#conveniently he also tends to not think about these excuses for more than ten seconds

[aroacettorney]

for a character with a reputation of being extremely rational and logical, many of ludger's actions are actually quite emotionally motivated. even when he stays oblivious to his true emotions, there are still many instances where we can see how they unknowingly manifest in his actions and subtly influence his biases. i think ludger's second most toxic trait is that he tends to subconsciously cook up a seemly logical reason to spontaneously cover up his emotional ass because he cannot admit to himself that he feels emotions intensely.

exhibit A: his vengeance for arte's death required him to admit that he had a strong attachment to the kid, so he stated that eliminating the evil and offering solace to the victims were the actual reasons. counter: there were many better ways to deal with delica's incidents if his goal was simply enacting justice. even hans realised that this was a weak excuse to conceal his regrets.

exhibit B: his mercy towards aiden required him to admit his unwillingness to eliminate him, so he covered it up by reasoning that it would be too risky to take a student's life. counter: we know very well that he's fully capable of eliminating someone without leaving a trace if he puts his mind to the task.

exhibit C: his sparing casey's life twice required him to admit his disinclination to kill her, so instead, he reasoned that she was more useful alive and that her excessive pride wouldn't let her easily expose him to the public anyway. counter: strategically speaking, turning her against blackdawn was an obvious blunder. he didn't even need her to deal with them. plus, somehow he conveniently forgot at the moment that casey could still have told her best friend, terinna, about his identity regardless of the matter of pride and subjected him to even worse danger.

exhibit D: his taking owens under his wings and founding u.n. owen required him to admit his emotional bonds to them, so he claimed that he needed a strong fortress for his goals and his own protection, especially against the bretus. counter: considering his op-ness, he had never really needed protection. he also mainly tasked owens with leg work while dealing with most of the dangers by himself. he even ended up disbanding them to confront bretus on his own and telling them to prioritize their lives over his goals.

at first glance, his reasoning might seem sound and logical, but if we look at them for more than ten seconds, they are actually quite flimsy and contradictory. this is not to say he's inherently an idiot or a terrible liar. ludger's capability of reasoning is proven comparable to that of casey. he is also an excellent liar when it comes to deliberately lying to someone. but how does one reason or lie about feelings that they themselves are not even aware of?

my hypothesis:

when his suppressed emotions subconsciously influence his biases and/or manifest into his actions, ludger needs to convince himself that he is still being logical, and thus, without even realising it, he tries to rationalize them and grab onto whatever reason that momentarily sounds in his mind: why was he so dedicated to teaching his students? he couldn't get caught half-assing his job, and he wanted to earn the trust of the president. why did he save esmeralda? quasimodo annoyed him, so he had to step in. why did he delay the first princess' orders and prioritize the students' safety during the attacks on the capital? it was the princess' trusted blade himself who suggested saving the students, and not him. why did he accept casey's companionship during his moriarty's era? it was an act, and he was simply getting into his character.

whether ludger wants to admit it or not, he has always been a person moving according to his emotions. and the actual reason why we see so many inconsistencies and hypocrisies in his actions when aligning all of them together with his own logic is that his reasonings are only flimsy excuses that his subconsciousness makes up on the fly to rationalize away his repressed emotions, i.e. his strong attachments to this world.

[qlala]

Hi here's my money for that Barry and Len "guilt versus shame" essay. Thanks! 💰💰💰💰💰 (I drew the dollar signs on the bags myself. I'm crafty)

Anon when I said essay, I meant essay. But alright. Here you go. for you and your hand-drawn dollar signs. Come, take this journey with me. (A journey of character analysis for fun—please, no one take this as reliable psychology.)

As I said, I consider the main conflict between Barry and Leonard not one of good versus evil, but of guilt versus shame. Specifically, the difference between them is that Barry is a character motivated by guilt, while Len is motivated by shame.

(And to get this out of the way - I’m not talking about sexuality, but how Barry and Len relate to the world and other people. I don’t think Len is the least bit ashamed of his sexuality; Wentworth Miller has always said that Len is someone who knows exactly who he is, and I think that’s true).

A more accurate way of talking might be to say that guilt-driven characters are motivated by love, while shame-driven characters are motivated by respect.

I’m going to start with Barry, because guilt-motivated characters tend to be much more straight-forward than shame-driven characters. Barry grew up (with some bumps along the way) in supportive, loving homes. His parents, and later Joe, always treated him with love, which allows Barry to love himself and other people.

Treating children with love is the most basic respect their guardians can afford them, and they’ll always have that basic core of respect to fall back on in the face of outside adversity. (Barry is remarkably hard to ruffle with insults—antagonists always have to target the people he loves, because he just… does not rise to the bait when it’s just his own pride on the line.)

This kind of early exposure to love and respect are fundamental to being able to feel guilt about harming others later in life. Barry was raised to respect and love other people (in the general, “love your fellow man” sense), so he would feel guilty if he hurt someone innocent. The core sense of self-respect and self-love that Barry developed in childhood means Barry’s sense of self can always take the hit when he feels guilty about hurting other people.

Guilt makes us feel, temporarily, unloveable. But because Barry was raised to feel fundamentally deserving of love, he can afford to feel briefly unloveable when he hurts other people—it just means he needs to make amends, and then he’ll be worthy of that love again.

That’s why Barry’s a guilt-driven (or love-driven) character: when he interacts with the world, the thing he’s most afraid of losing is love. He’s never been put in a position where he feels like what he’s missing is respect.

And that’s where he and Len differ. Len’s not guilt- or love-driven; he’s shame-driven.

Len appears to feel zero guilt for hurting innocent people, at least when we first meet him in season 1. And the reason for that is Lewis. As I mentioned, love is a prerequisite for guilt. And unlike Barry, Len wasn’t brought up in a loving home. I highly doubt that Lewis’s love for Len was ever freely given, even before he became physically abusive. And if it was, that sense of self was absolutely ripped away from Len when that abuse started.

As I mentioned, treating children with love is the most basic respect their guardians can give them. By withholding that love, Lewis taught Len that he was inherently worthy of neither love nor respect. Raised in that environment, where violence was the way Len saw power exerted over others, the natural response was for Len to seek out respect, not love. He had nothing to gain from loving others—and therefore, from feeling guilt—because he’d already been taught he could survive without love. What he couldn’t survive without was respect, because disrespect meant becoming the object of violence—first from his father, and later, from the criminal justice system.

(Prison is a conversation for another day, but suffice to say, the dehumanizing treatment incarcerated people face parallels that childhood lack of love, robs them of the self-respect and self-love they need to have healthy relationships with other people, and increases the likelihood that they’ll commit violent crimes, not reduces it).

So Len did whatever it took to survive, and survival meant accumulating respect. There’s an obvious cure to this obsession with respect, of course: 1) love, and 2) safety.

Now, as eager as I am to jump into how Barry helped Len break the cycle of violence, Barry’s not the source of love I want to talk about here. Barry comes in later; when I talk about the love that saved Leonard, I’m talking about Lisa.

Because, listen—I’m as exhausted as you are by the trope of “female loved one is male character’s humanity,” especially where, like in some of the Flash comics, it means killing off Lisa to make Leonard a more ruthless (and, I guess the the theory goes, interesting?) villain. But Lisa isn’t just some crack in Len’s armor; she fundamentally changed Len’s life when she was born.

Len was already somewhere between thirteen and sixteen by the time Lisa was born; for the sake of convenience, let’s put him around 15. (For some more detailed meta about the Sniblings' ages, check out this excellent post by @coldtomyflash). If Len was five when Lewis went to prison, and ten when Lewis came out a much more violent man (see: everything I said about prison earlier), that means Len experienced several years of incredibly traumatic treatment before Lisa was born.

He and Mick were in juvie together at least once when Len was still young enough to be “the smallest kid in there,” and Len was nearly killed. Mick saved him, yes, but the experience had to further numb Len to guilt and reinforce that violence and respect were the only real paths to survival.

And then, Lisa. Len clearly, canonically loves Lisa from the moment she’s born. We know nothing about either of their mothers (and it is pretty likely, given the 15-year age gap between them, that they have different mothers), but they’re clearly both out of the picture—Lisa says Len raised her. Len raised her! Fifteen years old, three years away from being free and clear of Lewis’s house forever, and Len stays to raise her.

Lisa is absolutely the one person keeping Len from sliding fully head-first into the path carved for him by Lewis and reinforced by the prison system. He is still primarily shame- and respect-driven—we see him kill people without any guilt, hell, he tries to derail a train with children on board in season one just to see what Barry will do.

But Lisa taught Len that he’s deserving of love and capable of loving others, and because of that, Len cannot, will not respect Lewis for his violence he rains on them both.It leaves open a door in his mind: Lisa doesn’t deserve to be treated that way, which could mean, if he could ever afford to consider it, that he didn’t deserve to be treated that way, either.

It’s why Barry is so unbelievably smug at the end of “Family of Rogues.” He’s figured it out; he wouldn’t put it in terms like guilt and shame, but he’s cracked it all the same. He always knew Len was like him, was someone who had been forced into violence by his circumstances, and now he has proof. Barry is remarkably unconcerned that Len shot Lewis; he’s briefly surprised, sure, but by the end of the episode he’s visiting Len in Iron Heights and goading him about the good in him.

And that’s where Barry comes in. He’s the crucial second ingredient to that cure for shame—he’s the safety.

He blazes into Len’s life and praises him for things no one else ever praised him for: for his morals, for his mercy, for the way he loves Lisa. He gives him an acceptable out to stop killing (he appeals to his vanity, says he’s good enough at what he does that he doesn’t need to hurt innocents, and they both know it’s an excuse), and he makes it clear that he respects not Len’s capacity for violence, but his desire to escape the need for it.

He also offers Len protection to start making that transition. Len knows, even if neither of them say it, that Barry would drop everything to help him if he called. When Len’s reluctant do-gooding puts him in harm’s way, like with King Shark in ARGUS, Barry does drop everything. He gives up a tool that could save Iris’s life to save Len’s instead. This is not me hating on westallen at all—Barry’s sense of obligation to Len is just that strong. He knows he’s put Len on slippery ground by helping extract him from the safety net he’d built himself out of violence.

And that’s Barry’s guilt drive in action—because yeah, he loves Len. He cares about him, and he respects him, and that’s love to Barry. He just wants to give Len the chance to love people that way, too. And in the end, Len, despite all his misgivings, ends up letting him.

[candycityy]

Ooh rivetra and 20 or 76 (or both if you want to ;)) for the Drabble prompts pleeeease 🧡🖤

Note: I did both because what can I say, I love a challenge, hehehe. I hope you like it!

References this earlier drabble.

(You can also read this on AO3!)

So here's the thing, right. For all his flaws—and he does have flaws, no matter what the fawning masses think—Levi isn't stupid.

Sure, he's not probably not cut out for the rarefied, upper-crust intelligentsia that Erwin Smith moves in. And sure, certain idiots of the variety of Hanji Zoë might swear on their dying breaths that he's all brawn and no brain, et cetera, but the truth is, he's got enough street smarts and common sense that most people conveniently overlook his awful social skills.

And that means that contrary to popular belief, Levi doesn't totally suck at social events. The Sina elite tend to misread his frosty bluntness and lack of etiquette as a refreshing, man-on-the-street brand of humour. Which, well, whatever works, he supposes.

Unfortunately, as a matter of consequence, that means that even with a hyperactive three-year old at home, Erwin had point-blank refused to let him off for this year's Midwinter Ball. He'd given him leave for the past few since Ava was still far too young to be left alone at home, but judging by the commander's expression, he's just about exhausted his excuses.

"You know the state of our finances, Levi," he'd said, cerulean eyes earnest and entreating. "We need every coin we can get. And, well, you're always quite popular at these balls, being humanity's strongest and all—not accounting for taste, of course—"

"Oi!"

The commander'd smirked, but his expression had faded back to solemnity quickly enough. "We need you there, Levi. I won't make it an order, but consider it...a personal request. Please?"

Levi'd grumbled under his breath. "Whatever. I'll go, I'll go, just stop looking at me like that," he'd barked.

Erwin had smiled. "I knew I could count on you, Levi."

Cut to the present. It's just past six o'clock, the winter sky only now beginning to darken into a somewhat forbidding shade of violet-grey. He's already dressed in his standard black suit, pacing back and forth the small living room, his eyes darting to the clock every few seconds.

Petra, who's in the midst of removing the curlers from her hair, shoots him an irritated look. "Would you calm down," she hisses, "you're driving me crazy. And Ava's going to pick up on it too, you know."

They both glance at their daughter, who's serenely colouring in a picture in crayon at the other end of the room. The three-year-old is Petra in miniature, from her wide eyes right down to her peaches-and-cream complexion. With just one exception: her hair is just a touch darker than her mother's: more cinnamon than honey.

Levi runs a hand through his hair. "Why aren't they here yet?" he says, for the third time that night.

"Because we told them to come at half past," Petra replies, with somewhat less patience than she'd ordinarily have. "Now get over here and help me do up my necklace, would you."

The metal is cold to the touch, but Petra just smiles softly as he clasps the necklace behind her neck with deft fingers. "Remember our first Midwinter Ball?" she reminisces. "That was pretty fun, wasn't it?"

"Fun for you, maybe," Levi says drily. "I was busy dragging Auruo off the dance floor after he puked and blacked out, remember?"

She giggles. "Oh, yeah. I forgot about that part. But still, that was when we danced together for the first time." They fall into a comfortable, nostalgic silence, and finally, he sighs.

"I still don't like leaving her alone," he mutters.

"It's hardly the first time," Petra says gently.

"I know, but it's the first time we'll be so far from her. And for so long, too—a whole night." His eyes turn contemplative. "Maybe I could just ride back, after the ball—if the weather isn't bad—"

"Don't even think about it," she says sharply. "The roads aren't safe this time of year, especially not so late at night, there's too much ice. We'll be back in the morning, Levi. Don't worry so much."

He snorts. "Easier said than done. Why aren't they here yet?" he asks again. This time, Petra ignores him, instead turning back to the mirror and carefully applying lipstick with a practiced hand.

After the final step—dusting her cheeks with rose-tinted powder—she rises to her feet, doing a slow turn in her gown, a sleek, champagne-coloured affair with a fitted bodice and fluted sleeves, cut out of satin and embellished with tiny buttons down the front. Her delicately curled hair falls in soft waves to her collarbone, just brushing the front of her dress.

"What do you think?" she goes. Oblivious to his sullen silence, she juts out a hip and flutters her lashes at him coquettishly, an action which earns her an eye-roll.

"You're going to make everyone stare," he grumbles. She giggles.

"I have to keep your fangirls away, now don't I?" she teases, with a toss of her head. He's about to issue a retort when a knock comes at the door.

"Right on time, as usual," Petra declares. Levi just scowls.

He'd had been reluctant to get them back after the first disastrous incident, but Petra had insisted that they'd done a good job—"after all, Ava was perfectly fine, wasn't she?" As a result, Eren and Jean have become their go-to babysitters ever since. Levi's loath to admit it, but their daughter has warmed up to them. She's already toddling over to the door with a ready beam on her face, as the boys troop in through the door, faces flushed with the cold.

"Eren nii-chan! Jean nii-chan!" she chirps, plump arms outstretched. "Pick me up, pleaaaase?"

Eren breaks into a grin and obliges. His terror of Levi has subsided somewhat, although he still occasionally trips over his feet whenever he walks past, but he openly adores the toddler. Jean's a bit more reserved, but as Ava begins to babble cheerfully, his expression noticeably softens—even though he claims he's not a fan of babies, Levi suspects that he's secretly just as enamoured with Ava as his comrade is.

Of course, that only makes sense, considering that as far as Levi is concerned, Ava Ackerman is the cutest fucking baby on the planet.

Outside the door, there's the distant sound of approaching hooves pounding against cobblestone. Sensing a farewell, Petra sighs and leans over to give Ava one last hug, as Levi presses a gentle kiss to his daughter's cheek.

"We'll better be off," she says reluctantly. "Boys, thank you so much for taking care of Ava tonight. If anything goes wrong, you know what to do."

All four adults exchange grim, silent glances; they know what's coming next. Levi picks up his coat and shrugs it on. Petra wraps a scarf around her neck.

And with a sigh, they push the door open, and wait.

Three, two—

"Nooooo!"

Ava lets out a ear-splitting shriek, one that seems far too loud to come from such a small baby. Her eyes well up with anxious tears as she comes to the awful realisation that her parents are leaving without her, and she struggles desperately towards them, her face screwed-up and flushed with fury, as Eren doggedly tries to keep her from wriggling out of his arms. Beside him, Jean attempts in vain to ply her with sweets and toys, but she won't be soothed or distracted.

"No, no, no!" Ava wails. Her tiny fists pummel Eren's shoulder, who, to his credit, doesn't flinch, just hefts her up resignedly. "No go, no go! Stay!"

Petra sends him a warning look. And even as every atom of his body rebels against the thought of it...

Levi steps over the threshold, and into the wintry night air.

==

"Levi," Petra says patiently, "you're fidgeting."

She places a hand on his thigh, which, apparently, he'd been subconsciously jiggling all this while. Calming Ava down had taken about ten whole minutes, but Eren and Jean had finally managed to distract her with a game of hide-and-seek—her new favourite—and they'd quietly snuck onto the carriage before she could realise their trick.

They're barely more than a mile from home, but already being away from Ava feels like a piercing, physical pain in the front of his skull, a palpable anxiety that refuses to fade. Even Petra's presence, usually so comforting, doesn't soothe him in the slightest.

"Sorry," he mutters. "It's just—it's fucking terrifying, being a parent." His wife touches his cheek in silent commiseration, and they both sit in silence.

It's as perfect a night as it could ever be, in all honesty. The moon is full and bright, its silvery light beaming helpfully onto their path. The road is almost deserted this evening—Levi supposes most people would rather be safely tucked in the warmth of their homes, celebrating the holiday season with their own families instead of with dozens of expensively-attired strangers.

Fuck it all. Sensing his blood pressure rising, he takes a deep breath. The air is cool and dry and calming. Turning to stare out at the window, he listens to the rhythmic clickity-clack of the horses' hooves, their huffed pants of exertion, the metallic whine of the wheels—

Levi frowns. "What was that?"

"What was what?" Petra starts to ask, and then stills—this time, she'd heard it too. That high-pitched, bell-like sound, that sounds disturbingly like...

She swallows. "D-did you just make that noise?"

He stares at her drily. "I don't think my vocal chords could physically manage that."

"You don't think..." Her jaw drops, and she almost leaps towards the driver's seat in her urgency, startling the poor old man. "Excuse me! Stop the carriage, please!"

The horses have barely come to a halt when Levi disembarks from the carriage in one swift, fluid movement. He strides towards the back of the carriage, where, he knows, there's a small compartment built in, just large enough for their overnight bags and gear.

As well as—perhaps—a three-year-old toddler, if she were crouching quite close to the floor. Like, for instance, in a game of hide-and-seek.

His expression is grim as he tugs open the lid of the compartment. Behind him, Petra looks frozen, her face a mixture of trepidation and incredulity and just the tiniest hint of amusement.

The lid comes loose. "Daddy!" their irrepressible daughter exclaims, springing out of her crouching position. She giggles again, that familiar high-pitched, bell-like sound almost unnaturally loud in the silence of the night. "Mama! Ava came along!"

For a second, both parents are struck speechless as they stare at their cheerful stowaway in wordless horror.

Finally, Petra opens her mouth to speak.

"You don't say," she deadpans.

==

By the time they reach Sina, the ball has already started.

Of course, considering how they had to turn back around (much to the chagrin of the carriage-driver), tuck Ava very firmly into bed (it goes easier this time, considering how exhausted she is from the very dramatic game of hide-and-seek), reassure a terrified Eren and Jean that they're not mad (although Levi still isn't sure, to be honest), and allow them to resume sentry duty before leaving, he figures they actually made pretty good time.

Other than the very pointed, self-righteous look the doorman shoots them as they stumble into the hall, they manage to blend into the crowd with relative ease. They quickly touch base with the rest of the squad and collect two well-deserved flutes of wine before searching for Erwin, if only to reassure him that they did, in fact, come.

The commander is, of course, easy enough to spot, what with his stature and all. And although he initially looks mildly disapproving, his expression quickly turns wry once he hears the tale.

"That's quite a story," he says, nodding politely at a passing noblewoman, who blushes alluringly and bats her eyes. "Although, I suppose I should be glad you turned up at all, considering."

Petra giggles. "Touché. Although, maybe next year, we can bring her along. Wouldn't that be adorable?"

"Over my dead body," Levi says flatly. "But maybe next year, you'll let me stay home, Erwin."

The blonde man sighs and casts his eyes skyward. Around them, the party thrums cheerfully, soldiers mingling with nobles, careful words and casual touches exchanged over good dance and better drink. But although the atmosphere is thick with holiday cheer and inebriation, the commander seems wearily immune. "Maybe next year, I'll finally resign."

