Ruling the Nine Realms without the oppressive oversight of his father allowed Loki to prove himself in ways he never imagined.  And Loki wasn’t just good at it.  He was great. Of course, it helped that no one knew he was Loki.  Living disguised as Odin was often unpleasant, frequently frustrating, but entirely necessary.  Being Loki was still too difficult and likely to bring unwanted attention in the form of The God of Thunder, a thing that no one truly wanted, Loki least of all. Return Thor did, along with an unknown sister and the end of Asgard.  When confronted with the insanity of Hela’s bloodlust, Loki’s only thought was of his kingdom, now without a ruler.  He had worked too hard, too long, to see the land he cared for in the hands of an enemy, even if she called herself sister.  Opening the Bi-Frost, panicked, his mind was solely on saving those he had recently held dominion over.  They were his people, after all.  But he never reached Asgard. Swallowing his fear, Loki focused all his energy on staying alive in a new and distracting environment, initially.  What Loki found on Sakaar wasn't a new home base under a flamboyant, ineffective leader that he could control, even if that was his first design.  On Sakaar Loki found his loyalty.  

The proud, deep resonance of being Asgardian, of being an Odinson, of being capable and cool under pressure.  Sure, he had to prove himself to Thor, Valkyrie, Banner and honestly, the rest of the kingdom, but actions speak louder than words.  And through his actions on Sakkar, and by extension rescuing the people of Asgard, Loki had shown everybody his true mettle. It was on the deck of a stolen ship headed for Midgard that  Loki had made a commitment of sorts.  One that was not to the people, so recently saved or for his found family.  This time, the promise Loki intended to keep was for himself.  Loki was going to change. The problem is, a task like that takes time.  Patience.  Motivation.  It was something that Loki had to work at and it was exhausting. They say that the best things come to those who wait.  Loki was learning to wait everyday.  Having earned a place at the side of his brother, he worked tirelessly to win over the heroes of his new home planet.  Was it easy?  Hardly, but Loki wasn’t willing to compromise.  Not anymore. A life like Hela’s was not in his runes.  Loki was simply going to be better.  Not perfect.  No one could be as good hearted as Captain America, nor could one be as tech savvy as Stark.  So Loki was planning on being the best Loki he could possibly be, and that’s how he found himself going to meetings at The Avengers Tower, a mostly welcome addition to the team. Meetings weren’t all that exciting and boredom was an awful temptation for a deity devoted to mayhem.  In fact, Loki spent more time doodling in his notebook than listening to whoever was droning on about whatever part of the world needed the attention of this motley crew.  That was, until Pepper Potts hired her new assistant.  That you were polite, pretty and pert wasn’t lost on the young god.  Sitting outside Mrs. Iron Man’s office, typing away with a phone tucked under your ear, moving faster than anyone he had ever seen was certainly impressive.  You were quick witted, clever and most of all, funny. Everyone else seemed to fall under your spell without much effort on your part, something that Loki found frustratingly fascinating.  Here he was, struggling to get people to say his name without having a traumatic flashback, while you simply smiled and smarted off prettily, and had everyone singing your praises.  But Norns, were you adorable. If he thought about it, and while off planet, Loki definitely had, he could remember the moment he realized that you were the woman he wanted.  You were busy, as always, fielding phone calls and flipping through screens yet every moment your flying fingers weren’t hovering over a keyboard or pushing down telephone buttons they curled around a heart shaped charm at your throat.  Clearly, it was a habit and one that you weren’t even aware of, still - it transfixed him all the same.  Watching you from his side eye, your voice never wavering, your tone always so pleasing, and your nimble digits returning again and again to the small sigil around your neck.  “Loki?” “Huh?”  Dumbfounded at your call, those deep sea eyes blinked wildly at the sound of his name on your lips. “Hi!  Yes, Pepper can see you now.  Go ahead, she’s ready!” He rose on stiff legs, adjusting his tie, about to lie to Tony Stark’s woman all for the chance to see you in passing.  Who had he become? It started out innocent like that, but soon, Loki was having to invent excuses for being in the office so frequently.  Missing files, random visits, even going so far as to buy Tony coffee just for the thrill of seeing you.  Something needed to change, and quickly, or Loki was going to blow. On another made up errand, hanging around the executive’s high rise office, Loki was doing a bad job of pretending not to see you.  His mind was on your pouty lips as you sipped lemonade through a straw and not on the stately woman seated behind the desk. 

“Loki, you’re a man of some… style.”  Pepper said it so casually that he almost didn’t hear, his head lost in thoughts that would shame any other person. “I like to think so.”

Shutting her folder with a snap, Pepper smiled, “And you’d love to help your old friend Pepper out, right?” That got his attention, and quickly.  Loki, shoving his hands in his pockets, turned to face Pepper with a widening grin, “I feel like I’m being baited.”

“Baited?  Never!  It’s just, you’re always here and I have a… project that needs the kind of help that you can provide.”  At those words you entered the office, ready for action with a notebook and pen, eager and excited. Suddenly, it was all clear to Loki, “Pepper, no.”  

The noose closed in on the handsome god as Pepper gathered paperwork without looking his way, “Come on, it’s the Stark Homecoming Gala and the two of you will do great!  I have faith in you both.  I can’t wait to see what you come up with!” “Really, Miss Potts, I simply can’t-” Stopping short, the strawberry blonde whipped around, almost nose to nose with Loki.  Shrewd and straightforward, Pepper interrupted, saying, “You’ve been dancing around my office for weeks now.  Clearly you like her and… against all the odds, she likes you too.  I’m doing you a favor and when someone does you a favor, you say “Thank You”.” “Thank you.” Nodding curtly, “You’re welcome.  Now, make yourselves comfortable, order some dinner, my treat.  And do whatever you need to make sure this is one great party!” That’s how Loki found himself sitting at a clear glass table over sweating bottles of iced tea as you discussed color themes and tablecloths.  You were shy, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you reviewed notes from previous gatherings both large and small.  His hands itched with wanting to do that job himself. “So, what do you think?”  It was the first time you had addressed him directly since coming through the door and for a moment Loki couldn’t answer.  You were too… not beautiful, that wasn’t the right word, although you were.  No, you were too open, too easy to read, and the earnestness you offered him was downright frightening. Sitting forward in the uncomfortable, yet fashionable, office furniture, Loki cleared his throat and again tugged his tie, “What I think is that you should let me take you dinner.” Dropping your eyes, your cheeks colored slightly as your fingers found that locket charm once more, “Loki, I… I don’t know-” Grabbing for your hand, suddenly afraid that you would take those shining eyes away, Loki lowered his voice and did something he never thought he would.  He begged.  “Please?  I find that you’re all I can think about.” It rushed out of him in a torrent, the way truth so often does, and he found himself unable to look you in the eye.  Loki was afraid to see rejection on your easy to read face, afraid that wanting you had cracked open the lock box holding his heart, afraid that you would see just how weak you made him.  Your fingers twined with his own as you replied, “You didn’t let me finish.  I don’t know what took you so long.” Sighing with relief, his face melting into a genuine smile, “Me either.” Over the next two months the pair of you worked tirelessly to plan and execute a perfect party.  You were inseparable during the day, heads buried together as you discussed linens and table settings, the quality of cocktail glasses, and debating over a band or a dj.  But at night, at night Loki talked about the things that haunted him in the dark.  And you loved him in spite of the awful things he had seen and done and said. Others took notice.  Loki was more lighthearted, more available.  He listened when people spoke and wasn’t constantly doodling during meetings.   Yes, Loki was learning how to love through your loving him.  If empathy had seemed too humane before, then sharing his life, his love with you, was the kind of immortality that earned someone a place in Valhalla.  It was the bravest thing Loki Odinson had ever done and he didn’t mind one bit.

The first time Loki tasted you was burned into his brain, as bright as a flash of lightning.  A firefly in a memory jar that he kept returning to, time and again.  Loki remembered what you were wearing.  He recalled exactly how the light shone in your eyes.  If he concentrated, he could tap out the rhythm of your racing pulse as he held you in his arms. It was the night of the gala.  Inviting everyone under the Stark Industries banner, up to and including the heroes tasked with saving the world, the event was a way to earn money for one of the many charities Tony supported.  The place was full of beautiful people wearing gorgeous clothes under perfect lights set to the hand crafted soundtrack you had created together.

But, Norns, he could still remember the way your eyes sparkled under the lowlights of that hall.  How your dress, simple but sophisticated, clung to the fullness of your bottom.  Low cut but somehow still modest, Loki couldn’t tear his gaze away from the promise of your curves, willing himself to find anything else as interesting as the idea of you.  

You were across the room hanging onto Tony’s every word, eyes bright and cheerfully glowing as you sipped champagne.  It made Loki want to do something grand, something suave, something that would demand your attention for his own.  Moving towards you, his tuxedo perfectly pressed and fitting better than it had any right to, Loki looked long and lean.  Each of his steps seemed to echo, even though the room was full of sound, and you turned your head as if you also heard.  Breaking away from the cluster of acolytes surrounding Iron Man, you bit into your lip as the crowd parted, moving closer together one step at a time.  It was one of the sexiest things Loki had ever witnessed. Lifting your glass in a toast, taking in the room of mingling millionaires, wealthy hangers on and Avengers, “Well, we did it!” “You did it, my dove, I just hung around and judged everyone.” “Oh stop.  I couldn’t have done it without you and you know it.”  Playfully you pushed against his shoulder and Loki took advantage, using your momentum to pull you to his side, your curvy figure flush against his own. Crooning into the shell of your ear, his lips brushing over that sensitive skin, “Somehow, love, I think you would have managed.”  Before you had time to think, Loki had melded his mouth with your own, stealing your breath along with your heart.  Loki’s feet moved in time with the music as he pulled into a dance, laughing in his arms, your cheeks hot and your head swimming. You laughing was, without question, Loki’s favorite sound.  Nothing in this world or any other came close to matching the joyful, childlike glee of that enchanting noise.  Loki memorized its melody, the rise and fall of your giggle.  He had craved it, being away for so long, and now he wanted… no, needed to hear it.  But you were the furthest thing from happy at the moment.   

