#feel free to take this in any direction you like! i tried not to infer why melchior wants her to stop so that you can decide what's the vib

[andessence]

☛ @ Moritz from doubleheadedking

manhandling starters // @doubleheadedking ☛ - press a finger to my muse’s lips to shut them up

"——He said he threw like a girl, and so that's when Otto said that he'd had enough and he threw it right at Lämmermeier, while his back was turned, which was very unsportsmanlike if you ask m——" Melchior's hand flies toward Moritz's face and she flinches on instinct, the voice that was raised in excited recounting now faltering, stopping. But all Melchior does is press one finger firmly to her lips, bewildering Moritz. "M- Melchi?" she ventures uncertainly, feeling a little foolish to be shut up by this (honestly slightly rude) gesture. But Melchior has a certain air about him, confident, superior, and presently a little impatient, that makes Moritz's mind blank and her attention surrender to him as instinctively as she'd flinched.

[marsti]

hey, feel free to delete this if you are uncomfortable answering, but i have seen a post circulating lately claiming all tealbloods are jewish coded and i could not find any other jewish people say that in any other place so i wondered if you have a take on the subject? i dont want to dismiss anything said on that post or anything, but the lack of discussion everywhere else just felt kind of weird since tealbloods are well loved and talked about a lot

oh! big big big subject right there, this isn't the first time i've talked abut this and tl;dr i think it's a giant reach

now longer version:

iirc this all started with stelsa having the bullet point "troll jewish" on her original troll call, which referred to how she doesn't believe in the sufferer. this was eventually removed as it was pointed out that having it there made her an example of the jewish american princess trope which is harmful to jewish women. this is true and to be clear it is a good thing that the bullet point was removed, even though it doesn't change much about the trope she represents in the long run. at least the writers tried to correct themselves a bit.

i think this controversy made people look at homestuck and specifically tealbloods with a newfound critical lens, but i'll be honest... i can only speak as a single jewish person, but i don't think "terezi is a lawyer and eats the color red" is quite enough to go screaming blood libel. because if we're talking about the same post, then that post SPECIFICALLY claims tealbloods to be antisemitic stereotypes and i just don't agree with that. the only one who actually is that is stelsa, everything else is inference based on hypercritical thinking that doesn't actually help anyone imo.

and now i'm gonna go off on antisemitism in homestuck and a much more direct critique of that post:

if you wanna talk antisemitism in homestuck, look at rose: she's literally just a jewish american princess trope at first. as the story progresses she stops being that, but the fandom often forces her into it again because they don't realize that's what they're doing. like, hey, she's canonically a hardcore gamer! but people shove her into the "prim and proper rich therapist girl" box, and jewish fans have been telling people to stop doing that for a while but nobody listens.

the original post i saw on the subject of tealblood being jewish-coded felt disingenuous to me, because i don't see people worrying about any of the actual antisemitism in homestuck. it treated the subject as a puzzle to be solved to prove the secret prejudice of the text, when the antisemitism is right there but it's not as fun so people don't actually care.

kanaya drinks blood, she rejected her strict (christian coded) upbringing and married a jewish woman in a jewish wedding. if i wanted to rile people up i could easily point to that as a much more direct example of blood libel, but i DON'T because that's not what's happening there and we all know it. it's a mary/christ allegory and a "what if twilight but lesbian" joke that just happens to line up with conspiracy theories if you read into it with the intention to find it there. the fact is, antisemitism is much more direct and frankly boring than people think.

now i'm not saying the original post was definitely disingenuous, i'm not a mind reader, but i really do want to urge everyone here to examine the idea being presented: that there are subtextual clues that will help you find the secret jews who hide everywhere jewish coding of a character. that's freakishly close to actual conspiracy thinking and it will not lead you down a good path.

[ghostlynimbus00]

Billy and Steve just cuddling after Billy had a hard time with his dad 🥺

Oooh thank you for the cute request!

I'm not positive why it went in the direction it did but I hope you like it!

If anyone has any more requests, please feel free to send them in. I will try my best. <3 CW: implied/referenced abuse, implied/referenced child abuse, (nothing too graphic/major, Steve just makes some inferences) minor injuries

At first, Steve isn’t sure what startles him awake late one Tuesday night. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, but with the way his heart is racing it's not hard to guess that it was probably a nightmare. He scans his room, everything looks normal. The walls are still ugly, the christmas lights are still on.

There’s no sign of danger.

Until there is.

He hears a quiet scraping shuffling sound from outside his window.

Steve rolls out of bed, grabs the bat from where it leans against his nightstand, and silently crosses over to the window in one fluid practiced movement.

He takes a deep breath, grips the handle of the bat tighter, and peeks out past the curtains.

All the fight leaves him with a sigh at the sight of a familiar figure climbing up to his window.

He puts the bat away, pulls open the curtains, and slides open the window.

Billy grins at him when he climbs through, landing quiet and catlike on the carpeted floor.

“King Steve.” He greets, his voice a quiet rumble. “You waiting up for me princess?”

The skin around Billy’s left eye is red and puffy, Steve knows it’ll be purple by morning.

Steve doesn’t rise to the teasing in Billy’s words.

They go back and forth like that sometimes, both poking at each other, finding the sore spots and dancing around them. It’s good, it makes everything they’re both dealing with feel less serious. Less overwhelming. Less like it’ll crush him at any moment.

Steve needs that sometimes. He’s pretty sure Billy does too.

But not right now. Steve doesn’t want to do that tonight, not when Billy’s hurt is so fresh.

Steve sighs. His fingers twitch at his sides.

He still doesn’t know how to handle these sorts of nights. He wants to take Billy into the bathroom, take care of his injuries, then wrap him up in bed and hold him close until they both hurt less.

But if Billy’s not in the mood to be looked after, he’ll leave if Steve tries.

Steve needs Billy not to leave. Not before he’s had a chance to do anything, to help at all.

Billy pokes the skin between Steve’s furrowed eyebrows with a calloused finger.

“Stop thinking so hard Pretty Boy.” Billy murmurs, his hand shifting to cup Steve’s cheek. “It’s not your strong suit.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Asshole.” He mutters as he leans in to press his lips to Billy’s.

Billy sighs into the kiss, leans into it, his leaning body a solid comforting weight against Steve’s chest. His hand trembles where it rests against Steve’s cheek.

That means tonight was bad then, Steve thinks.

They never talk about it, not really, but Steve knows some of these nights are worse than others.

Billy can take a punch, he can take the physical abuse. He endures it so readily that it sometimes seems to roll off his psyche like water off a duck.

It’s when his dad gets talkative that the whole thing really gets to Billy.

He’s never told Steve what exactly it is his dad says that leaves him feeling like this. Steve isn’t sure if he’s allowed to ask.

Steve pulls away from the kiss, from lips that follow him when he first pulls away. He covers Billy’s hand on his cheek with his own, and looks Billy in the eye, and tries to figure out the things Billy can’t tell him right now.

He laces their fingers together, steps away. He feels cold without Billy pressed up against him.

He uses their linked hands to gently pull Billy with him over to the bed.

He’s pretty sure Billy doesn’t want to be looked at in the bright lights of the bathroom tonight, so cuddling in Steve’s dim bedroom will have to be enough.

Steve lays down on the side of the bed closer to the door, because he knows Billy gets antsy if he has to have his back to a door. He pulls Billy in close, wanting the feeling of him against his chest again. He wraps an arm around Billy’s broad shoulders, uses his other hand to pull him in for another kiss. Billy follows Steve's gentle guidance easily, eagerly, melting into each touch.

Steve pulls away from Billy’s lips, peppers the rest of his face with kisses. Kisses the freckles on his cheeks and the tip of his nose and his forehead and his jaw. Everywhere, anywhere. He pets through soft golden hair.

Billy’s eyes flutter closed, his breath shakes out of him, he leans into every point of contact they share.

“Stevie.” Billy whispers, and there’s too much there.

Too many feelings packed into too small a word. Feelings too big and plentiful for the small skin warm space between them. Steve imagines all of the too much spilling out from the cramped space between them, sliding off his bed and slipping out the crack in the window and the space under his door. Disappearing out into the endless night that Steve’s sure is just beyond this one small warm space they’ve created between them.

He squeezes Billy tighter, buries his face in soft golden curls.

He hopes it’s enough, hopes Billy understands. That it’s as clear to him as all those things Billy says without really saying are clear to Steve.

Me too.

The night can’t last forever. It wont, no matter how much it feels like it will sometimes.

Morning is going to come, Billy will have to leave.

Eventually they’re going to have to figure out a way to actually say this stuff.

But for now, for this moment and this night, it’s enough. He thinks. It’s enough to hold each other and say these things without saying them.

It’s enough, because it has to be.

These feelings are too big for either of them, they aren’t ready to deal with them. Not yet.

[phoneybeatlemania-bit-the-dust]

do you have any theories about the india trip ?? personally, im not sure what to think about it, but i’d love to hear your thoughts !!

(Sorry its taken me so long to answer this - it just got lost in my drafts cause im an idiot lmao 🤦‍♀️)

Im not entirely certain on what I believe happened in India, if in fact anything did happen at all - but more on that later! I guess though that these are the main theories (though if you have any differing opinions/theories, feel free to discuss them!):

1. Paul rejected John’s advancements

2. John wanted to further their relationship, and Paul wanted to maintain the ‘friends with benefits’ situation they already had

3. Nothing significant happened between the two (yet something still changed in John)

I’ll try to discuss which theories I find the most convincing, compelling and substantiated - as well as offering my own opinions and hypothesis’s ^^ (discussion bellow the cut)

1. Paul rejected John’s advancements

The theory I would say im most drawn to - not the theory that im necessarily most convinced by though - is that John made a move on Paul, after a few years of pining for him, and was subsequently rejected. Its a theory that I tend to be compelled by, but I have to admit that its one I struggle to justify entirely. The problem with this theory, for me, is that this is a conclusion ive drawn based mostly off of what their relationship appeared to look like after India. It seems as though something must have happened between them to have ruptured their relationship as profoundly as it did - and because they were on relatively good terms before India*, combined with certain inferences we could draw from comments John made regarding his feelings towards Paul and their relationship, it feels as though it’s possible that he made an advance on Paul, which was rejected and thus caused the ultimate disintegration of the Lennon/McCartney relationship.

(*I mean, their relationship was always complicated and difficult - but it seems that it was okay-ish prior to India, and then just inexplicably plummeted after the trip)

But nobody (as far as im aware) has confirmed, or even really alluded to, this advancement or rejection ever having happened. And the lack of evidence substantiating the claim is a major draw back for me!

However, I do also feel as though nobody’s really come out about anything that happened in India - all ive heard is that they meditated, wrote songs, John and Cyn fought, and Ringo ate baked beans. But like, more must have happened on the trip, surely? Im not saying the absence of information regarding the trip is proof that there was a big “lovers quarrel” between John and Paul, and that everyone involved in that trip is now just sworn to secrecy or something - but like, id just like to see a biographer really investigate the holiday, and try to conclude what events might have occurred during the trip, because as of right now, with the information we have, it seems to have been, bizarrely, both a lacklustre and uneventful, yet still hugely impactful event. If the narrative of the “India trip” were to be shifted in the future in light of new information, the same way the narrative of “Let It Be/Get Back” is being changed, I wouldn’t be surprised!

2. John wanted more, but Paul didn’t

Another popular theory is that John and Paul were engaged in something of a physical affair, but in India John proposed (or perhaps demanded even) that they take their relationship further, and Paul just wasn’t compelled to do so.

Beliefs vary regarding this, based on how far you personally think their relationship went: some might say they only ever did a little drunken experimenting with one another, and that it was just a fun fling until John suggested they take it further. Others might argue that they were in fact in a committed relationship, and John wanted to go public with it - or at the very least, demanded exclusivity between him and Paul.

In entertaining this theory, im most compelled to believe that John and Paul were engaged in occasional “flings”, and perhaps by ‘68 were even acknowledging that there was some deeper and more sincere between them - but ultimately, I don’t think Paul would have ever been inclined to fully commit to John, because I think he always wanted children and a family. In addition to this, though its clear John and Paul were passionate about one another, it isn’t clear how compatible they were in the long term - and with Paul being the more grounded of the too, I suspect he would have recognised this incompatibility, which John (the idealist) might not have.

Though I admit that John could certainly be unrealistic and irrational, im not convinced that he suggested to Paul they go public with their relationship, because I think John still had a fairly strong sense of his place in popular culture, and would have still been able to recognise that if they were to “come out”, it would probably deeply and irreparably damage both their careers - as well as George and Ringo’s too - at least amongst the general public. They’d still have some ardent fans, but their following overall would have become far more niche, and the “beatlemania” would’ve worn off swiftly. Im not sure if either of them would’ve been willing to take that heat in ‘68, especially not Paul, who as I mentioned earlier, I think might have recognised the futility and incompatibility inherent in their relationship.

Then again though, John was always a little “cocky”* when it came to his sexuality - I think if an interviewer were to genuinely have enquired into his sexuality, straight up asking him “Are you bi? Gay?” I get the sense that he would have told us! Sure he’d probably have dressed the response up with a dozen quick quips and jokes, but ultimately, I think he would have given a sincere response. And so, perhaps he did feel he had the confidence, at least in India, to actually “come out”, but if Paul wasn’t willing to make this official with him, perhaps this confidence dissipated.

(*No pun intended you pervs🤦‍♂️)

Another thing to note about India is that they’d have been relatively secluded, as well as off the drugs/drinks for the most part - and this would have forced them to really reflect upon their relationship. Perhaps John saw that he wasn’t contented with Cynthia, and recognised his desire for more from Paul - and so in such a raw state of mind, I can see how he’d become so shattered if Paul were to have rejected him (that statement could relate both to the first and second theory, I feel). Perhaps John made an advance upon Paul whilst they were both sober for the first time, and that changed their relationship somehow? Just thinking out loud here!

But again, this theory overall has the same problem as the first in that, though it appears to make sense, it still lacks proof; it ultimately isn’t a substantiated claim.

3. Nothing happened between J&P, but something changed

This is probably the theory that everybody is least interested in hearing, but I still think its a pretty valid one, albeit the least dramatic (In my opinion though its still a really interesting perspective to explore though!).

Its possible that nothing of particular significance happened in India, but something still shifted in John, causing him to vilify and reject Paul. The issue with this though, is that it begs the question: why did John undergo such a significant change in India then?

Id argue that perhaps John was making very subtle and slight moves towards Paul, that Paul either ignored or didn't pick up on. Id assume that perhaps John had been hinting at this desire for awhile now, and maybe he got it into his head that in India, where him and Paul would have a lot of time to be alone and intimate, his feelings would finally be reciprocated. But then, Paul never picked up on these hints, and never made any advancements - and this broke something within John. It would fit neatly within the Yoko narrative, because it offers reasoning to the abrupt but intense attachment John formed towards her almost immediately after India - as well as explaining the sudden vilification of Paul. But I suppose that the first two theories also fit pretty neatly within the Yoko narrative, because they all relate to the same basic concept that John wanted more from Paul, and Paul didn’t - and so he tried to replace him with Yoko.