Levi snorts and lifts his wine-glass. "I'll toast to that."

Drabble challenge!

[keilemlucent]

lavender latte: ii

(T (for now!))

hawks | takami keigo x reader

chapter 1   ||   chapter 3   ||   chapter 4

ao3

word count: ~3k

You and Hawks’s second meeting.

warnings: mutual pining, shy reader-ish, ooc hawks, the fun stuff, fluff ; ) 

|||||||||||||

You didn’t hear anything from Hawks for the next few days. 

It was a fleeting disappointment, but you took his lack of contact as truth and reality. Some big shot, pro-hero wasn’t going to waste time texting a no-name, nobody barista, no matter how mutually flirty of an interaction was shared. 

Prior to actually meeting Hawks, you had seen the tabloids that his name spilled over. Shady stories of midnight rendezvous with models and celebrities, sultry pictures of his own on magazines at grocery store checkouts were a lot of your knowledge of him. He was a very eligible and active bachelor, everyone knew it. 

You reminded yourself that you didn’t mean shit to him, and moved on.

Until about a week from your first meeting, late into the evening, your phone buzzed.

You thought it was one of the team from the teashop, asking another question about a new blend you had made. 

Your eyes widened at the text that you did see:

 [unknown number]: hey angel ;) do you work tomorrow? it’s supposed to be a cold one and i’d love to try another one of your drinks

 You stared at your phone screen for a moment, mouth going dry before typing out a reply. 

 [you]: is this hawks?

 The next reply came only seconds later.

 [unknown number]: the one and only ;))))

  He... actually texted me?

Holy shit.

Another message came in. 

 [unknown number]: don’t tell me you go handing out your number to folks at work all the time :^( you’re gonna hurt my :^((( feelings :^((((

 You deadpanned at Hawks’s texts. 

You couldn’t believe the number two, pro hero texted like a normal twenty-some year old.

It was endearing, if not at the very least comforting.

 [you]: nah, just you tailfeathers 😉

[you]: i work tomorrow morning, opening shift. 6 am. think you can handle it???

 You giggled at your own texts, unable to hold back when you saw Hawks continuing to type. You quickly typed in a contact name.

 [tailfeathers]: E

[tailfeathers]: Z

[tailfeathers]: i’ll be there bright and early ;)

 Part of you, the rational, realistic part, doubted that. Sure, Hawks had texted you, but he wouldn’t actually show, right? He was a busy, busy man. He’d probably get sidetracked.

Don’t get your hopes up. 

 You tried to remain practical.

But, you also liked pushing your luck.

 [you]: see u then!!

[you]: btw your contact name is ‘tailfeathers’ 

[you]: ;)

 [tailfeathers]: what if i told you yours is ‘barista angel’

 [you]: i’d ask if you saw my name on that conveniently small piece of paper i gave you

 [tailfeathers]: i would say yes

[tailfeathers]: but idk angel seems like a more proper title for u 

You felt your still and heat rush to your face. 

He can’t be flirting with you over text. What the FUCK.

 [tailfeathers]: only angels can make coffee as well as u 😇

 “What a bastard,” You shook your head, sighing. Part of you was glad he made it more clear your identity was tied to coffee and not affections. 

 [you]: u flatter me

 [tailfeathers]: i only speak the truth ;)

 You bit your lip as you typed out the next reply, well aware that the evening sky had darkened and you needed an adequate amount of sleep to actually make it to that morning shift. 

 [you]: i’m about to knock out so i can actually be alive for my shift, but i’ll see you tomorrow bird boy

 Hawks’s replied quickly as seemed to be a trend with him. 

 [tailfeathers]: bird boy!!!!! 

[tailfeathers]: i’m moving up in the world

[tailfeathers]: see u then angel 

 As you got ready for bed, going about your mundane routine and preparing the coming day, you had no idea that Keigo was across the city, cradling his phone to his chest with a wobbling smile on his face, a foreign sensation filling his chest. 

He was very excited to see you again, even if it took a few days to get that far.

 |||||||||||||||||||

 The next day was indeed, terribly cold. Despite bundling up in a thick, woolen coat and a knit scarf, you nearly froze on the way to work. Despite the chill, the rest of the morning crew made it in just a few minutes after you.

“I’ll be in back until there’s a rush, alright?” You called to the three openers, all silly college students from the local university. They were all sort of dense, but they were loveable.

“Okay!” One smiled as they flitted to the front counter and seating area.

The back of the teashop was a smaller commercial kitchen, all steel tables and cooking implements. Lots of tools to actually do your job. Though you were the maker of the tea blends for the shop, a lot of your work consisted of packaging and fulfilling orders as well as design work for the teashop’s online presence. Truthfully, you were more of a jack-of-all-trades type of worker, but nearly all of it confined you to the safety of the back kitchen. The lack of stimuli made it easier to work effectively, quirk activated or otherwise.

You tied your apron tight around your waist, adjusting a few of your buttons and smoothing yourself down. The back remained frigid in the mornings, and you could only be glad you were layered up for the day. You pulled out your company-issued tablet and began tapping away with the stylus as the shop prepped to open.

You were too absorbed in your work to hear the bell at the entrance, just minutes after unlocking the door. 

 Keigo? Elated. His last week of hero work had been all long hours and late nights. His wings had grown sparse with overuse, barely carrying him properly through the skies. When he saw that his office day at his agency was due to be particularly cold, he knew it was the perfect excuse to give you a visit.

You hadn’t been constantly on his mind. Rather, you perked up in his thoughts semi-reliably, but briefly a few times a day. Most affections were forgettable, he didn’t have time for anything other than whorish trysts with other heroes and those of higher society who knew how to keep their mouths (somewhat) shut. 

Part of him, the part that the Commission’s ruthless training created, hated the way how you were sticking with him.

Another part of him, the kinder, softer, very repressed one, recognized his feelings and hid them safely. Vulnerable things required heavy protection.

 When Keigo reached the teashop, early as dawn crept over the urbanscape, he pushed the door open and was greeted by the rolling smell of roasted coffee beans and black tea.

Only a few other patrons were there, eyes wide as the top ten hero gave them a trademark wave, waltzing to the counter with his signature swagger.

The workers (none of them being you) gawked at him, jaws half to the floor.

“Hawks?!” One of them exclaimed. “Oh my god, can I get an autograph?!”

 (Keigo carried a few pens on him for occasions like this.)

 The worker, a young thing with a shock of short blue hair, wrestled under the counter for a notebook. Another of the workers also attempted to wrangle a bit of receipt paper from the fussy machine, flashing him a nervous smile.

“Of course, autographs are a given,” He winked at the two of them, sauntering up to the counter. “On one condition, though. Could you tell me if (Y/N) is working?”

The morning shifts workers proceeded to gawk more. 

 You sat deep in concentration, thoroughly organizing yourself for the day with lists and plans. You were only startled from your work when one of the other baristas popped her head back, eyes wide. 

“Uh, (Y/N), I know you’re busy, but Hawks is here for you?” She stammered, saying his name incredulously and pointing a shaking finger out at the counter.

You could hear his silky laugh just beyond the precipice. 

Your mouth quirked up in surprise. 

I didn’t expect him to actually come.

It was a pleasant surprise though, one that made your heart stutter in your chest.

You put down the tablet, making your way to the front of the shop.

Hawks leaned down on the front counter, signing various papers and items that the staff and patrons of the tea shop had given him. His smooth voice echoed beautifully around the shop, mixing with the din of the soft music that provided ambient sound. 

Thoroughly absorbed in his fan interaction, you leaned against the door frame, watching him as he had yet to notice you.

(You tried to look nonchalant, but it was probably a bit of ogling.)

Hawks’s scarlet wings appeared sparse, but still twitched and fluffed every few moments. He was dressed in his hero uniform, visor pushed up into the feathery, front bits of his hair. With all of his typical regalia on, he seemed out of place in the slow din of the coffee shop. He seemed to shine so brightly, making himself a focal point without even trying. 

Without the protection of his visor, Hawks’ honeyed eyes seemed brighter, luminous from the inside out. Even from your distance, you could watch their topazine shine dance in the soft lighting. 

His gaze drifted to you and positively lit up. 

(You didn’t think that was possible.)  

Your stomach fluttered.

“Well, if it isn’t (Y/N)!” Hawks beamed you a smile that could’ve put the sun to shame. It made something deep in your chest thrum. “For a minute there, I thought you’d pulled my leg about working today.”

“Oh, never, ” You grinned, moving directly in front of him at the counter, your shocked coworkers parting for you. “I tend to work in the back if the rest of our lovely staff is present.

You gestured to your very starstruck coworkers who all gave various gawking looks before falling away, shyness obviously overtaking them. 

It wasn’t like you weren’t feeling similarly, but your nervousness was better hidden. Facades were, in fact, a trained skill in maintaining and god, if you weren’t a master.

But, Keigo had his own mastery in spotting cracks in people’s veneers. And, easily, he saw your tension and nervousness. For anyone with less trained interpersonal skills, they wouldn’t have noticed a damn thing. But to Keigo? Your anxiety was as clear as the light you added to a room. A few of his feathers twitched, picking up on the rapid beating of your heart across from him. 

“What can I get you?” You asked, speaking through any of your fears, cracking him a genuine smile.

Keigo returned it without thought, chest warming.

“Mmm... Surprise me. Something to help me get my day started.” Keigo loved the way your eyes lit up when he talked, a little bit of knowingness between the two of you sparking. 

“Same specifications as before? Hot and sweet?” You asked, already grabbing a cup, flashing him a cheeky grin. 

Hawks raised an eyebrow, batting his eyelashes at you in a way that you couldn’t not laugh. He rested his elbows on the counter and leaned over the top of it, regarding you with half-lidded eyes, “You remember my preferences? I feel honored.”

“You should,” You winked. If he was going to shamelessly flirt, you would right back. 

 Truthfully, your personal attention made Keigo swoon like a goddamn schoolgirl. He could feel sweat growing on his palms, making the leather of his gloves stick. Normally, the sensation would’ve ticked his more anxiety-ridden tendencies into overdrive, but he could hardly focus on them. He was too busy watching you flit around behind the counter.

 “So,” You began, activating your quirk and beginning your process. “Why so few feathers? Get roughed up?”

Keigo chuckled, flexing what feathers he did have left for emphasis, “Basically. I have to give them a few days to regrow. A couple nasty days in a row means a couple days recovery.”

You hummed, turning to the espresso machine. Before pouring the shot, you gave him a little smile with the cutest quirk in your lips, “I’m sure you more than deserve the rest.”

 Oh, that made his proverbial dick swell.

Someone, a very nice, stranger barista, angel, telling him he deserved something kind? And, there wasn’t an edge of dishonesty in you. If anything, there was an earnestness in your quirk-blackened eyes that made Keigo nearly scared of the amount of vulnerability you gave him so freely.

He wondered if you showed that to all of your patrons. 

(You didn’t.) 

 You turned behind the counter, quirk activated and swirling. The familiar blending of your senses made your teeth ache and head burn with the overabundance of stimuli, but you worked through it. You reached through the external sensations to manifest your idea and feeling into a conceivable reality. 

You dumped any number of syrups and shots into the cup, placing it (and a lid) on the counter in front of Hawks. Warm smells of cardamom and cinnamon tickled both of your noses as you nodded down, “Let that cool for a sec, then give it a taste. I need a comprehensive review.”

Hawks plucked off one of his gloves, taking the steaming cup in his hand, looking down at the foam. His gaze flickered around the two of you, noting that the few civilians and coworkers once surrounding him had left you two with a small bit of privacy.

“What’s the inspiration for this one?” Hawks gave you a downright sweet, knowing look.

“Take a sip and guess,” You nodded down to the cup again, idly going to wipe down the counters with a rag slung in your apron.

Hawks blew on steaming liquid, throwing back his head to take a decently sized sip. You had to tear your gaze from the bob of his throat. 

  Keep it in your pants. 

 While you were suppressing being horny for the number two hero, Keigo was suppressing being horny for a fucking beverage. 

The flavor hit his tongue and throat and danced. It was warm, like the last one, spilling hearth-like heat into his chest and extremities. But, this drink tasted literally spiced, like it had some sort of pepper in it (according to Keigo’s untrained, pitiful palette). His wings ruffled, feathers rustling and twitching with the taste of the drink. Despite the heat flooding his body, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose as waves of subtle pleasure rolled through Keigo’s body. 

He placed the cup back on the counter, staring you down with incredulity.

You, cutely cheeky as ever, just smiled and crossed your arms over your chest, “Are you a fan?”

“It’s... spicy. How. Why. Is this even coffee?” Hawks asked. Despite his questioning, he took another sip, shuddering at the comforting heat it gave him. 

“There’s coffee in it, or, espresso,” You couldn’t help feeling a bit smitten with the way Hawks looked at you. Disbelief wasn’t an expression you saw many heroes wear, especially not one with a reputation like Hawks’s. Yet, there he was, in front of you, staring at his cup like you just served him battery acid and grass. 

“If that’s the case, gimme the rundown, angel,” Hawks peeled off his other glove, setting the pair on the counter. He surprised you as he shrugged off his lined jacket, plopping down in a nearby stool.

You hadn’t ever really seen this much of Hawks, not in his hero uniform anyways. Plenty of him was available for viewing due to his various modeling ventures, but seeing him in the flesh was far better. The black shirt of his hero costume stretched over the lean, sculpted muscles of his arms. He certainly wasn’t built in the same way other top heroes were, but from what you could see (read: drool over), Hawks certainly wasn’t lacking—

“See something you like?” Hawks raised an eyebrow while taking another sip,  devilish curl to his lips.

You really wished you had the bodily control to stop the red flush that grew on your face.

“SO —!” You laughed, diverting back to the drink at hand. “The drink.”

“Wonderful deflection,” Hawks set the cup down, still smirking. “So, the drink .”

Your fingers tapped at the countertop, living your blush down with a lack of eye contact. 

  He gets stared at all the time, chill out. 

Dude probably likes it, (Y/N).

 “The drink is a dirty chai, with some editions, of course.” You jerked your head back to the wall of tea blends, the familiar ebbing away from of your embarrassment. “We have a couple of different chai blends that I make in house. Several different chai concentrates too.”

“Forgive me, but a dirty chai?” Hawks teased.

“Wow, weak jab there, Hawks, ” You rolled your eyes. Hawks just continued to beam at you, swinging his legs behind the counter. “I gave you an oatmilk,  ginger chai with three shots of espresso and a few other secret touches. I wanted to make it warm again for you.”

 Keigo paused at your admission, (not-so) secretly reveling in your poorly contained embarrassment. Perhaps it was a bit cruel, but his job did carry some wonderful perks and he’d be damned to not enjoy them. 

“It feels like a different kind of warm, compared to last time,” Keigo took another taste to confirm. The spiced liquid flooded his palette again, skin pleasantly prickling at the taste. 

 You hummed, refusing to fully make eye contact with Hawks. 

Truthfully, you spent an embarrassing amount of time since the night prior thinking about potential sensations to emulate for Hawks. You were never sure of what type of vibe he would request, but having an arsenal of ideas made you feel more prepared to impress your new clientele. 

“I made it feel like dawn,” You replied, nodding to out of the fully-windowed front of the tea shop. The district you were located in was lit up by the golds and pinks of the early morning, stretching and awakening with the new day. “I wanted it to feel like how morning sun feels on your bare skin. All like... tingly, you know? Like... seeing someone you haven't seen in a long time. ”

 Keigo immediately noticed your bashfulness after you gave your description. In the same way as last time, the vulnerability of your manifested feelings left you warm and shy for him. 

You picked at a loose string on your apron, gaze directed down and away.  With his obscured view of your face, he could see the way you softly bit your lip, eyes occasionally raking him up and down and that retreating. Keigo could feel your pounding heart and slow, deep breaths. 

...

Keigo was whipped and he hardly knew you. He was so fucked.

You were too fucking cute. It was fucking illegal. It had to be. 

Keigo had been with sexy. He’d been with unattainable. He’d been with women and men who looked like they were crafted by gods as tempters and devils. It was all pleasure and Keigo knew it like the back of his hand. He got hedonistic bliss when he wanted it and he did so very, very well.

What Keigo was entirely unfamiliar with was the gooey, fluttery feeling in his chest as you finally looked up at him to smile and nod to the drink, “So, what do you think?”

Keigo’s brain fizzled, rendered into goo. If he didn’t have years of interpersonal training, he was sure he wouldn’t have been able to speak with his own revelations. Luckily, he was able to laugh off his internal stickiness, taking another greedy sip.

“Absolutely flawless, wonderful craftsmanship, (Y/N),” Keigo bowed his head dramatically. 

 You giggled at Keigo’s drama, missing the way how his cheeks lit up for you. 

Hawks dug in his pocket, pulling out a huge wad of bills and started to slide it across the counter, “This is a tip. All for you.”

You stared, horrified at the amount of money Hawks passed to you like it was nothing. Without thinking, you placed your hand on top of his, stopping his motion. Both of you stiffened pleasantly at the sudden, small contact. 

“That’s too much, Hawks, no,” You shook your head, but Hawks was a stubborn, insistent bastard. 

His wings fluffed up behind him, a feather moving quickly between your hands and pushing your up and away.

“What the fuck.” You half-groaned. Hawks fully passed the money across the counter, hiding his hands and feathers in his lap with a Panish smirk stretched across his face.

“Take it, or I tattle on you, easy trade,” Hawks shrugged, leaning his elbows on the counter and drinking deeply. He pulled away from his beverage with a relaxed-looking smile as you remained fluster.

(Holy fuck, you touched Hawks’s bare hand and it was so NICE—)

You could feel the eyes of your coworkers, staring at the money like some Olympic medal. You were well-aware that there was no way Hawks was taking back his money and you knew your coworkers would be too scared to ask for a cut. 

You gulped, taking the cash and tucking it into your apron pocket.

“You don’t need to bribe me to make you nice drinks, Hawks, it’s literally my job,” You told him gently.

Hawks raised an eyebrow, shrugging, “Accept it as a little treat on the side. A gift of my appreciation.”

You couldn’t argue with that, so you relented with a smile, shaking your head. 

And the two of your dissolved into easy conversation. Hawks told you about the most recent gigs he had been a part of. A modeling contract for a new skincare company and a sponsorship with a few other local heroes for a sports beverage were the most interesting. You were sure he was just humoring you, unable to tell you the nitty-gritty details of his life. Yet, he seemed happy to speak and listen besides. He chattered away, in the way birds do, sing-song, and free-flowing. 

Hawks was hardly a bird of prey, you realized. He was much more of a cockatoo type. 

You told him more about the tea shop, about your role and job. As you explained about the basics of different types of tea, you could literally see the far off way Hawks looked at you. It wasn’t of distraction, like spacing out, no. It was a look that hadn’t been directed at you in some time. You silently and quickly studied it and came to the nerve-wracking conclusion that the cute blush on his cheeks and half-lidded eyes and relaxed shoulders was fucking captivation, borderline adoration.

For.

You.

How the fuck were you supposed to deal with that?

(Keigo wasn’t sure either.)

 Luckily, neither of you planned on doing anything to stop your mutually budding feelings.  

[tellmeyellme]

Bound to each other (prologue)

genre: angst,  ennemies to ???

pairing: Kuroo x reader

WC: 1520

He soon realized you were both bound to meet.

              When you first met Kozume, he was petting your cat and told you he was waiting for his friend. You were young, as young as him, so as most children would, you tried to engage in conversation and make him your friend.

After all, you had just moved in, and you thought it would be better for you to at least know someone. When you learnt that you went to the same school as he did, you felt nothing but relief: you wouldn't have to start the new school year all by yourself. When your mother called you back home, you worried about him, hoped his friend wouldn't take too long to show up.

On your way for the first day of middle school, you crossed Kozume's path. He was talking to someone, you guessed it was the friend he was waiting for during that day. You were not exactly shy, but you found it harder to go and greet him when he wasn't alone, so you kept walking towards the school's gate. Your gazes crossed, and he seemed to wait for you to come, but that didn't change your mind, deciding you could do that before classes started.

You had already settled your notebook when he showed up in front of your desk:

" You didn't greet me, was that because you were worried about Kuro?" he asked. Oh, so that was his name, you concluded. "I don't know him, and I didn't want to interrupt the both of you. But at least I guess he was on time today," you tried to joke, hoping not to make the situation more awkward than it already was. "I guess so, but if he was, I might have been able to introduce you to each other."

“Well, we could always do that during recess, right?”

Recess came quickly, and you followed Kozume. While when you first saw Kuroo this morning, laughing with your classmate, he seemed approachable, you were met with nothing but coldness. You did not read too much into this, and thought he just had a bad first impression since you did not greet him this morning. You couldn’t blame him, you might have reacted the same way if the roles were reversed. So you tried your best to change that, so that you could make him a friend; you knew he was close to Kozume, so you concluded that he couldn’t be a bad person. That, and also you didn’t want your friendship with Kozume to be clouded by a misunderstanding.