"Darling, please.  We have to go."  Loki tapped his watch, shaking himself free from the memories of your previous life together and barely suppressing his irritation.

Tears filled your eyes as you whipped your arms around Thor’s mighty shoulders, his deep voice grumbly with emotion, "Take care of him, would you?  He's a jerk, but Loki is the only brother I have."

"Of course… always.  And Valkyrie, your highness, I can’t thank you enough for-"

"No need.  Loki, and by extension yourself, will always have a safe haven here in my palace."

Looking on, Loki and Thor embraced almost tenderly before crashing their heads together.  

"Stay safe, little brother."

"Be good, Thor."

Eyes on the sky, Val ignored the show of masculine emotion, chastising your plan, "You’re going to start a war, Loki."

Straight backed, Loki turned to the king, "Not on the grass of New Asgard.  I will take the fight to them, that is my vow to you."

As Loki offered his hand, Valkyrie shook it, with parting words, "Work on staying alive.  You have a tendency to worry your brother."

Solemnly nodding, "As the king commands.  Shall we?"  With that Loki laced his fingers with yours, leading you a few paces away from the people who loved him most, before summoning the magic that had you both transcending space and time.

This time when your feet touched down it was on the familiar turf of the orchard, surrounded by the scent of apple blossoms and the buzzing of happy bees.  Morning had broken and the world seemed full of promise, with the exception of that knot in your stomach.

"Are you ready?  Darling?"

"Oh… yes.  I mean, I still don't love this plan, but-"

"But it's going to work."  Only it was no longer the baritone voice of your long, lean Loki speaking.  In his place stood Nick Fury, leather duster and eye patch in place.

"If you say so!"  And you clutched your own throat as Natasha’s bored tones came out of your mouth.  The suit, skin tight but flexible, molded to your modified form.  All in all, you were comfortable, "The boots are a bit much."

"Ya think?  This jacket weighs a ton."  Pulling at his collar, "Why does he wear a turtleneck anyway?"

"Loki, this is so weird.  It feels so weird."

"Agreed, but then, why am I so turned on?"

Laughing, you shook your false red hair, hands resting on Natasha’s waist, "God, I've missed you."

"Same, dearest.  Now… let's get your necklace and some answers!"

---

 Convincing Bucky to head home had taken a lot of work, but sometime around 2 am Steve had finally seen his friend off.  The house was empty.  Steve felt the same way.

Turning the black velvet box in his pocket, fingers crushed against the fragile fabric, Steve struggled to feel anger.  When that didn't materialize he shot for sadness but even tears seemed beyond his ability.  

With a sigh, climbing the same stairs he had trudged up a hundred times before, Steve started going through the motions of bedtime.  Only tonight you weren’t there to tease him about the wildly inappropriate amount of toothpaste on his brush.  He didn’t have your light footsteps to follow to the bedside or your help with stacking all of your extra, yet entirely essential, pillows on the chair.

Someone must have changed the sheets, he thought.  There was no evidence of you and Loki’s adventurous afternoon anymore.  Steve made a mental note to thank Buck for that little piece of kindness in the morning.

Shucking his shirt, Steve sat on the mattress, a hand to his forehead.  He had lost.  Captain America had been bested.  Beaten.  And by Loki, no less.

Moonlight in silver slivers shone through the window panes, squares of light in the deep of night.  Steve was alone.  Utterly and totally alone.

And there was no one to blame but himself.

Sighing hard, Steve stood, pacing the floor to work off some of the unspendable anxiety he kept creating.  The room still had your energy, your vibe, as you liked to call it, and the feeling was a prickling itch Steve couldn’t quite satisfy.  Traces of you were everywhere and something about you leaving all of it, and him, behind was just too big to process. “Damn it.”  Even whispering sounded like thunder in the silence of your recently vacated room.  His hands, so big, so strong, smoothed along the fabric of your hanging clothes.  All that power had done nothing to help Steve get the thing he wanted. Sorting through the baubles and trinkets on your dresser, bottles of perfume he had purchased, necklaces and pins, each with a moment of memory it hurt him to recall.  Your watch ticked away the minutes as he stood, stoic and still, surrounded by the shadow of you.  In the orchard the birds were waking, their song filling the air, as morning broke in low golden rays.  Abandoning his plan for sleep, Steve watched as the light chased away the dark, casting rainbows on the floor.  The sun was reflecting off of your Grandmother’s necklace.  A pretty, ancient, carved cameo,  heart shaped locket.  He recalled his own mother owning one just like it, pictures of loved ones pressed inside, holding them as tight as history would allow. Fisting the filigree chain, winding it around his fingers as if it would somehow undo what he had done, Steve slipped it into his pocket before settling back onto the bed.  ----

At the back door to the home you so recently shared with Steve, Loki hung back, “I think this is where we split up.  You go find your treasure and me… I’m going to find some answers.” Nodding, Natasha’s signature red hair swinging, you squeezed the hand holding your own.  It no longer looked like Loki’s long fingered paw, but that was only a skin deep change.  You felt the undeniable essence of him in the press of his fingers against your own. “Be careful.” “That’s no fun, dove.” “Loki-”  You hated the way your voice broke as you said it, but there just seemed to be so much at stake and you had already lost him once. Sensing your unspoken concerns, Loki flashed you Nick Fury’s best smile, “I will.  I promise.”

“Ten minutes.” “Ten minutes.”  You watched the black coated back of your charmed paramour as he opened the shed door, hoping that he’d find something worth knowing in that place out of sight.  Inhaling deeply you twisted the doorknob as quietly as possible, letting yourself into what was once your kitchen, “What a mess.”  It was impossible not to notice the unwrapped leftovers and empty bottles littering the table.  An overturned trash barrel, crumpled beer cans littering the counter, things that Steve, your Steve, would never have tolerated.  All evidence that the grand evening he’d envisioned had been thwarted by Loki’s arrival and your collective escape.  

You started up the stairs, praising Natasha's footwear for its stealth, when you heard the toilet flush and the unmistakable shuffle of Steve’s feet on the carpet.  There was no place to hide on the wide stairwell.  It was time to see if Loki's plan was going to work.

Voice blurry, eyes rubbed red and raw, you couldn't deny that Steve looked like shit, “Bucky?  That you?  You back?”  Steve’s voice bounced around the brightening room as morning sunlight filtered through the soft sheers you had picked out for exactly this reason. Panicked, you backed into the railing with an over loud “Oof!” “Nat?  What are you doing here?  I thought you and Fury were headed to New Asgard?”  Suddenly wide awake and wondering, Steve rushed to your costumed side, eager for information. The man in front of you now bore little resemblance to the angry Avenger you had escaped from hours before.  This man had hair sticking up in odd angles from near constant finger raking.  This man had a hint of a stuffy nose and red rimmed eyes, all indicators that tears had been shed.  Now those blue eyes were scrutinizing you closely, full of concern.

“Uh… We... We got intel.  Yea, intelligence, that Loki was headed back this way.  Turned around… and uh, here we are.” One of those sandy blonde eyebrows lifted, “Natasha?”

Squaring your shoulders, channeling that cool confidence you’d see Black Widow display over and over, “Steve?”  Something about your tone of voice convinced him in a way your words couldn’t.  He visibly relaxed, those broad shoulders going slack as he asked, “Didn’t make it to Norway, then?"

Nodding a negative, you felt the unfamiliar brush of her red hair at your cheek and had to fight the urge to tuck it away, “No.  Loki’s using some sort of transporting power to move them around.  Fury suggested I keep an eye out here, in case they come back this way.” “She won’t be back, Nat.  There’s nothing for her here.”  To you, Steve sounded so sad, so removed, that you had to will yourself not to comfort the giant before you.  “That’s not true!”  It came out of you forcefully, thoughtlessly, and you saw the shock register on the Captain’s face. “That is, Fury and I… we… have reason to believe that she will come back.  They left with nothing, Steve.  She’ll need clothes… maybe some shoes… and-”  Swallowing hard, you didn’t want to give anything away, “-a necklace from her grandmother.” Steve, patting his pocket, felt the weighted chain and it’s heart shaped locket, “I don’t think-” Stepping up to his bulky form, suddenly aggressive, you started, “Never mind what you think, Captain.  We're here for a necklace...  the necklace.  Our intel suggests that your former flame might return for it and… And, I want it, with me, as a means to subdue her when she arrives." Sounding forceful and official was enough to back Steve down.  Just a touch deflated, you watched him shrug, “If that’s what you want, Nat, here-”  From his pants he pulled out the shining bauble, a trinket really, but full of sentiment and memory. Sitting in his palm, the tiny heart that held the picture of your grandmother and mother looked so small, almost unreal.  Reaching for it with wet eyes, you smiled at Steve as you lifted the charm and chain, “Thank you, Steve.  Thank you.” Nodding deeply, that golden head bobbing, “You’re welcome.”  The large grandfather clock could be heard ticking throughout the house.  The sun was gaining on the day and you, dressed as Natasha stood in silence in front of a somber Steve.  For another long beat nothing was said, then, as if sensing a shift in your conversation, Steve flashed your fake Natasha a weak smile, “I could use some breakfast.  How about you?”

“Um… sure.  Yea, ok.  Breakfast.” 

Steve started moving again, downstairs towards the cluttered kitchen when he paused, "So how did you get back so fast?  Cause that's like a 7 hour flight, even with you in the cockpit." “Steve…”  You could hear it, the whining almost pleading tone that signaled the end of Loki’s well planned charade.  That wasn’t enough to stop Steve.  He broke hard, one of those strong arms stopping you in your tracks before you could reach the lower level. “It’s clever, I have to give you guys that.  Almost perfect, really.” Panic rising, you doubled down on the ruse, struggling to keep your voice even, “I don’t know-”  Blocking you in, his body the perfect unmovable buffer, “Loki’s here too, isn’t he?” Pushing against “Steve, I… I don’t…” “Don’t lie.  You don’t have to…” “But… how-?” “You’re not mean enough to play Natasha, doll.  Not by a long shot.”