I suppose though, that the this theory overall could also be countered by making the argument that Paul also began to spiral after India, and so some occurrence presumably must have happened to Paul too. I wonder though if its possible that maybe Pauls spiralling was kind of a result of Johns? I get the sense though that Paul would need a change in his life to cause his mental health to seriously deteriorate, but I don’t feel like the same is necessarily true for John - I think John is sort of the type to spiral, irregardless of whether his life undergoes a significant change or not, because I think John was the force driving a lot of the drama and troubles throughout his lifetime. So if Johns mental well-being started seriously deteriorating, I can see this being a cause of panic and anxiety for Paul.

But something that further inclines me to believe that an actual event occurred between John and Paul is this extract from Geoff Emmericks memoir (x)(id recommend reading the entire extract, its interesting!):

‘I glanced in Paul’s direction. He was staring straight ahead, expressionless and weary. He didn’t have much to say about India that day, or any other. I sensed at that moment that something fundamental in them had changed.”’

It just really feels as though there was some confrontation between John and Paul that had to have happened to perpetuate the miscommunication later seen between them. Like if there hadn’t been some kind of confrontation, then I can’t really understand why Paul would be reluctant to speak about India, or harbour any regrets or dismay regarding the journey. Perhaps you could drill it down to the betrayal they appeared to have felt by Maharishi allegedly hitting on girls - but I feel like this was a “betrayal” mostly felt by John, I never really got the sense that Paul was deeply effected by it.

But yeah - those are the main theories I think.

Overall, I think that the third theory is probably the most substantiated claim, but I think it leaves a lot to desired. It just doesn’t feel like it totally fits together, as though theres more to the story - but I guess relationships and peoples psyches aren’t puzzles, and so not everything is always going to piece together perfectly; but I dunno.

Like I said though, the theory im most compelled by is the first. I acknowledge that it lacks evidence, but it just seems to make a lot of sense to me! But really, who knows what the hell happened in India?

If anyone else has an opinion on all this, or wants to expand upon or even suggest a new theory, feel free to! I always like hearing from you guys!

[stellocchia]

Here’s an analysis of the “Tommy’s Plan To Kill Dream” stream (part 1)

I noticed that my “overly long” analysis always tend to be about extremely depressing streams, so here’s me trying to change that and failing miserably because I can find angst literally everywhere!

As usual I’ll be talking about the characters only unless stated otherwise from here on out. 

The whole thing is under the cut because, as the name of this “series” suggest, I’m phisycally incapable of keeping things short

Before we proceed with the analysis we need a quick overview of Tommy’s relationship with the people he interacts with this stream so that we can all start with the same mindset: 

Tommy & Tubbo: They have obviously been very close friends since the beginning but recently Tommy has developed a sort of dependence on Tubbo which really isn’t healthy. This of course is a direct result of his second exile and his mindset moving forward after that. While with Dream and then Techno Tommy was extremely isolated and made to depend entirely on the one person providing for him. He continued this even after Doomsday, this time developing an extreme dependence on Tubbo that culminated with the line “What am I without you?” (basing your entire identity around someone else is not healthy, who’d have thought?). With the developing of the hotel post-finale he expands his system of support to include Sam and Sam Nook, but this is of course ruined with the prison arc. Tommy doesn’t trust Sam any longer and, while he still cares deeply about Sam Nook, he’s not someone that can give him emotional support. So he went back to rely soley on Tubbo (though it’s obvious throughout the stream that he’s tentatively doing so with Ranboo as well)

Tommy & Ranboo: The two of them used to be sort of close before Doomsday, Ranboo still very much admiring Tommy and considering him a friend. Thet said Ranboo is not in the very small circle of people who Tommy trusts and finding him married to his best friend and moving in together with a child didn’t help his perception of him. He feels replaced by Ranboo and sort of feels like he “stole” the only system of support he had that he could count on. Though there is a beginning of change throughout the stream. 

Tommy & Ghostbur: Their relationship is really interesting. Tommy is pretty obviously one of Ghostbur’s unfinished businesses (possibly the only one now that L’Manburg is gone) and most definitely his priority. He was the only one who offered to go with Tommy during exile and he tried to be there for him constantly. Even his return this time was Tommy-motivated as we know from what he said in Ranboo’s stream. Meanwhile Tommy’s feelings on him are very complicated. He swings between recognizing that Alivebur and Ghostbur are different entities to conflating them together any time he has a strong reminder of Alivebur (at the beginning of exile and after spending time with Void!Wilbur for example). He also has only very recently come to the full realisation that Wilbur was awful to him and that their relationship was definitely not healthy (something we can infer from him finally taking a stance on not wanting him back and him admitting that Wilbur is good at manipulating him).

Now that that’s done, let’s get into the analysis!

“Oh I forgot I died, didn’t I?” So, Tommy is in a very peculiar situation where he has to somehow process his own death and, at the moment, he’s still in a state of denial about it. He knows he died but he acts like he didn’t in the sense that he hates how it affects his life. He doesn’t want people to treat him any different (even though he IS different), he doesn’t want to acknowledge the changesto the world nor to his relationships, which is the reason why he dislikes the statues of himself so much (that and the fact that he simply never liked to have statues of him). They act as a constant phisycal reminder of what happened to him and, more importantly, how much things changed in his absence. 

One other reason why change scares him so much it’s because of how often he’s alienated from the world around him. He spent more time in exile/prison then in his own home since L’Manburg got it’s independence. He is constantly forced to live in an isolated bubble while the world around him moves forward and then, when he gets thrown back in he is never really given much time to adapt and catch up before he is thrown once more into the role of the hero/villain that he despises (after the 16th for example he was painted as a liability at his first mistake and put on trial etc despite how much he did for the country. Again after Doomsday he had the Dream fight to think about and, after that, Sam Nook asked him again to be the hero against the Egg and he, once again, was villanized by the Team Rocket. Now again he finds himself in the position where he has to take action against Dream once more).

So the stream really starts with Tommy deciding to contact Tubbo to get some help in his plan to kill Dream. He heads to Snowchester to do so (stopping before that to build Sam Nook a little wooden platform to keep him out of the rain).

On the way to Snowchester he gets trapped in the tunnel and almost drowns, making him break the glass of the tunnel. This is triggering for him for a couple of reasons (aside from drowning generally being not pog): exile reminder of his waking up drowning every day and taking damage in general seems to be a reminder of his death (he also seems to be hypersensitive in general in regard to phisycal sensations) 

The whole mansion scene is a further indicator of this new dynamic between Tubbo, Ranboo and Tommy. Tubbo and Ranboo grew extremely close as we know (got married for tax benefits, adopted a child together and, apparently, canonically fell in love after) and they are planning to move in together with their son in the mansion. This, once again, all happened while Tommy was locked in prison. The feelings of alienation for him in the situation are prevalent together with his jealousy at Ranboo as he perceives him as his replacement. 

“You married someone without me- without my permission?” “Okay, can I have your permission?” “Does he make you happy?” “Yes” “then ye- okay” Just... I’m a softie and I think that it’s very sweet that his only requirement to give his blessing is Ranboo making Tubbo happy. We stan a unconditionally supportive friend! 

“Ranboo listen, let me open up to you pal! I- I’ve been through a pretty rough time recently and- (”Yeah I can tell”) and I know that we were kind of close before I went into prison, but then you ki- Tubbo would you mind looking at that flower a bit more? You kinda stole my best friend, and that’s kinda- you know now I feel kind of very lonely- actually feel very lonely” “I didn’t steal...” “And my other friend who then turned out to be my enemy is actually dead. So I’m kinda feeling a little bit left out here, and considering I was locked in a prison for 4 weeks...” “Yeah, no, I mean... I didn’t- I didn’t steal...” “No no no no, you did, you did, didn’t you? You did!” That was a big piece of dialogue there to transcribe! Regardless Tommy doing my job for me here by literally spelling out for us how he feels about Ranboo. One thing to be noted though is that Ranboo remains calm and keeps an understanding attitude in all his interactions with Tommy. He constantly tries to be reasonable (trying to explain that he didn’t “steal” Tubbo as, you know, he has his own free will and can have more then one friend) and generally just doesn’t get mad. Keeping a non-confrontational attitude is probably the best thing he could have done here.

So after that exchange Tommy opens up to them a bit about Dream, explaining what he’s planning.

“The revive book is too much and he (Dream) is too powerful and he’s only gonna use it for evil now! He is an evil man and he used it- he used ME to prove a point and to experiment on me” “Oh my God, like a lab rat!” “Like a- like a- worse then a lab rat! A lab- a lab sock!” “A lab sock?! No!” “Oh God!” “Oh my God” This is the first time in the conversation where Tommy’s gone more in depth about his traumatic experience (though he did mention before that “Dream asked him about it” in reference to his revival). It’s honestly a really big positive that he’s opening up to someone, even if it is other two teenagers who can’t do much but be sympathetic to him. 

“I think it’s good. You don’t actually know this but I’ve been- I’ve been collecting some data, but, honestly... I’m not sure is a too good of an idea” “You said it was good” “No no  no, I didn’t mean it was good in the sense of we should-” “Ranboo’s changed you, Ranboo’s changed you! He’s manipulating you! He’s manipulative and controlling” So 2 things to unpack here:

1) Tubbo hesitance comes from both him being on his last life and how things went during the season 2 finale. He isn’t too optimistic about their chances of killing Dream (even with Dream being completely unarmed in the prison) and he’s also less passively suicidal then he was during the finale, probably because he managed to build a life for himself now. He has a home, a family and Snowchester, he doesn’t wanna loose those.

2) Because of very obvious reasons (Wilbur being abusive, Dream being abusive, Techno isolating and manipulating him and then siding with his abuser and Sam betraying his trust) Tommy views all relationships aside from his with Tubbo in a negative lense. Basically he has HUGE trust issues and he’s so used to his relationships having usually some degree of manipulation (exept for Sam, who still entirely broke his trust. Also recently found out Jack had been lying and trying to kill him as well, which probably didn’t help the issue) that he just assumes that must be the case for Tubbo and Ranboo as well. Both of them of course are fast to correct him on this as that’s really not the case. 

“So why don’t you want him to bring Wilbur back now? What suddenly changed?” “I spent months in the death... area- let’s call it ‘the death zone’, with Wilbur alright?” “The death zone?” “I spent months there. I spent months and months and months there and I was only there for a few days, Wilbur’s been there for real months. He is so different and he is fucking powerful and you know how he molds me like a piece of clay, Tubbo. (hushed) I don’t want him to come back” So here we have Tommy’s admission to Wilbur’s manipulation and how effective it is on him (most probably because of how close they used to be). We also have another hint about how dangerous Wilbur is now because of the knowledge he acquired. 

“In the mean time we also... unless we don’t kill Dream... we gonna have to stop Technoblade, ‘cause Technoblade owes him a favour” “Stop Technoblade?” “Technoblade owes him a favour and we can’t let him redeem it” When Tommy mention’s Techno, Tubbo immediately becomes even MORE hesitant about this whole thing (probably a mix of his death-related trauma, Techno exploding his nation twice and his most recent inquisition venture in Snowchester). 

“So why don’t we try to block Dream’s communication with Technoblade? ‘Cause then Technoblade would have no idea how to... redeem... the favour” “He can bring back the dead Tubbo, we need him DEAD! He’s too powerful for this server’s good and he’s a bad man and he won’t use his powers for good. And it’s not even-” “Mmmmh” “What do you mean ‘Mmmh’ Man?!” “I don’t know this really- this didn’t go too well for us last time we got all hyped up and tried to do this” Tubbo once again is mostly apprehensive because of how things went last time they were up against Dream. He also tried proposing an alternative solution to fighting that Tommy shoots down because he doesn’t think anyone should have the power that Dream has. Also, may I add that Ranboo is actually on Tommy’s side on this whole thing? Possibly because he knows as well how dangerous Dream still is. 

“Just because he’s locked up doesn’t mean his strenght is, allright?” This basically perfectly sums up the crux of the issue. Of course thanks to Quackity’s lore we know that Dream’s power now is mostly a facade, but they don’t know this. To them Dream is just as powerful now as he was before. To them the image of powerlessness that the prison gives him is the facade.

That said the conversation in the electric chair tower ends here and, as this is already so incredibly long, I’ll also end part one of the analysis here. This was also the most lore-heavy part as the rest is more light-hearted so it’ll probably be faster to cover.

[joel-millerr]

Facing The Past

Chapter Three of We Are One When Together (formerly A Mandalorian and a Smuggler)

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 11.6K

Summary: You and Mando head to Nevarro for him to collect the bounty on your head, but of course things don’t go as planned...

Warnings: violence, a little bit of smut, ANGST (as per usual), let me know if there's anything I missed 

A/N: (its also my first time writing any smut so hopefully it’s *okay*)

Nevarro is…gloomy—definitely not the type of planet you’d willingly visit. All you could see up until the horizon are plains of rock, cracks filled with lava, and steam emitting from the slits in the ground. Not even the sun shining down on you can improve the landscape. It’s muggy, and dark. In hindsight, it’s the perfect place for a bounty hunter base; the occupation compliments the wasteland that is this planet.

You don’t mean to be overly critical of bounty hunters, but they are to blame for imprisoning so many of your crew that your anger clouds any rational and unbiased opinion about this planet.

Mando lands the Crest just outside the walls of the city. The town itself looks terribly small, but doesn’t seem like a totalshithole. Other than Nevarro being the central location for the Bounty Hunters Guild, you don’t know much about the planet. Most of the spice running deals are made far away from here—for obvious reasons. Even you’re not reckless enough to step foot on a planet where most of the population wants to hunt you down for a price.

The last couple of days have been…awkward to say the least. Ever since your ‘incident’ on Sorgan, Mando’s barely said two words to you. Maybe he’s angry at you, maybe he’s scared of you—you can’t be sure, but he’s been distant. He no longer stands close to you, or engages in small conversation like he did back on Sorgan, and when he does, he doesn’t even look at you. His helmet stays peeled to whatever it is he was doing before you addressed him. It’s incredibly frustrating. You want to explain, you want to reassure that you would never think of doing that to him or the Child, but you yourself can’t even be sure of that. It feels completely out of your control, so how could you even attempt to reassure him that it couldn’t happen? You’re basically a simmering pot, and every day the water gets closer to the brim, and could bubble over at any minute.

And if you’re being honest, deep down you’re a little relieved that soon you’ll be in custody. You won’t be able to cause any more harm, even if some of them deserve it.

You’ve been living in the cockpit since you left Sorgan, spending most of your time sitting in the chair going over and analyzing every single moment from that night. There was obvious anger inside of you, and rightfully so considering that man had tried to kill you twice, but there was also a…voice. It was a whisper, like something deep in your subconscious, forcing you to do its bidding. It told you to make him suffer, to make him bleed, and the voice was happy to see the hunter in pain. Clouding every rational thought in your mind, it was like being trapped inside your own body. Screaming to break through, you were a helpless passenger watching your body commit this atrocity. You’ve never been malicious, you thought yourself a caring person. Someone who wouldn’t inflict harm just for the sake of revenge, but now you’re not sure who you are anymore.