Months passed by, and it seemed like what was once coldness on his part had grown into hatred. You wanted to give up on him, and you had no choice but not to: he tended to come to Kozume’s house a lot since they both were Neighbors, and you tended to go to Kozume’s house to play videogames with him, so you were bound to cross each other’s paths at some point.

You had tried to find a reason why he was so cold with you. You really did, and for much longer than any middle schooler would. At first you thought it was because you were introverted and he was more extroverted, but you realized that it would not make sense, because Kozume was also introverted, and they were both best friends. You thought it was because you knew nothing about volleyball, that would have probably been nothing but a petty excuse, but you decided to give it a try. You watched a few matches to understand the rules before you asked him to teach you how to play volleyball, which you grew to like, but when you did, he looked at you with utter disdain. So didn’t seek to pursue it. And as you did, you decided all your efforts weren’t worth it, and that one day, he might mature and tell you what you did wrong.

Having to meet him with Kozume was a thing, because he would always tell him to cool down if he ever got too mean with you, but having to meet him at your family house was another. You had moved here because your parents had more business associates in Japan, and especially in Tokyo, so it would be more convenient for them to be close. Little did you know that one of those associates was Kuroo’s father. It really seemed like fate kept pulling you together.

    You thought he would at least try to make it seem like he had nothing against you in front of your parents, but he did not. You were thankful he had at least the decency not to snap some remarks at you. You noticed something that night. While both of your parents were there, it was only him and his father. That was a part of his life you did not know about, but then again, he would have had no reason to tell you about it. You wondered if Kozume knew. Probably. That must have been the reason why he was so often at Kozume’s place. You decided it would be wiser not to ask him. You ignored each other for most of the dinner, and you prayed that it would be a one-time thing. Despair spread across your face as you heard your parents, “it was nice having you here, next friday at your place it is?” It would not be a one-time thing.

    The next Monday at school, you decided not to mention it, neither to Kozume nor Kuroo. You had just been accepted into the school’s basketball club, and you did not want your mood to be spoiled by a grudge some upperclassman held to you for apparently no reason. You decided to eat with the other club members; it would allow you to get out of your comfort zone -to be honest, you already had Kozume, and you were so preoccupied to fix the Kuroo situation, as you so called it, that you never made new real friends. You sent Kozume a text beforehand so that it wouldn’t wait for you. 

    Having new friends did not change anything between you and Kozume, you still ate with him every second day and spent most of your recesses with him, but it allowed you to take a break from Kuroo’s incessant remarks.

    You had kept this routine until Kuroo entered high school, when you went back to eating with Kozume every day. This year announced itself to be great: you had become the captain of the basketball club, you had great grades, and you wouldn’t have to deal with Kuroo everyday. You were not stupid, you expected that Kuroo graduating meant that he would spent more time at Kozume’s house to catch up, but you were still disappointed when that happened

    You now only saw him when you were both at Kozume’s place, and thankfully, the dinner with his father that was once a weekly thing had become a monthly thing. Yet, this new life was bittersweet. He probably wanted to make up for the time where he couldn’t annoy you, because  you felt like it got ten times worse. He had never insulted you when he was still in middle school. You were both waiting for Kozume when he did for the first time. You wondered if it was because of new friends he made, but a part of you knew he wasn’t the type to hang around bullies -even if in some ways, he had turned himself into one. That was the turning point into your relationship, you had never asked Kozume about it, because you didn’t want him to be uncomfortable by talking about his other friend.

“Say Kozume, do you remember our first day of middle school?”

“As much as I can,” Kozume answered, eyes riveted on his console.

“You remember how I didn’t greet you when I arrived ? Is that the only reason Kuroo hates me so much?” You knew you must have sounded dumb, maybe even desperate, but at this point you would do anything to fix the Kuroo situation.

“I know Kuro can be petty, but I don’t think he can be that petty, especially about something that happened when you were eleven,” he looked at you when he said that, and you knew that even if he didn’t show it, he wished for this old feud to stop.

“So you’re telling me he never told you?”

“I’d rather not talk about you when I’m with him, for obvious reasons.”

    You knew that was the truth, that Kozume wasn’t the most confrontational person, and that even if he was, Kuroo would have probably told him off.

    Soon enough, it was your turn to start high school. You were not in the same class as Kozume anymore, he was in 1-3 while you were in 1-6. You had joined the basketball club, and since its schedule didn’t clash with the volleyball club’s, Kozume asked you to be their manager. You still remember a few things about volleyball, and even if it was not much, you came to the conclusion that it would be enough to learn more on the fly. What you didn’t remember was that the reason why Kozume played volley was also the reason why you never pursued it.

A/N: Hiiii: I hope you appreciated this chapter, i really liked writing it, even if it’s my first time writing FF lol. If you see any mistake please lmk! Also, this chapter was kinda written in (y/n)’s POV, but next one will be written in Kuroo’s POV. I’ll try to publish it tomorrow, no promises though :C. 

published on 08/06/2020

[secret-engima]

Nox and/or Ardyn meeting little Prom?

(Ohhhh okay then. Buckle up because I can do literally nothing by halves and this ask exploded into a 2.5k long HC format story/thing. Also @wolfsrainrules @hamelin-born @sparklecryptid you three might find this interesting?)

…

-Nox likes to think he knows himself pretty well. Which is why he would be the first one to admit that, in some things, he is a total coward. Ask him to blow up a Nif base, no problem. Tell him to face down daemons, sure as long as he had enough flasks to set everything on fire. Ask him to escort his little brother to school? The school where, somewhere amidst the other faceless classmates, Prompto also goes and learns and Nox might encounter him?

-In that, Nox is the greatest of cowards.

-It’s been four years since he was discovered by Regis and talked into living in the Citadel and while Nox has learned to swallow the pain of being around so many people who don’t remember him anymore (have never been through what he went through with them once upon a time) and embrace the happiness that they are alive and whole… some wounds still felt too deep. It was why Nox tended to discreetly vacate the room when Ignis and Gladiolus were chatting with Noctis (their Noctis, not him, not the brother who had died for them because they were not the brothers he had died for). It still hurt too much sometimes to look at them and know that, on the one hand, they were happy and whole and loyal to their Noctis, unblinded and unscarred. But on the other hand … they didn’t know him. They were … younger than him. Looked at him with a mix of respect and confused hurt (respect because he had protected Noctis when they couldn’t, confused hurt because they both knew that Nox tended to abruptly leave the room when they were in it despite his best efforts to be friendly).

-The thought of meeting Prompto like that, seeing blue eyes look at him like a stranger where once he had been a most trusted friend…. Nox was a coward. He didn’t want that kind of pain. (Prompto had always been different compared to Ignis and Gladiolus, the commoner brother who sought him out rather than the brothers who were bound by oath first before love had formed. The brother who followed not because of oath first and affection second but always, always because of their friendship first. Because the Crownsguard oath had just been a convenient excuse to follow Noctis into the jaws of death and back where otherwise Noctis would have tried to make him stay behind. If seeing Ignis and Gladiolus made it hard to breathe sometimes, Nox didn’t want to know what seeing Prompto would do to him). So he avoided Noctis’s school like the coward he was and prayed Noctis could make friends with Prompto on his own.

-Of course, the world seemed to make a hobby out of forcing Nox to jump headfirst into his fears.

-Nox is exploring Insomnia in the middle of a faintly drizzly late afternoon, hoodie pulled over his head to help keep people from noticing him and recognizing the Second Prince of Lucis (eldest prince yet not crown prince, the tabloids were still going on about that and it had been four years), meandering down some random, mostly unpopulated stretch when he hears the cursing. Loud, ugly cursing, slurred and edged with violence in the way only angry drunks could get (who gets drunk in the middle of the afternoon anyway?). Nox frowns and jogs closer, some instinct niggling in his head that the drunk wasn’t cursing at air, and that if Nox wasn’t there to break it up, something might go wrong. He’s about ten yards away when he sees the drunk begin stomping on something, hears the crunch of plastic and glass and a young voice begin sobbing in fear and grief both, “St-stop! Stop, that’s m-my- m-my-!”

-Nox feels the world slow down, every hair on his body prickling from the static of his own rising magic. Sees the drunk raising a fist toward the blond little boy who had done nothing but protest the destruction of his treasure. The world freezes in place, like one of Prompto’s battle snapshots. Everything is clear. The drunk, the broken fragments of camera under the man’s feet, the chubby little boy cringing away from the impending violence, blue eyes wide and terrified behind his glasses. Nox exhales and feels the world turn blue.

-Prompto-my friend-my Sharpshot-my Prompto-you-dARE- 

-The drunk slams into the dirt hard enough to knock the wind out of him, has one chance to gasp out a curse before magic swells like deadly blue tides and sobriety is burned into the man’s brain by the sheer, painful weight of terror at having at least fifteen blades of varying shapes and sizes, all of them pulsing with barely leashed power, pointed at his throat. Nox towers over the man, fury stirring his long hair like a breeze, eyes gleaming like fresh blood as the clouds over their heads thicken and snarl with promise (the taste of the Fulgarian’s magic sits on the back of Nox’s tongue, waiting for the barest hint of desire on Nox’s part for Ramuh to manifest and unleash Judgement). Nox inhales and tightens his mental grasp on what is left of his self control. Exhales past bared fangs and hisses in the voice of a hundred old kings, “Touch Prompto and I’ll make you scream.” The former-drunk cringes into the dirt, not enough air in his lungs to plead for mercy that Nox doesn’t want to give. Nox gives it anyway, using the last scrap of self control to hiss, “Leave. And don’t come back.”

-The man crawls out from under Nox’s glittering armory and then runs without once looking back.

-Nox inhales, exhales, reels in the screaming power in his blood that wants to chase the man down and cut him open slowly for his transgressions (Lucis Caelums were not possessive because they were kings, they were kings because they would gladly tear apart nations for what was Theirs), dismisses both his armiger and Ramuh lingering in the clouds with a flick of his hand. He pulls his hood down and turns around to look at Prompto, swallowing back his own fear of being face to face with the boy who was once his best friend (so small, so small and civilian and oh astrals what if Nox has scared him off forever, to the point even Noctis will never befriend him?), as he drops down to his knees in front of the shaking boy, “Are you- are you okay?”

-Prompto is shaking, and there are still tears in his eyes, but after a moment of gaping the boy doesn’t run. He roughly swipes his eyes clear and bows, “Y-Your Highness! I- I-!” His gaze catches on his ruined camera and tears start to return, and Nox can’t stop himself from reaching out with his hoodie sleeve to wipe them away with a gentle shushing noise.

-“It’s okay, Prom,” Nox breathes, “You’re safe, it’s going to be okay. I’m sorry about your camera. Hey,” Nox wracks his brain for the camera parts and trivia Prompto always chatted about, oblivious to the way the little boy in front of him stares in confusion, “let’s see if the memory card survived, yeah? Then we’ll know what to do.”

-Somehow, Nox talks Prompto’s tears down without breaking down himself, helps the befuddled boy rescue his memory card from the pieces of his camera, then takes him down to a little camera store to buy a replacement (Nox had taken the camera in his armiger down there for repairs once, because even if the old timeline was gone he still wanted to keep the pictures and memories it held). Prompto starts crying again when Nox splurges his royal allowance to get Prompto a good camera (or, he assumes it is, he’d just watched to see which one Prompto stared longingly at the longest and grabbed it), which almost sets off Nox’s tears, but somehow he manages to talk them both down again long enough to pay for the camera, a protective case, and a carrying strap and walk the boy home.

-Somewhere in all that, Nox thinks he introduces himself, but honestly he isn’t sure. His mind is hazing a little from the panic.

-Somewhere in all that, Nox thinks Prompto asks how Nox knew his name. Nox freaks out internally for twenty seconds before blurting out some nonsense about looking up the faces and names of Noctis’s classmates for security purposes, which the twelve year old seems to buy without a blink (thank goodness).

-Nox walks Prompto to his house and realizes that the house is dark and … empty. Not just physically, but … to his senses. There’s no warm glow that seeps into wood and stone when happy life-forces spend a lot of time there, no signs of Prompto’s parents at all. Just a lonely little impression of the life-force Nox knows is Prompto’s. He asks where Prompto’s parents are (it’s evening already, shouldn’t they be home? Or at least worried about the whereabouts of their son?). Prompto answers that they’re busy at work, in a melancholy voice that means this is normal. Something ugly and black and possessive (something that purrs like Ardyn’s voice when he’s more Accursed than Uncle) rises up in Nox’s soul and drags the next questions out of him.

-“How often are they home? How often do you see them?”

-Prompto doesn’t hear the ugliness, doesn’t seem to think anything of the questions beyond answering the kindly, teenage prince who bought him a camera that is probably worth his parents’ car, “Once a m-month. Maybe. If they aren’t called out of town to a c-conference.”

-Nox sits on his emotions so fast it least his ears ringing. He manages to say goodbye to Prompto and walk home, immediately sweeps into a training room and tears it apart in his efforts to bleed off the fury that makes him want to kill something. His uncle and father all but sprint into the room in concern for why the entire Citadel is faintly trembling with Nox’s magic, Axis lurks in the corner with an expression that says he’s just waiting for Nox to give him names to murder on Nox’s behalf. Nox waves Axis and his father away, hides his face in Ardyn’s shoulder until they reluctantly leave and then tells Uncle what he’s seen and heard and learned.

-Ardyn listens to his story, to his soul-deep pain that the child version of his best friend is being neglected, was neglected all his childhood in the past timeline and Nox never knew, and in Ardyn’s eyes Nox can see the same ugly, possessive thing seething in Nox’s chest.

-Ardyn presses a kiss to his nephew’s forehead and says one thing, “Give me three weeks, Dearest Nephew, and have a suitable guardian picked out.” Then Ardyn sweeps out of the training room with a predatory stride Nox hasn’t seen since they were tracking down Bersithia for some well deserved murder.

….

-Ardyn has no real opinion on Prompto Argentum. He remembers the boy, of course. The defiant little thing that fought the Accursed at every turn despite his terror, the boy who was destined to be just another MT unit until the Lucians stole him away. But when his Dearest Nephew returns from one of his wanderings through Insomnia and shakes the Citadel with his grief-fury-fury-grief, Ardyn is already mentally preparing to do something drastic. Nox refuses to speak of it to anyone but him, which immediately narrows down the options to something involving their time-travel. Once Axis and Nox’s father have been convinced to leave, his Dearest Nephew huddles into his shoulder, physically vibrating with barely contained magic as he tells his story, explains the source of his pain.

-And Ardyn feels fury too. He does not know Prompto Argentum, especially not in this timeline, but this was the counterpart of the young man who had spat in the Accursed’s eye and followed Nox into the jaws of death without hesitation despite the aura of fear coming off the blond that Ardyn’s daemonic half had been able to taste like fine wine. This is one of Nox’s Chosen, one of his former brothers who was still precious to his heart.

-Ardyn kisses his Dearest Nephew’s forehead, tells him to give Ardyn three weeks and to have a suitable guardian picked out.

-Then Ardyn goes hunting.

-It is easy, pathetically easy, to get what he needs. The paperwork, the evidence of neglect, all the formal steps to his plan. Really, the longest part of it would have been orchestrating the emotional leverage, but Nox has accidentally done that for him by being so kind and protective of Prompto. Ardyn doesn’t need to lift a finger to recreate the budding friendship between Crown Prince and little Niflheim survivor, as Prompto pulls on his unknown wells of courage and befriends Noctis himself at school, probably as an unspoken thanks to Nox, or possibly just because the boy is too lonely to resist trying any longer. Either way, by the time Ardyn sweeps into Regis’s study and casually drops the case folder on the king’s desk, Noctis and Prompto are already fast friends who have been enjoying a continuous sleepover at the Citadel for about five days now (Ardyn’s idea, casually aired during one of Prompto’s day visits and then reinforced every time the boy reluctantly makes to return to his empty house, the excuse Ardyn is going to use to explain why he took interest in Prompto’s existence and home life).

-Regis gives Ardyn a look of long suffering, because apparently the former Chancellor of Niflheim shouldn’t be able to manipulate the Lucian legal system this thoroughly or some such nonsense, but the look fades into one of concern when he reads everything Ardyn has gathered about Noctis’s new best friend.

-With the king himself serving as the judge of the private court case, the former guardians of Prompto Argentum stand no chance (the fact that they don’t even try, don’t even fight to keep what they should have treasured makes something in Ardyn’s blood snarl. He makes a note to join his Dearest Nephew in the training room later).

-Prompto Argentum becomes Prompto Leonis almost overnight (and isn’t that an interesting choice of guardian, Ardyn wishes he knew how Nox pulled that off) and Ardyn is dragged along to visit the boy as the poor child adjusts to suddenly having a new home and a guardian that actually makes time for him despite his busy schedule.

-Ardyn looks down into large blue eyes in a very adorable face and feels a tiny piece of his heart melt. He sees the way Prompto looks at both Nox and Noctis with utter loyalty and adoration and a part of him coos.

-He relishes in the exasperated noises Dearest Nephew makes when Ardyn happily plops his hat onto the little blond’s head and sits on the floor to let the child ramble about the fancy camera Nox bought him and all the amazing (confusing) things it can do (why something meant to take pictures needed that many buttons and settings, Ardyn didn’t know).

-Ardyn feels himself smiling and takes far too much glee in the sputtering sounds both Nox and Cor make when he dubs Prompto his Artist Nephew. Inwardly cackles at everyone’s protests when he tells Prompto that he is now Ardyn’s fifth nephew and that Ardyn’s other nephews are Dearest Nephew (Nox), Littlest Nephew (Noctis), Logical Nephew (Ignis, who sighs at the sound of his new nickname every time), and Angry Nephew (in the corner, Gladiolus growls).

-“For the last time, it doesn’t…!” Protests Nox, but one look at Prompto’s hopeful look (at having more family, at having people who genuinely care) and the protest dies. Ardyn sits back smugly. Artist Nephew acquired.

-Now, to lure Cid and Cindy to Insomnia so Ardyn can watch the infamous crush Nox talked about in their previous timeline form…

[phobiadeficient]

combined for obvious reasons. scout’s ma will like never stop being a badass as far as i’m concerned. the woman raised so many kids, guys. it’s buckwild.

-

He clearly thought he was being clever.

”My God, the luck I must have to end up getting such a beautiful waitress at my table,” he said in French, flashing a disarming smile at her as she handed him a menu.

“What was that?” she asked, pretending not to understand.

“Ah, my apologies, miss. I asked how you were doing tonight—it seems you do not have a particularly busy Tuesday evening here,” he observed coolly, still smiling.

He chatted with her idly over the wine selection, his flirting in English exactly light enough that it could easily be brushed off as him merely being at the very charming intersection of both sweet and funny. But each time she approached the table again from that point forward, his greeting in French was always overt.

”I’m afraid I must have died, for what other reason would an angel presently be approaching me?”

”Finally, salvation approaches—and also, of course, the food.”

”God, never have I considered getting a permanent visa to stay in America until this very moment, and only so that I might stay here at this table.”

In English, he was very polite and respectful. And his comments weren’t lewd, weren’t rude, were simply so overtly flirtatious and reverent that she was glad she wasn’t the type to blush easily.

And yet, in English, he was merely friendly.

“I understand that in America, your work shifts are less forgiving?” he asked, frowning a little.

“I work until the doors are locked most nights, then the dishwashers and hosts do the closing,” she replied, topping off his water with such practice that she barely needed to look. “That’s only about seven or eight hours a day, six days a week, and that’s better than the chefs.”

“My god, how do you manage to stay standing?” he marveled.

“Well, half a dozen sons to support all on my own these days, makes a hell of an incentive,” she divulged, looking away briefly to start sweeping up plates from the table over.

When she looked back up, his eyes were somewhere between soft and filled with wonder. “You’re incredible,” he said, in English, each syllable pronounced deliberately, and she felt her chest swell, a smile pulling insistently at her lips even as she tried to force it down.

“I knew that,” she scoffed anyways, and he laughed, and said a line in French that just had her grinning a little bit more.

Of course he ended up lingering over his meal until closing started to draw near. Of course she slipped him her phone number alongside the check when he finally asked for it, idly wondering what hotel he must be staying at. And he hesitated for a moment, prefaced his question by saying to stop him if he was presuming too much, but would she like to come see when she was off her shift?

And she said yes, and got a few winks and enthusiastic waves from her fellow waitresses when she clocked out about five minutes early and left arm in arm with the handsome suited man from the table near the window.

She flagged down a taxi, and promptly took hold of his arm again when she followed him into it, threading their fingers together as he told the driver which hotel he was staying in. He asked, polite, tone neutral for the company they had, when she was expected back home. She replied that her oldest son was babysitting the others and she wasn’t expected back at any time in particular, almost always back after they were all in bed anyways. Polite conversation about her many sons—seven in total, her being a fairly recent widow—until they got to the hotel, into the elevator, and finally into the room.