--- It was strange to be seated at the table and chairs that you and Steve had picked out together one sunny Saturday when you thought that your future was going to be Loki-less.  Your place, the one that you had imagined filling with children that had golden hair and bright blue eyes, felt like a set.  Something false and fake.  A facade, put together simply for show. Steve must have felt it too because his fingers drummed against the white washed table incessantly.  Clearly he had something on his mind.  “Steve-” “No.  No.  Please, let me just get this out, ok?” Raising an eyebrow, you waved at him to continue, nervous but interested in what the super soldier needed to explain. With a shaky inhale, running his constantly moving fingers through his golden locks, Steve caught your eye and didn’t waiver.  “When I saw you… No, that’s not right.  Let me start at the beginning. “When Loki left Earth, you… you were so sad.  It hurt me to see you so… deflated.” “Steve, I-” “You know it’s true.  When he returned to Asgard, something in you, it dimmed, and I just couldn’t allow that… Not when I felt the way I did about you. “I don’t think you realize just how incredible you are… how full of life!  And since I had already missed one chance to be with you, I knew I needed to prove that I could be the man you needed… If you forgot about Loki along the way, even better. “Only… you never did.  I waited years for you, ya know, doll?  Years.  And just when I thought there was no chance with you, Nat gave me a reason to hope. “She was your friend.  An ally.  Someone you could trust… someone I could trust.  I swear it started out that innocently, at least for me.  I just wanted to make you smile again.  But she had other plans.  Plans that came from higher up the ladder of SHIELD. “Fury, he wanted us to watch you… something about Loki being too powerful.  And-”, grabbing your hand tightly, Steve emphasized his point, “-I promise you that I had no idea about his success, or the messages he had sent to you through Nick.  Like you, I thought that Loki was gone.  Missing.  Never coming back.” “I… I believe you Steve.  I know that you didn’t do all this on your own… but what was Nick hoping you’d find out?  I knew less than nothing about what was going on!” “I think he was worried that Loki would get to you first.  That if… when Loki returned, you would be his first stop.  Then you would know about Loki’s success and, frankly, Fury’s failures.  You would also know… well, everything you know now.  That Fury had you tailed, lied to, and led on in an effort to stop Loki from out flanking him.” Frenzied and frantic, you felt anger boiling up inside of you, “But I thought Loki was gone forever.  There was no hope for him and I… and Natasha, she told me that he was dead.” “All a part of Fury’s plan to keep you neutralized and Loki away.  If Loki thought that you’d ignored his letters, that you no longer loved him, why would he come back here?  And, if that didn’t work… when Loki came back and you were with me, what else could keep him on Earth?”

Whispering with realization, “So, they used you too.” Steve sighed and buried his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, “Don’t feel bad for me.  I let them use my love for you, let them twist it up and shape it as they needed.  Honestly, I wish I could tell you that it was for you, but it wasn’t.  It was for me.  I wanted you, so, so badly.  I didn’t care what strings were attached.  And we built a life together, you and me.  I thought I could outrun the reality of the constant monitoring and daily reports.  Telling Natasha and Nick about every word and each email.  Don’t you see, I love you… and I wanted you, however I could get you.” Shaking your head, Natasha’s red wisps flying, “That’s not love, Steve.  I don’t know what that is… but love isn’t it.” “No?”  With a loud thunk, Steve slammed a small velvet box on the table between you. “Is… Is that what I think it is?”

“Last night.  It was going to happen last night.  Our friends here, under the lights and the stars, I was going to ask you to marry me.  I still would if-” Realization hit you like a ton of bricks, “If Loki hadn’t stepped back into our lives.” “-If Loki hadn’t stepped back into your life.” It made you both laugh in a sad way, how you finished the same thought, and for a fleeting second you could see why you had allowed Captain America to sweep you off your feet.  He was a lot of things to you now, but there was a time when he had been almost everything.  The evidence of that was in the small black square that said nothing but spoke volumes. “Steve, I don’t know if I would have said yes… even without Loki’s… arrival.  I think I have always known that you and I… we are very different people.” Sitting back in his chair, his gaze still locked on your own, “I just want you to know that I’m sorry.  I’m sorry about what I’ve done… what I’ve said… How, shit, how I’ve behaved.  I could say that it was my duty.  I could tell you it was out of love, but the plain truth is that I have always been jealous of what you and Loki share.” “You’ll find it Steve.  You really will.  There’s a person out there waiting for you.  And once you’ve found them, oh Steve, you’ll see that this… what we had, it’s a shadow.  An illusion.  Because love, real love, doesn’t come with caveats and catches.  It is an undeniable force which, in my case, even the boundaries of time and space can not deny.” Something like a sob burst out of Steve, and you were surprised to see tears in his eyes, “I was so wrong.  Could you ever forgive me?” “I want to, Steve.  I really do... “  What more could you say?  Patting his hand you started to rise, “I have to go now.  Loki and I need to keep moving and I don’t want to risk running into Nick and Natasha.  At least, not yet, anyway.” “Where are you planning to go?” “To the Avenger’s Tower.  I believe I know what Mr. Fury has been planning all along.”  Loki’s strong voice entered the conversation as smoothly as his arms wrapped possessively around your waist. Steve took in the protective stance of your returned lover with a raised eyebrow, and without further comment asked Loki, “Really?  And how are you going to breach the building?  They’ll be looking for you, even with disguises…  Fury is no fool.  Plus, there’s little chance that Tony hasn’t activated a million safety and security protocols by now.” Only interested in you, Loki refused to give Steve any of his attention, “Getting in can’t be that hard!  I’ll figure it out when I get there.  Ready pet?” With a gentle push under his broad hands your feet started to move towards the door.  Loki was eager to be off and away, especially after hearing so much of Roger’s confession.  Just knowing what Steve had done, manipulating you while also convinced of his love for you;  it was enough for Loki to commit murder.  He was having quite a difficult time not tearing the good Captain’s limbs off his body. Softening his tone, Steve practically pleaded, “Loki.  Wait.  I… I can help.” Turning his attention fully to your former flame, Loki purred venomously, “You can help?  I’d love to know what entails, Captain.” “I can get you into the place and take you exactly where you need to go.  Fury’s going to hate it, but I’m tired of taking orders that hurt the people that-”  His pause was as lingering as the look he gave you, “- That I love.”  Before Loki could offer a sincerely sassy reply you grabbed his sleeve, tugging, “Um… Excuse us a minute Steve.” Pulling him down the hall of a home that felt like a familiar faced stranger, you waited until you had a bit of distance from Steve before harshly whispering, “How long were you listening?”

Serving you that small, sexy smile, Loki grinned, “Long enough.  How did you know I was there?” “You are sneaky, but even you, God of Mischief, cast a shadow.” Swinging you close enough to catch your mouth with his own, Loki pressed a sweet kiss there before answering, “A mistake I will be careful not to make again!” “The tower, huh?  That’s where you want to go?”  Grabbing you at the swell of your hips, grinding his frame against your own, “Where I want to go, my darling, is to the nearest bed, preferably naked, with you and you alone.” Your hands traced over the lapels of his borrowed leather duster, pausing only to jerk him closer by the supple fabric, “Hmm… is that so?” “Oh yes…”  Loki’s buttery grumble filled your ear as his strong hands dug into the flesh of your bottom.  For a moment you thought he’d give in to temptation, his sweet lips teasingly close to your own upturned mouth, “But-” On your toes, leaning into Loki’s sturdy, leather draped frame, you paused, “Ugh.  But?” Moving you to a safer, less kissable, arms length away, Loki sighed with the same frustration you felt, “-But, where we need to go, as soon as possible, is the Tower.” Moaning grumpily, you stepped out of the arms you longed to linger in, “I was afraid you were going to say that.” “I know it’s less than… ideal, love, but I did find something useful before the good Captain unburdened his soul this morning.” “And that is?” “Fury’s plan.  At first I couldn’t figure out exactly what he was after.  What did Fury want?  How was I involved?” Loki was dragging this out, loving how it kept you hanging onto his every word, and you rolled your eyes, “Well?  What is it?  Weapons?  War?” “All of that, yes… and… yours truly.”  That triumphant smile that filled Loki’s whole face lit up his mischievous eyes.  Tilting your head, struggling to make sense of what Loki had just told you, “What do you mean, you.  Fury wanted you… to do what, exactly?’ “Loki was going to be the patsy.” You both turned toward the sound of Steve’s baritone at the door, suddenly remembering that the Good Captain was still there and that he was waiting to see what you were going to do next.  Leaning his 100 year old bones into the doorframe, Steve crossed his arms, “The fall guy.  An example of what happens if you cross SHIELD.” “I think, my dear Mr. Rogers, that you mean, I am to be used as an example of what happens if one crosses Nick Fury.”  Loki countered, slinging an arm over your shoulder protectively. The idea was frightening.  A man like Fury had too much power, too much at his disposal.  Just knowing the lengths he had gone to in order to keep you and Loki apart was scary enough.  Making enemies of your friends.  Threatening the people you loved.  Selling your affection to Steve in an effort to control Loki.

Now, the knowledge that all of it was done in an effort to ensure that Nick Fury was the toughest guy in the galaxy, it made your stomach clench.  “What do you mean, an example?” “Unless my intelligence is flawed, I believe that Fury was going to kill me.  Is that correct, Captain?” Steve felt the weight of two sets of eyes on him.  Yours, full of fearful love and blind hope that this was all just some misunderstanding.  Innocent and naive and as lovely as he could ever remember.  Loki’s were reflecting a deeper understanding.  The kind of knowledge that only time in the trenches teaches. There was no answer from Captain Rogers.  None was needed.  Honesty, final and resolute, was out in the open.  “Look.  I know I’m not the guy you want on your side.  I’ve… I haven’t been the man I needed to be.  Not for you-”  Steve locked his bright blues onto you, offering a small smile that spoke of sadness before facing Loki, “-Or you, Loki.  But if you let me help you now, I promise that I can get you into the tower and maybe, one day, you won’t think so little of me.” 