Who are you? Are you a mechanic? Are you a spice smuggler? Are you a monster? There are voices at odds inside of you. They fight for dominance, they beg you to choose who you wish to be, and for the first time in forever, you’re scared of who you are becoming. You’re not who you thought you were, you’re not who Tye believed you to be, or who your parents raised you as. Are you this dangerous criminal that the fucking Republic paints you as?

“We’re here.” Mando’s baritone comes out strained. He lingers in the doorway of the cockpit for a few seconds then descends the ladder, not bothering to wait for you to catch up.

“Okay.” Your leg bounces off the floor, and you’re biting down on your lip so hard, you’ll probably leave a permanent mark. Eyes looking dead ahead, the Nevarro horizon looking back at you, you wonder if you’d still be in this situation if your parents were still alive. Would you have still rebelled and turned to a life of constant running? Would you have stayed on Tatooine, leaving no mark for the galaxy to remember you by? Would you still have met Mando somehow?

Using your heels to push you to your feet, you take one last look at the cockpit and then head down the ladder. The ramp is open, and you catch Mando waiting for you at the top of it. The Child rests in his arm, tiny hand latched onto his gloved index finger.

As you both descend down the ramp, there’s a man standing ahead of you, just in front of the archway entrance to the city. From the kept white beard that rests on his cheeks and chin, you assume he’s middle aged. There’s a black cloak wrapped around his body, fastened around his clavicle are two golden clasps attached to a chain which are only worn by magistrates. Mando has some powerful friends, you think to yourself.

“Ah, Mando!” The man exclaims gleefully, throwing his arms up in the air.

“Karga.” Mando acknowledges, his voice keeping low.

“How are you, my friend?”

“Alive.” There’s a hint of jest in Mando’s tone.

The man laughs loudly. “When did you become such a comedian?” A big hand clasps down on his beskar pauldron. The Child in Mando’s hand coos and catches Karga’s attention.

“And how are you, little one?” He reaches out to hold the green gremlin and the bounty hunter allows it, gently handing him over to Karga.

“Alright Mando,” The man begins to say, “Let’s get this over with.” He turns on his heel, the baby still in his arms and takes two steps before shouting over his shoulder, “The quarry can stay here. They’ll be here soon enough to collect the bounties.”

Mando doesn’t exactly look at you, but the helmet does tilt in your direction. He’s just a foot ahead of you and you swear you see his shoulders slouch for a second, like he’s having second thoughts. It’s dumb, you shouldn’t be thinking of something so foolish. He had a job to do, and now he’s done it. You’ll both go your separate ways and never see each other again. That’s how this is supposed to go. That’s how this was going to end ever since he captured you.

Two collectors stand nearby, waiting for Karga to give them the order. As he and Mando pass through the arches, the collectors make their way to you. Swallowing the lump in your throat, refusing to show any weakness or sadness and with as much gusto as you can muster, you call out “Well, it was nice knowing ya, Mando.”

How stupid of you to think you could possibly mean anything more to him than a fucking quarry. He never gave you any indication that he even liked you. He merely tolerated your presence because you were useful. It was nothing more than a transaction between you both, and you could kick yourself for even letting these thoughts roam free in your mind. Forget Mando, forget the kid, forget every fucking person in this world who’s hurt you or left you. When this first started, you wanted Mando to get his credits because you liked him, but now with the ice-hot anger brewing inside of you, you don’t care anymore.

The two collectors—Rodians you infer as they get closer to you, approach the Crest, one of them heading up the ramp into Mando’s ship to collect the quarries in carbonite, the other staying by your side, probably anticipating that you’ll try to make a break for it although realistically, there isn’t a single place you could run to. You would either have to run into the city and try to hide or run for the hills. Neither option sounds tempting enough, given the fact that Mando would be on your ass in seconds.

Three carbonite chambers float down the ship, and the collector gives the one by your side a nod of acknowledgement. Your eyebrows pull together as you examine the subtle exchange between both men. The stranger next to you binds your wrists and shoots you a smile that’s anything but kind. The corner of his lip curls into a sinister grin, one that shoots panic up and down your spine. In the corner of your eye, you make out the silhouette of nearby ship. Was that always there?

Wait, shouldn’t there be more than just two members securing the quarries? This doesn’t make any sense. Why aren’t there more people here? Why is no one else here?

“Let’s go,” One of them orders. The first one makes a beeline for the ship, leaving behind the quarries from the Crest. Why would Guild members leave behind quarries?

Something’s not right. Your heart is hammering in your chest, adrenaline beginning to pump through your veins, and the urge to fight is starting to prick at every nerve ending in your body. These guys can’t Guild members. Somehow, they’ve fooled everyone.

They urge you forward to the ship in the distance and you plant your feet firmly into the ground. If they manage to get you on that ship, you’re done for. You need to struggle as much as you can and pray to the Maker that someone will realize this whole thing is a set up.  

“Where are you taking me?” Trying to suppress the alarm in your voice, it comes out choked and feeble. A large hand grips your bicep and makes you whimper, their dexterous fingers digging into the thin material of your sleeve. You jerk back, trying to wriggle out of their hold, but it only causes them to tighten the grip around your bicep, pain now shooting up and down your arm.

“Fucking let me go!” You shout, hoping someone—Mando, will hear you, but no one can hear you.

“Oh, shut up!” The Rodian ahead of you shouts before swiftly turning on his heel and stalking towards you. His large fist winds up and slams into your stomach, knocking you completely off balance. If it wasn’t for the other one holding you upright, you would have fallen flat on your back. Nonetheless, you crouch over, wincing at the pain in your abdomen. The men laugh together ruefully, sheer enjoyment displayed on their faces.

“The boss is going to love playing with you,” One of them taunts, leaning down towards you and grabbing hold of your chin so that he can look you in the eyes.

“Fuck you,” You spit out through ragged breaths.

“Why, you little bitch.” A hand comes flying at your face and you brace yourself for the pain, sewing your eyes shut. His green backhand connects with the softness of your cheek with so much force that your head snaps to the side, following the movement of his hand. Your cheek throbs, ripples of pain so intense you feel tears threatening to fall down your cheeks.

The wrath inside you is screaming and clawing at your insides. The whisper in your head commands you to cause them pain. It craves the cries of their sufferings, to see the life drain from their eyes. You’re trying to fight it; you don’t want to let that fucking voice win, but the searing agony from their blows feed the darkness that roars deep within you. You can feel your control slipping, fingers twitching against your will as your attackers try to haul you into their ship.

A beam of red light narrowly misses you, and one of your assailants drops to the floor with a loud thud. Your eyes bounce around you, trying to locate the source of the blast, when you catch the silhouette of shiny beskar running straight for you. There’s no hiding the joy and relief that is so evident on your face. He came back. Somehow, he came back for you.

You can feel the man still holding you start to panic. His body tenses, and he begins frantically pulling you into the ship, but now that you know you’re one-on-one, you waste no time fighting back. Gathering as much force as you can and flailing your bound arms around, his body turns towards you, and straightaway your leg lifts off the ground, slamming your knee right in his crotch. The man yelps in pain, hunching over involuntarily. You use this opportunity to connect your knee with his stomach with so much vigor, his body flies backwards, hitting the ground hard. As you lean over his body, he starts begging and pleading for his life.

“Please, please I was just doing it for the money!” He finally chokes out, his voice filled with pure terror as his hands come up in surrender. That evilness in your mind urges you to make his final moments hurt, to show no mercy for the man who would have certainly not shown you mercy. Shaking your head violently in an effort to cast out the mysterious voice, you wrench your eyes shut.

No.

You hear distance footsteps getting louder and louder, and then stop altogether. Tilting your head ever so slightly to the right, you can see his boots in the corner of your eye. Mando’s testing you. He wants to know if you’ll pull the same stunt you did back on Sorgan. As the man at your feet continues to plead for his life, the vulnerability and desperation in his voice pulls you out of whatever trance you were in.

This man is no different than you. He was given orders, and did what he thought was necessary in order to complete the contract. You can sympathize with that. There are so many things you’ve done in your time as a smuggler—things that have made you question your morals, and how far you’re willing to go to get the job done. Things you’re not proud of, things you now regret. At the end of the day, you’re both just pawns in a much bigger fight, and although you’ve both decided a path with little room for ethics, an unnecessarily harsh death is one you won’t inflict upon him.

You take a deep breath, inhaling in as much air in your lungs as possible, it almost burns them. Squaring your shoulders, you take a step back away from your assailant. That’s all the permission Mando needs, and his pistol comes up and sends a red beam of light right into the man’s chest, silencing him.

“We need to go. There will be more soon.” Mando warns, as he leans down and grabs the key from the dead man’s corpse to unbind your wrists. Your head bobs in acknowledgement, and then you’re both heading for the Crest. Karga’s waiting by the ramp of the ship, holding the Child in his arms. As soon as the little green baby spots you, he tries desperately to wiggle out of Karga’s grip, tiny arms reaching out for you. Mando takes the Child from his friend’s arms and gives him to you. Giant eyes peer up to look at you and the baby coos. Your lips curl up into a smile, taking two fingers to gently rub his ear.

“I had no idea the Empire was after her,” Karga says to Mando sincerely. The man’s gaze then turns to you. “I’m sorry. I should have known something was off about the deal.”

Shaking your head, you offer him a smile. “It’s fine.”

“You two should leave. It’s only a matter of time before someone else comes for them.” Them? Are they after the kid, too?

“Yes.” Mando answers matter-of-factly.

Karga nods, and a big hand comes out to shake Mando’s. “Safe travels, Mando.”

His gaze flicks towards you for a second and you offer him another smile and tip of the head before turning around and heading up the ramp to the Crest. You head straight for the cockpit, placing the child in the seat adjacent to yours and strapping him in. Mando comes in right after you, planting himself down in the pilot’s chair. The ships thrusters roar to life and you take off, the Nevarro landscape disappearing the higher your climb into the air.

Now that you actually have time to process what the fuck just happened; the reality of your situation hits you. It’s not the Republic that’s after you, it’s the Empire. The Empire you thought was defeated five years ago. The Empire that that killed thousands, if not millions of people.

Why? Why you? What could possibly be so special about you that the Empire has a fucking bounty on you? Wait, Karga had said ‘them’. Does that mean you and the Child? What could you and the Child possibly have in common that the Empire wants the two of you? Your mind recollects the moment you two shared on Sorgan—where he seemed to communicate something to you but that’s hardly enough of a connection, right? There’s just no way. You’re nothing but a petty smuggler. You haven’t lived a life worthy of being wanted by the fucking Empire. You had a normal childhood, and then went on to smuggling spice. That’s it. There’s literally nothing fucking exceptional about you.

Mando punches in some coordinates and activates the hyperdrive. The gentle hum of hyperspace fills the tension in the cockpit. Neither you nor Mando know what to say. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you start to question whether or not it’s a good idea that you’re even flying with them. If what Karga said is true, and the Empire is hunting you and the kid, surely having the two of you together is too risky. Realistically, you should split off. You should go your separate ways on whatever planet Mando’s set the coordinates for, in an effort to prolong the Imps’ search.

“Where are we going?” Your gentle voice cuts through the gentle purr of hyperspace.

“Tatooine. I have a friend there that owes me a favor.” His voice comes out slightly gruff through the modulator.

Your breath catches in your throat. You haven’t been back to Tatooine since your first smuggling run. After the job with Tye, you had made a decision to become a full-time runner, and vowed never come back to the shithole that was Tatooine, not while there was an infinite amount of galaxy out there that you hadn’t seen yet, leaving your old life and self to rot on that planet. There were too many hurtful memories, too much pain.

A small coo emits from the baby and you look over and see him slouching in his seat, big eyes blinking slowly. The poor thing must be exhausted. Unbuckling your seatbelt, you reach over and wrap him in your arms. He nestles in your lap, letting the sleepiness overcome his little body. At first you consider laying him in his pram and letting him sleep in there, but he’s already fast asleep in your arms before you can put him down, so you decide to let him rest where he is. The adrenaline and stress from the last couple of hours starts to take its toll on you. Exhaustion suddenly overwhelms you, the stiffness in your bones turns to fatigue, and you try to fight your eyelids from closing. You don’t want to fall asleep yet. You want to ask Mando why he came back for you, why he’s helping you, but your body succumbs to the exhaustion and you drift off to sleep, the last thing you hear is the stillness of hyperspace.

When you wake, the Child is no longer in your arms, and Mando isn’t in the pilot’s chair. Rising to your feet lazily, you drag them over to the control panel to check the status of your route, rubbing your eyes with your palm in order to steady your vision. You’ll be landing on Tatooine in less than an hour, which unfortunately only gives you a small finite amount of time to properly prepare yourself for the onslaught of memories that will smack you in the face once you land.

Maybe no one will remember you. Mos Eisley isn’t exactly the smallest city, meaning there’s chance that no one would even recognize you. All you need to do is avoid the cantinas and merchants you used to frequent back when you lived there and maybe, just maybe you could remain unseen.

Suddenly getting the feeling that someone’s watching you, you strain your neck while turning your head as much as it can, seeing the faintest hint of chrome in the corner of your eye. Turning your body towards the door, the sight of Mando takes you by surprise, and you can’t help but get startled by his sudden presence. You almost forgot how intimidating he actually looks. Even as he stands there doing nothing, there’s a certain level stoicism and command in the way he carries himself, the same way a man who’s a captain of a battalion would carry himself—robust, and proud, however also reserved. There’s no way to gauge what he’s thinking unless he deliberately tells you, and Mando doesn’t like to talk very much. It forces you to anticipate what he would think or how he would feel in every situation you’re both put in, wracking your brain and making it damn near impossible to keep up with him.

The shades of pale blue mixed with white reflect off his beskar armour. His visor is pointed at you, although you can’t be sure if he’s actually looking at you or through you. His stance is stiff which isn’t unusual but there’s a gentleness that radiates off of him. Your throat goes dry, and you’re sure you’re breaking skin from how hard you’re biting your lip. You haven’t had a proper moment alone together since that night on Sorgan, and neither of you spoke about what happened. There’s a lot of unanswered questions you need to discuss, but the thickness of the air around you is becoming overwhelming. You don’t say anything, and stay firmly planted where you stand. The Mandalorian mimics you, refusing to take a step forward. Your heart is thumping against your ribcage, heat coiling in your stomach and making it harder to ignore the wetness beginning to form in your panties. Refusing to show submission, your eyes stayed locked to the ‘T’ of his visor. His hands twitch at his sides, but shows no other kind of movement. He’s still as a fucking tree and somehow that only turns you on even more. He has to be feeling the same way you are right now. It can’t just be you this time.