He tasted like the wine he’d been sipping patiently on all night, and was sweet enough to bend forward and wrap his arms around her waist to gather her up closer so neither of them would hurt themselves craning their necks. He sat her at the end of the bed, worked her heels off of her feet even as he kissed a line up her leg starting just below her knee. He kneaded away the soreness there and in her calves as he pulled tension from the rest of her body with kisses and little licks, her pantyhose probably a terrible texture to his mouth but he didn’t complain.

He was an absolute gentleman. He gently murmured for her permission before he pulled off her tights, her dress, kissed at her bared neck and shoulders for long minutes before his lips found her ear and he asked if he could strip her fully.

”You had better before I lose my patience,” she replied, purred back at him in just the same tone, and he pulled back, looking down at her with astonishment.

Finally he laughed, leaning in for another brief kiss before pinching at her side teasingly. “You minx,” he accused. “You understood me the whole time?”

“Of course I did. Why else would I have given you my number, sweetheart?” she teased right back, nipping at his bottom lip in a way that got him to sink down against her just a bit further for a moment, making a soft noise of approval.

“Well, I admit it’s convenient,” he seemed to decide. “Often I find myself losing track of my English when I’m being driven wild, and my dear, I have a feeling that you will have an easy time of that,” he said, eyes lingering on her, hungry but contained.

“I’m looking forward to it,” she replied, and pulled him into another kiss, starting to work his shirt off of him.

She was just starting to think, hey, maybe she could hold it together for this guy. Sure, he was handsome, and foreign, and mysterious, and smelled nice and dressed nice and his hair was gorgeous and he spoke like a poet and he was funny in a real way and clearly respectful and polite, but there had to be something he was bad at.

Then he promptly lifted her thighs over his shoulders and put his mouth to work, and no, god damn it, he was perfect.

Maybe a touch impolite. She tried to tell him to let up after shaking through her second orgasm on his tongue, but all he did was add fingers into the mix, and suddenly she was onto a third, something her husband had only managed once, on their anniversary, before seven kids passed them by.

He stroked across her skin with soft, well-taken-care-of hands, gentling her all over as she shook and trembled in the wake of it. He left exactly long enough to get her water, and coaxed her into drinking it, nosing her hair aside to kiss at her neck some more as she did. And once she got some water into her system she found herself revitalized, and wound up pushing him back and straddling him,  plucking the condom from the bedside table and rolling it on then wasting no time in sinking down onto him where he’d clearly started moving past turned on and into desperate, maybe painfully so. And she showed him well what kind of strength it gave her to walk around a restaurant all day carrying heavy trays in a pair of heels. A stream of filth was leaving his mouth as she unwound him, and it seemed to take a moment before he remembered that she could understand French, because he instantly moved to press his hands to his own mouth to muffle himself. She took both of those hands, guiding one around to her thigh and the other to her chest, and he took up the silent direction without any question at all, only enthusiasm, stroking at and playing with her with no hesitation at all.

His stamina was something to behold, especially after such a lengthy wait and self-tease. She was close by the time he was finished, much to her own surprise, and he didn’t stall for more than a second or two after he was finished to pull her off and roll her beneath him again, his mouth and one hand working her breasts and the other moving back between her legs, working her clit with enough mastery that he managed to finish her off, sending her shivering through what she figured was probably the last she had to give.

She didn’t believe in love at first sight, not at all, but the fact that he got her more water and gently, so gently, so gingerly, took to washing her and wiping her down with several cool, wet towels as she lay there, reduced to a pile of practically-gelatinous limbs by him, well. She thought maybe love at first meeting wasn’t entirely out of the question.

Somewhere in the long, slow minutes, he’d apparently found some amount of vigor again, and she managed to coax him onto his back again, deigning to show him exactly how skilled her mouth was as well, and she felt an amount of pride in the fact that she managed to get him off in a flat ten minutes, even on round two. And they kissed for some unknown, lengthy, wonderful amount of time after that, her straddling him and him running his hands across as much of her skin as he could reach.

He lit a cigarette, and she accepted one when he offered, and they fell into conversation. She talked about her hobbies, how she tended to jump between them wildly, sticking to something for two weeks before she got passably good at it and moved on to something else. He talked about how his own hobbies generally tended to be things like learning new languages and cooking, sometimes reading for fun, mostly fiction. How his job had him traveling a lot.

She found herself starting to nod off a little, listening to his soothing voice, the way he occasionally stumbled over an English word and murmured in French for a few moments before he found it. Listening to him talk about all the places he’d been, stories about interesting locals in those places.

She felt his hand lingering at her inner thigh, and reached over him to stub the crumbly remains of her cigarette in the ashtray on the bedside table, leaving it there. It was a fancy one, nicer than what she usually smoked, which were basically just excuses to take a short break outside during her shift to let her rest her feet or something to occupy her hands with when she waited at the bus stop in the morning. The hand on her thigh stayed there, thumb rubbing circles into her skin.

“Sweetheart, I dunno if I can manage staying awake long enough to let you fuck me again,” she admitted, blinking up at him.

“Not my goal,” he said. “I just like the feel of you. You are... when you’re falling apart, it’s... there are no words, my dear.”

“Mm. Next time you’re in town, you should call. Visit again. We can work something out,” she said, kissing just below his jaw.

“But of course.”

She forced herself to get up for long enough to use the bathroom, brush her teeth, and returned back into his arms when she came back.

“Dolly,” he mused quietly, and she looked up at him. “Very American name.”

“Well, Jose sounds more Spanish than French,” she replied, toying idly with his chest hair.

“Fitting, since my father was from Spain,” he replied, sounding amused.

“That why your accent’s weird?”

“Yes. Most don’t notice. Most also don’t speak French.”

“Learned it from my neighbors, and patrons, stuff like that. I always liked the language.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s sexy,” she replied, tone cheeky, and leaned up to kiss him right on the tip of his nose. It made him chuckle.

“Well, big-city women several years older than me was never much of a particular appeal, but I might just need to start changing my mind,” he said, kissing her on the cheek, and she giggled, returning to where she’d been cuddling into him earlier.

“You just might,” she agreed.

[ink-and-stone]

The Train Did Not Arrive

It started as a daydream, an escape from reality, as most terrible ideas tend to originate from. Now, she was waiting at a deserted train station for a train that would take her anywhere far, far away. She couldn't deny to herself that she was scared – terrified, really – but her heart was set. The digital display read that her train would be arriving in ten minutes so she sat down on one of the benches, the platform silent except for the hushed scuffle of the two people that had snuck off the platform and were shaking what appeared to be spray-paint aerosols. Nine minutes. She opened her rucksack and checked and rechecked for her things: a few sets of spare clothes; a burner phone; a non-descript pouch with her money and ID; a notebook; a pen; a mini First-Aid kit. She rubbed her hands together, adding gloves to the growing list of things she regretted not bringing, although, to be fair, she would not have been able to manage the load anyway. She wriggled the numbing toes inside her trainers. She'd forgotten spare socks too.

But there was no turning back now. Her plan was in motion and her resolve relied on her momentum. She could not afford to hesitate, to have second thoughts because she knew it would throw all her planning and care to waste. Not that she had planned much, but still. She'd burn that bridge when she got to it.

The pair of young men, or perhaps they were her own age though she couldn't tell, were laughing to each other. If she listened carefully, she could decipher their words, punctuated by laughter.

"I – can't – bloody bel-ieve you – of all people – you – did that to him, Will!"  

This came from the slightly shorter one, who held onto the bricked wall of the wide tunnel to steady himself in his fit of hysteria.

"Well," the other guy, Will, said, "I darn well did."

Another fit of youthful, masculine laughter. She sighed and leaned back on the backrest, her eyes cast upwards at the light that flickered slightly every once in a while. She held her bag tighter in her arms, an image of vulnerability, and hoped they could not see her.

She glanced back at the digital display and to her alarm, the train that had been due to arrive in ten minutes, not even five minutes ago, had no mention. The list of incoming trains and the minutes until their arrival behold blank columns. Dread, in its most tangible form, sank in her stomach, her breathing began to run irregular and her heartbeat seemed to be improvising its song.

She closed her eyes in an attempt to calm herself but opened them to be alarmed by one of the young men who had been spray-painting the tunnel, the one who wasn't called Will.

"Hey," was what he said, his smile persuading her that he was friendly.

She looked back at him blankly, and dumbly. Later than was the socially acceptable duration of time to pause, she replied, "Hi," meek as a lamb cornered by a wolf.

The smile on the other person's face seemed to slip by a degree as he shifted into awkwardness.

"Just to let you know, if you meant to catch the eleven o'clock train, it never actually comes here. Nobody ever catches it so the driver just skips the whole district--"

She replied with silence.

He still seemed oblivious to the fact that with every word he uttered, the girl before him spiralled further and further. "-- well, that's what me and Will think at least. There could be a whole other reason entirely." At the mention of his friend, he gestured towards the tunnel, where his friend was carefully peeling off the duct tape they had been using as a sort of stencil, or rule. Will gave a little wave to acknowledge his introduction, which meant to the girl that he was listening in to their conversation.

She regained her sense with a deep inhale and let go of her paranoia with an exhale. She swore an oath for good measure and laid her head back on the bench. "Thank you." Was her simple reply, uttered with her eyes still closed in a posture of placid defeat.

She didn't hear him walk away, but a few minutes later a phone rang and the person who wasn't Will answered it. He swore after a few seconds and told Will that he had to go or his mum was going "burn my computer to ash!", in his own words. Will said that it was no problem and wished him luck and when his friend was out of earshot he muttered something about how convenient it was for Jack to leave just as they were meant to pack.

Indeed, there was a lot of stuff that Will now had to carry by himself.

He tidied up methodically and systematically so he'd be able to carry the cool box as well as the carrier bags overflowing with equipment or with snacks, and the folding step-ladder. Surely, he thought to himself, Jack could have dropped off at least one bag on his way home. He gave Jack the benefit of the doubt though, realising that Jack had probably been too distracted by his mother's discovery of his sneaking out to remember that this was far too much for Will to carry alone. This was Will's way – always giving the benefit of the doubt and making excuses for others. The epitome of modern-day sainthood, many thought of him. This juxtaposed starkly with what many others thought of him: a nuisance, a devil and the list went on. Really, he was both, and the variant descriptions of him only seemed so contradictory to each other because that was simply how real-life people were. Only in books – bad books– could people so two-dimensionally written exist, with simple motives, unvarying reactions and predictable decisions. Yet, it was difficult to see Will as anything but a character out of a book, with his unjustified kindness and, still, the impatience in his step that, almost audibly, demanded "Adventure!". Will was a character not even his enemies could get enough of, who was friendly with everyone (provided they did not have the authority nor the inclination to punish his misdeeds) but only friends with a few.

He had figured out a way to carry all of his belongings and this was how: the step-ladder was hung on his shoulder, his arm peeking through the hole; a bag was balanced atop the cool box, which he held in the hand opposite the one connected to his ladder-shoulder and the final carrier bag was carried in his other hand, repeatedly clanging against the steel of the ladder. He only noticed the girl was still seated on the bench when his clamorous ongoing exit stirred her from her rest and she sat up in confusion.

Will stopped in surprise as well and felt suddenly self-conscious. Then, he felt ashamed of himself for wasting his time feeling that when this girl was obviously having a far more dreadful night. He assessed her quickly, while she assessed him.

"You're running away, then?" Will asked.

Clearly, the girl had made a far less thorough assessment of him as her eyebrows shot up in astonishment.

She nodded mutely and then again, with a bit confidence, when Will gave her an amiable smile.

"Wicked." He remarked, with genuine appreciation, "I'm Will."

The girl considered all that she knew of him, that is to say, nothing.

"I'm May."

This, for some reason, perplexed Will a very good deal, which in turn, puzzled the girl, whose name was May. "What?" She said uneasily.

"But why not April? Or June? Or November?" Will asked.

Fear of being murdered and thrown in a bush by this stranger be damned – May was very much offended by this reaction, still half-confused as she was. "November? What's wrong with May?"

He looked at her as if she was sprouting horns from her forehead.

"Be – because! May's – it's exam season for crying out loud!" He sputtered indignantly.

This response delighted May and she welcomed the distraction Will brought from her current plight, so she laughed at his absurd reply. Then she told him that his reply was absurd, to which they had a heated debate about whether or not November was a good name – or even a name in the first place. Will had put his stuff down, save for the step-ladder, and his hands gestured verbosely with his argument.

Once the topic had been thoroughly exhausted, a pause ensued.

After the ensued pause, Will said, "If you don't have a place to go, there's a spare room in my house."

This, needless to say, triggered May's alarm bells. She wasn't going to go with him to his bloody house because they'd had a good laugh about her name.

Will realised the implications of his forwardness immediately and rushed to assure her of his dignity, "It's literally across the road. You can scream bloody murder if I try to kill you."

May wasn't sure how any of that was supposed to be reassuring, but found that his need to clear his name for her gave her some courage to reply back, "Why do you even want me to come...?"

"Because..." Will shifted to his other foot. And then he gave a shrug, which in itself was a rubbish answer. "I like to have people over – it's boring not to. Anyway, it's not like there's nobody else there – my brother's home too."

These were all rubbish answers but stripped of context and instincts of self-preservation, they were also humorous, and May, after such a dreadful day, was seeing the amusing side of his answer. She didn't laugh but she couldn't hide that she wanted to laugh at his reply.

Will, ever the giver of the benefit of doubt, took her smile as a sign of trust, relaxed a bit. "My brother's only six anyway, if you were worried about that." He knew the power baby brothers had in winning hearts and said this part only to secure her trust.

Unfortunately, May was horrified, "And you left him alone at home!"

"Yes, but –"

"Oh my God! Will!"

"– he's fast asleep and if he wakes up he can just call me and I come home!"

May still looked appalled. "That's a rubbish excuse!"

"No, really, he's fine with it –"

"Oh my God!"

She had stood up and now took hold of the carrier bag atop the cool box. Will let her, glad to be relieved of its burden and victorious as May started to walk with him. She reached for the cool box, but Will ushered her away from taking anything else – he could owe it to her to at least be this chivalrous. He hadn't the faintest clue why she was agreeing to come with him, but the voice in his head was whispering, "Adventure-Adventure-Adventure", again and again and again.

"You do realise I can't pay you for this, right?" She said uneasily when they had arrived at the cramped driveway in front of Will's house.

"God – I'm not asking you to, May. That would be terrifically rude!"

May only thought that it would be terrifically logical to charge a night's rent, but had no reason to tempt him to change his mind. She followed as he opened a side door and then the door to a shed.  

He stopped unexpectedly inside the shed, as if he'd forgotten something.

"You're not going to steal anything are you?"

It was as if the realisation that he had invited a complete stranger into his home had just dawned on him.

"What if you're a serial killer?"

May assumed the question was rhetorical but, amused again by the workings of Will's brains and the way he said everything that he did say in the funniest, most absurd way possible. "You can scream bloody murder if I try to kill you."

This was a good answer, because Will seemed to relax. "Please don't. And please try not to steal. I'll tell the police."

"You can't tell the police if you're dead."

"My brother can."

This was a sort of trap because Will was looking at May expectantly. But there was no way she was going to say, even as a joke, that she'd kill his little brother.

"I guess I'd get arrested then."

This was another good answer.

He nodded at her once, and from then was their friendship sealed.

[osmw1]

Crowbar Nurse   Chapter 4 — You Have Been Warned.

Now that we had made our plans, we had to go through with them.

That mentality was only natural for us slaves to society who create and support the nights of Japan. Finishing up our conversation, we put our plans into action.

“After we collect all the items, we will leave our current area of Downtown and hurry towards the safehouse in Uptown.”

I glanced around restlessly at our surroundings as I spoke to Kiryū.

“The safehouse is… well, it should be safer than everywhere else at least.” “… that’s an odd way to put it. It almost sounds like you’re trying to say that the safehouse isn’t actually safe.”

I could but shrug at his keen inference.

“Unfortunately, you’ve hit the nail on the head. More zombies spawn with every moment that passes. That means there are less safe spaces and makes it harder to beat this game. The safehouses are safe for the first few days though…” “Safe until the zombies encroach into the safe zone?” “Yes.”

He guessed everything correctly.

“Zombies will attack at random intervals after the first few days. If you don’t kill all of the zombies within seven days, a cutscene will play, showing the player being overrun by zombies and forcing a game over. Driving them back will probably buy you some more time, but… it’s not like you can do that anyway. It’s best to just not think about the what-ifs of a game over.”

We were back at the large window from which we came. There were already two, three zombies waiting to fall victim to my assault rifle.

“Wahahahaha, rot in hell!” “… umm, no offense, but are you, y’know… someone who gets too excited from killing people?” “Offense taken! I don’t get off on it, if that’s what you mean. I just like to take out my stress and anger on zombies. They’re inherently evil creatures who were created for the sole purpose of getting killed. No mercy, okay? … a-ha, ahahahaha!” “Never have I thought that any human being would have such a beautiful smile on their face while on a murderous rampage. … but having that said, instead of me defending a younger girl, I feel like I’m the one who has to be protected…”

Kiryū scratched the back of his head, awkwardly standing around.

“Not that I actually need it though. But this is full of surprises. I didn’t think I’d be traveling with a zombie game junkie like you either.” “What, was that a compliment? You’re so nice.” “No, that wasn’t. I’m actually quite shaken…”

He scrunched up his face a little before shaking his head, to which I forced a smile.

“… to tell you the truth, I’d been obsessed with zombie games, so you’re not too far off calling me a junkie. Well, before I got caught up with my practicum and work at least. You’re in safe hands, Kiryū, so don’t worry—s’all good. I may be a little scared, but we’ll make it out of here somehow.” “Your easygoing attitude is rather reassuring, y’know? I had pretty much lost all hope until I found you.”

For a moment, our bitter smiles are mutual until Kiryū suddenly frowned.

“… that being said though, isn’t it weird how you can handle an assault rifle in real life like that?” “Is it weird?” “I’d say so. Aren’t small arms at the top of the list of weapons that are hardest for novices? There are so many clips online of people getting blasted away by guns.” “Hmm… now that you mention it, why do I know how to use it?”

More zombies came at us in the middle of our conversation. I had the rifle on burst mode to get more points, but it was getting a little annoying and I switched it to full auto instead. I don’t even know if I even get points like in a game anyway.

Blood sprayed in the air as chunks of flesh rained down—it a wonderful celebration of violence… zombie games are the best. You’d see the nation’s QoL index shoot upwards if everyone would just relief their stress like me.

“Wahahahaha, eat lead! Die!” “At first I thought I made a bad decision, but now I’m glad I picked up this wild beast.”

Kiryū sighed in astonishment as he watched me spray lead with my rifle and get sprayed with blood.

“I game too, but I’m no expert at zombie games unlike you. I didn’t have the slightest idea how to get ahead in this game. The twists and turns of this area was beyond confusing… I would’ve died here if not for you.” “Heheh, leave it all to me. I know this game like the back of my hand.”

Grabbing the window frame, I hopped over the other side and into the alleyway. I turned around, posed with my rifle, and flashed a smile at Kiryū, hoping to raise his spirits.

“Let’s make light work of these zombies so we can get out of this world ASAP!” “… sign me up. I gotta go back and finish work so I can finally go home. I miss my own bed.”

He heaved another sigh as I laughed in agreement.

“I’m ready snuggle up too, but maybe after a good meal though. There’s edamame, chips, and an ice cold one with my name on them back in the nurses’ dorm.” “… you’re the do as I say–type of nurse, eh? Here for a good time, not a long time?” “Hey, I’m still young! Plus, I haven’t been drinking at home lately either… speaking of which, where do you live, Kiryū?” “Oh, East Shinjuku.” “Wow, for real?!”

I couldn’t help myself from blurting out in surprise.

“I can’t believe you live in a proper place in Shinjuku and not like a cheap dorm for nurses. Adults sure have it nice…” “Hah, it’s nothing special.”

He had somewhat of a smile on his face.

“The boss failed with his bed and breakfast venture with the condo, so instead, he stuffed me in there… and since it’s not particularly safe at night in East Shinjuku, locals try to stay away if they can. Thanks to that, I’ve got a cheap place in Shinjuku that’s real close to work… but there’s also the cops lurking in their cruisers on the side of the road, the drunks shouting in the streets, and the creeps who prowl at night. I don’t feel like I live like a high-roller, that’s for sure.” “Wow… I didn’t know East Shinjuku is like that.” “It’s not just that area of town that’s like that, y’know?” “ I know. But still, that’s amazing… are there perhaps any street thugs who pick fights with you? And do you use bicycles to beat them up?” “That’s what it’s like only in a certain yakuza game. You might see it happen in Kita and Adachi, but I’ve never encountered anything like that in Shinjuku.”