Around you the morning gained strength.  Somewhere nearby birds chirped wildly, blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding in the modest little farmhouse and its implications on intergalactic politics.  Without  moving a muscle, Loki plainly asked you, “Do you trust him, dearest?” Squaring your shoulders, you crossed your arms, staring down the man called Captain America.  Nodding decisively, “I do.  I don’t think he’d spill everything like that only to turn on us.  He’s not so bad Loki, really.” “We’ll see about that.  For now, we trust Steve.  Ok, what’s your plan, Rogers?” --- “Hey.  I… I have one other thing to show you.”  Steve was dressed for action in his branded tactical gear, looking every inch the super soldier that Dr. Erskine envisioned. “Steve, we have to get moving.  Loki’s eager and -” “Just open it, ok?”  The envelope was thick with folded paper, the flap tucked under and not sealed.  Clearly it had spent time in and out of pockets, the edges frayed and tattered.  In exasperated curiosity you gingerly pulled the sheets free.

Shaking, your hands trembled holding the once white documents as your voice thickened, “Is this… is this what I think it is?” Cocking his head playfully, that rueful smile pulling at his full mouth, Steve almost seemed cheerful as he teased, “It’s yours.  I think something about this place has always been yours and I want you to have it.” “But-” Folding your small hands in his mighty ones, Steve squeezed gently, “It was a wedding present, or it was supposed to be.” “But we’re not getting married.” “I know.  Still-” “I can’t, Steve.  It’s yours.  Your house, your farm, your dream.” Shaking his head, disagreeing, but feeling lighter than he had in decades, Steve insisted, “Too late, I’m afraid.  It’s done.  Actually, that version of the deed has been signed since our second week here.” As realization sunk in you appraised the man changing right before your eyes, astonished but exhilarated, “Where will you go?” “I dunno.  Think I might need to be alone for a bit.  Maybe see the world… but first-” “First, we have to stop Nick Fury.”

To Be Continued... My Minxes:   @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @iamverity​ @mizfit2​ @sammy-jo1977​ @wolfsmom1​ @jessiejunebug​ @iluvsumbucky​ @unadulteratedwizardlove​ @procrastinatinglikeabitch​ @shxdowofdarkness​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @ahintofkiwistrawberry​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @crystalizedcaramel​ @lokislittlecorner​ @capcapcapsicle @jamielea81​ @caffiend-queen​ @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​ @jenjen8675309​ @that-one-person​ @roguewraith​ @toomanystoriessolittletime​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @just-random-obsessions​ @brokenthelovely​ @lots-of-loki​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​

[dramaticnerdwithanxiety11]

Here have the obnoxious list of quotes of have because i think they're very neat (these come from all over the place ranging from fanfiction, to google to my own fingies)

Also it's funny that I can see with complete clarity where I started getting into new fandoms because I started collecting new quotes relating to them.

(i promise they get less angsty 😭 these are a year and a half in the works)

I've got too many tabs open in my brain, and it's too laggy to close any.

I think i'll just collapse right here, thanks!

All I wanted was for you to leave. But I didn't think you actually would..

You're just like a bomb going off right next to my head..

Why do I have to cram all of my thoughts together just to be heard?

I wish your silence didn't scare me so much..

My body looks like a poorly drawn anatomy lesson, or a bunch of mismatched pieces sewn together.

Why did I have to grow up afraid to admit i'm scared?

What a stupid way to die.

An immortal man with a death wish, how fucking ironic.

Why did we have to turn into such an ugly sight?

I can't tell you why, but it feels like something's wrong.

What would my mother think, now that she's watched her son be buried?

What would you think of me, an immortal man with a death wish?

They are the stars and the moon to my empty sky.

Dreams are like… jigsaw puzzles, assembled wrong.

Are you, or the others, crazy?

How do you paint a pretty picture when your brush is broken?

Is it only in movies that it's black and white?

Sometimes the worst place you can be in is your own head.

Alone. Because everyone will inevitably leave him.

Because I know what it's like to be afraid of your own mind.

I came face to face with a version of "me" that was nothing like myself.

The present is all we get, so we need to make it work.

We're just kids. We aren't supposed to be heroes.

It's all a bit tragic, isn't it?

She is a child that was forced to grow up.

I stopped being a kid the day you sent me down here to die.

Are monsters born, or created?

We'll never be those kids again.

Dear Death, I'm ready.

I needed a hug, but all they gave me was a box of matches and a knife.

I'm that memory you don't remember.

My mind is blessed with madness, and cursed with the knowledge that’s it’s there.

My eyes burn with unshed tears and suddenly I wish it didn't hurt so much to cry.

I don’t know what's happening but that's okay

We were thin but we were thick as thieves

I will not be another flower, picked for my beauty and left to die.

Even white roses have black shadows.

To plant a garden, is to believe in tomorrow.

In an endless garden of Flowers I will always pick You.

My Garden of Roses is wilting, because i spent too much time watering yours..

If i had a flower for every time i thought of you, i could walk through my garden forever.

Are you sure it isn't the Thorns that have Roses..?

Laughter after Tears is is the human equivalent of a Rainbow

I THINK I'M OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW I AINT SHIT.

I heard everything. It was just easier to pretend I didn't.

Remember how bright our first days were?

I miss not knowing who you were, because at least you couldn't hurt me so much without more than a word.

I'm dying slow and I can't stop it.

I really am my fathers child, aren't I?

If I dont go to hell when I die i might go heaven- but probably not.

If this is how you folks make art, it's fucking depressing.

I'm sorry mom and dad, I know I fucked up bad. I should've done better.

You entered the circus, boy, now play like the clowns.

The intimacy of being understood

However fair is for fools, take them away!

Life is a party and I'm starting to think I'm the piñata

I can't telling if I'm dying or not, all I know is I can't breathe.

Sometimes the shortest stick is the sharpest.

You don't hate me because i'm crazy, you hate me because i'm right.

I might be the writer, but you will always be the words.

I'm sending an old friend good luck, through a wishing well of magic.

Karma's probably fake, unless you meet someone who Really believes in it, cause they'll make it happen.

Does it count as being after dark, if the streetlights are on and nobody is looking for you?

Memory lane is not a Well-Mainted Public Road, it's a backroad lined with burning trees.

Sometimes you have to become a monster to stay human

"To be fair I have no intentions of murdering someone then popping a cyanide pill to escape the consequences,"

"You don't pump blood, I would know, I've had my hands in your heart before. Also, you're a terrible liar,"

Just killed a woman, feelin good~

"Fashionless wonder? He won't be saying that when I throttle him with my bowtie.."

"Handfull of BEES?"

"3am is the bitching hour, prove me wrong,"

"He's perfect, we made a baby!" "Team effort," "Go team!"

"Welcome to fucking Applebees do you want the apples or bees?" "Bees..?" "THEY HAVE SELECTED THE BEES!"

Welcome to the nightmare inside my head~

The point is; Frogs are bitches and ~we~ do not associate with terrorists

I'M STILL HEADING DOWNHILL, BUT I FOUND A HORSE IN THE SAME PREDICAMENT. SO LIKE, COUNT YOUR BLESSINGS

Characters are their own beings. I just write up their incident reports.

"Don't go chasing waterfalls. Stick to the rivers and the lakes that you're used to,"

"Drop dead," "Low blow..."

"I would like to apologize... that you, are depriving some village of their IDIOT!"

"Dad, could you stop playing tennis with hitler for just a moment and, yaknow, take a quick call?"

There's a hole in your soul [and something is trying to get out]

I'm exhausted and filled with a longing I don't know how to control.

Longing floods out of me like blood, and I truly haven't learned to properly staunch my wounds.

You're the Hyde to my Jekyll, the Chaos to my Calm. The Hate to my Love, the Lost to my Longing.

I've split myself so far down the middle I'm truly not sure where I end and where I begin.

Sometimes I wonder if joking about not having a soul was ever truly a joke.

I will force feed you a vial of impure salts and then watch as you writhe. Don't test me, kid.

There's something strange, there's something wrong. I see a change, it's like when love dies...

God knows; I am careless; this is the true hour of my death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself.

'If he be Mr. Hyde,' Utterson had thought, 'Then I'll shall be Mr. Seek.'

[yilingburialmounds]

Fics Featuring Some Yiling Laozu (either literally or just The Vibes)

Calling Heaven by mondengel

Lan Wangji had not wanted to come at all.

Lan Wangji-centric and short but extremely chilling. Post the First Seige of the Burial Mounds, and it has some great horror vibes.

The waters and the wild by SecretStorm

Lan Wangji has grown up hearing stories of the feared Yiling Laozu, who kidnaps young boys--including his childhood best friend, Wei Ying.

When a Lan child is taken, Lan Wangji travels to the Yiling Laozu's lair in the Burial Mounds.

He does not find what he expected.

Another Lan Wangji-centric piece, featuring Wei Wuxian as a figure similar to the Pied Piper, with a great deal of the fic featuring Lan Wangji terrified for the safety of those in the Burial Mounds. The vibes are this fic are phenomenal, do check them out!

Scrimshaw by Verse

"Is it true that you were sent to Burial Mound? How did you make it out alive?"

"I didn't." he replied, and never said which question he was answering.

This fic delivers some absolute chills! It short and sweet and to the point, and it builds up to the revelations wonderfully. (Honestly, Verse has some very good MDZS horror fics! Check them out!)

Replicatum by ghostdove (sarensen)

They say there's nothing alive in the Burial Mounds. That isn’t entirely true.

(Canon divergence Burial Mounds AU: Wei Wuxian gets thrown into the Burial Mounds after losing his golden core. The Wei Wuxian who leaves the forest is not the same.)