Mando finally takes one step forward and your breathing hitches. Stars, if he comes any closer, you’re going to explode. You’ve never experienced this kind of tension before. Your body’s never felt so on fire and he hasn’t even touched you, but you desperately want him to. So you mimic his movements and take a step forward, testing him. It’s barely noticeable but somehow his back stiffens even more, chest pushing out faintly. The blood in your ears is deafening, your heart slamming so hard against your chest you feel like passing out.

“What are you doing?” The baritone pulling rough and breathy. Okay, so this is affecting him just as much as it is for you.

Your tongue glides against your bottom lip before biting down on it, hard. Curious to see how far you can push this, you don’t answer him and instead take another small step forward. By now you’re only a couple feet away from each other and the air of the cockpit is disgustingly thick with a need to fuck each other senseless right here and now. His hands ball up into fists and that lets you to know he’s fighting his primal desires. You think you hear short, distorted breaths emit from the helmet, but you’re too far away to be certain. Your panties are fucking soaked, your slick almost dripping down your thighs. It’s been too long since you’ve been fucked, and you need it, need Mando to bend you over the control panel and pound into you like a fucking animal.

It’s like he’s reading your mind, because he closes the gap between you two in a flash. He’s hovering over you, and despite the cool amour he wears, you can feel the heat radiating off him. Your nostrils fill with the smell of gunpowder, and his musk and it takes all your energy not to fucking whimper. Only Mando can get you this worked up when nothing’s even happened yet.

One of his brown leather-gloved hands comes up to touch your arm. If you thought your breathing was irregular before, well now you’re basically suffocating as his hand hovers your arm and you want to scream at him to touch you—beg him to do what you can’t bring yourself to do. Please, Mando.

Right as you feel a glove graze your arm, the ship jumps out of hyperspace, and in an instant your moment is over. His hand drops back to his side and you let out a deep breath of disappointment. Your shoulders slump, and your head drops, staring at the floor.  Instinctively, you slither out of his way so he can slip into the pilot’s chair.

The radio comes to life, static filling the cockpit before a female voice emanates from the speaker. “Razor Crest, this is Mos Eisley Tower. We’ve picked up your signal. Head for bay three-five, over.”  

“This is Razor Crest, locked in for three-five.” Mando answers coolly, as if two minutes ago there wasn’t an unbelievable amount of sexual tension between you two. You try to hide your annoyance at the fact that he can snap in and out of a moment so quickly. He’s seemed to have forgotten all about it unlike you who can’t seem to snap out of it. You reluctantly sit in your seat, shifting uncomfortably due to the stickiness of your underwear.

As you descend into Tatooine airspace, your nerves begin spiraling. Both your legs bounce off the ground, and your hands twiddle in your lap. If there’s one thing you fucking hate, it’s sand. Maker, you hate how the sand feels against your shoes, never giving you enough solid ground to walk properly. Constantly twisting your ankles because the sand concaved in certain areas. How it always fucking found its way into your shoes, your clothes, your hair. You could take four sonic showers and still feel fucking sand in places it should never be in. Then there was the absolutely incomprehensible fact that water was scarce here. A bare necessity for everyone to survive had to be farmed like vegetation. Curse the Maker for this planet. You’re not sure what planet you hated more, Kijimi or Tatooine.

Mando lands the Crest in the hangar the operator told him to, and your brows furrow looking at your surroundings. This hangar looks familiar. It’s not the one your parents owned, but you definitely recognize the random discarded parts scattered throughout the area. You hope you’re wrong, that Mando didn’t land in the only hangar that you’d know.

The Mandalorian rises from his seat and begins to make his way to the ladder. “Let’s go.” He calls out before climbing down the rungs. For a moment, you consider asking if you could stay in the ship the whole time you’re docked here, but it would be a ridiculous thing to ask. You’re an adult, and you have to confront your past, no matter how ugly it is. Reluctantly, you slide out of your seat and climb down the steps. The cubbyhole where Mando’s cot is located is shut, and you assume the Child was sleeping in there. He presses a button on his vambrace and the door slides open, the kid sits patiently at the door. Mando scoops up the Child, a tiny green hand immediately clutches onto one of Mando’s gloved fingers. The ramp opens slowly, and even from far away you instantly recognize the woman standing at the bottom of the ramp.

“Mando!” Peli exclaims, throwing her arms in the air and then resting them on her hips.

Peli fucking Motto. You’ve known her since you were a child. She was a difficult woman, to say the least. Not the most generous person—she only ever did someone a favor if there was something in it for her. You never personally worked for her, and there was a reason she only ever had droids as her workers. She was the type of woman who barked orders at everyone in her employment. What Peli lacked in size, she made up for in attitude.

Mando descends the ramp before you, your legs refusing to move. As soon as Peli catches sight of the baby, the tough exterior you’ve only ever seen disappears into a gentle, kinder demeanor. Mando hands her the baby and she wraps her arms around him, her hand gently caressing the little hairs on the Child’s head. The baby squeals in excitement. Her gaze leaves the baby to face Mando only for a moment, before locking her eyes with yours.

“Who’s your friend?” She asks him. Your face is covered by the shadows of the Crest, disguising your features. Holding your head up high and pushing your shoulders back, you walk down the ramp. Her face turns from curiosity to anger, fast. Eyebrows scrunching up and lips forming a tight line, she scoffs. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Hi, Peli.” Your voice dripping in sarcasm.

“What the hell are you doing back here?”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t be here if I had the choice.”

Peli eyes stay locked on yours. You know that saying, ‘if looks could kill’? You’re pretty sure you’d be dead right now if that were true.

“It’s a bad idea to get involved with this one, Mando.” She turns to look at the visor. “She’s always been trouble.”

This time you let out a laugh, hand coming to sit on your hip. “That’s such bullshit, Peli and you know it,” Using your free hand to point a finger at her, punching out your next jab at her. “You’re the difficult one.”

“That’s rich coming from the spice smuggler.” Her last words dripping like venom.

You bite down hard on your jaw, wanting to argue, but in this very rare case, she’s actually right. It’s just one of the many truths you’ll have to face being back here.

“Anyway,” She says before turning away from you to face the Mandalorian to her right. “What can I help you with, Mando?”

“The hyperdrive needs to be fixed, and I need to refuel.”

“I’m surprised this one hasn’t offered her services.” Peli shoots you a glare.

“I did fix it but—” You begin to say but Mando cuts you off before you can finish.

“We were stranded, and it was only partially fixed. If I’m to make it to the next destination, I need to be at above 70%.”

“Sure thing, boss. We can get that fixed.” She shifts her weight to walk away from you both, but before she can call her droids, you call out to her. “There’s a problem.”

She turns her torso just enough to look in your direction, “With you? Why am I not surprised?” Rolling her eyes, she continues to stare you down.

“Look Peli, if you have something to say,” You taunt, taking a step towards her. “Then say it.”

Challenging you, she steps towards you as well. The Child in her arm fusses worriedly, and you almost back down from the confrontation when you realize this might be scaring the little guy. “Oh, I got a lot to say, kid.”

“That’s enough.” Mando orders. As reason comes back to you and somewhat clears your mind, it’s probably not a good idea to start a fight with the only person that can fix his ship and potentially get you off this planet, so you back off and step back.

“The Empire is after her,” Mando starts to explain. Peli shoots you another stare and rolls her eyes again. “We fought them off on Nevarro, but we don’t know how much time we’ll have until they come back.”

Despite her very obvious resentment towards you, she nods and forces a smile—not very comforting, but it’s enough to put you both at ease. “Don’t worry, Mando. I’ll have her ready as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

You continue to stare at Peli with daggers in your eyes. There’s a lot of undealt with animosity between you both, but you’re not sure you’ll have time to settle it. “We’re gonna go try and find a lead. Maybe someone here will know why she’s wanted. Can you watch the Child in the meantime?” He asks.

“Can I? Mando, this little guy is the only reason I let you in my hangar. This little womp rat has found a way into ol’ Peli’s heart.” She says affectionately, looking down at the baby and blabbing some nonsense. The kid responds by giggling and using his little arms to reach out and touch the finger that wiggles in front of him.

“Didn’t know you had a heart,” You whisper under your breath. Peli doesn’t seem to hear you, but Mando does because you hear a sigh comes from the vocoder. “That’s enough.” He orders, just loud enough for you to hear him.

Even though it’s been five, almost six years since you’ve been here, everything still looks the same. The whole city is devoid of color, just various shades of beige and whites as far as the eye could see. Every single home and every cantina stand like monuments made of fucking sand, showing no detail or artistry in their structure. It’s like every piece of culture from around the galaxy comes to Mos Eisley and dies, leaving only taupe boringness behind. It’s possible you’re being too harsh on the city, but you were born here so you have the right to be a bitch about it.

You never thought you’d be back here, breathing in the fucking dry, gritty filled air you grew up breathing in. It’s as stuffy and suffocating as you remember it, maybe even worse than you remember it. As the sun blazes down on you and Mando, you can admit there is one thing you actually do like about Tatooine. The sun was always out, always scorching hot and always beaming down on your skin, leaving a beautiful golden tint to your complexion. You could stay out all day and never develop a burn; your body was so used to the heat. Now, you wonder if that’s changed. Rolling up the sleeves of your tunic up to your elbow, the sun instantly pricks at your skin. The heat feels like a giant hug, caressing your untouched skin. Okay, maybe there was one thing you missed about Tatooine.

You both walk cautiously around the city looking for a cantina in the hopes of finding someone who might know what Empire wanted from you, but also keeping an eye out for possible threats. He treads a couple feet ahead of you, but you don’t mind. So far, you haven’t really recognized anyone, and no one’s seemed to recognize you. Just a couple more days and you can put this all behind you. There are plenty of vendors out, selling everything from fabric for clothing to food from other planets, to parts for ships. People from various walks of life mingle throughout the city. A few vendors away, you see a couple of Jawas trying to bargain for some old, outdated ship parts. The Jawas were always on the hunt for miscellaneous scrap metal parts, as well as other junk. To each their own, you guess. You’ve had a couple dealings with Jawas. They were sneaky, and smart despite their appearance. You had always tried to avoid making transactions with them if at all possible.

On your right, you see an older gentleman selling some garments, and the realization pops into your head that you do need new clothes. Since you weren’t planning on all of this happening, the only clothes you have are the ones on your back, and the ones you accidentally left behind on Sorgan. You’re in desperate need for new clothes.

“I’ll be right back,” You tell Mando before making a beeline for the old man’s stand. You don’t wait for Mando to acknowledge you.

“Hi there, traveler.” The man greets, using a cane to rise to his feet from the stool he was sitting on beforehand.

You offer him the same genuine smile he shows to you before letting your hands touch and feel the various assortment of garments placed before you on the table. “These are beautiful.” You remark.

“Thank you. My wife’s the one who sews them. She does all the work. I just sell them afterwards,” He humbly admits. Your eyes stay peeled to the numerous amount of attires on display in front of you, but still keeping that smile on your face. “Oh, hi sir. Can I interest you in anything?” He says, a mix of shock and kindness in his tone. You look up and notice Mando by your side.

“Nothing for me, thank you.” He says politely.

You decide on some charcoal-colored trousers that has some pockets sewn in on each side of the thighs, along with a white short-sleeved tunic. The merchant also sells backpacks, so you also buy one of those to store your new clothes in until you can get back to the Crest. It’s only once you start digging in your pockets that you’re embarrassingly aware that you have no credits on you. Mando picks up on the sudden realization and pulls out credits of his own and hands them over to the old man.

“I’ll find a way to pay you back,” You try to reassure him.

“It’s fine,” Mando replies.

The man bows and thanks you both for your business, and you nod in return before continuing your walk through the city.

After a few more minutes of walking, Mando spots a cantina just a couple buildings away and of course it’s the onecantina you hoped not to visit. It’s the one place you and Tye would frequent when you both lived here, and the owner of the establishment knew you both by name. The both of you had visited that cantina on pretty much a daily basis, playing sabacc with other locals, and getting way too drunk.

As you get closer to the door of the cantina, you stop in your tracks, your feet becoming cement blocks. It doesn’t take Mando long to notice that you’re no longer walking behind him, so when he does, he turns his body to see where you are and heads for you.

“What’s wrong?”

“Isn’t there another cantina we can check out?”

A sigh exists the helmet and big gloved hands come to rest on his hips. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I just feel like maybe there’s another cantina we can visit.”

“Why would we do that when there’s one right here?” His tone becomes faintly more irritated, probably because you’re wasting valuable time trying to run away from your past.

Your mouth opens to justify your apprehension, but there isn’t a single justifiable reason not to head into the cantina. Mouth forming a thin line, you shrug and start for the tavern.

The cantina is loud, all kinds of walks of life are gathered inside mingling. You stop just at the top of the stairs and begin scanning the area, looking for a quiet table you both can sit at. Mando clearly has other ideas because he doesn’t even bother to look around before heading straight for the bar. “Mando—” You call out, but he’s too far ahead to hear you, and the noise from the patrons inside drowns out your voice. The noise that escapes your lips is definitely full of annoyance, but there’s no telling Mando what to do. You follow suit, and stand a couple feet away from him, your back turned to his as you continue to look out for anyone you might know.

You can’t hear the exchange between the bartender and Mando, but by his posture, you guess he doesn’t receive any good news. Form what you can make out through the noise of the cantina, the droid behind the bar informs Mando that no one from the Empire has stepped foot in Mos Eisley in weeks, so the likelihood of anyone knowing anything is slim to none.

“Let’s go. There’s nothing here.” Mando’s voice cuts through the vocoder. You nod and head for the exit. One cantina down, only…too many more left.

Once back in the heat, you both continue to make your way through the city, taking random turns down streets less populated than the main path. You’re still being cautious over being seen by either someone from your past or someone looking to collect your bounty, but you’re much more relaxed now. Being back gives you a sense of familiarity and there’s a slight twinge of nostalgia that reminds you of your childhood. Every street you pass, every building you take notice of—it’s all things you’ve seen before. You can remember running down this exact street with Tye due to a game of tag. A couple streets away there was a food stand that sold the most amazing magenta colored fruit you had ever tasted in your life. It was a rare treat that only came in once every season, but it was so worth it. The fruit was sweet, and so full of juices that whenever you ate it, its nectars would trinkle down your chin and onto your tunic. Your mother always scolded you for eating without being careful, but it never stopped you from dirtying your shirt anyways. As you pass by where the stand used to be, all you see is an abandoned kiosk. Of course, it’s no longer there.

The sun’s beginning to set now, turning the sky into mixture of pastel pinks, blues, and purples that swirl around like an abstract painting. The streets are also starting to become less crowded; vendors are starting to pack up their stands for the day, and most of the locals are gathering in the cantinas for a night of gambling and drinking. You’re not sure when you began trailing behind Mando, but you follow him as he makes his way through the roads. Your arms are crossed against your body, the mental exhaustion of the day is starting to take its toll on your body.

He spots another cantina on the way back to the ship. There’s an unspoken conversation that occurs between you both. He tilts the helmet in the direction of the cantina, and your your shoulder lifts in the air in response. He walks in first then waits for you. When you’ve caught up to him, out of habit you take in your surroundings and take a scan of the room.