Kiryū looked off to the distance. I furrowed my brow at a particular part of what he said though.

“… that’s a pretty big coincidence though. I work in Shinjuku as well.” “… that’s… oddly convenient.” “Right? How strange… I wonder if it’s a coincidence at all. What if only wage slaves working in Shinjuku get trapped in this world…?”

A bunch of zombies staggered from across the street and into the alley. It’s rare to see them bunch up like this.

“Oh, that’s right. We’ll probably be fine since we have the gun, but shall I check their vitals?” “… what do you—?”

Kiryū must have had a bad feeling about what I said, but I ignored his question. Instead, I shoved the rifle at him and charged at a zombie.

“Hey, wha— Sera?!”

He shouted at me, but whatever. After scuffling with the zombie for about tens of seconds, I plunged my hand deep inside it.

 “… you’re literally ripping its guts out?!”

 Kiryū’s quip explained all there was to explain. I’m sure lots of people would get angry and complain about it being too grotesque if I were to write out all the details, so I’ll make it short. In any case, I ripped it guts out.

“What the hell are you thinking, Sera? Wait, I didn’t even know you could do that in this game!” “Level 1.” “Huh? Level 1?!” “I took about a minute for me to rip its guts out. At max level, it’d take only a moment but since it took more than a minute… it seems like Sera Harvey is at level 1 right now.”

I flick off the blood from my hands as I shrugged at Kiryū.

“You risked yourself just for that…?”

What are you, some kind of berserker?! Kiryū wearily sighed but isn’t this a pretty standard way of killing zombies? It’s still way tamer than ripping out someone’s spine while screaming “Fatality!”

“Oh, and Kiryū, I appreciate how straightforward you are with me. I never enjoyed formalities in real life either, let alone Sera.”

I didn’t think it would be this embarrassing to say it out loud.

“Gotcha. So, should I separate the two and call you by your real name?” “… uhh, hmm… let’s not. I don’t feel like myself looking like this. Honestly, I’m not this cute and petite in person.”

I spread my arms wide open as I answered him and he agreed.

“Me too. I’d likely die in agony if you called me by my real name… I don’t go peacocking around looking this flashy in real life.”

Kiryū said as he checked himself out. That’s quite an excuse for his looks.

“Peacocking, huh? If only you knew what that meant to a Rainbow Dreams fan like me… I’m not a huge fangirl, but Kiryū Sōichirō’s fans would kill you if they heard you say that.” “… yeah, I know. Not only are there a lot of Kiryū’s fangirls, but they also tend to be pretty extreme.” “…” “…” “… hmm?”

As soon as I questioned him, Kiryū averted his eyes and put his hand against his mouth. That only led to more questions.

“Kiryū… you mentioned that you saw Rainbow Dreams High School☆Fantasia at the game show?” “…” “Kiryū?” “…” “… oh, I’m sure I’ve read an interview online where the game devs of—" “Agh, Sera! I forgot I had something very important to say to you! Listen to me.”

Kiryū had a very serious look on his face as he said that. Then with one stride, he closed the physical gap between the two of us and grabbed both sides of my cheeks.

“Umm, you’re getting awfully close to me, Kiryū.” “I can’t believe you went and ripped its guts out! Don’t you ever rush to your death like that again!” “Rush to my death…? I’m a zombie game junkie. I know what I’m doing. And, uhh, more importantly, you’re still too close.” “You know what you’re doing? Do you really? It might look like it, but this is absolutely not a game.”

The look in his eyes showed he was being very serious.

“Trust me when I say I’ve seen what someone dying looks like.” “… I had forgotten about that. That’s right…” “Well, I’m glad you understand. Honestly, I couldn’t help but think you had abandoned your life when I watched what you did earlier. … we’re not in a game. You don’t get to respawn.” “Right…” “We don’t know what happens when we die here, so don’t recklessly throw yourself into the face of danger.” “I understand… that is a very valid point…”

I nodded along as I watched Kiryū lips move as if this was some sort of well-drawn cutscene.

“… umm, Kiryū, I understood what you said. Do you think I could get you to stop peacocking your flashy good looks in my face? You’re standing far too close.” “I thought you said you weren’t a fangirl of this good-looking flashy peacock?”

Kiryū forced a smile as he let go of my cheeks. I subconsciously stared at him.

“… you might have just been the hottest guy in the world or are you self-aware?” “Silly. The 3D model of this avatar is just really high-quality. Deep inside is just some plain old 30-year-old, remember? You wouldn’t even bat an eye if you passed me by on the street. Now, I will apologize for getting too close to you, but don’t dwell on it. We’re back to normal.”

We walked as we talked, and another enemy drew close.

 “… ah. Another one presents itself. Shall we?”

Kiryū swung his crowbar at the zombie at almost the same moment as I said that. It sounded oddly heavy when it collided… does he have some sort of superhuman strength?

“That’s a big swarm of ‘em.” “It sure is. Gets your blood pumping, don’t they? There will be more of them too. One of the game’s selling points was the ‘fun of slaying dynamic enemies that get progressively stronger’… whoa?!”

I instinctively shrieked as Kiryū knocked all the zombies down with his crowbar. Here I thought he was just running away.

“Oh… wow, Kiryū… you sure are strong…” “I exercise.”

He rested the crowbar on his shoulder before returning back to the action. I couldn’t help but stare dumbfounded at him. I thought so too when he grabbed my cheeks, but he’s crazy strong.

 He exercises, huh? I don’t think exercise gets anyone that far, but…

I was still in awe as I shouldered my rifle but Kiryū stopped me before I could assist him.

“Hold on, Sera. What did you mean ‘dynamic enemies that get progressively stronger’? I’ve only fought regular zombies before I met you… and I killed all that I’ve seen. Do they get stronger because of that?” “Huh? Oh, right, you don’t really play… it’s because you haven’t killed them all off yet. In this game, the zombies you kill are all just mooks. Part of the fun of this game lies in slaughtering them.” “… kinda like Grand Theft Auto…” “It’s fun, isn’t it? The zombies get tougher and then the tougher ones start to swarm you too. It actually gets pretty hard because of that. And now that I think about it, if that happens, the safehouse becomes not so safe anymore.” “Wait, wait, wait! Isn’t that really, really bad?! The more we kill now, the harder it’ll get later!” “…” “…” “… oh. Oh!” “You just realized?” “I just realized… I’m sorry. The gamer in me got carried away again…”

Now that I think about it, I kinda screwed the pooch. It had become instinctive for me to play like this. Since the more we kill, the harder they get, we should really stop killing them…

“We have to be careful and pick our battles… but that’s a challenge in itself. If we don’t kill them now, we won’t level up and it’ll be harder later too.” “Talk about a catch-22… I’ll do my best with the crowbar, so hold off on the assault rifle. I need to get some levels too.”

We advance on the zombies as we chatted away. Kiryū focused on the “slightly stronger” zombies and swung away at them. How is he that strong?

“… the crowbar isn’t supposed to be that strong of a weapon.” “Is that right? Maybe I’ve gotten used to it, but it feels good in my hand.” “That’s strange. The crowbar is so heavy though…”

Another swarm of zombies showed up as we finished the previous batch.

“This is bad. There are more of them showing up than I expected.” “… you’ve probably overleveled, huh? It might be rough even with the unlimited ammo rifle if there’s any more of them.”

Kiryū sighed as he bashed the brains out of the top of the zombies’ heads. Then, he turned around and looked at me.

“Sera. With all said and done, we still have to go get your phone and Vital Watch, right? And if we keep killing zombies at this pace, the safehouse wouldn’t be safe enough for us to sit and discuss things… right?” “… that’s right. I’m sorry.”

I apologized as I slumped my shoulders. I told him that he was in safe hands and to leave it all to me but look at our predicament now… how pathetic of me. I couldn’t possibly apologize enough. But Kiryū with a spry Keep your head up, he patted me on the back with one hand while holding his crowbar with the other.

“Where did your easygoing attitude go? I prefer the maniacal smile on your face when you committed genocide on the zombies. And plus, we can still do this together.” “… huh?” “I’d be lost in this world if I were just by myself, but now I’ve got you and your wealth of knowledge… now, how do we get back to the starting area of the game?” “Huh? It might be a little hard, but I think we should be able to do it.” “Then, lead the way. Take us to the Vital Watch and your smartphone so we can recover those two key items.” “What are you trying to accomplish?”

I looked up at him and asked. Kiryū—as if peacocking his flashy good looks in my face—smiled brightly at me.

 “—to break out of the confines of this game.”

■Kiryū

A prudent game developer. He has his reasons to be careful of avoiding leaking any sensitive data, so he only lurks other people’s tweets. His avatar is very well put together, but the real person behind it isn’t too far off. The ladies often approach him. However, for some reason, he seems to be a very late bloomer. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that he has closed his heart off to potential romance relationships. He’s taken a liking to his fancy Makita vacuum cleaner that he bought for no good reason.

contents: /ch001/ /ch002/ /ch003/ /ch004/ /next/

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[what-lovely-scales-fandom]

Villain Analysis

I've been thinking about what @lily-orchard​ has been saying about villains for a while now and I've ironed out my thoughts a little bit, and I think what it comes down to is this: there are three kinds of villains, broadly speaking. Villains who DON'T have a point, villains who KINDA have a point, and villains who DO have a point. And a lot of REALLY bad analysts can't tell those last two apart, even though the last category is so rare it barely exists.

(All of this with the obvious caveat that execution, as always, is going to make all the difference; regardless of how much of a point the villain has, bad writing is bad writing.)

Villains who DON’T have a point are a living obstacle. Their motivations don't matter; it's just an excuse for them to be bad enough for the heroes to have to take down. This gives them the freedom to be as sinister, fun, over-the-top, ridiculous, or monstrous as possible. This is why these villains tend to be the ones that stick in people’s memories; they aren’t bound by conventional morality, so no matter how out there a villainous plot or action is, it isn’t automatically unrealistic for the character. The Joker can have a hospital explode into candy like a piñata and no one bats an eye.

Villains who DO have a point, by contrast, are an extension of the ambiguity that exists in real life. If their actions are extreme, it's in reaction to an extreme situation. They're the terrorists fighting against slavery; they're the revolutionaries upending society because they can make a better one. They could just as easily have been the heroes; hell, they can BE the heroes. They can be trying to STOP the heroes. And crucially, when their tactics are extreme, it’s because the alternatives are too slow or too ineffective. Lobbying to a corrupt government owned by slavers won’t end slavery, and in the meantime people are suffering horribly, so whatever it takes to make people stand up and take notice, they’ll do. They might win. If they do lose, there'll be people leaving the theater still thinking they shouldn't have.

To paint with a very broad brush here, villains who KINDA have a point exist because writers are cowards. They wanted to write in some moral complexity, because moral complexity looks like mature writing and a lot of writers are desperate to seem mature. But actually BEING mature and handling real moral complexity is hard. And it's rarely fun, either; audiences don't leave theaters laughing and smiling and cheering if they weren't even sure if the heroes should've won. Thus, the villain who KINDA has a point. He's dealing with a legitimate issue: global warming or overpopulation or crime or corruption. His solution is a stupid, sideways overreaction that is slightly faster than lending his strength/brains/money toward a normal solution, creates ridiculous collateral damage, and makes it impossible for any reasonable person to argue that his position is defensible. He's probably got some emotion driving him behind his stated motivation: usually anger or pain and a desire for revenge against a group or concept he blames for some misfortune, sometimes a fucked-up messiah complex (see: MCU Thanos). This is probably going to be exploited for pathos toward a character who really doesn't deserve it and would better be reserved for the genuinely innocent victims of the tragedy in his origin story. Or, you know, of his villainy. If he's driven by emotion and a desire to lash out and destroy the things he blames for misfortune or to be the Only One Who Sees The Truth rather than actual logic, it also helps explain why his plan is so bafflingly ineffective and murder-y.

The villain who KINDA has a point brings fake complexity to the show. He has a laudable endgoal, so he can have a couple monologues about how he's trying to do the right thing, the heroes don't understand, blah blah blah, and the dumber critics will praise the show for being "deep and mature and thought-provoking," but without actually having to provoke any thoughts when the heroes throw him in a black hole. The writers don't have to ask if the heroes are doing the right thing. Even more important, they don't have to risk taking a real stance on something that might be controversial. Villains who KINDA have a point tend to be the worst of both worlds. They're less interesting than villains who have a point and drop the tendency to make the audience consider their positions and assumptions, but they're less fun than villains who don't have a point and carry unnecessary plot baggage that may or may not ever actually be resolved (eg., if the villain's motivation requires overpopulation to be an issue in-universe, do the heroes or the plot ever come back to addressing overpopulation in a rational, non-murdery way once the villain is dead?). People who don't pay attention, though, often treat them like villains who DO have a point while letting the writers get away with simple, punch-the-bad-guy-to-death conflict.

A final note to cap off this rant: villains who KINDA have a point aren't innately worthless, the writer just has to commit to who they're actually writing. If someone tries to undo Brexit by killing sixty million people when there are a round dozen better solutions that go ignored because they're less satisfying to Emo Murderpants, they aren't a sympathetic or tragic villain anymore. Ninety percent of the problems with villains who KINDA have a point come about when the writers treat them like a character they aren't (once again, the problem comes down to bad writing rather than "good" or "bad" tropes and archetypes). When you stay aware of the villain you're writing, you get MCU Thanos. When you don't, you get First Appearance Starlight Glimmer, and that's almost as bad as Current Appearance Starlight Glimmer. Don't try to play for pathos with a ruthless megalomaniac who's found a convenient excuse to take out his grudges on the world. When you do bring in the motive rants and monologues, line them with dramatic irony; remembering you're writing about real issues being brought up by someone who isn't going to address them rationally. These villains don't bring genuine moral complexity to a work. What they CAN bring is an Antichrist-like charisma that's fun to watch in its own way; there's nothing quite like a revenge-obsessed psychopath who's absolutely convinced himself he's saving the world. They often draw in decent sorts as high-ranking minions who are prime material for deliberate, well-written redemption arcs once the villain's true level of evil becomes clear. The trick to villains who KINDA have a point is to remember that they aren't really any better than the villains who don't have a point; they're just better at hiding it from everyone, including themselves. Handled correctly, this can make their inevitable breakdown even more satisfying.

And for god's sake stop trying to redeem them. Mistake. Bad. No.

(But seriously. If you wanna write a villain who kinda has a point, give some of those genuine emotional moments, sad flashbacks, that conviction to never see what happened to them happen to another child, all that deep pathos... give that villain a more noble minion who has no idea how crazy her boss is. Let her have those scenes, and then have her bail when she figures out her boss is an Emo Murderpants. Save ten seconds in the wrap-up collage to show her working with the heroes to fix the issues she cares about the right way. Basically, save the pathos for the characters the audience isn't supposed to cheer watching them get chucked in a black hole. Save a couple flashbacks for Emo Murderpants if you really want to to show us how he got here, but don't pretend it makes him any less of an Emo Murderpants. Hell, let him share a flashback with Noble Minion to contrast how she was motivated to make the world better and he decided to become an Emo Murderpants instead.)

[gracewithducks]

Who is my neighbor? (Luke 10:25-27; preached 7/14/19)

I’ve been on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho. These days, it’s a divided highway, full of tour buses and taxis and semis and personal vehicles, one of the busier throughways in a modern nation. It’s a hauntingly beautiful drive that takes you through the wilderness of the Holy Land, through rolling mountains, miles and miles of nothing but rock and stone as far as the eye can see. It’s a beautiful place, but it’s also a harsh landscape – lovely to see through the windows of a tour bus, but not a place I’d ever want to wander on my own.

 Back in Jesus’ day, this was a dangerous and difficult road – so much so that it earned the nickname “the Way of Blood,” because of robbers and bandits would often attack. For this reason, travelers would stay together in groups, looking for safety in numbers – which brings up the question of why the traveler in Jesus’ story is alone. Was he a fool? Was he an outcast? Was he a man so desperate that he set out by himself? Did he bring this attack on himself by being alone and unsafe? And if so, does it matter – does his folly or his lowliness mean that we are excused from having to care?

 There along that famous road between Jerusalem and Jericho, up on the side of the road, is a little building – with a sign that proclaims: The Inn of the Good Samaritan. Of course, there was no actual Inn of the Good Samaritan; this isn’t a historical account, but a parable, a story Jesus told to encourage his listeners to think more deeply. It’s one of the most famous of his parables, however, one that resonated throughout the ages – and in the sixth century, a Byzantine monastery was built on the spot of an old travelers’ hostel, a place to remember the parable Jesus told, a place for pilgrims to visit and imagine their own role in the story.

 When I was on that road, as we followed the path of the man in the story, going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, our tour host pointed out the Good Samaritan’s Inn. We drove past, enjoyed our day, and then our bus made our way back up to Jerusalem.

 And then our bus started to slow down. And smoke started to billow from the engine. And then, we drifted to the side of the highway… and so we found ourselves stranded on the side of the road, and I kid you not, on the other side of the highway, we could see the Good Samaritan’s Inn.

 Thankfully, we didn’t wait for long. Ours was one of three buses full of United Methodists from Michigan, and our bus took pride in always being out front: we got up a bit earlier, left a little earlier, and always were one step ahead of the other two groups. Our guide got on the radio, and ten or fifteen minutes later, the second and third buses pull up in front of and behind our own. As we piled into their empty seats – there were, somehow, exactly enough – we joked about providing our pilgrims with the full Good Samaritan experience – both those of us who needed help, and those who stopped and to make room.

 Of course, we were never in mortal peril. Even as cars went whizzing past us, none of us were injured, none of us were robbed and left for dead. And there’s something inherently safe about pulling over to help a bus full of people just like you, people who are familiar, people you already know. We certainly were grateful for our fellow pilgrims and their guides, who helped us out that day… but I’m not sure that’s exactly what Jesus meant when he told this story to answer a difficult question: “Who is my neighbor?”

 Later that evening, we loaded back into buses – all of which were working – and travelled from Jerusalem to Bethlehem. We crossed through checkpoints, past armed soldiers, to the other side of the big wall, where we had been invited to share dinner in homes, local homes, homes of actual families, of Christians whose families traced their roots all the way back to the shepherds who heard the angels sing there in Bethlehem two thousand years ago. We ate at their tables, and saw their faces, and heard the voices of people who were persecuted, who struggled without enough of anything, whose homeland and been stolen and whose rights were taken away, who faced hatred and injustice and need daily, people whose real “neighbors” built miles of concrete and barbed wire to keep them locked away.

 And still we ask: Who is my neighbor?

In today’s scripture, Jesus meets an expert in the law, who tests Jesus by asking him, “What must I do?” Jesus in turn tests the man, saying, “What does God’s Word tell you?” And the man answered, “Love the Lord your God with your whole being, and love your neighbor as you love yourself.”

 He knew the right answer. But knowing and doing aren’t the same thing. Just knowing isn’t enough. The man starts looking for loopholes – because surely Jesus doesn’t mean that we are supposed to love everyone the way we love ourselves. Surely there are reasonable limits to what God demands. So the man asks, “Who is my neighbor?” How will I know who it is I’m supposed to love?

 He’s looking for some wiggle room; he’s looking for an out. So Jesus tell this story, about a man going to Jericho, a man who is attacked, stripped, beaten and left for dead. A priest comes along and, seeing the man, passes by on the other side of the road. A Levite, a worship leader, comes along, but he too, passes by on the other side. Two good and faithful Jewish leaders, two people who could have quoted the law, chapter and verse, who were respected for their leadership, who knew all about “love the Lord your God with all your heart” and “love your neighbor as yourself” – they fail to do it. But then a Samaritan – an outsider, a stranger, the kind of person who was despised and shunned by those good and faithful Jews… a Samaritan finds the man, and takes pity on him. He bandages his wounds, puts the man on his own donkey, brings him to an inn, pays for his expenses, and promises to come back and settle any additional bills.

 It’s a familiar story – so familiar that even people who’ve never set foot in a church building or cracked open a bible still know that a “Good Samaritan” is someone who helps. But because the story is so familiar, we sometimes lose sight of how demanding it is, how radical and unexpected that the religious leaders pass on by while an outsider, a nobody, is the one who shows mercy, the one who earns Jesus’ praise.

 And sometimes, even like lawyer who questioned Jesus, we too look for loopholes. We make excuses: maybe the priest and the Levite thought the traveler was already dead, beyond their help; and because touching a dead body would make them unclean, they wouldn’t have been able to go about their work of tending the holy things of God. Of course we might rightly ask what is more holy to God than one of God’s children in need? – and there’s no evidence that the priest or the Levite even checks that the man is dead; they simply avert their eyes and pass on by.

 We look for loopholes; from the very beginning, Christians have interpreted Jesus’ story as an allegory: one of the early church fathers, Origen, taught that the traveler is Adam, beaten by sin, and the priest and Levite are the law and the prophets, powerless to save, until the Samaritan, the unexpected hero, who is Jesus, shows mercy, dressing humanity’s wounds and paying our debts. Practically every significant early church teacher repeated this interpretation: we are the wounded travelers, and Jesus is the Samaritan; Jesus shows mercy; Jesus is the only one who saves.