Okay, this fic doesn’t really feature any Yiling Laozu characters or any Yiling Laozu vibes, but it features Wei Wuxian’s stay in the Burial Mounds! It has a great surrealist horror vibe - and some plant horror and body horror - and the first time I read it, it took my breath away. The gnawing hopelessness that sets in alongside all the fantastical horror bits is just to die for! (Pun not in intended but greatly appreciated.) Do check it out!

help is on the way by Vamillepudding

“There,” the Yiling Patriarch says. “Now all that’s missing is a throne. Would you like one?”

“I have no interest in ruling,” Lan Wangji says.

“What is it that holds Hanguang-jun’s interest, then?”

Lan Wangji presses his lips together, unwilling to meet the Yiling Patriarch’s gaze.

(The Yiling Patriarch wins. Lan Wangji is left behind on the fields of the dead and appoints himself a task.)

Real surrealist, fairy tale vibe here, folks! Once again, Lan Wangji-centric, but Wei Wuxian has all the features you’d expect from the Yiling Laozu! Including his reluctant but growing feelings for Lan Wangji, of course! Do check it out, it’s phenomenal!

love, in fire and blood by cicer

"You want Wen Ruohan dead," the Patriarch continued idly. "You want his corpse puppets eliminated. You want his halls burned to the ground and his soldiers disemboweled and begging for mercy. Have I about covered it?"

He gave another knife-edged smile.

"But what will you give me in return?"

"We would be willing to offer quite a bit in return for Wen Ruohan's defeat," Lan Xichen admitted. "But I'm afraid we don't know what an immortal such as yourself desires. Please advise us."

The Patriarch waved at hand at the front of the tent. "I want Second Young Master Lan."

(In which the Sunshot Campaign ends through an arranged marriage to the Yiling Patriarch, and Lan Wangji suffers the mortifying ordeal of falling in love with his own husband.)

This fic is, of course, a classic! Cicer is an amazing writer and they have outdone themself yet again with this fic! War prize!Lan Wangji fics are always a delight, and the beginning parts of this fic have such tension and great Vibes(TM), and the latter parts are so soft and yet still so strong. Slow burn at its finest! 

in the face of cruel fate by sunlaozu

> Lan Wangji was slowly starting to understand now.

> The longer he stood in Wei Wuxian's position, the more he learned of the wicked ways of the world, the more he learned that it was simply too difficult to separate the black and white, and why Wei Wuxian had to resort to the demonic arts.

> Because the path of light will not be enough to go against the world.

After Wei Wuxian's death, Lan Wangji becomes the new Yiling Patriarch.

Okay, this isn’t Yiling Laozu!Wei Wuxian, it’s Yiling Laozu!Lan Wangji, and it’s still wonderful! The summary explains the fic pretty well. It’s only one chapter and technically a WIP, but honestly I thought it was complete, that’s how well-made the first chapter is. Do check it out! 

Buried in the Sky, Hallowed by the Depths by themunchking

If you listen, the mountains of Gusu sing in the evening, as the sun is going down.

That’s what they say in Caiyi Town, where the clear and cold mountain streams flow into the lake. The streams are deep, the locals know. They say they carry the melody down from up high. From Cloud Recesses.

There are reasons it is forbidden to enter the Cloud Recesses after dark.

Okay, this technically doesn’t contain any Yiling Laozu characters, but it has The Vibes strewn all over it! Both Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji’s personalities are so dark and alluring, and they’re so incredibly powerful! Do check it out!

i am the storm by everythingispoetry

Yet another thing Lan Zhan's education failed to teach him which he learns from Wei Ying: sometimes, acts of murder can be a love language.

Another Lan Wangji-centric fic featuring Yiling Laozu!Wei Wuxian. It’s A/B/O this time, but don’t let that put you off - it’s a short fic with phenomenal execution and a whole lot of Wei Wuxian taking care of Lan Wangji. Just remember to read all of the tags before diving it!

Frame of Fearsome Symmetry by donutsweeper

When, in a combination of irony and revenge, Wei Wuxian took Wen Zhuliu's core and crushed it, he hadn't expected the result.

(Canon divergent from episode 15 of the donghua.)

The scene in the donghua where Wei Wuxian ripped out and destroyed Wen Zhuliu’s core always gave me the chills, and this fic plays off of that so wonderfully! It’s twisted and I love it, so do check it out!

And that’s all I’ve got for you, folks! I hope these helped you get a lovely dose of Yiling Laozu!

[anonniemousefics]

The Nine Terrifying Moons | Masterlist

Based on the response to this post. :) Oh, yes, we’re doing the thing.

Cross-posted to AO3.

Fandom: The Folk of the Air | Jude + Cardan

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten

Chapter One: The First

I am trying to keep my hands from shaking while I’m holding the test strip. There’s one pink line, and I’m waiting to see if there will be two. I think I already know the answer, but I’m holding my breath like it’ll make time go faster anyway.

If I ever imagined this moment, which I don’t remember ever doing, but if I did, I would have imagined it like the commercials that would run in the background when my mom would watch tv while she cooked dinner. If those were to be believed, I was supposed to be in an all-white, pristine, upper-middle-class bathroom, gasping with tears of joy while I hid my pearly white smile behind trembling fingers. My partner would be hugging me from behind, elated and definitely not about to make any crude jokes about the virulence of his sperm.

None of this is happening.

I am in a Target bathroom stall, surrounded by Target-red walls. Cardan, my husband and the High King of Elfhame, is on the other side of the red walls, trying to distract himself with the automatic paper towel dispensers. He’s waving his hand in front of it every couple of seconds; I can hear it each time the motor dispenses paper. I wonder how long of a trail he’s created at this point, but it’s the least of my worries.

“Cardan, you’re wasting paper,” I tell him anyway. He does it again once more; I can practically feel his petulant glare through the wall.

“How long is this meant to take?” he asks.

“It’s only been thirty seconds,” I tell him. “It takes two minutes.”

“I will die of old age by then,” Cardan mutters to himself, which I know he finds funny, because he’s immortal, and he waves his hand by the paper towel dispenser again.

I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.

Cardan had not been keen on this particular trip to Target, which is saying a lot, because he’s usually so fond of it. He had wanted to cut our trip to the mortal world short, head back to Elfhame and its royal healers and midwives and have me submit to their inquiries and tests, as all queens and lovers of the High Kings of Elfhame have before me.

But I just needed a minute to think. I needed to process this, with Cardan alone, and face the impossibly difficult questions we’ve been avoiding since this became a question. And if this is true, if I really am with child, with Cardan’s child, I don’t want the first people to know to be a bunch of faerie midwives. I want to tell Vivi and Heather. I want Taryn to know first. And I am filled with loathing when I think about how protected and insulated I’m about to become when the healers and midwives know. How the people will cease to see me as their High Queen and rather as the incubator for their Prince.

I want to eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s. This is all happening so fast.

I glance back at the test strip. Stand and flush the toilet. Step out of the red walls.

Cardan’s raised his dark eyebrows, his hand arrested halfway to the paper towel dispenser again.

“Well?” He looks guarded, unsure of how he’s supposed to be reacting. I hand him the test and step up to the sink, turning on the water to wash my hands. I can see him in the mirror behind me, in his tight pants and boots, The Ramones T-shirt he’s borrowed from Vivi. He’s turning the test over and over in his hands, like he can’t tell which way is up. Same, honestly. My head feels like it’s detached from my body.

“It’s yes,” is the only dumb thing I manage to mutter as I soap up my fingers. Just like the commercials.

“How can you tell?” Cardan’s only looking more confused.

“The two lines.” I turn off the water and tear off part of Cardan’s paper towel train. “The two pink lines mean yes.”

Cardan looks up at me. His chest is hitching in shallow breaths.

“We should be celebrating,” he says, but it comes out like he’s trying to convince himself. So he tries again, squaring up his shoulders with a bit more enthusiasm. “We should be celebrating.”

“Mhmm,” I try to agree with a tight nod. I think I’m going to be sick. Again. Cardan searches my face, his gold-rimmed eyes flitting over the lip I’m worrying away at.

“You do not appear to be particularly celebratory,” he points out, but, then, neither does he. His cheekbones are tingeing red.

“It happened so fast, don’t you think?” My voice sounds almost breathless. It feels like a relief to point out, and that relief is contagious. Cardan’s shoulders sag a little bit as he lets out a breath.

“Lightning fast,” he agrees. He’s white-knuckling the pregnancy test.

“Careful -- I peed on that,” I point out, and, as if I’ve instead told him it’s on fire, Cardan hurls it into the trash with a disgusted huff.

I think for a moment about fishing it back out again, the only bit of evidence that I have that what’s going on inside of me is real. That the legacy we wished first wished for together in the dark, in each other’s arms, not even a month ago, is happening now and fast and there’s no going back. The time for second-guessing was over.

But a disconcerting combination of nausea and hunger hit me in the gut all at once, and I’m reminded that I have plenty of evidence and I’m only going to get more. If I really want to, I’ll just pee on another stick later.

“I need Starbucks,” I spout at the same moment Cardan sighs, “I need a drink.” And we share a quick smile.

At there’s still this. This has not changed.

And I should be enjoying that as we leave the bathroom and Cardan lifts the glamour he’d left at the door to give us some privacy. The “Out of Order” sign vanishes. But instead, I’m thinking of everything that is going to change. Of everything that ought to change, immediately, if at all possible.

I find myself unconsciously reaching for Cardan’s hand, and when I grab his palm and entwine our fingers, he’s squeezing mine back, hard. He knows. The worries and arguments past are resurfacing in his mind, too, and, for a moment, he wordlessly anchors himself to me.

We’re walking past customer service, following the alluring scent trail of coffee and baked goods, as I began to look at the other moms shopping. Their cute messy buns and their athleisure, pushing expensive strollers while their kids gnaw on the season’s latest teethers. And I’m struck, once again, by how much I don’t know.

Really, what are we doing here? Of all the people in all the realms, I think we are the last two people who ought to be becoming parents.

For one, I am an unrepentant murderer. Raised by an unrepentant murderer. Who murdered my own mother in front of me. This is not a person who ought to be cradling newborns.