He crouches down and whispers in your ear. “Find us a booth. I’ll be there shortly.” The baritone of his voice cutting right through you and hitting a part of you inside that hasn’t been touched in ages. You can’t control the way your body reacts when he’s that close to you—the hairs on your arms standing up, the small shudder that went traveled from your spine down to between your thighs. You’re instantly reminded of the moment you two shared back in the cockpit of the Crest. You’re not sure if you’ll ever get to have another moment like that again, but you’ll live in that moment for as long as you possibly can if that’s all you’ll ever have.

There’s an empty booth at the back of the cantina so naturally that’s the booth you break for. Once you’re seated, you catch Mando talking to the droid behind the bar. A lot of the patrons inside are eyeing the Mandalorian, and you’d be lying if there wasn’t a dash of pride that hits you. Seeing a Mandalorian is rare enough as it is, so seeing a Mandalorian enter a cantina with someone else who’s not Mandalorian? You’re sure this is the first time anyone in here has seen either.

It’s hard not to stare at him. You have no idea what he looks like underneath that helmet, and there’s not even a part of you that cares. It’s all in his body language. You thought of him as a heartless hunter, a man made of beskar—inside and out, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. He has the kid and cares deeply for him. Mando portrays himself as a warrior, a strong, stoic man who abides by rules and discipline, but he went back for the Child. He came back for you. It’s true, he doesn’t talk much, doesn’t divulge in talking about his past or about his Creed, but there’s a softness to him, a gentleness that you know not many people have seen, and somehow you’ve been lucky enough to see it.

“Care for some company, baby?”

Your gaze shifts from Mando to the foul man standing to your right. His breath reeks of alcohol, and he can barely keep himself upright without swaying in every direction. He’s holding two empty glasses in one hand and a bottle of liquid in the other.

Your eyebrows pull together, and you can’t help the way your nose scrunches up at the smell of him. “No, thanks.” You reply politely. However, there is a stern tone to your voice.

“Oh, come on,” The man stumbles even though he hasn’t even moved. He loses balance and falls into the booth, now just a couple feet away from where you’re sitting. “What’s a gal like you sitting all by yourself on a fine night like tonight, hmmm?”

His hand reaches out to touch your hand, but your reflexes are much faster than his. You grab onto his wrist before it can get too close to you, and you apply pressure on the grip. His face scrunches up, and you know he’s feeling the firmness of your control. “I said no. Now, back off.”

Your hold slacks and you let go, pushing his arm and hearing it land on the table. Sliding out of the booth, you head straight for Mando who’s still standing at the bar. Before you can call out for him, you feel a large hand come down on your bicep and whip you around.

“We just want to show you a good time, bitch.” Another man bellows. You figure he’s with the creep that’s still sitting in your booth. Your body reacts before your mind can process what’s happening. Your hand balls into a fist, reaching far back to gain as much momentum as possible, then comes slamming into the man’s nose. Bone cracks and you can’t believe you just broke that fucker’s nose. He wails in pain, his hands flying to cover his face. Blood is pooling down his hands and onto the floor. Stars, you didn’t know you could hit that hard.

“I’ll kill you, you fucking bitch!” Someone else shouts and they’re running for you, pushing down others in their path. You prepare to fight but a gloved hand grabs your wrist before you can do any more damage. Mando blocks your entire body with his, and the attacker running stops dead in his tracks, almost tripping on his own feet with pure terror in his eyes. Mando doesn’t even have to do anything before all three men are apologizing profusely and retreating as fast as they came down on you. Everyone knows it’s a fool’s errand to pick a fight with a Mandalorian. They’re not called the greatest warriors in the galaxy for no reason.

“We should head back to the ship before we cause any more trouble,” Your voice is lighthearted, but Mando doesn’t respond. Taking his silence as a ‘yes’, you turn on your heel and make your way out of the cantina and onto the street. Walking out of there and feeling the warm breeze against your hot skin feels amazing. The adrenaline is still pumping through your veins and all the tiredness from your body is momentarily wiped away.

Mando finally appears behind you, and you take the lead on the way back to the ship while he continues to stroll behind you. Nightfall had arrived on Mos Eisley, and the only light that’s given are the dimly lit lanterns posted every few metres along the streets. Unless you’re a frequent visitor or a local, one could easily get lost at night. You on the other hand could make your way through the city with your eyes closed.

You don’t have time to process it, but you’re being pulled into an alley. Mando’s grip on your arm is firm, but he makes sure not to hurt you. There’s only one lantern in the backstreet, and you can barely see anything in front of you. He continues to pull you further and further into the alley until you’re sure no one would see either of you even if you were just three feet in front of you.

When he finally lets go of your arm, he’s standing in front of you at arm’s length. You can make out his silhouette only because the moon’s glow reflects off the beskar he’s wearing. Your eyes flicker up and down his body, trying to gauge why he’s doing this, but he gives you absolutely no indication.

“Uh, what are we doing here, Mando?”

“Take the bag off,” He orders, his voice scratching at a dangerously low register. Sliding your arms out of the straps, the bag drops to the floor.

You’re not scared of him, you know he wouldn’t hurt you, but you’re definitely cautious, and you can’t help the fight or flight instinct that’s overcoming you. Ever so slowly, he stalks towards you. Out of impulse, you take a step back and another and another and another until your back hits the wall behind you. Heart thumping in your chest, and your mouth drier than the fucking Tatooine sand dunes, desire pooling in your stomach. His broad chest encircles you. The cuirass grazes against your chest and you can feel the cool beskar against your burning skin. You want to reach out and touch him, but you don’t know where so instead you keep your hands by your thighs, your pussy throbbing so much it hurts. You don’t know what the fuck is happening, but you want more. You need more. The moment in the cockpit doesn’t hold a candle to this. This is something else—needy, desperate.

Mando’s breathing is uneven, that’s about the only thing you can make out. The vocoder distorts his breaths, making them scratchy and rough. Your chest is heaving with how unsteady your own breathing is. You’ve never been this turned on by someone who hasn’t even touched you.

“Fuck,” Mando murmurs, the baritone of his voice dangerously low. Both arms come up and he rests his palms on the wall behind you, fully boxing you in. Your throat is so dry, it feels like its suffocating you. Quick, shaky breaths escape your lips, and Mando is so fucking close to you, you can see the condensation emerging on his helmet from your pants.

“Tell me stop,” He’s basically growing now, the heat between you two becoming too much. It’s desperate, like he’s unable to control himself so he’s asking you to. It might be nightfall, but you’re still out in public, and despite the fact that you both could be caught any second now, it somehow spurs you both on. The thrill and risk of being this intimate frightens and fucking excites you.

Maker, you want it. You’ve wanted him since the moment you laid eyes on him back on Kijimi. Ever since then you’ve been fighting your attraction to him. Mando didn’t seem like the type to fuck quarries then turn them in, so you had made the conclusion that nothing could ever happen between you two. That quickly changed when you were alone in the cockpit. You had felt the shift in your relationship. No longer were you the only one struggling to bottle up the sexual tension that clearly presented itself whenever you were together. He was just as needy as you were.

“I—” You try to speak, but with the blood pounding in your ears, your mind is going blank. You can’t even force a coherent sentence, the heat is so fucking intense, you’re drowning in it.

A leather glove brushes the loose strands of hair out of your face and tucks them behind your ear. You lean into the touch, closing your eyes and letting a moan escape your lips. It’s such a simple gesture, but because Mando—a man who can kill with his bare hands is the one doing it, makes it so comforting.

Since words aren’t coming to your mind, you resort to using your body to communicate. Your hands are still trembling at your sides but you muster as much strength as you can and grab Mando’s hips, pulling them towards you until his body clashes with yours. His cock is rock hard in his pants, and instinctively, you spread your legs so he can slide one of his own between yours, moaning gently at the feeling of his bulge against your pussy.

“Stars…” He mutters, one arm still planted next to your head and the other coming down to your hip and digging his glove into the material of your pants. The helmet comes right up to your ear now, “Do you want me to fuck you in this alley?” It’s dirty, his voice hitting that sweet spot inside of you that nearly has you combusting on the spot. “Someone might see us.” He’s fucking taunting you and whether or not he actually does want you to push him away, there’s a mutual understanding that that won’t be happening.

The corners of your lips curl into a sly smile. You’re not scared to make a scene, to give some passerby a filthy show. Your next words come out slow, savoring every single moment you can right now. “Then let’s give them a good show.”

The noise that comes through the helmet is animalistic, somewhere between a mewl and a fucking growl. Grabbing both your hips, he flips you around so you’re facing the wall, you palms come flying up to stop yourself from smacking face first into it. With one hand still on your hip, he uses his other hand to hold your stomach and pull you closer to him, your back arching and bending over slightly, his cock lining up perfectly along your backside. A moan slips from your lips and that just spurs him off. The hand on your stomach trails down, cupping your sex over your pants. Maker, you can feel your slick dripping down your thigh from how much this is turning you on. Distant voices pass you by, but you don’t care. Nothing else matters right now, not when Mando is holding you like this, touching you the way you thought was only possible in your daydreams.

The grip on your hip slackens, lifting your tunic just enough to expose soft skin underneath then wrapping his arm around your torso to keep you glued to him. A thumb plays with the waistband of your pants, a delicious taunt that only makes you whine with anticipation.

“Do you want me to touch you?” Mando snarls in your ear. He’s resting his head on your shoulder, the metal digging into your neck and cheek. It’s a little uncomfortable but you’re too entranced to care about anything else other than him touching you wherever he wants. You moan helplessly against him but his hand doesn’t move, just continues to graze the exposed skin near your waistband. He’s relentless, continuing his slow assault, waiting for you to find the words to speak.

“Please…” You choke out.

“Please, what?” He sneers gingerly. “You need to use your words.”

It comes as a shock just how submissive you are. You’ve always considered yourself a dominant when it came to others, but somehow Mando’s completely flipped the script on you. You aren’t in control, you can barely throw two words together without needing to catch your breath, but you’d be lying if this wasn’t the most turned on you’ve ever been in your life.

“Yes…please touch me,” You cry out, shifting your hips so you can feel his cock against your behind.

“Good girl,” He praises before dipping his hand down inside your trousers and cupping your sex. He gathers your slick around his gloved fingers and begins rubbing circles over your clit. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” Letting out a satisfied moan, the baritone of his voice pierces through you, your pussy gushing at the sound. You moan so loudly you’re positive anyone nearby could hear you.

“Shhh,” Mando whispers into your ear as the pressure on your clit become more intense. Your body is on fire, the heat in your belly driving you to climax as his fingers continue their assault on your pussy.

There’s a faint sound of static, but you try to push it out of your memory. You don’t want him to stop, not when you’re on the verge of orgasm.

“…Mando? Mando, are you there?” A female voice pokes through the commlink on Mando’s vambrace. His movements still and an irritated sigh scratches through his helmet before he pulls his hand from your trousers, then taking a couple steps back so you can turn around to face him, leaning back into the wall awkwardly. Lifting an arm to the helmet, he presses one of the buttons on his forearm.  

“Yes, Peli?” His voice is surprisingly steady, considering two seconds ago he was fucking your pussy with his hand.

“Uh… The kid is having some kind of breakdown,” The radio causes her voice to come out rough, and you can hear a little bit of a disturbance in the background. “I think he misses you and his way of telling me that to tear my hangar apart!”

“We’re on our way,” He says into his wrist, not bothering to wait for her response and heading back for the main road.

You continue to lean against the wall for a couple of seconds, trying to process how this all happened so quickly. One minute you were walking back to the Crest with Mando, then he was pulling you into an alley for what you thought was going to be the best sex of your life, and now he’s already heading back to the ship like nothing even happened.

When Mando looks over his shoulder and realizes you’re not walking behind him, he stops and waits for you. “Are you coming?” He asks, a hint of annoyance in his tone.

“I wish,” You mumble to yourself before kicking off the wall behind you to stand up straight. Bending over to grab the straps of your bag and throwing it over your shoulders, your feet drag as you walk, letting disappointment engulf you. This was not how you wanted the night to end.

And the walk back is…a little awkward. Neither of you speak, but you continue to walk side by side. Your arms are crossed against your chest, and you keep your eyes peeled to the ground. Every now and then, you peak upwards to get a glimpse of Mando who’s walking on your left, but his visor stays glued to what’s in front of him—his head never once turning to look down at you. It’s infuriating, really. You’re sulking, maybe even acting a little childish, but it had been weeks since you’ve been touched by another person and the one night Mando finally decides to make a move, you get rudely interrupted. Not to mention your panties are fucking soaked and the walk back is only making you more uncomfortable. Your eyes shift to Mando’s right hand and a shrewd smile smears onto your face. Your slick is on Mando gloves. That realization is enough to turn you on. Hopefully whatever the kid is up to won’t take too much time to sort out, and then maybe you two can finish your little encounter in the alley.

When you reach the hangar, you don’t see anything out of place. To be fair, Peli’s hangar is always a mess so to you, it all seems normal. Peli stands at the foot of the ramp, looking a little rougher than usual. There are specks of grease on her skin, and her curly hair sticks out in all kinds of directions.

“What the hell have you been feeding this kid since the last time I saw you?” She challenges, storming towards you both.

“I don’t…” Mando begins to say, but Peli interrupts, a hand shooting up before he can finish his sentence. “The kid was full of energy, and I mean full. He messed with my droids, did this weird little hand thing and my bolts started floating in the air!” Her arms waving around as she tells the story. “Floating! Did you know he could do that?”

Mando shifts his weight to one leg, both his hands resting on his utility belt. “Yes.”

Peli scoffs. “Well, a heads up would have been nice.”

“Where is he now?” Your tone comes out more aggressive than you intended, but given the circumstances of your relationship, you don’t believe niceties are essential.

Peli scowls at you, before turning her attention to Mando and answering the question. “I was somehow able to put him to bed while we waited for you. He’s in the ship.” Her hand coming up to point behind her towards the hull of the Crest. Mando places a hand on her shoulder—not the same one he used on you thank the maker, and thanks her sincerely. He explains to her that you were both unable to find any leads but will try again tomorrow.

He climbs the ramp to check on the kid, and you follow suit, but not before shooting giving Peli one last look, your eyes piercing into hers with invisible vibroblades. She returns the favor and turns on her heel, heading to her office.

Once inside the ship, your eyes feel unbearably heavy and the fatigue hits you all at once. In the last few days, you’ve probably only gotten eight hours of sleep—more like a series of power naps that could be considered eight hours when you bundle them all up, and now your bones ache, craving the sweet release that is rest—but first? You need a shower. To clean off all the dirt from the sand that’s passed through the air and onto your skin, and to clean up the mess that’s between your thighs.

Mando checks on the kid who is right where Peli said he was—in the cubbyhole they both sleep in. “Hey kid,” he says softly while lightly caressing the hammock he threw together for the kid to sleep in.