 And it works. It’s a lovely allegory of the compassion and grace God shows to us. And it’s especially attractive, because it places us in the role of the helpless victim, waiting for God to step in and to help.

 But there isn’t any evidence that Jesus set out to tell the lawyer or the crowds how helpless they are, how all they can do, all we can do, is wait for God to act on our behalf. No, Jesus tells this story in answer to the question: “What must I do?” Jesus tells the story to answer, “Who is my neighbor? Who am I supposed to love?”

And the answer is simple: look for the one who needs your help. Look for the one who needs someone to have compassion. And show mercy. That’s how we love our neighbors: not with words but with action, with bandages and donkeys and denarii.

 This is a story about an unlikely hero: while the religious leaders let their busy schedules, their laws and their fears get in their way, the hero is the outsider, the ordinary man, the foreigner, the only one who is willing to cross over, the break taboos, to get his hands dirty and open his pocketbook in order to help a stranger in distress – even a stranger who, on any other day, might have mocked and shunned Samaritans. He doesn’t ask if this man is friendly or if he’s worthy; he simply sees a fellow human being in need, and he does what he can to help. This, says Jesus, this is what matters: not if you worship in the right place, not if you can quote all the right verses, but if, when it matters, when a life is on the line, if you love your neighbor as you love yourself.

 The world has enough Christians today who keep walking, who find loopholes and excuses to avert their eyes and just keep walking, to pass by on the other side. There are enough Christians out there pretending persecution while others are actually dying, enough who argue against basic civil rights for others just because they don’t look or think the same way, who actually argue that Jesus would be okay with not feeding the hungry or not teaching the children or not letting sick people get the medicine and help they need. There are enough Christians who are content to choose profits over people, to choose our own comfort and convenience over someone else’s survival, to ignore the ways our selfishness is destroying the climate, and the global economy, and contributing to violence and unrest and threatening the basic survival of people around the world – and do it all while pretending to be pro-life, and claiming a monopoly on Christian values, even while betraying everything Jesus did and said and lived and died for.

The world is full of so-called Christians who are content to pass by on the other side. In fact, there was a recent study which shows that 2 out of every 3 white evangelical Protestants in the US say that we have no responsibility to help refugees. Two thirds say, when someone escaping famine and war and persecution shows up at our border, we have no moral obligation to help them at all. White mainline Protestants – that includes a lot of us – came out only a little bit better, at 43% saying we need to help. Don’t tell me race isn’t a factor; don’t tell me “I don’t see color,” when white Christians say we have no obligation to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, or tend to the dying and desperate at our doorstep. And what’s especially disheartening is that, of all the groups surveyed – including Catholics and Black Protestants – the group with the highest percentage believing we need to help refugees are the “religiously unaffiliated,” those who don’t worship in any church or claim the name of Christ at all.[1]

Shame on us. Shame on us all.

I remember growing up and wondering how the Holocaust could have happened. But now I know: this is how. Good people just kept walking. Good Christian people looked the other way. Good people chose convenience and obedience over compassion and justice, and as Nazi soldiers marched into war wearing belt buckles proclaiming “God is with us,” for far too long, with just a few brace exceptions, the rest of us were full of excuses, averting our eyes, looking away, and passing by on the other side – until at last, it was too late.

 Jesus says, Love your neighbor. Love your neighbor as you love yourself. Love your foreign neighbor, your immigrant neighbor, your refugee neighbor, your black neighbor, your brown neighbor, your white neighbor, your gay neighbor, your straight neighbor, your transgender neighbor, your Christian neighbor, your atheist neighbor, your Muslim neighbor, your conservative neighbor, your liberal neighbor, your rich neighbor, your poor neighbor, your hurting neighbor – love your neighbor as you love yourself. Period. No loopholes, and no exceptions.

 So what can we do? How do we start to better love our neighbors? We have to start at home, with the people we know and love best – but for whom we often show the least grace and compassion. And we start loving our neighbors with our actual neighbors; do you even know your neighbors’ names? When is the last time you looked the cashier or the waiter or the gas station attendant in the eye, and recognized them as an actual living breathing human being? How often do we go to school events, to community functions, to see the faces and hear the voices of all the people who also call this place home?

 Loving our neighbors starts here. Do you know the people sitting around you today? Do you know the ones who sit on the other side of the room? Do you have any idea who almost didn’t come today, because life is really hard right now, and putting on a happy church face is almost too much to bear? Do you know who’s celebrating? Who’s struggling? Who desperately needs a friend? Do you know who hasn’t been touched all week? Who needs someone to smile at them, to see them, to take their hand or give them a hug, and to say, “You are not alone”? Who is the neighbor in this room whom God is calling you to recognize today?

Loving our neighbors means we have to look beyond ourselves. We consider more than our own wants and needs when are shopping, when we are eating, or when we go to the polls on election day. Loving our neighbors means advocating for them – for Christians being persecuted in Bethlehem, and Sri Lanka, in North Korea and China and Nigeria, and for the Christians being denied their basic human rights at our own southern border. We advocate for and help those who are without clean water in Kenya and Ethiopia and in Flint, Michigan, and for refugees drinking out of toilets in American concentration camps. We advocate for children dying in Afghanistan and Sub-Saharan Africa because they don’t have enough water, enough food, enough doctors – and we advocate for children at our borders who are dying for the very same reasons. How do we love our neighbors? We love by making calls, by writing letters, by lighting candles, by refusing to be silent, by refusing to look away, refusing to quietly pass by on the other side.

 You know that Inn of the Good Samaritan in Israel, the one where our bus broke down? It’s really just an old tourist trap – a place built so good Christians could visit on their pilgrimages, and go away feeling holy and sanctified. These days it’s not an active monastery or a church, but a museum, full of ancient mosaics, relics of faith from days long past. If you went there looking for help, you’d be hard-pressed to find so much as a band-aid.

 Jesus never intended for our faith to end up in a museum, for our churches to be full of beautiful reminders of the olden days, to be a place we look but never touch. No, Jesus calls us to get our hands dirty, to invite in the bruised and the bloody and care more about helping people than keeping the carpets clean. He invited us to go out, to leave our safe sanctuary and find our neighbors who are hurting, to look for those who are dying while good people just pass on by.

 May we be the ones who show mercy. May we love our neighbors, in word and in deed, here in this place and all around the world.

  God of love, give us a deep love for you,

so that we can see the world as you see it,

feel the compassion you feel,

and be a people whose lives mediate your love to others.

 So open our eyes that we might see what the Good Samaritan saw.

Grant us the insight to see the need in others,

the wisdom to know what to do, and the will to do it.

 And so we pray for all those, who in many and various ways,

have been stripped, beaten and left for dead.

 We pray for children who must grow up

in the most awful of circumstances,

especially for those starved of love, or food, or shelter or security.

May they receive the future you have planned for them.

 We pray for those we might cross the road to avoid.

Who have been excluded socially because of their race,

their financial status, or their history.

May the dignity that is theirs be restored to them.

 We pray for those whose need we would rather not face up to,

because it requires action of us,

those who suffer atrocities because of war, unjust trade rules,

or oppressive governments.

May the world receive a true picture of their suffering

and the factors that cause it, that justice may be done.

 Open our eyes, that we might not cross the road from human need.

Give us a deep love for you,

that we might see your love at work in this world,

and that we might Go and do likewise.

 ~ Prayer posted on the Faith and Unity Department of the Baptist Union of Great Britain [2]

  [1] https://www.washingtonexaminer.com/opinion/an-old-poll-indicates-evangelicals-dont-care-about-refugees-how-do-they-actually-feel

[2] No longer seems to be posted at the original site; I found this prayer at: https://re-worship.blogspot.com/2013/06/prayer-of-people-good-samaritan.html

[janiedean]

But why do you hate Cersei that much? Is it because you are hardcore JamiexBrienne shipper? (Classic)

… this question was fairly fine until the classic, which denotes a certain passive-aggressiveness typical of the usual cersei stan so excuse me if instead of getting a nice answer I might have toned down a bit you’re getting all the ugly truth - next time consider not implying that I’d hate a character just because it’s in the way of my ship, thank you, since I tend to actually multiship and I don’t hate jeynew for being technically an obstacle to my main ship and so on. but okay. you wanna know? let’s go in order,

spoilers: this is gonna be ugly, I am not going to hold back any venom and so if you like cersei you’re welcome to not read this. I warned you.

one: classic. my dear anon, I’ll tell you a secret: 80% of the jb fandom actually likes cerse. I’m in the minority. most people I know who ship jb either also ship jc or like cersei as a villain/as the horrid person she is because they enjoy a well-written villain. i don’t, but most *hardcore jb shippers* actually LIKE cersei. if then you take ‘she’s horrible but I love her character’ as people hating her then it’s your goddamned problem.

two: I actually loathed her abusive, controlling, manipulative and murdering ass way before brienne even showed up in the book let alone reading asos.

NO, REALLY.

three: I find cersei a technically very well-built and written character. no, really.

four: too bad that if there’s one thing I hate in fiction is incompetent villains, and if there’s three kinds of people I hate irl it’s a) people who think they’re so much better than the others, b) people who use person X who loves them as an emotional punching bag/their own servant without realizing what’s wrong with it, c) people who don’t accept responsibilities of their actions. rings a bell?

ah, right.

five: I find cersei’s povs utterly, terribly and fucking boring. okay, she’s insane, okay, she’s completely out of this world, okay, she’s great in her being completely insane and wanting to rule, okay, she’s a great villain, I found it amusing for one chapter and then I fell asleep. I can’t care less to be in the head of a narcissist asshole who thinks the world is an extension of herself and digs her own grave while blaming everyone else for her shortcomings and not even getting it when she’s directly confronted with it.

six: cersei is a fucking disgusting human being. and before y’all go like BUT ROBERT, I’m just gonna say that I am in no way, shape or form required to be interested in someone who threw a 12 year old into a well because said person dared say she had a crush on her brother when she also was twelve herself. like. okay, maybe for some people she’s interesting, to me that’s child psychiatrist material.

seven: I have also absolutely no fucking interest in an abusive fuck who spent her entire life actively or not actively trying to prevent jaime from actually having an identity separated from hers or who sexually molested her other brother while he was in the crib and justifies it with WELL HE’S A MONSTER. no, fuck you.

eight: an abusive fuck who also thinks she’s her father and couldn’t do politics if they hit her in the face. I mean, I actually like roose as a character and I don’t hate him even if he actively put a knife inside my actual favorite character’s heart because a) he’s not an incompetent fuck, b) he knows when you should not do horrid stuff because it’s not politically convenient, c) just wanted to rule his damned land and isn’t going out of his way to mess shit up jUST BECAUSE HE HAS THE POWER. cersei is just that, all along, and I can’t give a fuck about it.

nine: I have absolutely zero sympathy for 99% of her plights - at most I can give her that marrying robert was miserable, but OMG I AM A WOMAN IT PREVENTS ME FROM BEING MY FATHER SO NOW I WILL HAVE TO BE HORRID TO EVERYONE ELSE WHILE EXCUSING MYSELF ALL ALONG is not my cup of tea.

ten: OMG SHE’S A WONDERFUL MOTHER!!!! yeah a wonderful mother who sends tommen to whip someone when he’s not tough enough, totally great. and fandom even buys that. blergh.

eleven: I can’t stand her treatment of jaime and tyrion but jaime especially and I find it absolutely revolting and excuse me but I might find it such especially since if you look at it she basically dragged him into doing sexual stuff when they were younger than eight and from then on she did everything to make sure he wouldn’t have a life apart from her when she was ready to drop him if rhaegar accepted to marry her? like, why the fuck am I obliged to like this kind of person if it’s not my kind of character? ah, and it’s not about the incest because if that was the problem I wouldn’t be here shipping thor and loki and the other three sibling incests I occasionally shipped throughout my life, I just hated it since book one. am I allowed?

twelve: I’m gonna tell you a secret now (not so much but whatever). I read books 1-5 in a month marathoning and I didn’t exactly have time to form opinions until after I was done, and I started shipping jb during asos but I mean it sailed at the end and I was mild shipping, not hardcore. you know when was the moment where I thought, re cersei, omg fuck you I hope you die in a fire we’re Done I’m never giving you second chances I don’t care you can choke didn’t even have anything to do with jaime, it was when they were discussing the red wedding post-thing and someone said that catelyn went insane when she watched robb die in front of him and she started laughing about it. and excuse me anyone who finds the red wedding funny ESPECIALLY someone who professes that they’re a wonderful mother who loves her children is completely banned from my list of people who deserve me giving them a second chance to get back in my ‘I like you’ list. okay? my favorite character is robb, cat is in my top ten and I actually love cat to bits even if I don’t agree with her on half of what she says/we are fundamentally different in a lot of fundamental aspects, except that cat’s not an asshole and I can like her because she has things I like about her other than being very well-written, cersei’s just well-written but for the rest she’s the sum of everything I hate in a) fictional villains, b) people irl.

thirteen: also, the fandom tends to justify basically everything this asshole does with the excuse that she’s a woman so SHE’S AN EMPOWERED PROTO-FEMINIST when no she’s fucking not and cersei stans regularly show up bashing on my jb shipping that I try to keep actively away from them for example not tagging anything I say about cersei because I know they don’t wanna read it, while the brienne tag is riddled with crap like OMG YOU SAY SHE HAS TO BE CISHET JUST BECAUSE YOU SHIP HER WITH JAIME BOOO, or gems like ‘omg jb fans are all ugly women who want to bang jaime and project on brienne how pathetic muahahaha cersei had it so much worse’ plus coming on anon at regular intervals to send shit to people in the jb tag (I even have a tagged/jb-wank tag for it, TRY IT), so her fans definitely made sure that I went to general dislike to full-on hatred and that’s not even counting d&d trying to make cersei more sympathetic. blergh. as if there’s the need.

fourteen: I also don’t need to like someone who has no problem condemning people to death, ordering TWENTY children dead without losing a moment of sleep on it (I mean theon did the same with two and has nightmares about it, jon swapped two didn’t even kill them and he has nightmares about it, this asshole hasn’t even thought about it once), ordering people tortured or unethically experimented on and ordering rape on other women (in the show at least) all along while thinking she’s the best thing that ever happened to this planet. I have a few limits and people who only think about themselves and see other people in terms of HOW USEFUL THEY ARE TO ME are one of them, thanks.

fifteen: and for that matter, my favorite fictional villain ever is randall flagg ie a dude who killed an entire planet once or almost and who’s an unrepentant asshole and unapologetically evil, except that he actually doesn’t think he’s this great person because of it. he’s just evil incarnated, but what the hell. I like competent villains who don’t try to tell themselves they aren’t villains and who don’t frame their actions as anything but horrid shit. I’m fine if they enjoy it and I’m fine if they have a skewed set of morals according to which they see it as perfectly acceptable, but cersei doesn’t have a skewed set of morals, cersei’s just fucking out of it and has the worst narcissistic disorder in recent literary history. and she’s an incompetent fuck who thinks she’s better than everyone else who abuses everyfuckingone she runs into, and I just said jaime and tyrion but if I got into sansa, lancel, tommen, myrcella and just about everyone she interacts with I’d end up the day after tomorrow.

sixteen: my dislike was thoroughly cemented by how much I didn’t enjoy her pov chapters in affc/adwd but that was way before I hardcore shipped jb because at that point the only things I HARDCORE shipped were jon/sam and sandor/sansa, I wasn’t even shipping t/rhobb at that point. and my hardcore j/b shipping happened by the end of affc/by the time I was finished, and even then it took me one year to actually get into that side of fandom for real. so, no, actually the fact that I ship j/b has absolutely nothing to do with my dislike of cersei ie a character I disliked in got, hated in acok, was disgusted by all of the damned time in asos and throroughly detested in affc for reasons that guess what had everything to do with her and nothing to do with me shipping jaime with someone else.

because really, as long as he got away from that abusive fuck that’s his sister, he could have done it with arthur dayne, catelyn, the blackfish, fucking jon connington, oberyn or tv!bronn for what I care. I absolutely hate her also because I want jaime far away from her, but as long as he is, the fact that brienne is there and she’s his canon love interest (deal - with - it) is just a good convenient thing. otherwise I still would want him a planet away from that asshole that’s his sister. clear? shipping jb has nothing to do with that. fuck’s sake, the two most popular jon ships are jon/sansa and jon/dany and I ship him with EVERYONE BUT THOSE TWO and robb, and guess what I don’t hate sansa or robb (they’re both in my top ten/fifteen) and I don’t care about dany either way. I’m not so fucking not objective that I loathe a character so much just because they’re canonically in the middle of my ship, I’d be an immature or it’d be an immature reason and I’m enough of an adult to actually admit it. she happens to be in the middle of my ship more or less, but believe me I don’t hate elia or lyanna for being in the middle of r/jonc, sure as fuck I don’t hate cersei because she’s in the middle of jb.

I hate cersei because all of us has limits when it comes to irl and fictional characters and she’s wildly beyond all of mine and guess what, that was clear since the moment I read book one, after which jaime was my second-fave overall and she was at the damned bottom of the list. ah, except that if you dare liking jaime but not her you’re suddenly a Bad Feminist because liking the man out of the two of them but not her means you’re somehow having internalized misogyny. when instead it could be that jaime’s actually not an asshole and she is, but since, oh, wait, this fandom villanizes jaime a lot because in order to justify the crap cersei does they have to go along with that fucking THEY’RE THE SAME PERSON spiel which the narrative had denied from page five of the first tyrion pov chapter or so, I also have to get told that if I like the lannister guys (who are grey and fucked up but not inherently bad people and ah wait, both abuse victims since the damned cradle while she’s not) but not her I’m a Bad Feminist TM and excuse me but that attitude should have died years ago and it also helped making sure I would never budge when it came to c.

seventeen: the fact that the more time passes the less I can’t stand her means I can’t stand her in the show either. wow, too bad. I also couldn’t stand the th/ramsay scenes and watched them muted. but did I go ask t/hramsay ppl how they found them watchable? no. because I mind my own fucking business. and I wasn’t gonna even say it until people basically had to tear it out of me keeping on telling me I should like cersei/lena’s portrayal better than kit/jon because she’s a better actress than he is. most likely, but I don’t wanna punch jon in the face. and I wanna punch cersei in the face. for all the above reasons.

that have nothing to do with jb and all to do with the fact that cersei is an abusive/manipulative/incompetent fuck. okay?

there. that’s why I hate cersei. satisfied?

ps: and that’s why I don’t talk about cersei outside of jb meta, because I know that 50% of this is most probably my flawed subjective opinion and that she irks me also because of personal reasons that don’t have to be rational (there’s a reason why I hate incompetent idiots irl and why I hate people who think your life revolves around theirs irl btw) and that people will like her for a lot of the reasons why I dislike her. it’s fair. and that’s why I usually don’t share. 

but if you really had to ask, that’s your damned answer.

classic, my ass. 80% of jb fans around actually don’t agree with me on 80% of what I wrote. some of us just don’t fucking like cersei. deal. with. it.

thanks for coming to my fucking ted talk.

[lucids]

The Ten Golden Rules on Living the Good Life

Examine life, engage life with vengeance; always search for new pleasures and new destines to reach with your mind.

Worry only about the things that are in your control, the things that can be influenced and changed by your actions, not about the things that are beyond your capacity to direct or alter.

Treasure Friendship, the reciprocal attachment that fills the need for affiliation.

Experience True Pleasure. Avoid shallow and transient pleasures. Keep your life simple. Seek calming pleasures that contribute to peace of mind. True pleasure is disciplined and restrained. In its many shapes and forms, pleasure is what every human being is after.

Master Yourself.

Avoid Excess.

Be a Responsible Human Being.

Don’t Be a Prosperous Fool.

Don’t Do Evil to Others.

Kindness towards others tends to be rewarded. Kindness to others is a good habit that supports and reinforces the quest for the good life. Helping others bestows a sense of satisfaction that has two beneficiaries—the beneficiary, the receiver of the help, and the benefactor, the one who provides the help.

-

What is good life? What is happiness? What is success? What is pleasure? How should I treat other people? How should I cope with unfortunate events? How can I get rid off unnecessary worry? How should I handle liberty?

1. Examine life, engage life with vengeance; always search for new pleasures and new destines to reach with your mind. This rule isn’t new. It echoes the verses of ancient Greek philosophers and most notably those of Plato through the voice of his hero, Socrates.  Living life is about examining life through reason, nature’s greatest gift to humanity. The importance of reason in sensing and examining life is evident in all phases of life-- from the infant who strains to explore its new surroundings to the grandparent who actively reads and assesses the headlines of the daily paper.  Reason lets human beings participate in life, to be human is to think, appraise, and explore the world, discovering new sources of material and spiritual pleasure.