And Cardan? The twice-cursed High King of Elfhame? Raised by house cats, beaten nightly by his own brother. Simultaneously spoiled and neglected. Is such a person even capable of cradling newborns?

And we’re about to be parents. I need to be reading more, I think. I need to have a plan. We never made a plan. We hadn’t had time to make a plan.

I pause a moment near the checkout lines, pulling Cardan to a stop beside me.

“I’m going to buy a few things first,” I decide in that moment. “Vitamins. Maybe some parenting books.”

“I don’t see the point,” Cardan retorts, straight-faced. “We have plenty of house cats.”

I narrow my eyes up at him as he smirks.

“That joke will be hilarious in a few weeks,” he tells me. “Just you wait.”

“I really doubt it,” I frown, and he’s still smirking when he drops my hand, stepping in front of me.

“My darling Jude,” he cups my face in his hands, and for a moment, his face is all I’m seeing. His expression is soft and tender across his beautiful features, and if our child is even half as good as looking, I am going to struggle to not let it have its way in all things. Or I’m going to want to strangle it. Some days, it’s a coin toss.

“You are the most fearsome and glorious creature I have ever had the privilege to behold,” Cardan is telling me. I’m struck once again by the marvel that he can’t lie and what he is saying must be true. In our five years of marriage, it is still sometimes hard to believe.

“And you will be the most fearsome and glorious mother,” he goes on. “I could not conjure up a more perfect mother for my offspring if I tried.”

“I think that says more about your lack of imagination than anything else,” I quip, but my cheeks are smiling in his hands regardless. He smirks back and quickly kisses me on the lips, once, twice.

“I am happy at this news,” he reassures me, as if he has sensed this whole time how overcome I am.

“I am, too,” I say, and I mean it. Truly. I’m a mixing bowl of emotions. My gaze drifts toward the store. “But we do need parenting books…”

Cardan kisses me quick one last time before releasing my face.

“I will procure your coffee,” he says, taking a step back, and it’s impossible not to look him over, his long, lean body in tight, black pants and worn t-shirt, his messy, black curls around the points of his ears. I have modern science to thank for keeping my womb empty these last five years. Chastity certainly had nothing to do with it.

“And Cardan?” I call after him. He turns. “A cake pop, too?” I ask, already in the clutches of a craving.

He looks intrigued.

“Is that what it sounds like?” he asks.

“Ball of cake on a stick,” I explain, kind of gesturing with my hands as if it will help. Cardan nods, determined.

“Then we will be needing several,” he declares before heading off toward the smell of coffee.

I shoulder the bag I borrowed from Heather and then stuff my hands into the pockets of the yellow sundress I’m wearing, one of a few mortal things of my own I keep at Vivi and Heather’s for visits. I’m on my way to the books section when I start to slow down near a display of newborn onesies.

It isn’t as though I never wanted to be a mother. I supposed there would come a day when I would have acquired all the knowledge one needed to be a mother, and then I would, I don’t know, award myself a medal or a pin and be declared Ready.

Taryn hadn’t been Ready. She would be the first to admit that. Not that I don’t love my niece with my entire heart. But Taryn’s daughter was a handful. Little Eva had been colicky and prone to getting her days and nights confused. For that entire first year, every time we saw Taryn, it seemed she faded a little more: the bags under her eyes greying, her auburn hair growing longer and frayed, everything but her breasts shrinking in size. Of course, it wasn’t permanent. Eva learned to sleep eventually, and to walk and eat and use a toilet, and, now that she was a robust and energetic five-year-old, Taryn was more like herself than she’d been in years.

Still. That first year, though.

Time and time again, Cardan and I would exchange glances while Eva squealed and squalled. It was always a silent No, thank you, please passing between us. We’re just fine without, thank you. Between the battle for the crown and undoing a curse, we’d had quite enough excitement, and so I eagerly welcomed Vivi regularly smuggling me little moon-shaped packets of pink pills from the mortal world. I took them each morning, like clockwork, with relish – it meant I could enjoy my freedom, our freedom as long as I wanted.

I’m not sure what happened in me. One day, I was calling it freedom. The next, it felt like an empty vessel.

We’d gone to visit Taryn and Eva at their estate for a summer solstice brunch. Vivi and Heather had come, and The Ghost was there, too, swapping stories and laughing with Vivi. I’d stepped out onto the terrace to call in Eva for food when I’d spotted Cardan. He was helping Eva climb up a tree, holding her hand while she balanced on a branch. Her wild fox hair was blowing in the late morning breeze that carried her giggle up to the house. Then she leapt at him with a delighted squeal, and he caught her and spun her around so that she squealed some more. And that look of sheer joy on his face when she did. His unguarded laugh echoed up through the grassy hills. I felt my heart crack open.

No, thank you, please suddenly felt very unadvised.

“What have I done to deserve such a face?” Cardan asked me, leaving a lingering kiss close to my ear. I guess I was looking a little amorous when he and Eva came inside. Little Eva was trotting off to the kitchens as I wound my fingers against the buttons of Cardan’s doublet, keeping him close for a moment longer.

“You looked happy,” I said as his hands slid around my waist. I looked up into his dark eyes, warm only for me, and saw he was smiling. “You looked like you liked doing fatherly things.”

He pulled me a little closer, a little tighter.

“I think I did,” he admitted, perhaps hardly believing it himself.

And then it happened. The unspoken shift, the change in the air. It seemed to crackle in the space between our gaze, and it took a fair bit of restraint to not pull him into the nearest coat closet and tear off his clothes. Taryn was calling us anyway. The servants had set the table, and no one would be seated until we had taken our chairs, even in this little family arrangement. Taryn was set on Eva learning courtly manners by example.

Courtly manners. By example. Taryn had the best intentions for Eva, but the phrases make me snort even now while I peruse baby clothes in Target. What example did we set in Faerie? One of murder and deceit and betrayal and lewd behavior.

The same day that I’d watched Cardan play with Eva, he abruptly ended dinner in the palace’s great hall to hoist me into his arms and carry me out, away from every one’s gaze, away from even the guards.

“What has gotten into you?” I kicked my feet and pounded at his shoulders – not particularly hard. Look, I’m not going to pretend this isn’t a game now. I could cause damage if I wanted to. I don’t.

Cardan set me on my feet, only to seize my waist in one arm. We stumbled into an alcove in the wall as his head dipped to my neck, his other hand catching us against the wall. Delighted shivers danced down my arms as his lips brushed the spot below my ear, and I couldn’t hold back a gasp.

“You couldn’t lie to me now even if you wanted to, wife,” Cardan murmured, kissing my ear. He wasn’t wrong. I ran my hands up his deep blue velvet doublet to his shoulders, and bent into his embrace. His hands began to roam my waist, my hips, pulling at my skirts.

“I’ll tell you whatever you like if you’ll keep doing this,” I whispered back, flushing. When he pulled back from my throat, there was a wicked, sneaking smile on his reddening lips.

“You don’t despise the thought of bearing my children,” he said, like it’s a revelation. I blinked. Had he been thinking about our previous exchange all day?

“I despise the thought of bearing any children,” I clarified. “It’s not some honor unique to you.”

Cardan gasped as if he was wounded.

“You could not have cut me deeper,” he teased, as I wound my fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “I thought I was special.”

“You are,” I said, tugging at his hair. “Because if I’m to bear any children at all, I would like them to be yours.”  

The smile that spread over his face then was far from wicked. Cardan was flushed and delighted in a way few got to see, and his arms squeezed around me, lifting me to him as he crushed his lips to mine.

“Cardan,” I laughed against his fevered kisses, my cheeks hurting. “I didn’t mean right this second.”

His lips were swollen when he pulled back, the pupils of his gold-rimmed eyes blown wide.

“Then practice with me,” he said, his breathing ragged. “Like swordplay. You’re always saying I’m rubbish at practicing.”

“You really are,” I gasped against his mouth.

In the last five years, I’ve grown no better at resisting the pull of his desire. If anything, I’m only worse. I couldn’t think straight there in his arms. I wanted to drown in his contagious idealism. I wanted to be set aflame by his soft lips and his body against mine.

With my arms thrown over his shoulders, his lips slid against mine, over and over, our hearts pounding in time together. And then he lifted me off my toes so that he could push us both through our bedchamber door.

A shoe slipped from my foot, and he stumbled over it, kicked it to the side, without releasing my waist. Only when the back of my legs pressed against the bedframe did he pull back from my mouth, breathless. And then he pushed me back onto the bed.

I stretched out on the lush duvet, my whole body thrumming as my heart battered my ribcage. But when I looked up at his face there at the foot of the bed, his expression had darkened in the candlelight.

“What is it?” I pushed myself up to my elbows. “Why are you stopping?”

Cardan suddenly looked as if he was at war with himself. Even though his chest still heaved, he inched to the bed and stepped back again, his dark brows furrowing together.

“Cardan…?” I sat up, alarmed at his hesitation.

“Do you think I would be any good at it?” he blurted out. “At being a father,” he clarified, and winced as if he already knew and hated the answer.

I slid to the edge of the bed and reached for his belt. Pulled him closer.

“You are as equipped for the task as I am,” I said, looking up at him with what I hoped was a provocative smile. He slid his long fingers into my hair, and I needed him closer. “If you’re terrible at it, then I will probably be worse.”

I meant it in jest. He’d always liked this side of me before, my dark, warped cruelty. But this time, his fingers tightened suddenly in my hair.

“Shit.” The word slid out of him like it was being dragged. His hands dropped from my hair, and he stepped back to look at me. He drew in a sharp breath.

“You think I would be a terrible father,” he said, which was hardly fair. That wasn’t what I said at all. I sighed hard, ruing the direction this was going – further from the bed.

“I think neither one of us knows what a good father looks like,” I said. Cardan only gave a painful chuckle.

“We are both quite familiar with terrible fathers,” he said. “I think you, of anyone, would be able to recognize a terrible father when you saw one.”