“I’m gonna freshen up,” You announce as you head for the fresher. Mando only tilts in your direction and tips the helmet down, giving you only the slightest indication that he understood you.

It’s a bit of a struggle to get undressed in the fresher. The space is just so kriffing small, it’s a wonder how Mando is able to do it. When all your clothes are off, you toss them behind you and angle your body underneath the hose. Cool water hits your tired skin and you recoil from the sudden freezing temperature. After a few seconds though, the water warms up into a delightfully warm hug, and your tense shoulders finally relax. The water pressure is a little harsher than what you’ve gotten used to, but it feels nice on your back. It feels like a massage, pushing down on your muscles, releasing the tautness that had built up throughout the day. Looking down at the drain, you notice a red hue to the water, and your brows pull together tightly, eyes scanning your body to see where the blood could be coming from. As you begin to inspect your hands, you notice three small gashes on your left hand where your knuckles are. Your memory flashes back to the cantina where you struck that man square in the nose. A chuckle echoes in the walls of the fresher as you remember the fear smeared on his face right before you connected your fist with his nose.

Water continues to cascade on your sun-kissed skin as you grab the bar of soap resting on the ledge and begin to scrub every inch of Mos Eisley grime off your frame. Naturally, your mind wanders—as one’s mind usually does while taking a shower. Closing your eyes, you imagine the fingers tracing your skin are big, leather gloved hands instead. Dancing across your chest, goosebumps forming under your skin as the touch shifts down between your breasts, to your stomach and rests in the middle of your thighs.

You shouldn’t—you really shouldn’t do this. Not when Mando is right outside the fresher, not when he would definitelyhear you if you got yourself to come, but then again maybe you should let him hear you. The image of him hearing you moan as you bring yourself to orgasm in his fresher, his ship is enough of an incentive for you to bring your hand up to your pussy and slowly dragging your fingers between your wet folds. It doesn’t take long before your fucking soaking, slick mixed with water. Fighting the whimpers that are caught in your throat, you bite down on your bottom lip, and lean against the metal wall to steady yourself as you fuck yourself to orgasm.

Even as the sound of water masks some of obscene noises you’re making, if Mando’s still somewhere nearby, he’ll hear you. Two fingers rub against your swollen clit, and you convince yourself they’re fingers covered in brown leather. The heat in your stomach coils, your orgasm bubbling to the surface. It feels so fucking wrong and it feels so fucking right. Thank the Maker for the wall keeping you upright because your knees are quaking, the flashes of pure ecstasy making it damn near impossible to keep yourself from crying out. You’re seeing stars, the sensation starting to become too intense, you’re on the verge of coming, speeding up your rhythm so you can finally feel its sweet release. Your orgasm rips through you, white-hot pleasure punches the moan lodged in your throat, unable to catch it in time before it echoes through the walls of the fresher. There’s no way he didn’t hear that, but you really don’t give a shit.

Your hand drops to your side as your body rides out the aftershocks of your orgasm, chest heaving and knees buckling. The steam from the water mixed with your labored breathing post-orgasm makes it way too difficult to breathe. You feel like you’re suffocating, and now that you’re fully relaxed, the exhaustion really taking its toll on you.

Grabbing the new garments you bought from one of the kind gentleman, you slip them on and push the button to open the fresher door. The cool air from the Crest is a breath of fresh air, and you let as much air fill your lungs as humanly possible, taking notice that the ship is dimly lit. You don’t immediately see any sign of Mando, so you poke your head to left, wondering if he might be with the Child. The entrance is shut, and assume that means he’s gone to sleep. You take to the ladder, and use whatever strength you have left—and it’s not much, to climb the rungs to the cockpit. Sleeping in the chair isn’t the most comfortable for your neck or back or any part of your body for that matter, but it’s the only place you think to sleep in, therefore until Mando tells you otherwise, you’ll continue to sleep in this kriffing chair.

It’s when you reach the top of the ladder that you notice the tip of chrome poking through the headrest of the pilot’s chair.

Mando.

Keeping your movements as quietly as you can in the off chance he’s sleeping, you manage to slither in your seat and really try to get comfortable, but it’s truly impossible to do that so you give up quickly and lean a little in the chair, your butt touching the edge of the seat, and your back at an angle. It’s probably worse for your back to be in this position but you refuse to sit up straight in the seat, you definitely won’t be able to sleep that way. Your arms stretch across your chest and let out a deep breath through your lips before closing your eyes.

“By the way,” A deep, rough voice cuts through the silence in the cockpit. Your eyes shoot open and your breath catches in your throat, hanging onto every word Mando says. “The fresher isn’t soundproof.”

Your body sinks back into the chair, cheeks burning hot with equal parts embarrassment and satisfaction. There’s no point in trying to come up with a witty response, because you shamelessly wanted him to hear you. Shutting your eyes again, it’s damn near impossible to hide the devilish grin that’s smeared all over your smug face.

@1800-fight-me​ @tillytheslytherin​ @ayamenimthiriel​ 💛💛💛💛

[rainingpouringetc]

Hi! So, I’ve been wondering what the problem with Anna Lightwood is, because my brain saw that she was bending gender norms and hit love. But, now that I’m on tumblr, people are saying that she is problematic?

hi! i’ll try my best to explain, idk if i’ll hit everything but i hope this helps. and i’m sorry it took me a while, i wanted to do it justice so i tried to cover my bases and do my research.

basically, anna has said and done things that came across to many as ignorant, racist, and even misogynistic. 

first, let’s look at “every exquisite thing” from ghosts of the shadowhunter market. 

“If I were to tell my parents the truth about myself, if I were to reveal who I really am, they would despise me. I would be friendless, cast out, alone.”

Anna shook her head.

“They would not,” she said. “They would love you. You are their daughter.”

Ariadne drew her hand back from Anna’s. “I am adopted, Anna. My father is the Inquisitor. I do not have parents who are as understanding as yours must be.”

“But love is what matters,” said Anna.

this is from when ariadne was trying to explain why she would be getting engaged to charles. anna is very lucky: her family loves and accepts her and she’s able to live her life as she wishes, which we see her doing in chain of gold. ariadne, however, is not as lucky, and she has to take into consideration the conditions of her parents’ love. anna apparently struggles to understand this, ignoring ariadne’s valid concerns and telling her that it doesn’t matter because “love is what matters,” as if it makes everything perfect.

this is where anna’s ignorance begins to show through. ariadne is: (a) a woman in the late 1800s/early 1900s (i don’t remember for sure what year this story took place but i’d assume 1900s), (b) indian at a time when india is under british rule, (c) adopted, and (d) a lesbian shadowhunter. we know enough about how intolerant people have been about homosexuality, but shadowhunters are a whole other story. put all of this together and you have someone who is terrified of letting down her family and being shunned by society more than she already has been. in ariadne’s mind, she has no choice but to hide who she is.

 anna ignores this. entirely. she doesn’t take the time to talk to ariadne about her concerns, but rather skirts around them and insists that what she wants is what’s more important. this is highly indicative of her privilege and how she puts herself before others and others’ feelings.

now let’s look at chain of gold. there are two scenes in particular that i want to look at, but there are more.

“I quite like your mother. She reminds me of a queen out of a fairy tale, or a peri from Lalla Rookh. You’re half-Persian, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, a little warily.

“Then why is your brother so blond?” Anna asked. “And you so redheaded--I thought Persians were darker-haired.”

Cordelia set her cup down. “There are all sorts of Persians, and we all look different,” she said. “You wouldn’t expect everyone in England to look alike, would you? Why should it be different for us? My father is British and very fair, and my mother’s hair was red when she was a little girl. Then it darkened, and as for Alastair--he dyes his hair.”

“He does?” Anna’s eyebrows, graceful swooping curves, went up. “Why?”

“Because he hates that his hair and skin and eyes are dark,” said Cordelia. “He always has. We have a country house in Devon, and people used to stare when we went into the village.”

Anna’s eyebrows had ceased swooping and taken on a decidedly menacing look. “People are--” She broke off with a sigh and a word Cordelia didn’t know. “Now I rather feel sympathy toward your brother, and that was the last thing I wanted. Quick, as me a question.”

this scene is from cordelia’s tea with anna. i won’t touch so much on the “peri from lalla rookh” comment so much as i’m afraid i don’t feel well enough qualified or researched to adequately represent people’s concerns about this statement, but i do know that there were several posts going around about people discussing how it rubbed them the wrong way, so i thought i would include it as well.

the rest, though, is a bit more obvious. one of the things about books is that it can be more difficult to interpret someone’s words and their meaning because we don’t have things like tone or facial expressions or any of that unless the author explicitly includes it. however, we can draw on the way other characters react to certain comments. cordelia goes on the defense, answering anna’s question “a little warily,” setting aside her tea and explaining rather bluntly that not all persians look the same. it’s pretty easy to infer from her reaction that she’s uncomfortable from anna’s words. now, is that to say anna was intentionally being racist toward cordelia and her family? absolutely not. this is where microaggressions come into play. we see them with anna and also with matthew and even jessamine (though we see hers in the infernal devices rather than the last hours). microaggressions, while often unintentional, are still a form of racism. given the times these characters have grown up in, it’s not necessarily a surprise, but that certainly doesn’t excuse her behavior.

there is, however, a more intentional party to this scene that really rubbed me the wrong way. it’s her discussion of alastair. cordelia has just explained that alastair dyes his hair to stop people from staring at him when he’s walking down the street, and anna replies that she feels sympathy for him and that is “the last thing” she wanted. i understand that she has her own feelings about alastair, likely from listening to the merry thieves’ depiction of him, but that doesn’t excuse her. she even starts to say something about it, likely drawing on her own experiences of wearing menswear at a time when fashion was much more strictly regulated in society than it is today. but she stops herself and instead goes on to reemphasize her dislike for cordelia’s brother and changes the subject.

She held up a small black-bound memorandum book... “This,” she announced, “will hold answers to all our questions.”

...

Matthew looked up, his eyes fever-bright. “Is this your list of conquests?”

“Of course not,” Anna declared. “It’s a memorandum book... about my conquests. That is an important but meaningful distinction.”

...

Anna flipped through the book. There were many pages, and many names written in a bold, sprawling hand.

“Hmm, let me see. Katherine, Alicia, Virginia--a very promising writer, you should look out for her work, James--Mariane, Virna, Eugenia--”

“Not my sister Eugenia?” Thomas nearly upended his cake.

“Oh, probably not,” Anna said. “Laura, Lily... ah, Hypatia. Well, it was a brief encounter, and I suppose you might say she seduced me...”

i hope i don’t have to explain this one too much. there’s just something... unsettling about the fact that anna is held up as this feminist icon and yet she keeps a book with the names of and her encounters with all the women she’s slept with... and then reads those names aloud to everyone. it’s a bit much, don’t you think? and all of this is even without touching the leak we got about her and ariadne, which i’d rather not speculate on too much but is also quite damning. 

all in all, i’d like to believe anna is really a good person who’s just misguided and confused, much because i love the idea of a genderqueer character, especially one in an era before stonewall, but her actions and behaviors have led me to believe that she has a long road ahead of her. as i said earlier this week:

let me get something clear: i would die for fanon anna but canon anna needs to get her shit together before i’ll willingly breathe in her direction

i really hope this was helpful... i did my best lol. if anyone else has more to add, please feel free.

[athenagrantnash]

Gunpowder Milkshake review

There are four elements to a film that, when all are achieved, can elevate a film from “good” to “great”; and any film that can achieve at least two of these elements is certainly a good and enjoyable film.

These elements are (in no particular order)*:

Aesthetic

Cast (charm, likeability, acting skill, etc)

Characters

Writing (story, script, dialogue etc.)

*While all four elements are important, writing is in my opinion the most important of the four.

So does Gunpowder Milkshake achieve all of these elements? Let’s discuss. (not a spoiler free review)

1) Aesthetic

I cannot say enough good things about the aesthetic of this film. The lighting, the camerawork, the set design, the costumes, it is all top notch. There is never a moment where what you are looking at isn’t visually engaging.

One of my favorite elements is how much is said about each character based on their costumes. 

Karen Gillan’s Sam wears an orange jacket for the majority of the film - a jacket she stole because she didn’t like the clothing provided for her. Early in the film it’s established she doesn’t quite know what kind of assassin she is - she is as undefined as her jacket. But there’s a sportsmanship about her, as she won’t kill the three stooges when they aren’t trying to kill her, and she draws the line at ever letting a child be in danger.

Chloe Coleman’s Emily spends the entire movie in a yellow coat - representing the optimism and joy that comes with childhood innocence, an innocence that at the end is marred by the blood red handprint across the back of her coat.

The clothes worn by Angela Bassett’s Anna May, Carla Gugino’s Madeleine, and Michelle Yeoh’s Florence are all very similar, but specific to each character.

Anna May wears dark blue - signifying depth and power - and she has more layers than anybody else - Madeleine has the sweater/jacket, Florence has the vest, and Anna May has both. And just like her clothing, she has layers. You can sense the power and ferocity, and anger that lies rippling just below the surface, only just barely kept in check. 

Florence wears green - signifying serenity - , and her outfit has nothing loose or soft about it. She is exactly as she appears to be - exactly as a tiger stalking its prey appears to be - quiet, contained, serene... deadly. It’s her serenity that keeps Anna May’s ferocity in check, but don’t mistake that for safety.

Madeleine wears pink - signifying kindness - and instead of Florence’s vest or Anna May’s vest/suit jacket combo, she instead wears a soft sweater. She is kind, trusting to her instincts, and protective of Emily. But her kindness is not weakness - just look at her weapon of choice if you disagree.

And while everybody else is wearing bright and/or striking colors, Sam’s orange jacket, Emily’s yellow coat, Anna May’s blue suit, Florence’s green vest, Madeleine’s pink sweater, Scarlet - completely at odds with her name - is wearing colors that are practically nondescript. She has isolated herself from the other Librarians, and that’s shown in a beautifully subtle way through her clothing. And yet, in a further note of subtlety, she is wearing soft oranges, showing her connection to Sam (also in orange) and how that connection is what brings her back from her isolation. Her clothing is loose, but not soft, reflecting a deceptive casualness, which matches her personality perfectly.

I’m not even going to touch on the visual brilliance of the lighting, set design, and camerawork because words literally will not do it justice. You just have to watch and see for yourself.

Additionally, an argument can be made that, since “action” is not its own category, that would fit into this section too - and while it’s literally impossible to top how visually engaging the lighting/set design/camerawork/etc. are, the action is certainly on par with it. The fights are all incredibly fun and creative, and they take advantage of the setting they are placed in, the road blocks or handicaps the characters have to work with, and at no point ever feel stale, repetetive, or boring.

So where does this movie rank in aesthetic? 5/5

2) Cast

There is not a weak link in this entire cast! Karen Gillan, Lena Heady, Angela Bassett, Michelle Yeoh, Carla Gugino, Paul Giamatti - every single one of these actors has proven time and again how much talent, charm, and onscreen charisma they have. Relative newcomer Chloe Coleman legitimately holds her own, even among such a star-studded cast, and is simultaneously sympathetic, charming, likable, and absolutely adorable.