2. Worry only about the things that are in your control, the things that can be influenced and changed by your actions, not about the things that are beyond your capacity to direct or alter. This rule summarizes several important features of ancient Stoic wisdom — features that remain powerfully suggestive for modern times. Most notably the belief in an ultimately rational order operating in the universe reflecting a benign providence that ensures proper outcomes in life.  Thinkers such as Epictetus did not simply prescribe “faith” as an abstract philosophical principle; they offered a concrete strategy based on intellectual and spiritual discipline.  The key to resisting the hardship and discord that intrude upon every human life, is to cultivate a certain attitude toward adversity based on the critical distinction between those things we are able to control versus those which are beyond our capacity to manage.  The misguided investor may not be able to recover his fortune but he can resist the tendency to engage in self-torment. The victims of a natural disaster, a major illness or an accident may not be able to recover and live their lives the way they used to, but they too can save themselves the self-torment.   In other words, while we cannot control all of the outcomes we seek in life, we certainly can control our responses to these outcomes and herein lies our potential for a life that is both happy and fulfilled.

3. Treasure Friendship, the reciprocal attachment that fills the need for affiliation. Friendship cannot be acquired in the market place, but must be nurtured and treasured in relations imbued with trust and amity. According to Greek philosophy, one of the defining characteristics of humanity that distinguishes it from other forms of existence is a deeply engrained social instinct, the need for association and affiliation with others, a need for friendship. Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle viewed the formation of society as a reflection of the profound need for human affiliation rather than simply a contractual arrangement between otherwise detached individuals. Gods and animals do not have this kind of need but for humans it is an indispensable aspect of the life worth living because one cannot speak of a completed human identity, or of true happiness, without the associative bonds called “friendship.” No amount of wealth, status, or power can adequately compensate for a life devoid of genuine friends.

4. Experience True Pleasure. Avoid shallow and transient pleasures. Keep your life simple. Seek calming pleasures that contribute to peace of mind. True pleasure is disciplined and restrained. In its many shapes and forms, pleasure is what every human being is after. It is the chief good of life. Yet not all pleasures are alike. Some pleasures are kinetic—shallow, and transient, fading way as soon as the act that creates the pleasure ends. Often they are succeeded by a feeling of emptiness and psychological pain and suffering. Other pleasures are catastematic—deep, and prolonged, and continue even after the act that creates them ends; and it is these pleasures that secure the well-lived life. That’s the message of the Epicurean philosophers that have been maligned and misunderstood for centuries, particularly in the modern era where their theories of the good life have been confused with doctrines advocating gross hedonism.

5. Master Yourself. Resist any external force that might delimit thought and action; stop deceiving yourself, believing only what is personally useful and convenient; complete liberty necessitates a struggle within, a battle to subdue negative psychological and spiritual forces that preclude a healthy existence; self mastery requires ruthless cador. One of the more concrete ties between ancient and modern times is the idea that personal freedom is a highly desirable state and one of life’s great blessings. Today, freedom tends to be associated, above all, with political liberty. Therefore, freedom is often perceived as a reward for political struggle, measured in terms of one’s ability to exercise individual “rights.”

The ancients argued long before Sigmund Freud and the advent of modern psychology that the acquisition of genuine freedom involved a dual battle. First, a battle without, against any external force that might delimit thought and action. Second, a battle within, a struggle to subdue psychological and spiritual forces that preclude a healthy self-reliance. The ancient wisdom clearly recognized that humankind has an infinite capacity for self-deception, to believe what is personally useful and convenient at the expense of truth and reality, all with catastrophic consequences. Individual investors often deceive themselves by holding on to shady stocks, believing what they want to believe. They often end up blaming stock analysts and stockbrokers when the truth of the matter is they are the ones who eventually made the decision to buy them in the first place. Students also deceive themselves believing that they can pass a course without studying, and end up blaming their professors for their eventual failure. Patients also deceive themselves that they can be cured with convenient “alternative medicines,” which do not involve the restrictive lifestyle of conventional methods.

6. Avoid Excess. Live life in harmony and balance. Avoid excesses. Even good things, pursued or attained without moderation, can become a source of misery and suffering. This rule is echoed in the writings of ancient Greek thinkers who viewed moderation as nothing less than a solution to life’s riddle. The idea of avoiding the many opportunities for excess was a prime ingredient in a life properly lived, as summarized in Solon’s prescription “Nothing in Excess” (6th Century B.C.).  The Greeks fully grasped the high costs of passionate excess. They correctly understood that when people violate the limits of a reasonable mean, they pay penalties ranging from countervailing frustrations to utter catastrophe. It is for this reason that they prized ideals such as measure, balance, harmony, and proportion as much as they did, the parameters within which productive living can proceed. If, however, excess is allowed to destroy harmony and balance, then the life worth living becomes impossible to obtain.

7. Be a Responsible Human Being. Approach yourself with honesty and thoroughness; maintain a kind of spiritual hygiene; stop the blame-shifting for your errors and shortcomings. Be honest with yourself and be prepared to assume responsibility and accept consequences. This rule comes from Pythagoras, the famous mathematician and mystic, and has special relevance for all of us because of the common human tendency to reject responsibility for wrongdoing. Very few individuals are willing to hold themselves accountable for the errors and mishaps that inevitably occur in life.  Instead, they tend to foist these situations off on others complaining of circumstances “beyond their control.” There are, of course, situations that occasionally sweep us along, against which we have little or no recourse. But the far more typical tendency is to find ourselves in dilemmas of our own creation — dilemmas for which we refuse to be held accountable. How many times does the average person say something like, “It really wasn’t my fault. If only John or Mary had acted differently then I would not have responded as I did.” Cop-outs like these are the standard reaction for most people. They reflect an infinite human capacity for rationalization, finger-pointing, and denial of responsibility. Unfortunately, this penchant for excuses and self-exemption has negative consequences. People who feed themselves a steady diet of exonerating fiction are in danger of living life in bad faith — more, they risk corrupting their very essence as a human being.

8. Don’t Be a Prosperous Fool. Prosperity by itself, is not a cure-all against an ill-led life, and may be a source of dangerous foolishness. Money is a necessary but not a sufficient condition for the good life, for happiness and wisdom. Prosperity has different meanings to different people. For some, prosperity is about the accumulation of wealth in the form of money, real estate and equities. For others, prosperity is about the accumulation of power and the achievement of status that comes with appointment to business or government positions. In either case, prosperity requires wisdom: the rational use of one’s resources and in the absence of such wisdom, Aeschylus was correct to speak of prosperous fools.

9. Don’t Do Evil to Others. Evildoing is a dangerous habit, a kind of reflex too quickly resorted to and too easily justified that has a lasting and damaging effect upon the quest for the good life. Harming others claims two victims—the receiver of the harm, and the victimizer, the one who does harm.

Contemporary society is filled with mixed messages when it comes to the treatment of our fellow human beings. The message of the Judaeo-Christian religious heritage, for instance, is that doing evil to others is a sin, extolling the virtues of mercy, forgiveness, charity, love, and pacifism. Yet, as we all know, in practice these inspiring ideals tend to be in very short supply. Modern society is a competitive, hard-bitten environment strongly inclined to advocate self-advantage at the expense of the “other.” Under these conditions, it is not surprising that people are often prepared to harm their fellow human beings. These activities are frequently justified by invoking premises such as “payback,” “leveling scores,” or “doing unto others, before they can do unto you.” Implicit in all of these phrases is the notion that malice towards others can be justified on either a reciprocal basis or as a pre-emptive gesture in advance of anticipated injury. What is not considered here are the effects these attempts to render evil have upon the person engaging in such attempts. Our culture has naively assumed that “getting even” is an acceptable response to wrongdoing — that one bad-turn deserves another. What we fail to understand is the psychological, emotional, and spiritual impact victimizing others has upon the victimizer.

10. Kindness towards others tends to be rewarded. Kindness to others is a good habit that supports and reinforces the quest for the good life. Helping others bestows a sense of satisfaction that has two beneficiaries—the beneficiary, the receiver of the help, and the benefactor, the one who provides the help.

Many of the world’s great religions speak of an obligation to extend kindness to others. But these deeds are often advocated as an investment toward future salvation — as the admission ticket to paradise. That’s not the case for the ancient Greeks, however, who saw kindness through the lens of reason, emphasizing the positive effects acts of kindness have not just on the receiver of kindness but to the giver of kindness as well, not for the salvation of the soul in the afterlife, but in this life. Simply put, kindness tends to return to those who do kind deeds, as Aesop demonstrated in his colourful fable of a little mouse cutting the net to free the big lion. Aesop lived in the 6th century B.C. and acquired a great reputation in antiquity for the instruction he offered in his delightful tales. Despite the passage of many centuries, Aesop’s counsels have stood the test of time because in truth, they are timeless observations on the human condition; as relevant and meaningful today as they were 2,500 years ago.

Source: https://www.forbes.com/sites/panosmourdoukoutas/2012/01/14/the-ten-golden-rules-on-living-the-good-life/?sh=4b7957f233fc

[thebridgelee-blog]

Architecture Student’s Style Tips

Photo above: Me holding a prototype of my first scale model

Hello everyone! One thing I have never mentioned in this blog is that I am currently an architecture student in the University of Santo Tomas. Yes, it is true what they say-- this is definitely the college that never sleeps. Unfortunately, not having enough sleep causes most of us the lack of capacity to think straight early in the morning. Luckily however, having been here for quite a while, I have collected a few tips and tricks to be able to dress well early in the morning and look good in school whilst make my life easier in general; and today, I will be sharing them with you.

Tip#1- Get your ID and coat ready for the next day

If you are an architecture student studying in UST, you’d know it is extremely important to have your coats and ID with you at all times, upon entering the building being the most significant. However, being given tasks to work on every day, we tend to lack sleep and therefore lack the capacity to think the next day. Needless to say, it becomes extremely hard to remember what to wear, and often times, we forget to bring the essentials like our coats and ID, so an easy hack is to have your ID tied to your bag and your coat on top of your bag. This way, as you pick your bag up the next day, you are sure to have everything important with you without having to think about it.

Tip#2-Prepare your outfit for the next day

This does not always seem practical as sometimes taking that extra minute to get your clothes out the closet and hanging it up may seem dreadful because you would rather use that minute to get ready for bed. However, if you do happen to have the time, it is always helpful to have your outfit laid out for the next day as it minimizes the brain work requirement for the next day.

Bonus tip: In the event that you do not remember to prepare your outfit, know that aside from your undies, which I doubt you will forget to wear, and your ID and coat, which should already be with your bag for easy grab and go the next day, the only thing left in your closet to remember is your pants and polo shirt. Just remember those, and you should be fine.

Tip#3-Download the ClassUp app, and keep your schedule within easy reach

As a part of the world of style, I believe it is more than just looking good but also a way of living, and one way to maximize your resources and make your life easier is to download ClassUp, which is an app that allows you to create a timetable for your classes and save it as wallpaper for your phone. This way, it is easier for you to track down your schedule as well as get ready for the day.

Bonus tip: I am sure, it may come across as a hassle to type down every single schedule in the app, but luckily for the people like us, the app has got your back. The app has this feature wherein you can copy the schedule of someone else that shares the same class as you. All you have to do is search for the class, and if someone you know’s name appears as a student of that class, just click their name, add them as a friend, and copy their schedule! Since the app is pretty well-known (like everyone I know uses this), this feature is definitely effective.

Tip#4- Check your schedule for the next day and prepare

In line with my last tip, be sure to check your schedule for the following day to make sure you have everything needed in your bag for the day. This also goes with LEAVING UNNECESSARY THINGS BEHIND. Do not bring things that will only clutter your bag just because it is convenient to have everything in there “just in case.” Be a man of decision and stick with them. Decide what to do and execute. Plus, I really do not believe you would want to carry a kilo more when you already have your Durer bag and T-square with you, which leads me to my next tip.

Tip #5- Invest in a Durer bag (available in Joli’s)

I have seen so many of my peers use a canister as a way to hold big thick sheets of buff paper. While definitely, it does lessen the burden of carrying anything 15x20 inches, I highly discourage it as it curls up the paper and may lead to irreparable damage that no one wants. Instead, I believe you should invest in a good 15x20 case. Mine is by a brand called Durer. Not only can this contain your papers, it can also hold your triangles and other tools, which is always a plus!

Bonus tip: Being in a school filled with people who use a Durer bag, it is very easy to mistaken mine from others’. A quick remedy for this is to add your name or a sticker, but let’s be real-- that’s boring. What I did for mine is that I added the oh-so trendy embroidery patches using my trusty UHU glue.

Bonus bonus tip: get UHU glue. I do not care if you’re a high school student, an elementary student, or a student studying Commerce. I do not care. Walk over to Joli’s and get yourself a tube of UHU glue. It holds really well! Like I can have a piece of card stock paper and hold it against another perpendicularly so that the first paper’s edge (with UHU glue applied) touches the face of the second paper for five to ten seconds, and it will hold forever! Easy and strong!

Bonus bonus bonus tip: Now, you have your Durer and your t-square. Such a hassle! Something I learned from some of my friends is that they put their t-square in between the flap of the Durer bag and the body of the bag itself having the sling of the t-square case outside of the bag. This way one can hold the sling with the handle of the Durer bag with only one hand. Guaranteed your t-square will not bend as well!

Tip#6- Carry your coat properly

It may be the smallest of details. It is not even of any relation to what goes in your outfit for the day. However, I have always believed, more than what you wear is how you wear it. Being an architecture student, I found that the coat being a part of the complete uniform can sometimes be impractical in some cases (including being outside of the building). Sometimes, it gets very warm that it becomes very uncomfortable to wear it. I am very grateful that a number of teachers allow their student to simply sport the Type B uniform in times of discomfort. However, being a student, it is still our responsibility to wear the said uniform when we can, so it is important that we have it with us at all times. With that being said, I find that it is important to hold your coat properly. Gentlemen, while it is a trend to tie your outerwear around your waists, I extremely discourage this as it simply does not flatter anyone. It just looks messy, and it just shows that you do not care about the garments you own. What I recommend is to hold your coat with your arm. Fold your coat in half lengthwise, and fold the arms lengthwise once more, so that you end up with the whole length of your coat with a shorter width that can easy lay over your arm. Below are photos of how I personally like to fold it, and what I do not recommend doing. See the difference? Doesn’t folding it and holding it right make you look way smarter and more responsible?

Tip#7- Wear a watch and a bracelet

If you know me, I love beautiful watches and beautiful accessories that complement each other. I highly encourage investing in a good watch like an Ingersoll. However, I believe that not all of us are fortunate enough to be able to afford luxury, which is also one of the reasons why I created this blog-- to inspire looks and not to sell products. Instead, I believe that getting a watch from SM Accessories, while I do not deem it the best of qualities, is a good place to get your own watch. Afterall, they will still work and tell the time. Some of them even tell dates! I have had a few watches from SM Accessories, and one of them, I even gave to my cousin and he still wears it up until today. I feel quite ashamed to have given him a second hand, but he really wanted the look of a Daniel Wellington watch, and I just so happened to have a watch that looks similar. Anyway, as I said, investing on a good watch will help in telling the time as well as create the impression that you are responsible and you care about your time and potentially other’s time as well. As for the bracelet, I just always love adding a piece to give me more of that stylish vibe. For more information about how to accessories without overdoing it, here is a blog post.

Tip#8- Wear comfortable shoes.

In our building, we are privileged to have the choice to wear any shoe we want as long as it is black. Take the advantage and wear something comfortable! Your feet will thank you after that long walk to your favorite lunch place. My boots above are by Dr. Martens.

Tip#9- Take a bath!

For my last tip, I urge everyone to quit the excuses and take a bath! Yes, we all have a lot of things to do, but let me remind you that a bath only takes five minutes if you are in a hurry and ten minutes if you are slow. Seems illogical to skip it, doesn’t it? Taking that extra five minutes to bathe wi ll not only freshen you, it will also awaken your brain and make it easier to do your tasks for the day.

Bonus tip: In the event that you really cannot take a bath, at the very least wash your face. Never ever sleep without bathing or at least washing your face. It is gross to sleep with all that dirt from the world outside the four corners of your house, Remember that.

[ruffoverthinksthings]

What are some of Claudine's likes and dislikes? I love how you craft her to be spicy and saucy with her tongue, yet accomplished in her studies and quick on her feet (literally and figuratively).

All that reading of the Bible and being secretary to administrative work, listening in to speechs of a very well-spoken and well-read man, and having to defend her faith and later on seduce and manipulate people paid off dividends.

Likes

Books.

After being forced to read and study the Bible and other (verystrictly curated) books about Christianity over and over again, andbeing denied all manner of literature that ends up on thebarges--either overrun copies of cheap/generic adventure/romancestories, or hardcover copies of serious texts like that of history orphilosophy--Claudine finds herself enjoying finally seeing all the“blasphemous and subversive” material that Frollo has so warnedher will corrupt her mind and turn her away from God.

Philosophy interests her primarily, as she’s always been toldthat there is but One Truth, and that is (the Christianinterpretation of) God, and seeing all the many different ways peopleinterpret the meaning of life, what is our purpose, and the manydifferent explanations as to why we do the things we do interest her.

She develops a great interest in Psychology, especially theconcept of “mental gymnastics” whereby people bend overbackwards, go through hoops, and perform all manner of impressivefeats of reasoning and justification just to defend their beliefs,their choices, and their worldviews.

Of particular interest to her is religious extremism and hypocrisyin Religions of all forms, though for obvious reasons she studiesChristianity first and foremost, and second is the way Auradon’s peoplejustify their unfair and inherently skewed social order.

On a leisurely reading note, she really likes romancenovels, adventure stories, and “slice-of-life” works that showher how relationships are supposed to be, protagonists overcomingoverwhelming odds and their own hang-ups through determination,personal growth, and friendship, and how life is supposed to be whenyou’re lucky enough to be born into a (mostly) well-functioningfamily.

Fashion

Because of the limited materials on the Isle, Maleficent having amonopoly on most supplies, and the Evil Queen taking the lion’sshare of good stuff for herself and Evie, a broke and withoutconnections girl like Claudine was forced to rely on just two fashionstyles:

Highly conservative and simple dresses with long sleeves andskirts, and repurposed linens, and of course

Heavily modified and scandalized school uniforms that theiroriginal owners had outgrown and couldn’t find anyone to hand itdown to

She really rather enjoys the expanded choice she has here inAuradon, access to raw materials and fashion from all over the worldas now she can go to all the Well Intentions branch in Auradon Cityand pick-up all the “pre-loved” items for a pittance, planoutfits in advance without fear of it getting stolen, and justgenerally mix-and-match with more styles, designs, and moods than sheever thought possible

It also helps that Esmeralda bonds with her by doing each others’hair and make-up, making outfits for each other that express thesexuality they’re so comfortable with than hide it like mostAuradonians do, along with assisting the drives for collecting goodsand items for the less fortunate

This is both for the ostracized and forgotten of Auradon, and thepeople of the Isle of the Lost. “True, they could just scavenge itfrom the trash, but it feels so much better to open a box that wasmeant for you specifically.”

Confident and Principled Public Figures

Personal bias: Claudine is a VERY big fan of my interpretation ofElsa in the Descendants universe, modeling herself after her assomeone who is not willing to just let awful systems thrive andquestionable decisions be because “that’s just the way thingsare,” be able to ignore her “Pharisees” without even givingthem the time of day, and she also rather enjoys the fact that theIce Queen is a Mistress of Sick Burns.

After living in a congregation of Yes People that just constantlyexcuse and justify everything in their mind so their fragileworldviews are never shattered, Claudine finds great admiration,respect—and if we’re being totally honest, sexual attraction—topeople that are willing to stand by their beliefs in the face offerocious unpopularity, threats and insults, and have unshakablefaith to one thing:

“The Actual Truth”

In her words, “What can I say? I get wet for someone whorises up and doesn’t back down until you give them a damn goodreason.”

Other people she admires for similar reasons include Queen Tiana,Queen Merida, Mulan, Consort Jasmine, Flynn Rider AKA King EugeneFitzhebert, Queen Rapunzel, King Aladdin, Queen Elena, Queen Belle,Maid Marian, Megara, King Ben, and Jordan

Peopleshe respects, but has something of an intense non-romanticlove-hate-but-mostly-hate relationship with include Sebastian, Zazu,Cogsworth, and Rafiki, all of whom have at some point or another beenher mentors in the art of logic, reasoning, politics, publicspeaking, and philosophy

(“Ifyou’re going to curse like a sailor, at least enunciate your fourletter words properly!” - Cogsworth)

Shehas something of an odd inter-generational friendship with Lumiere,as her premiere sparring partner for “swords and slander” alongwith bonding over his checkered, “not entirely legal” past, andthe fact that, true to the stereotype, is her primary source ofromantic advice

Dislikes

RealityTV

Assomeone who dislikes plasticity, hypocrisy, and shallowness as muchas Claudine, Auradon “Reality TV” REALLY gets on her nerves.While nowhere near as trashy or awful as that of Jersey Shorehere, the point still remains that a lot of this shows areshowing carefully planned, scripted, and highly exaggerated versionsof events being pedaled as “the real, unedited thing.”