“And that is the last time you will compare yourself to Madoc,” I said, in horror. “If that is the standard for terrible fathers, then you’re angelic.”

But Cardan gave me a look of slit-eyed skepticism, so I stood from the bed and stepped to him.

“And, really, what does it matter right now?” I asked, lowly, holding a hand to his face. He leaned against it. I was almost ready to start begging. “I am not falling pregnant tonight. We have time to learn these things, if we want to learn them at all.” I lifted onto my tip toes, brushing my lips to the hollow of his cheek.

“Just come to bed,” I whispered there, and I saw his eyes fall shut, his dark lashes against his sharp cheekbones, as he turned to meet the slant of my lips.

“I want to be good at it,” he murmured against my mouth, as I dragged him toward the bed.

“Then you will be,” I insisted just before he cradled the back of my neck, sinking into our kiss as we tipped toward the mattress.

We have time. It’s an easy lie to tell when you’re in Faerie. Time stretches on, limitless and unending. There shouldbe time, endless amounts of time, to learn all you need to know – about anything. There should be time to become the person you’d always wanted to be.

I had had two months since that first conversation. Even less time since the others. In Faerie, that’s hardly a lunch hour.

I am reeling. I’m in Target with a red basket full of prenatal vitamins and snacks and pregnancy books, and I am absolutely reeling.

After I check out, I find Cardan sitting on the curb with a Starbucks bag that’s the size of a large gift bag and two venti Frappuccinos. The one he’s nursing is strawberry-pink and looks full of cream.

“They didn’t have wine,” he tells me, handing me mine. It’s drizzled in caramel, and I’m not sure it’s what I would have ordinarily chosen, but right now, it smells perfect.

“Probably for the best,” I say, and hazard a glance at his expression. It’s dark and troubled again as he squints against the sunlight. His legs are drawn up, and he’s resting his elbows on his knees, like he’s hunched under a weight. Reality’s given him a hard jolt since he kissed me in front of the newborn onesies.

I take a long sip of the Frappuccino through the green straw.

“Cardan, if you don’t want to do this--” I start, and his head jerks up.

“I have always wanted this,” he snaps, looking defensive, and then he’s looking at his boots again.

“Okay.” I sit back, extending my legs.

How do I do this? I have no blueprint for this. Floundering, there’s only one rope I know to pull, the one that’s always saved us: honesty.

So, I go on.

“I’m terrified, too,” I say. I spread the yellow fabric of my sundress over my knees. “If that’s any consolation. I think I’ll be happy eventually, but right now, I’m completely freaking out. I can hardly form a coherent thought. How many cake pops did you get?” I cock my head at the large Starbucks bag.

Cardan shifts it in my direction.

“All of them,” he says, glumly.

I raise my eyebrows as I peer in the bag. Oak will be excited, at least.

“I hate myself for being so terrified of a thing I desperately want.” I look up at Cardan’s confession to see his face twisted in loathing, and my heart twists right along with it. I know this pain, the agony of fearing what you love.

I could lie to him; I probably should. I should tell him right now that I know without a shadow of a doubt he will be a perfect father, that he’s beyond everything that had been done to him, that none of it had ever touched me either. But I don’t lie to him anymore.

Instead, I hand him a cake pop.

“That strikes me as a waste of energy,” I say, and nudge him with a coy smile. “There are so many other things you could hate yourself for.”

He gives me a wicked smirk and, instead of taking the cake pop I’ve offered, he seizes my other wrist and takes a large bite out of the one I’d claimed for myself. Feigning exasperation, I stab at him with the leftover stick.

“Does this not strike you as problematic?” he asks a moment later, his cheek still full of cake.

“Yes.” I reply with a stoic nod. “The fact that you just ate a pregnant lady’s cake pop is both striking andproblematic.”

“I mean this repartee you and I enjoy.” He wipes at a bit of icing at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. “A child ought to know his father loves his mother and vice versa, should he not? I would think that sort of thing helps.”

I feel the heartbreak behind his words as if it were my own. In his mind, he’s now on an endless search for every moment in his childhood that went wrong, every little action he ought to do the opposite of. I know. My mind’s been doing it, too.

I scoot a little closer, nearing his warmth, so that I can lean against him. He rests his head on top of mine.

“But you’re my nemesis,” I say, softly.

“Jude,” he says it like he’s scolding. “Not in front of the children.”

“Do not say ‘children’.” I jab him again as he presses his lips to the top of my head. “Your wishes are too powerful, and there is room in here for only one.”

Cardan’s slipped an arm around me, and I tilt my head back to look at him. The corner of his mouth is tugging upwards, slyly.

“Tell me I’m too powerful again,” he murmurs as he kisses my cheek.

“Later,” I promise, and I reach for another cake pop.

There will be time for all that later.

It’s a lie I get used to telling.

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

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[hogwartsfirebolt]

Ways you said I love you prompt: Without needing to say the words

I couldn’t find this prompt on the list, but it was so beautiful the story started writing itself in my head. Thank you very much for asking ❤️

Ways you said I love you: Without needing to say the words.

Draco dreams of the forest. A forest, he supposes, but it feels like the forest.

In the dream, he’s holding a stone and looking at the ghostly figure of Harry Potter. In the dream, he’s crying. He can hear his parents calling out for him, he can hear, still, the echo of bombardas that he knows should have ended hours before.

He knows, in the dream, that things had gone the way he always knew they had to. He knows that he wishes they hadn’t. That, in the dream, he’s devastated.

That heartbreak follows him into daylight, drapes itself over him like a cloak. He feels it when he wakes, feels it as he walks the halls of the manor he commands, feels it as he’s told by his house elf that his father has called by floo and is waiting for him. He feels it as he hears him say, “the Potter boy was seen in Dorset three days ago. You know what to do if you find him.”

The heartbreak follows him all day, because he knows if he sees Harry Potter, he has to kill him. He knows that he will. And he mourns him already, the man he has never met, the man who is more legend than man, because he remembers himself standing in that forest. Because, in a dream, he knew him.

He also knows what’s expected of him, and he will follow through. Even if it kills him.

-

But this is not that kind of story.

-

What happened was this: the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord was born as the seventh month died.

And so, one fateful Halloween night, the man who called himself Lord Voldemort aimed his wand at that baby, after killing everyone standing on his way. He didn’t flinch or bat an eye, way past the point of hesitating before taking a life, even if it was the life of an innocent, wide-eyed one year old who stared at him with his arms outstretched, looking for comfort. He aimed his wand and said the words that would kill him.

The babe, defenseless, just sat there.

...but killing off a child would not be very PG-13 of us, would it, and so what happened was this: the little boy broke the Killing Curse as it slammed against him, turned it into endless fragments of green light, tendrils of black magic that floated up into the ceiling like dancing fingers, fading into nothing. Some of it slipped inside of him through his weeping little baby mouth, through his wide green eyes, through the jagged crack the impact put on his forehead, but most of it – gone.

And yes, the boy was nestled in a cocoon of protective magic strengthened by his parents’ sacrifice, but he was an actual baby, and a powerful curse slamming against him was certainly enough to knock him out, even if he did have a bit of a magical force field. He passed out. He did not die.

The man who called himself Lord Voldemort – perhaps not much of a man after all –  did not die that day, either, in any way, shape or form. There was no rebound to the spell. From his side of the wand, it appeared as if it had hit the boy and done what it was due.

He peered into the crib that held the unconscious baby and, being a Dark Lord and therefore not knowing the first thing about babies, assumed his work there was done. Satisfied, he turned on his heel and stormed down the stairs, ready to continue his pursuit of power, now unstoppable. That’s what he thought.

But the boy had not died, as we’ve established. What happened to him was this: a devastated young man in a flying motorcycle found him and, you know, like a regular person, thought to shake him around a bit before assuming he was dead. And the baby knew him, so he sighed with relief upon waking, lay against the man’s chest and fell back asleep clutching his battered jacket in his tiny fists.

When Hagrid came for the boy, Sirius insisted on accompanying him, and together they met Albus Dumbledore in Surrey. Yes, unfortunately that still happened.

We know how this story could have gone. But it is not how it went.

What happened was this: young Sirius Black now had an alibi. Even though the baby was still left in a terrible home with his terrible aunt and uncle, his godfather, a free man, visited him in the form of a dog – against Dumbledore’s orders, but, in young Sirius’ words, he did not give a shit – and taught him about magic all through his childhood. Harry Potter was a happy boy. He knew his stay in Privet Drive was momentary, he knew as soon as that man “Dumbledore” allowed it, his godfather would take him.

A few things changed, of course. This is not the story we knew. Let us try to break it to you… gently.

  1. Harry James Potter received the “you’re a wizard” talk at 4 years old, as soon as Sirius thought he’d be old enough to understand it.

  2. Sirius Black told him all about his parents as well. Showed him pictures and books and sometimes cried while he cradled Harry to sleep.

  3. Sirius Black, unbeknownst to Harry, once slipped into the Dursley’s bedroom at night, let them think he was a demon, and threatened to unleash hell’s wrath upon them if they weren’t nice to their nephew. It worked.

  4. Lord Voldemort didn’t die that Halloween night.

  5. Lord Voldemort continued his campaign for power and immortality.

  6. Lord Voldemort gained terrain over the Ministry, terrorized and devastated magical villages, established governors in each of them –  Death Eaters, all of them.

  7. Lord Voldemort directed a series of attacks against ministry facilities.

  8. On Christmas Eve, 1986, the Ministry fell. Millicent Bagnold was killed in her office, and Pius Thicknesse was appointed Minister in her place.

  9. Lord Voldemort gained full control of magical Britain.

  10. Albus Dumbledore visited when Harry turned 7 and told him the story of Tom Riddle, the man, and Voldemort, the monster. Harry was 7, and Dumbledore let him know he was a soldier. He let him know he was the most powerful wizard of all time, probably. He let him know he was their only hope. Harry was 7.

Everything was different.

Harry was whisked away from Privet Drive and taken to Grimmauld Place. He was 7, and his transformation into a warrior, a bringer of hope, began.