Even bit players like the three stooges that Sam takes out, Emily’s dad, the doctor, and Jim McAlester play their roles to perfection.

As a side note, am I the only one who was a little bit disappointed that McAlester’s first name was Jim? It would have been hilarious if his first name was Kevin, and then we could have drawn our own conclusions about the criminal turn Kevin McCallister’s life took when he truly embraced his childhood propensity for chaos.

So where does this movie rank in cast? 5/5

3) Characters

This is where the movie starts to falter a little bit. Every single character is likable, but a lot of that can be attributed to how excellent the cast is.

Most of the characters are fairly cookie cutter, and while there is nothing about them that is particularly annoying or stereotypical, none of them have enough depth to truly be “great” characters.

The closest any character has to having any sort of depth or complexity is Nathan, who - while he doesn’t hesitate to send an entire army after Sam - sends her a private message and provides the only help he can.

Not that any of the characters are bad - I think my analysis of the lead lady’s clothing proves my opinions on that pretty conclusively - but they could have been better

Additionally, at just under 2 hours there is barely enough time to develop them properly. Florence in particular could have been much further fleshed out in ways that are not solely inferred through the costume design and acting.

The relationships between Emily and Sam, Sam and Scarlet, Scarlet and Anna May, Sam and Madeleine, Anna May and Madeleine, and Madeleine and Emily are done fairly well. I understood each dynamic and how it worked in the larger story that was unfolding. Florence had none of that - to the point that (if not for the inferred analysis based on clothing) I’m still not entirely sure if she or Anna May was the de facto leader of the librarians. If they had added something - either her legitimately having a moment where she takes charge or (even better) establish a rivalry between Florence and Anna May over who is in charge that would have done a lot, but unfortunately as it stands Florence didn’t get the development that Michelle Yeoh deserved.

So where does this movie rank in characters? 3/5

4) Writing

If the movie started to falter a bit when it came to its characters, it faltered even more when it came to the writing. In fact it’s the writing that can be blamed for the characters not given the development they should have gotten, even if these are two different categories.

And yes, it’s an action film, so technically the plot takes second place to the fisticuffs and gunplay - and while I’m not going to hold the genre against the film, even as an action film the script could have been a lot stronger.

Most importantly, the movie should have been at least thirty minutes longer in order to allow more growth and development for each of the characters. One scene that should have been in the movie was one of Emily while she was captured by McAlister. He should have tried to turn her against Sam, not realizing that the revelation that he had killed her dad had already done that. But Emily is smart, and the more he talks the more she realizes she’s directing her anger at the wrong person. Then when Sam turns herself in so that she’ll be safe it solidifies it for her - Sam might have pulled the trigger, but she’s not the heartless killer that she should be angry at.

And that is just one example of how a longer runtime and a few more rewrites could have given the story and characters a lot more depth.

Now onto the white elephant in the room.

“There’s a group of men called the firm” (yes, I’m going there... somebody has to).

I get what the film was going for, but this is the most perfect example of why it needed one or two more rewrites. 1) If it’s a group of men, why is Sam working for them and why is she recognized as the best at what she does? The movie is trying to imply inherent sexism, but because it felt the need to slam us over the head with that line all subtlety was lost.

Sam could have just called it “a group” and then we the audience would see that while men and women work for them, the ones calling the shots are all men. And then to turn around and show how much more prepared, professional, and competent the Librarians are would make this point in a much more subtle and compelling way. There is a lot more power in using that kind of storytelling than in explicitly telling your point to the audience in so many words. 

However, while most movies that go this route make all their male characters useless or stupid, Gunpowder Milkshake did manage to not do that. Other than the three stooges, which Nathan chose to send after Sam because he didn’t want her killed, therefore by design are supposed to be useless, all of the people that our mains go up against feel like legitimate threats.

And I’m glad, because as a woman I do not like the recent tendency to turn men into useless idiots and then imply that is the only way the women managed to defeat them. I want women going up against men who are at their best, and still win. And this movie did that.

Additionally, I will say that the whole “group of men” thing is a minor quibble on my part, as it doesn’t fall into the pitfalls most other movies who are making this point fall into. But it is unfortunately an example of why the writing could have been much better.

Add in some awkward dialogue that only worked because of how ridiculously charming and likable everybody in the cast is, and we unfortunately have writing that is sub par and does not live up to the standards set by the other three elements. The aesthetic, the cast, and even the characters deserved better writing.

As a side note: Where do these people get their milkshakes that they manage not to melt even after three hours? Because that’s some circa 3000 level galaxy brain and I want it.

So where does this movie rank in its writing? 2/5

Conclusion:

I said at the top that for a movie to be “great” it has to meet all four elements, but to be "good” it only has to meet two, and Gunpowder Milkshake  definitely  meets two of the elements.

Where it begins faltering and falls short of being “great” is in the characters and the writing, which is a shame because the brilliance of the cast and the genuinely engaging and breathtaking aesthetic deserved to be in a movie that can be called great.

I would love a sequel to this movie that does flesh out the relationships better, provide more depth to the characters, and allows for the writing to match the quality of the cast/aesthetic.

So what is my total ranking for this film? 3.5/5

It’s good, and I will definitely watch it again and recommend it to people, but it so easily could have been great.

[ooops-i-arted]

Child development/Dad-thoughts for Season 2 Episode 8???

Poor little guy.  He has to be so terrified and traumatized by the time we see him again - ripped away from his father by scary bad droids, threatened by Gideon and his scary black sword, weakened from using his powers and blood loss, and we don’t even know if he was awake for any medical procedures that surely would have involved his autonomy, personhood, and fears being completely ignored let alone scary ouchy needles/medical tools.  It’s hard to gauge how he’s doing since we don’t have the entire picture of what he experienced, although we can assume it had to be terrifying.  But when we see him again, he’s patiently sitting by Gideon, apparently having complete faith that Dad will come save him and defeat the bad guy.

I do feel this episode hugely dropped the ball by not showing us Grogu being reunited with Din once Gideon is defeated and Din unshackles him.  It’s such an important missing piece - last we saw Grogu was so terrified he was giving in the Dark Side and harming stormtroopers, then he’s sitting (I infer) paralyzed with fear/scared enough to be quiet and still because of Gideon, and next we see he’s tucked in Din’s arms again.  How was he feeling to be reunited with his dad?  Did Din comfort and reassure him (it would be ooc for Din not to at this point imo)?  Did he feel better knowing that Dad came for him after all?  Sure, we can infer all that, but it’s a big emotional beat that should’ve been present because it impacts The Big Grogu Moment we get later:  Grogu choosing to go with Luke.

I’m not gonna lie, I was really surprised the show went this direction since it seemed like they were setting up Din choosing to keep Grogu as his own and I have my reservations about the story going this way tbh.  But I think Luke taking Grogu (for now) does work.

Season 2 Grogu is a much happier, well-adjusted, and more mature child than Season 1 Grogu.  Season 1 Grogu was quiet, subdued; he had moments of comfort or testing limits but overall generally made himself less noticeable and was hesitant to indicate his needs or wants to anyone, even Din.  Season 2 Grogu is a much more average child; he knows he can indicate what he needs to Din and it will be provided for, even something as the simple emotional comfort of uppies; he chatters more often and isn’t afraid to be more curious, more defiant, and just express himself.  In Season 1 Grogu didn’t even ask for food - probably thinking he’d be ignored - he just caught that frog by himself; Season 2 Grogu has a loving dad who tells him “I see you’re hungry, we’ll get you some food.”  Season 1 Grogu generally just follows Din around, not wanting him out of his sight but rarely requesting interaction until the end of the season but waiting for it to be offered instead; Season 2 Grogu is always running to Din the second he needs anything.  Does trauma magically go away?  No, Grogu is still affected.  But he’s clearly healing and growing under Din’s care, and having a stable adult in the child’s life is one of the biggest things that can reduce a child being affected by Adverse Childhood Experiences.

Grogu seems to know who Luke is, or at least recognize him as a Jedi.  My guess is he did connect with Luke during the Scotty Beam Me Up scene.  So it’s not like a stranger showed up to take him away, this is someone he has “met” and “talked to”.  And since Grogu has the Force, he can sense for sure that this is a nice person and someone who truly can teach him, which eliminates some of the guesswork you usually get when a kid meets their new teacher/a stranger.  So while it looks to Din like some random guy just showed up for his kid, there was more stuff going on below the surface that Din (and the audience) didn’t really see because It’s The Force.  So it isn’t like Grogu is being sent off with the first strange Jedi who rolls up (like on Corvus).

Grogu certainly doesn’t act afraid of Luke or anything other than friendly.  The only issue is separating from his beloved dad.  Grogu will not go unless the person he loves and trusts most in the entire world says it’s okay for him to do so.  He goes up to the screen and almost seems like he wants Din to look and show him “This is an okay guy.  Look he kills things just like you, Dad.” before pointing and trying to get the adults to open the door.  And I definitely got the impression Grogu is calling or otherwise trying to commune with Luke through the Force, telling him “Hey we’re on the bridge, come save us and meet my Dad.”  So Grogu is open and willing to start interacting with Luke - as long as it’s okay with Din.  (And Din in turn trusts Grogu enough to open the doors when Grogu says it’s cool, this guy is okay.)

The #1 thing that makes Luke taking Grogu work for me is that everyone’s consent is involved.  Grogu may be a small child who still needs an adult guardian and guidance in his life but that doesn’t mean he should be carted around without taking his feelings into consideration.  This isn’t like a few episodes ago, where Din tried to hand Grogu over without really seeing if Grogu or Ahsoka were okay with it.  Luke addresses Grogu directly and treats him like a person, accepting that Grogu needs to be involved in this decision; Luke also addresses Din’s worries and even speaks up on Grogu’s behalf (”He wants your permission”).  Grogu is clearly open to the idea of going with Luke - if he didn’t want to, Luke would certainly say so - but also wants to make sure Din is okay with it.  And while Din balks at first, once he realizes that Luke can offer Grogu the training he can’t, he gives Grogu permission to go and even gives him a special good-bye so that Grogu knows how much he means to Din.  And the face-touch seemed to me, at least, to be Grogu saying, Don’t worry Dad, it’s okay to try and reassure him.  And Din tells him in turn “Don’t be afraid.”  The separation is hard, but Din and Grogu both realize that Grogu needs to be trained to use his powers safely.  They’re willing to do what’s right, even when it’s hard, which takes a lot of emotional maturity.  Grogu has certainly grown indeed.

Realistically this probably should’ve taken a lot more time - Din going with Luke to help transition Grogu - but 1. this is a tv show and 2. this is still better than small children usually get in media anyway, since people tend to lump anyone under age 5 as “cute and/or annoying prop for the adult characters.”  Also, we the audience know Luke (the real one, not the OOC Rian Jackoff version).  We know Luke is compassionate and kind and will take good care of Grogu.  If Grogu is troubled by leaving his beloved dad, Luke will do his best to guide Grogu through it, and I personally think that if Grogu ultimately decided this wasn’t for him and wanted Dad?  Luke would pack him up in the X-wing and fly him right to Din.  So ymmv but Luke training Grogu works for me and I think Grogu is in good hands.

I don’t wanna super go into The Discourse but since I know it’s gonna come up in the fandom and since I am a big Jedi fan, I’ll briefly address the whole No Attachments/Jedi Attitudes thing:

No Attachments refers to No Possessiveness, not You Can’t Love Anyone.  The Jedi don’t discourage compassion and love and even family ties, just the whole I’d Commit Genocide For My Loved One (looking at you, Anakin).  This post specifically refutes the comments Filoni made in the Making the Mandalorian show and goes into it way better than I could, if you’re interested.  I’ll just pull out this George Lucas quote: “But [Anakin] has become attached to his mother and he will become attached to Padme and these things are, for a Jedi, who needs to have a clear mind and not be influenced by threats to their attachments, a dangerous situation.”  So Grogu loving and caring about Din isn’t an issue - it’s only an issue when he’s willing to harm and endanger others over it (like choking Cara) or when he becomes so afraid he lashes out without thinking (the stormtrooper free-for-all).

Which is why it’s so important Grogu be trained by someone who knows and understands the power he has.  Even if Grogu still decides not to be a Jedi, he needs to know how to control himself and his power so he doesn’t hurt anyone.

Jedi are allowed contact with family and embrace their original cultures as shown throughout Star Wars media.  There’s no reason to think Luke will snatch Grogu and never let him and Din see each other again even if Luke did follow the prequel Jedi completely (which he didn’t in Legends anyway, which honestly makes more sense to me since so much Jedi knowledge was lost/destroyed by the Empire).

People have always been allowed to leave the Jedi Order.  If Grogu or Din decide “Nope, can’t do this, I want him back” Luke would 100% support them making a decision that works for both of them.

We follow Anakin and Revan because they’re interesting characters and because conflict makes good stories.  The Jedi Order didn’t work for them but most Jedi seem pretty well-adjusted so... I don’t tend to think Anakin is really the baseline we should be going by, y’know?  Grogu has past trauma but he’s been with people who care for him and listen to him.  And not to knock Din at all, but Luke being able to communicate with Grogu is a huge advantage and will actually probably be really good for Grogu.  So I think Grogu is in good hands and won’t be Ruined Forever by training as a Jedi.

And of course Din says they’ll meet again.  He promised.  (And Din & Grogu are Disney’s chief moneymaking duo these days, you want to make your audience worry about your dream team, not break them up permanently.)  So I think Grogu will be reunited with his beloved dad.  And while the parting was certainly heartbreaking, for now he’s in good hands who will help him continue to grow and thrive.

[thegoodomensdumpster]

An angel and a demon facing the greatest problem of their time: the crucial difference between Book!Omens and Miniseries!Omens

A follower who doesn’t have Tumblr sent me this AMAZING essay about the differences between the book and the series, and focuses especially on the context of the Cold War to go deep into establishing how the whole book works. It’s impressive. It’s clever. It’s enlightening and rather exhaustive. And very long, but I swear, you will not regret reading it. After this sentence, you’ll be reading OP’s work. So, I saw this post comparing the differences between book!A/C and miniseries!A/C and I just couldn’t repress myself any longer. Here it is, a short essay on how the most crucial difference between Book!Omens and Miniseries!Omens arises from the story adapting to the context in which the book was written and the miniseries has been filmed.

I’ll be using the Corgi Edition, reissued in 2019 whenever I reference the book.

  An angel and a demon facing the greatest problem of their time: the crucial difference between Book!Omens and Miniseries!Omens

As it has been said many times already, there is a substantial difference between Good Omens as a book and as a series, namely, the shift in the dynamics between Aziraphale and Crowley. While their relationship is pretty much established in the book from the very beginning, in the series it becomes the main narrative focus. Series!Omens deals primarily with Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s coming out of the closet, as it were, with them daring to be themselves and freely acknowledging the profound love they feel for one another. Meanwhile, the original novel did also deal with an element of self-freeing, but the context in which the book was written made for the focus of that struggle to be slightly different. In Book!Omens the pivotal difficulty is gaining freedom from a system, from a well-defined authority. In Series!Omens, the challenge is to get rid of our internal fears, of our own demons (no pun intended) and insecurities, and dare to reach out for love and tenderness. As I would argue, I ascribe this shift to a change of the worldwide context when each work was produced. In that sense, much has been said and analysed about Series!Omens already. So, I will devote most of this essay to exploring how Book!Omens works perfectly well as a metaphor of the historical time when it was produced, that is, the Cold War.