Claudinecan see right through the bullshit of the adventures of “The GoodSamaritans” with a quick Google search about all the good thingsthe show has actually done, and whether or not their workstuck after the end of the episode, and it gets even worse when shereads about (and sees for herself) the kind of complacency, lack ofcritical thinking, and shallowness excessive TV watching breeds.

Anddon’t get her started with the replies and the messages sentwhenever she criticizes the shows on Social Media…

Alongsideher fellow 3rd Wave VK Anthony Tremaine, she utterlydespises “the boob tube” and how something so good on paperbecame something so horrible in reality.

SocialMedia in General

Claudinedespises Social Media.

Shehates the careful cultivation of personas and outward looks thatdon’t nearly reflect the ugly realities, the careful cutting andpasting of which elements of your life to show off to others tryingto do the same. She hates the constant emphasis on number of friends,likes, and shares, as if that actually meant any sort of meaningfulachievement. She hates the fact that echo chambers, bias, and trollsare a thing there, constantly getting into arguments that she can’tend with her ultimate, never-fail rebuttal:

Kickingsomeone in the crotch, before flipping the bird at them.

Shehates how it just grows all the insecurities she has about beingostracized and left alone by everyone all over again. She hates thefact that it makes her hyper-aware of her appearance, that it bringsup her self-image issues when someone criticizes her for being toorisque, and she hates the fact that she finds herself constantlycomparing to other, prettier girls, with seemingly more perfectlives, and definitely healthy, happy, and not-abusive-nor-crazyparents and family lives.

Butmost of all, she hates that she can’t quit it.

Shehates the fact that “Outcasts” like her all over Auradon tend toconnect with each other on Social Media and the internet for avariety of reasons. She hates the fact that it’s one of her onlyreal platforms to express her opinion, use the voice that has beenconstantly shushed by her father and the congregation for so manyyears. She hates the fact that this very same thing that helpscultivate the “it’s always sunny and happy in Auradon” is alsothe one thing that is rapidly helping dismantle it as the Outcastsare now finding their voices once more, joining in solidarity withthe VKs to finally make Auradon a paradise for everyone.

Inher words, “I know I’m on Storybook like 16 hours a day,everyday—WHY DO YOU THINK I’M SO PISSED OFF ALL THE TIME?!”

Hypocritesand Opportunists

Thisis the reason she does not get along very well with Audrey, Chad, orher fellow 3VK Richard “Rick” Ratcliffe: they’re incrediblyhypocritical, engaging in mean and cruel behaviour despite seeing andthinking themselves as “Good” people; incredibly keen on jumpingon every last opportunity to better themselves and will flag fromtheir principles as soon as it proves more convenient to switch sides when the going gets tough; or both.

Shehas lived ten years of her life praising and loving a man whoespoused himself as the epitome of Goodness and Righteousness in aland of Sinners and Heathens, and from both personal experience andhearing the other side of the story, learned just how much his actiondoesn’t match his rhetoric, the things he will believe and tellhimself and others in order to justify doing the exact opposite ofwhat it is he’s supposed to be doing.

ThatFrollo was also indirectly responsible for Claudine almost dying in afire doesn’t help.

Inher words, “You can’t do anything with someone that’ll get softand back down at the first sign of trouble, and you don’t wantanything to do with someone that’ll do everything and believeanything just to get their way.”

[noblegambit]

Pocket Sized, Chapter 1

So I decided to cross-post my new klance fic on tumblr and Ao3, because I guess I’ll get more reach that way.

Ao3, Chapter 1

Also, I already have fanart because I’ve gushed about this au to @nalciel already and I love it <3 <3

Summary:

“Keith! I’m down here!” “Lance? Lance, where are you!?” “Over here!!” Keith did his best to follow the sound of the tiny voice, so jarringly opposite from Lance’s usual loud and obnoxious tone. He scans the tiny outcropping of rock, looking for his (ex) childhood friend’s ugly mug. “Down here!” Down? Keith glances down, and just about trips on a rock. A tiny Lance, no taller than an inch and wearing nothing but a leaf around his hips, was jumping up and down and waving his arm frantically to get Keith’s attention. Keith blinks once, and blinks again. “Wha…? Lance!?”

or,

In which Lance shrinks, and his ex-best friend Keith has to figure out how to get Lance back to normal.

Chapter 1

Lance winces, leaning back in his seat and letting out a screech of a yawn as he stretches. He blinks tired eyes and stares at the drool stain on the homework he was supposed have finished last night. “Musta fallen asleep,” he mutters. A glance out the window of his bedroom exposes the bright morning sunlight to his retinas, and Lance hisses through his teeth.

Lance’s attention is drawn to the sound of a door opening and closing outside his window. He scoots his chair backward and peers outside just in time to see his neighbor, Keith, exit his house, kendo stick in hand. It was about that time of the morning, Lance figures, when Keith would go outside for a morning workout and kendo form practice.

Lance’s expression twists into a sad grimace. He and Keith don’t talk much. Not as much as they used to, anyway. Once upon a time, the two boys were glued to the hip, and wherever you saw one, the other would not be far behind. But something had happened when they entered high school; Keith became suddenly distant, and no matter what Lance tried to do, Keith never responded, and their friendship flickered out of existence.

“Lance, come down for breakfast!”

Lance pushes back from the window and slams the laptop shut. He needs to stop thinking about Keith, and what happened to their friendship. It’s Keith’s fault anyway, for just abandoning him like that. Keith doesn’t deserve Lance’s friendship.

At least, that’s what Lance tells himself.

“Good morning!” Lance says, bounding into the kitchen. His mother looks up from the stove, and Lance can smell his mama’s special omelets. His sister is sitting at the table, legs swinging as she gnaws on buttered toast. Lance’s father sits across from her, reading the paper and nursing his morning coffee.

“Lance you’re going to be late again!”

“No I won’t, mama, you should know this by now.”

“It’s already seven thirty, and your ‘morning routine’ takes almost twenty minutes!”

“And it’s only a ten minute walk to school, I’m fine!”

“Lance was up late again watching YouTube videos,” his sister Chloe tattles.

“It was soccer, thank you very much,” Lance chastises, and steals Chloe’s bacon. “I’ll smack you with a soccer ball if you sneak into my room again.”

“No slapping your sister,” mutters Lance’s father from behind his paper.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur, as it usually does. Lance is through his morning routine and out the door with his mother clucking at his heels. Lance waves his sister to the bus stop and steps onto the pavement just in time to see the back of Keith’s head disappear around the corner. Lance tries not to stare.

“Keith, wait!”

Lance turns as Keith’s older brother, Shiro, bolts out the door, coat half off his shoulder and a swinging lunch box in hand. Shiro is a retired army medic, even at the young age of twenty-six, honorably discharged but missing an arm. Now he works as a professor at a local community college. Lance doesn’t know what he teaches.

Shiro sighs when he see’s Keith is already gone, but grins widely when he notices Lance. “Hey, Lance! Mind giving this to Keith for me? He forgot his lunch again.”

Lance eyes him. Shiro has been trying to mend his and Keith’s friendship since they began drifting apart, and Lance could guess that Shiro had purposefully neglected to give Keith his lunch in the hope of running into Lance.

Lance raises an eyebrow but takes the lunch anyway. “Anything for you, dude!”

“Thanks so much Lance!” Shiro smiles, and rushes back into the house.

Well, that was convenient, Lance thinks, but breaks into a jog to catch up with Keith.

Only, it seems that Keith had realized he didn’t have his lunch. As Lance turns the corner, Keith suddenly appears from the other side of it, and Lance can see the look of surprise on his face before they collide sharply. Lance’s face explodes in pain as his chin connects with Keith’s forehead, and both boys stumble back, clutching respective body parts and glaring at each other.

“Ow, watch where you’re going!”

“You ran into me, watch where you’re going!”

“Uh, no, this is definitely your fault.”

“My fault!?”

And here they go. They had always bickered as kids, but it had gotten worse as of late. Lance attributed it to jealousy, though he would never admit it out loud. Keith was a smart kid, easily one of the top students in school, and co-captain of the kendo club, even if he rarely went to meetings. He was even better in martial arts than Lance was. Lance had always been two steps behind Keith in everything they did together, and tended to release frustration in the form of bickering.

Lance knows that this fight is pointless. They’re going to be late for school at this rate so Lance decides to take the higher ground.

He shoves Keith’s lunch against the other boy’s chest. “Here. Shiro wanted me to give this to you.” And with that, Lance leaves. He can sense Keith watching him as he strides away, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Lance…! Earth to Lance!”

Lance lets out a shriek and almost falls out of his chair. Pidge looks unamused as she leans against his desk, hand still raised in a waving motion. Hunk stands behind her, trying not to laugh at Lance’s almost – and likely painful – tumble from his chair. Lance glares at his friends with as much fake annoyance as he can.

“What do you want?”

“You were spacing out,” Pidge says.

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

“Hunk, back me up.”

“You totally were.”

“Some friends you are.”

They laugh. Keith walks in thirty seconds before the start of class, as usual, and takes his seat in the back corner, as usual. Lance tries not to pay attention to him as he passes his desk, but Pidge is a perceptive little shit, and notices Lance’s apparently not-so-subtle eye flick.

“You and Keith still not talking?”

“We haven’t talked in two years, Pidge.”

“I can tell you want to, though.”

“Conversation is a two-way street, kiddo.”

Hunk looks between Lance and Keith. “I don’t know how you guys became friends in the first place. You both are so… different. I mean he’s probably gonna be the first emo valedictorian and then you…”

“Excuse you, I’m in line to be salutatorian, thank you very much.”

“I was gonna say flamboyant captain of the soccer team but yeah, that works…?”

“What Hunk is trying to say is that you two are like oil and water and we can’t believe you actually managed to stay friends for as long as you did,” Pidge clarifies.

Lance finally gives in to the pressure and twists in his seat to stare at Keith. The other boy has his earbuds in and is nodding his head gently to whatever song is playing as he stares out the window into the schoolyard. “Yeah,” Lance sighs. “Me too.”

At that moment, the teacher walks in, shoos Pidge out of her classroom, and the day begins. Ms. Allura starts by introducing a new girl to the class, Nyma. Lance’s attention is immediately drawn to her nice body, platinum blonde hair pulled back into a high ponytail with ringlets loose to frame her pretty face. He lets out a wolf whistle for giggles, and Hunk kicks him from under the table. Nyma giggles though, even as Ms. Allura rolls her eyes, used to Lance’s antics.

Nyma takes a seat near Keith, which for some reason makes Lance’s blood boil before he remembers that he and Keith don’t have anything to do with each other anymore, and lets it slide, opting to pay attention to the start of Ms. Allura’s lectures. Lance and Keith only have two classes together, which makes Lance’s day a little easier, but it’s not until after all the classes are over and he can go to soccer practice that he is finally free of Keith’s everlasting presence on campus.

He changes into his uniform and lets all the pent up emotion loose on the field until his legs are shaking under him and he can barely stand. As captain he has to set examples, especially for the new kids, and therefore cannot let himself slack off. Doesn’t help that the running gives him amazing calves he can use to impress the ladies. Hunk, who is on the team with him, only rolls his eyes.

Coach Coran blows the whistle and calls for a break, and Lance stumbles to the benches to pop open his water bottle and dump it over his head. The other players do the same, and soon twenty boys are soaking wet.

“Alright boys,” says Coach Coran. He twirls his mustache as he speaks, and some of the younger players snicker. “I have an announcement! The Voltron Lions soccer team is having open tryouts this Friday. All you need are your cleats and a positive attitude. Those interested can take a flyer…” He hands a stack of leaflets to the person sitting closest to him, and the flyers begin to be passed around “… and let me know you plan to go so I can give your teachers an excused absence slip! You also need a signed permission form from your parents. The tryouts will last for several days so be prepared to handle your schoolwork on top of everything else!”

Lance takes a flyer and feels his mouth drop. The Voltron Lions is his favorite team; he’d been following them ever since they won the World Cup when he was six. It was his dream to one day join their ranks, and now he was finally getting the chance to do it. He could practically feel his entire body shake with the anticipation.

“Lance will totally make it in,” says Hunk, and slaps Lance’s shoulder for emphasis. “You’re the best player out of all of us. I’d go but it’s all the way in the city, there’s no way my parents would let me…”

“It’ll take some convincing,” Lance murmurs. “But the ‘rents are chill, I bet they’ll let me go…!”

The team cheers.

Lance changes back into his day clothes after practice, stuffing his sweaty uniform into his sports bag. Hunk has already gone home with Shay as he does on every Friday, leave Lance to walk home by himself. He hums Shakira to himself as he walks, letting his body sway with the rise and fall of the beat as he goes. He rounds a corner, and his groove is thrown off (hah) by the sight of Nyma cornering Keith against the wall of the gym, playing with her hair which in Girl Language is a bright neon sign saying I’m flirting with you.

Lance has to walk past them to get home. He tries to make himself inconspicuous, but that is kind of difficult when there is no one else in sight, and Keith himself seems to be looking everywhere but Nyma. Which includes Lance walking by.

Lance and Keith make eye contact, the first time since they had quite literally run into each other that morning. Nyma follows Keith’s gaze and looks Lance up and down with an almost mischievous grin. Lance isn’t sure what about this picture is giving him such a feeling of anger in his gut. He tells himself it’s because the new hot transfer student is flirting with his rival.

“You can do better, Nyma,” Lance calls to her, glaring at Keith. “Dude’s dumber than a doornail and wouldn’t know if you were flirting with him if you took your shirt off.”

Keith glares back. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Mullet!?”

“Boys,” Nyma says, looking thrilled that boys appear to be fighting over her.

“Believe me, Nyma,” Lance says, always to have the final word. “You think you’ll be together forever and just like that –” he snaps his fingers. “—he leaves you hanging.”

Lance leaves before Keith can respond.

Lance has somehow relaxed by the time he gets home, and waits until his parents get home before breaking out the flyer.

“You’re not going.”

Lance can’t believe what he’s hearing. He stares at his parents sitting opposite him, stern looks on their faces. The flyer for the Voltron Lions lays flat on the table, slightly crinkled from its adventure in Lance’s backpack. He hadn’t hesitated to bring up the tryouts, his excitement barely containable, only to have his father tell him, quite bluntly, no.

“But dad,” Lance began. “Are you not even going to listen to me!? These are the Lions! My favorite team! If I don’t go to this tryout then who knows how long it’ll take before they hold more!?”

“You’re a high school senior, Lance,” says his mother. “You have to start thinking about college.”

“Besides, you’re too young to go into the city on your own!” Lance’s father shouts over Lance’s whined protests. “You need to start thinking about academics and stop dreaming about going pro.”

Lance feels his fists curling in his lap. “What if I don’t want to go to college?”

His parents exchange looks.

“What are you saying, Lance?”

“I don’t want to go to college.” Lance repeats himself. “I know what I want, and college is just a waste of time and money. I want to play soccer.”

“You’re going to regret saying that, Lance,” says his father. “You’re in a good program in Altea Academy, you’d be throwing all of that away!”

“That’s right,” his mother agrees.

Lance looks back and forth between his parents, completely floored. He’d had confidence that his parents would jump at the opportunity for their son to have shot at professional soccer, but now he is lost for words. Did they not have enough faith in his ability? He was the captain for god’s sake!

“I can’t believe you’re ganging up on me!” Lance throws his hands on the table with a smack, the chair screeching across the floor as he stands sharply. “Have you never had dreams that you wanted to come true? Did your parents every disagree with you on something that you really wanted!?”

“Lance!”

Lance has had enough. He wordlessly turns on his heel and runs from the room, unable to look his parents in the eye. He can hear his mother yelling after him as he takes long strides toward the front door. He passes Chloe on the way, looking up at her older brother with big brown eyes and an empathetic expression. Lance rubs the top of her head before leaving, and makes a point to slam the door shut as he goes.

It’s raining outside, but Lance is too stubborn to go back inside and get an umbrella. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and tucks his hands into his armpits to keep them warm as he walks with no destination in mind but to just get away. The rain stings his face, but Lance lets it disguise the tears that he finally lets slide down his cheeks.

Lance walks, soaks through to the skin, for who knows how long, scuffing his shoes across the sidewalk as he dribbles a rock between his feet. He finally looks up to get a guage on his location, and spots a bus stop. He can see the hunched form of some other sap who got caught in the downpour. He ducks under the awning and takes his hood down to wring it out.

That's when he notices the other person under the awning is none other than Keith, staring wordlessly up at Lance like he couldn't believe Lance would intrude on his personal bus stop.

"Enjoying the view?" Lance asks, a small bite to his tone.

Keith's eyes flicker. "What's there to see?"

"Nothing, apparently."

Keith breathes out through his nose and stands. "At least you know that much." He makes as if too leave, but words are leaving Lance's mouth before his brain can catch up.

“Keith.”

Keith stops at the sound of his name. He takes a deep breath and turns his body to face Lance halfway, a wordless sign that he’s only half paying attention. “What do you want.”

Lance's brain is still lagging behind. “Why do you always ignore me? When we fight it’s always me who has to goad you on.”

“I don’t ignore you.”

“Yes, you do!” Lance says, angrily this time. “You ignore everybody, Keith. The first time I’ve seen you talk to anyone was Nyma today! Have you been with her this whole time? Are you going out? A little quick for her first day don’t you think?”

“That has nothing to do with you,” Keith growls.

“You’re right, it doesn’t,” Lance says. “But I want it to! I miss being friends with you, Keith. I miss looking for Bigfoot in my parents’ garden even though I knew he didn’t exist. And then you just drifted away and no matter what I did you never talked to me anymore! I mean nothing to you now, like all of that never happened.” His voice is almost pleading. "We used to be best friends."

Keith doesn’t move nor change the expression on his face. He crosses his arms. “Just stop following me everywhere,” Keith says, his tone sharp.

“When have I followed you!?”

“Let me think,” Keith says sarcastically, and counts on his fingers. “This morning with my lunch, and then earlier with Nyma. And now…”

“I didn’t plan any of this,” Lance defends.

“I don’t care,” Keith snaps.

“I’m only out here because I got in a fight with my parents,” Lance says. “They’re mad at me for not wanting to go to college. “

“And why’s that?”

“Like you care.”

“You’re right, I don’t,” Keith admits, his eyebrows drawn tight together in frustration. “You’re such a spoiled brat for even having the opportunity to go to college.”

Lance reels at that. Keith knows that Lance knows that Keith’s family was poor enough as it was, even when their parents were still around. Now, Shiro’s meager teacher’s income is barely enough to send Keith to college without a full scholarship. Lance doesn’t seem to have anything to say, so Keith keeps going.

“Why don’t you get it?” Keith snaps. “Yeah, fine, I avoid you. But it’s because I can’t stand you anymore.”

Lance steps away, swallows down the lump in his throat. He opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Lance turns on his heel without another word and takes off into the night, vanishing instantly in the pouring rain.

Lance doesn't know where he's going, only that he needs to get away from his parents and Keith, maybe even from the whole world. He remembers a small outcropping of rock in the park right on the edge of town, where he and Keith had played as kids. He knows for a fact Keith doesn't go there anymore, and it's decently large enough to shelter him from the rain, at least for a few hours.

He takes off for the park, not bothering to shield himself from the storm. His shoes squish uncomfortably in the mud as he passes over the park's lawn, and the outcropping finally comes into view. It's smaller than he remembered, but still large enough for him to crawl under comfortably without too much fuss. He ducks inside and makes himself as small as possible, knees pulled up tight against his chest as he shivers in his wet clothing. He listens to the sound of the storm outside, resting his cheek on the hill of his knees.

What happened to us? Lance asked the universe. Why did Keith and I drift apart? I wish we could go back to how it used to be. To when we were little...

Lance isn't sure how long he sleeps, but when he opens his eyes again, the world is still dark. He can't hear the sound of the storm anymore, but there's an enormous cloth weighing down on his face. Oh... he must have slipped all the way under the covers. He keeps his eyes closed to shield himself from the light that his mother would surely shine in his face to properly wake him and paws at the comforter to find the edge. He does, and pulls himself free, squinting his eyes open one at a time.

The first thing he notices is that he's not in his room. The events of the previous evening come back, and Lance remembers that he had taken shelter from the storm in the small park. The second thing that he notices is that he's butt-ass naked.

That catches Lance by surprise. He squeaks and scrambles to his feet, trips over the collar of his sweatshirt and... why is his sweatshirt bigger than him?

Lance glances up, around, and down at himself. Lance opens his mouth to freak out, but can only manage guttural wails. And why is he one inch tall!? What the hell is going on!?