-

Harry Potter is, at 20 years old, a first priority criminal, wanted by a corrupt government for treason and criminal disloyalty.

The tips of his fingers hold more power than many wizarding folk see in their entire lives, charged with years of training, charged with light and dark magic, balanced inside of him like night and day. And what he does is this: he walks. There’s a member of the Resistance next to him, always, a different one each day as he walks through the country, feet calloused, refusing to apparate anywhere before he sees it all. He walks, passes villages in his search for horcruxes, and bestows small miracles upon those who need him.

He comes and goes, more legend than man. In places where governors reign wielding terror as their weapon, the people await him. His name is whispered in taverns, held close like a secret, like something precious, and when he appears, white hooded cloak shadowing his face, it’s as if rain poured after centuries of drought. He smells of dirt before a storm, of fresh grass, and every house welcomes him in secret in the middle of the night.

His hands brush over burning foreheads, over broken arms, through strands of hair, and his touch is curative. His words slide smooth like a balm over wounded souls, his message — we will win this, I will win this, worry not, fear not, for I will end this — the love everyone feels for him, deep in their hearts. He’s a stranger, but he’s not. In places where fear has become a living, breathing thing, villages where everyone cowers before their leaders, people bow down for their warrior, kiss his calloused hands, his scarred forehead, and what little they have they give him so he can continue his trip.

At night, after he has left, the air smells different, smells like him, like rain and lightning, and his message of love is whispered into the night with the certainty that he will free them, he will free them.

Harry Potter, the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. The boy who lived, the man destined to become a savior.

At night, people come together in secret and say, “long live Harry Potter, savior of all.”

-

He’s just a boy, too.

He flies over Dorset, broom held tight between his legs as he makes his way to the Resistance’s refuge in East Devon. The hands that cured a man of blindness earlier, now push through a wooden door and find their way around the back of his godfather, who was up waiting for him. Desperate times, but that man always has a smile for Harry.

“News of civilization?” He asks then, holding him tight, letting him know it’s okay to share the burden of his responsibilities if only for a minute.

“Yes. A man knows of a man who bought the cup. We need to move to Wiltshire.”

That’s how he lives. Just a boy who happens to be a savior, who lives nowhere and everywhere, who knows his duty, who has trained his whole life to achieve it.

And Sirius goes with him. “We’ll hit the road tomorrow.”

-

When Harry Potter knocks on his door, Draco almost sicks up on the spot.

Piercing green eyes stare at him, ready for a fight. But Draco is smart. He knows Harry Potter has come looking for something. Draco reads the paper, talks to his father daily about the information they have on Potter at the Ministry. He wouldn’t come, unless he was looking for something.

Draco should kill him, should end this, win the Dark Lord’s favor.

But he dreamt of a forest, and of knowing this man who carries the wild in his eyes.

He lets him in.

-

Malfoy Manor is full of secrets. Harry coaxes them out of hiding, cradles them near his chest and learns about darkness by stumbling into it in every corner.

The cup calls for him from the heart of the house, and he finds it on the second day of his stay, unearths it from a coffin in the depths of the dungeons. He destroys it on the spot, unspools the layers of iron with the magic contained beneath his fingernails, and destroys it.

When he turns, Draco Malfoy is in the corner. The child of a Death Eater.

But Harry has been in many places, seen enough repentance to recognize it in downcast grey eyes. He lowers his cloak and walks to the child of a Death Eater, holds his head between his hands.

“You can tell me.”

“There’s more where that cup came from,” Draco mutters, as if Harry had forced it out of him. He could have, but he didn’t.

“Will you show me?” And he can tell this man whose beautiful face he holds between his fingertips knows little of gentleness, knows it because he sees him flinch at Harry’s uncomplicated love and soft words.

“I should turn you in.”

“Will you show me?”

Draco shows him.

-

He learns more from Harry Potter the first two weeks they spend together than he did in 7 years at Hogwarts.

In the mornings, he steps out the door to find Harry kneeling by the flower beds, and when he turns to Draco his smile is wide and gentle, “Look at this,” he says, and with a touch to their petals, he makes the buds shake off their stupor and bloom, nurses them back to health. “Every living thing is ready to thrive, if you ask nicely.”

In the evenings, when they share a meal by the fire, he can’t stop himself from thinking about his father. About the fact that he’s betraying him. And Harry knows, because he always knows. In the short time they’ve spent together, he’s always seemed to know.

“Once you’ve passed your own limit, punishing yourself for love, you will start hating yourself, Draco,” he tells him as if he could read his mind, and then reaches for his hands and plays with his fingers, traces an outline of vines and flowers along Draco’s arms with magic, with locks of pure, blue light. “And if you think you know what’s right, that’s what you should do.”

And it’s nothing Draco doesn’t know. He knows what’s right, knows the magic of Harry’s hands, knows his heaving chest after an evening looking through the libraries for clues of where he needs to go next, he knows his profile, has been staring at it for days, he knows what he feels after Harry kisses his hands and tells him he can join them if he wants, they have room for him, he has room for him.

He knows what’s right. Harry’s message of love, of life is what’s right. And he would walk through fire if Harry asked, but right now, he’s simply asking him to thrive, if he’s ready.

He’s ready.

-

“The locket is in Inverness,” Harry says. He can see Draco flinch, and he knows the reason. “We have a fortress there. Will you come with me?”

He knows the reason.

-

This is what it’s like, walking with him: there’s magic where Draco never thought to look before. In the eyes of a child, who feels hope for the first time, in the lips of a mother that kisses Harry’s hands and Draco’s forehead. There’s magic in Harry’s feet as they touch the ground and make flowers bloom around him, as he brings life to everything around him, offers tenderness and words of love in places where authoritarian brutality is the norm.

It’s this: walking into prisons at night and melting out the iron keeping innocents locked in. It’s colors seeping into grey, it’s Harry reaching into a tree and it producing a perfect, ripe apple to gift to him, it’s Harry pressing it to Draco’s lips with a smile and saying, “here, you’ve earned it.” It’s Draco biting into it and being certain of the fact that he loves this man, tasting it in the sweet, sweet juice after breaking the skin of the fruit.

He knows, now, that Harry is the legend he has always heard about. He’s infinite, raw power poured into the purest vessel it could find, he’s gentleness to his core, he’s magnetic and good. He makes it impossible not to love him.

And he knows, now, that Harry is also the boy everyone forgot used to hide underneath that cloak. That for all the life he brings everywhere he walks, there’s a solemnity he carries in his chest, the burden of hope heavy between his shoulder blades, crushing him even if he does not know.

Sirius comes and goes, joins them on their trip and disappears on recon missions, over and over. Once, when they’re alone, Draco tells him about it, says “he’s just a boy” and Sirius sighs because he knows what it’s like to love him, to love this boy who is both young and ancient, like Draco does, and can’t even assure him, because there’s many ways this could end, and only one of them, the least likely of them, lets them keep him.

So he gives Draco a stone.

-

It takes them a year. Harry makes his way through England and Scotland, brings hope and freedom to the people as he searches for the items he needs to destroy the Dark Lord.

Draco guides him into Hogwarts, hand in hand, the moment they know where to find the last one. As Harry destroys it, he sees Draco cry.

He hasn’t told him what Harry has always known, that the way this ends for him is in sacrifice, but he thinks Draco must suspect. So he holds him in his arms and smooths his hands through his hair and over his eyelids. “It’s almost over, my beloved. Now let him come to me.”

He makes himself sound more confident than he feels. For the first time, as he holds Draco close, he doubts his own faith, for entirely selfish reasons.

But he remembers his lessons, and he remembers Dumbledore, and the Order, and reminds himself that this is what he was born for.

“Let him come to me.”

-

Draco knows what Harry is going to do, and sees him try to hide it. He sees him fight, sees him help every single witch and wizard to cross paths with him, the way he always does.

And when they part ways in the midst of the battle later that night, when Draco sees his mother, he feels something shatter inside of him and knows it’s happening. So he runs.

-

“The boy who lived, come to die.”

“You think this ends with me, Tom, but it doesn’t. The people’s pain is more powerful than their fear, and they won’t be silent. Do not think they’ll be silent. From the other side, I will see them bring you down.”

And then a curse, finally doing what it was due all those years before.

-

He stands in the forest, a stone held tight between his fingers. He can hear his parents’ cries for him in the distance, running towards him, echoes of bombardas that should have stopped hours before. He stares at the ghostly figure of Harry Potter.

“Why?”

“This was the only way he would die. I know you don’t understand, Draco, but this was the only way.”

“But he’s not dead, he went back to the castle, he’s making everyone pick sides. Harry, it’s over, it’s over.”

-

Harry stands in Kings Cross.

He’s given a choice, and he thinks of the burden, thinks of what his life might look like now, what will be expected of him next.

He thinks of the boy with the grey eyes.

He makes his choice.

-

In the morning light, a hero is reborn. Draco tosses him a wand and runs to fight next to him. Where he always belonged.

Afterwards, when the withering body of a man who was a monster hits the ground, they walk into the Hall, hand in hand, covered in dust from head to toe. Harry touches every bloodstained forehead, every dead body, presses his forehead to them and whispers words in the ancient language of the magic that runs through his veins, through underground streams and every living, breathing thing.

Everywhere in the Hall, eyes begin to open, and look into a new world.

-

“The change is only starting,” Draco tells him, as they stand with their foreheads pressed together outside the castle.

“It has started, my beloved.”

He doesn’t say he loves him, but Draco has known from the beginning, hears the words in the spaces between, slowly, dripping from every pore of Harry’s skin.

“We should go away for a while, just… while the dust settles.” Harry doesn’t protest, but Draco sees it in his eyes, and so, he interrupts his thoughts with a soft press of cracked lips, rough to touch, tender to heart. When he pulls away, Harry’s smile is nearly blinding. “You deserve it, for once. Besides, I know of a place in Wiltshire where the flowers sing your name.”

“And you?”

“And I sing it, too. I sing it, my love.”

[harrelltut]

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