The book was written in 1990, one year after the falling of the Berlin Wall and just one year before the collapse of the URSS. More importantly, both Pratchett and Gaiman were old enough to have a direct, fully conscious and first-hand experience of what it was like to live during the Cold War. So much so, that Good Omens can be read pretty easily as a great metaphor of it. Just in case, let me sketch the main rough ideas of what the Cold War entailed: two sides with opposite believes, both so inhumanly powerful that if to face each other directly the entire universe would be blown out in a nuclear Armageddon. So, instead of going directly to war with one another, they had areas of influence and agents dedicated to gaining supporters for their sides while trying to neutralise the other side’s agents. Sounds familiar, right?

From Heaven with love, the name’s Crowley, A. J. Crowley

The most blatant evidence to support this reading of Good Omens can be found in nearly every scene where Aziraphale and Crowley meet in a public place to discuss their guidelines, their respective courses of action and what they are going to do about it as friends. At some point during those, a reference is been made to British, Russian or American spies and agents being around them, doing exactly the same our angel and demon are doing. The first time we see Aziraphale and Crowley interacting together in the book is on PP. 44-45, in St James’s Park. Before their dialogue starts, we are told about the ducks and how they have developed a Pavlovian reaction to certain types of humans, because the park is the place where agents from both sides (capitalist and communist) meet under the pretence of feeding them. Which coincidentally is exactly the same cover Aziraphale and Crowley use. As if that was not enough, Aziraphale runs out of bread mid-conversion, and the duck that was being fed

“[…] went off to pester the Bulgarian [communist] naval attaché and a furtive-looking man in a Cambridge tie [capitalist], […]” (P.44)

Thus it is stablished that the ducks see no difference between Aziraphale and Crowley, or any other secret agents meeting clandestinely.

Something similar occurs when they meet at the British Museum to discuss that Warlock is all too normal:

“They were in the cafeteria of the British Museum, another refuge for all weary foot soldiers of the Cold War. At the table to their left two ramrod-straight Americans in suits were surreptitiously handing over a briefcase full of deniable dollars to a small dark woman in sunglasses; at the table on their right the deputy head of MI7 and the local KGB section officer argued over who got to keep the receipt for the tea and buns.” (P. 68)

This is interesting for various reasons. Before the first interaction at St James’s Park we had already been told about the Arrangement and how it was basically a non-interference deal that made both Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s life easier and gave them more free time. But now they are openly working together to raise Warlock. Notice that in this paragraph the idea of the angel and the demon being two agents from each block is again reinforced by sheer spatial proximity. But even better, as if that was not enough, the agents are once more doing exactly the same that Aziraphale and Crowley are. Thus, the Americans are handing money over a soviet agent in dark glasses, probably as payment for non-interference, or better yet collaboration. Moreover, the British MI7 agent and the soviet KGB officer are arguing about who should get the bill. Aziraphale and Crowley are also sharing their third mentioned meal, albeit without arguing about the bill. However, we already know that they eat together frequently and that just like the agents, they take turns to pay. At the end of their interaction at St James’ Park, right before heading to the Ritz, they had their own “this time bill’s on me” moment of sorts, with the famous owed lunch from Paris 1793.

To finish this first point, I would like to mention the last meeting at St James’s Park, after the Armageddon’t:

“St James’s Park was comparatively quiet. The ducks, who were experts in realpolitik as seen from the bread end, put it down to a decrease in world tension. […] The park was deserted except for a member of MI9 trying to recruit someone who, to their later mutual embarrassment, would turn out to be also a member of MI9 […]” (P. 380)

Once more, a meeting of our favourite couple is framed in the context of the Cold War. Especially remarkable here is the mention of the ducks’ realpolitik views. Roughly explained, the German term Realpolitik is deployed in political sciences to describe an incredibly pragmatic approach to diplomatic relationships. In Realpolitik actions are not guided by any ideological principles, moral or ethic premises, but rather by a calibration of what is objectively possible to achieve, given the present circumstances. Remember that that is the first day after Armagewasn’t, after the nearly end of the world due to the tension between two sides with opposite believes. Much like Aziraphale and Crowley, Adam and the Them, or any single being on Earth, so far the ducks were experts in dealing from a very pragmatic approach with the consequences (namely, bread in this case) of two sides battling with one another. The first day after the failed Armageddon, the ducks have less bread, and they correctly attribute this change to tension having gone down. But here Terry and Neil are once more mixing human and non-human agents; the ducks were not getting most of their bread from Heaven or Hell’s agents, but from the human ones.

So, it’s rather clear that throughout the entire book a very strong parallelism between Cold War agents and Aziraphale and Crowley is established. Even the running fascination with James Bond that plagues the book points towards that direction. As we are about to see, Aziraphale and Crowley fit into the two main characters to be found in a James Bond film, albeit if as a grotesque parody of them.

Soviet Heaven and Capitalist Hell

As far as I can see, this mimesis between the Cold War and the war between Heaven and Hell is further emphasised by the many little descriptions we get from each supra-human side. This second point relies more on my own interpretation, but nonetheless I am offering it since I believe there is enough ground on which to base it. The first clear representation of two directly opposite sides colliding is to be found in Aziraphale and Crowley themselves. The portrayal in the miniseries is absolutely beautiful, but adorable as it is, I think of it as paradoxically less nuanced, although extremely fitting within the narrative and dynamics the characters have. In the show, Crowley tries to look as cool as our collective image expects a bad demon to be. Aziraphale looks as sweet and warm as one would imagine an angel to do. More importantly, they are both of similar age. In the book, however, it is stressed time and again that Crowley looks young. We do not know much about Aziraphale’s age until, once recorporated, Madam Tracy confesses to have expected him to look younger (P. 353) It is therefore reasonable to infer that there seems to be an age gap between them.

Moreover, Crowley is very clearly portrayed as a yuppie (think Patrick Bateman, from American Psycho). Apart from his shades, he is dressed in a suit (“Hastur gestured, and the plastic bulb dissolved […] spilling water all over Crowley’s desk, and all over Crowley’s suit.” P. 249) He has an incredibly luxurious watch that gives the time of 20 capitals while deep-diving (P. 16). His pen […] was sleek and matt black. It looked as though it could exceed the speed limit.” (P. 20) His flat is modern and unlived, with a full office, and a modern kitchen with a fridge full of gourmet food. There is a TV, music system, a fax and two phone lines, one of them with the ansaphone (P. 241, let us not forget by the time the book was written this was peak technology) Crowley even has a computer that he updates regularly “[…] because a sleek computer was the sort of thing Crowley felt that the sor to human he tried to be would have.” (P.241) This line is extremely relevant, inasmuch as it tells us that Crowley is actively seeking to project not just a “cool” look, but the look of a certain sort of human, namely, a successful, rich, young, businessman. A yuppie, the epitome of capitalist culture.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale has a vaguely mature appearance, yet a rather defined look too. Although we donot get as detailed a description for him as we do for Crowley (who has good cheekbones and dark hair, P. 16), we get to form a picture out of certain details. He has well-manicured and fleshy hands. He wears a camel hair coat (cannot find the reference), which is an expensive garment. He has a taste for good food (he licks himself clean of Warlock’s birthday cake, P. 76; he upgrades his wine at the British Museum after stealing Crowley’s angel cake, P.70). He does not swear, which goes well with his angelic nature, but also contributes to the Southern Pansy Look, for which everybody takes him for gay. People also assume he is clever (which he is, P. 159) and British. The Britishness matches with his camel hair coat and his manicured hands (sort of gentleman-like), and contributes to giving him the appearance of somebody cultivated and polite (his books, his language), if a little bit behind times. To round the look, there is a suspicion of homosexuality on it. If you are familiarised with the history of intellectualism you will easily recognise that Aziraphale looks like the stereotypical continental intellectual: slightly old-fashioned, with a penchant for hedonism, so well-mannered and cultivated that you have to wonder: Is he gay, or European? As anybody in 4chan would tell you, what is for sure is that he is a leftist.

The connection between being educated, well-spoken, well-mannered, homosexual and a leftist is not something that the altright has come up with recently, but steams out of a rather long tradition. Even before the fascist regimes of the 30s institutionalized this connection, leftist and progressive intellectuals had already been consistently slandered with suspicion of being corruptly hedonistic and weak (because they do not work like men and instead are femininely sensitive towards art, literature, music, etc.) and homosexuality (because, well, homophobia).All in all, what I am trying to say is that even with the sparse information we have from him, Aziraphale fits perfectly into the stereotype, so prevalent in British history, of a noble-born intellectual who has turned towards progressive ideas but has not really lost his manners and refined tastes inherited from his upper-class background. As I mentioned earlier, Aziraphale and Crowley bear a caricature-like resemblance with the two main characters of every James Bond film: the effeminate, poised, intellectual Russian baddie (that would be Aziraphale, who is an angel), and the stylish, nice-car-driving, always-with-a-come-back-ready (“ngk”, P. 274) hero. Crowley even bought petrol to get the James Bond’s bullet transfer for the Bentley, which he quite fancied at that time.

That Aziraphale could be seen as the agent from Communism and Crowley the agent representing Capitalism does not only seem plausible after examining what little description we have from them, but it also befits Heaven’s and Hell’s portrayal in the book:

“Well, Hell was worse, of course, by definition. But Crowley remembered hat Heaven was like, and it had quite a few things in common with Hell. You couldn’t get a decent drink in either of them, for a start. And the boredom you got in Heaven was almost as bad as the excitement you got in Hell.” (P. 22)

In just a couple of sentences Pratchett and Gaiman tell us that Heaven and Hell are each other’s flipped coin. They are the same, because they are both the end of a spectrum: Heaven is so peaceful and calm that you will die of boredom; Hell is so restless and fast-paced that you will suffer from excitement. Aziraphale and Crowley do a fair job as representants of both sides. Book!Aziraphale is not as much soft and sweet as maturely calm, collected and paused. He literally does not keep up with the time, and in the 90s he is still stuck in the 50s, both in terms of fashion and speech. His luxuries and tastes could not be more traditional (good wine, books, classically rich clothes –tartan, camel hair coat) but he is surely going to enjoy them all the same. Instead, Crowley rushes and dashes around during the whole story. Book!Crowley is not only always driving way over the speed limit, but we are told that he is a lithe figure (P. 20), a young, flashy man living to the latest trend. His music system does not have speakers because Crowley eventually forgot about the most crucial part of any music system. He is surrounded with luxuries he does not enjoy, because he actually has them for conspicuous consumption. In fact, the only possession he cherishes is the one that truly frees him, allowing him to go around as quickly as his live requires, but comfortably (horses were not really his thing). Befitting for a demon, Crowley life is so fast-paced that he does not really have the time to enjoy its niceties, and sometimes forgets the most relevant aspect of things (putting speakers, double-checking which room he is delivering the Antichrist to). Coincidentally, for us Millennials, this may sound like a familiar description of our lives under capitalism.

To round up the parallelism between Communism!Heaven and Capitalism!Hell, I will comment on the little facts we got about both sides from the book. Unlike the miniseries, we never get to see Heaven or Hell in the book and there is hardly any description of Heaven and Hell other than the one I quoted before. That is not to say, however, that we have no information regarding them. We are told that Hell does take Crowley suggestion to use electronics to communicate, even if they got it wrong. In fact, as it has been pointed out more than once, Book!Crowley gets recognition from his achievements. At the same time, though, he is constantly reminded of the dangers of failing. Interestingly, that does not only apply to Crowley (who is just a demon) but to every single hellish entity. In the book, Hastur kills all the call-centre workers not solely out of malice, but also because he knows he has failed (has lost Crowley) and is consequently scared of reporting back:

“And anyway, he reflected, if he were going to have to face the possible wrath of the Dark Council, at least it wouldn’t be on an empty stomach.” (P. 300)

Hastur is basically that employee having a snickers bar at the common area before facing a difficult meeting. Moreover, we are told Crowley is able to trick him because “Hastur was paranoid, which was simply a sensible and well-adjusted reaction to living in Hell, where they really were all out to get you.” (P. 250) Hell is thus a place of all-against-all, where you can be doing relatively fine until one mistake gets you horribly punished. Hell is flexible and ready to incorporate change (Crowley not only suggest electronics as a channel for communicating, but also sends the computer warranty as inspiration). Lastly, Hell communicates with its employees in a direct manner, either by high-jacking whatever medium Crowley is using, or by straight up getting into his head.

What is fascinating is that the dynamics that are attributed to Hell are also shown in the book on another group of people. More specifically, the employees of Industrial Holdings (Holdings PLC partaking in their management training. Through pages 98 and 99, and through the character of Tompkins, Assistant Head (Purchasing) it is made clear how things at the Industrial Holdings are. Although theoretically their paintball exercise aims to team building, they all know that in reality it is a “all-against-all” battle. The young trainees are hungry to escalate. The old ones like Tompkins are eager to climb the Holdings ladder too, while eliminating concurrence. Their communication style is as rough and direct as Hell’s. It was simply impossible for Crowley not to understand their desires, since it could be said both the Industrial Holdings and Hell operate on the same frequency:

“Tompkins thumbed another paint pellet into the gun and muttered business mantras to himself. Do Unto Others Before They Do Unto You. Kill Or Be Killed. Either Shit Or Get Out Of The Kitchen. Survival Of The Fittest. Make My Day.” (P. 99)

Again, if it sounds too familiar altogether it is because we Millennials know a couple of things about living in Hell… or Capitalism.

On the flipped side of the coin, we got Heaven, for which precisely the lack of information is the information. Like communist regimes, in the book it is truly impossible to discern how Heaven operates and who is ultimately responsible for it. On Tumblr it has been already pointed out that Hell seems to be more efficient, since Crowley appears to be under a stricter supervision and reporting-basis than Aziraphale. Indeed, this impression is remarkable, specially once we remember that Aziraphale “[…] was a Principality, but people made jokes about that these days.” (P. 42) Although in the most purely Good Omens’ fashion this sentence is obscure enough to be interpreted as one wished (who are the people? Humans? Other angels?) it is at least clear that allegedly Aziraphale has a higher charge in Heaven than Crowley does in Hell. Yet his (nobiliary) title does not make that much of a difference in how unattended he is left.

An even greater, and factually more sinister example of how remote and inaccessible Heaven is, specially for its primary supporters (those who work for its cause), is to be found when Aziraphale tries to report his findings of concerning Adam’s whereabouts:

“Getting in touch with Heaven for two-way communications was far more difficult for Aziraphale than it is for humans, who don’t expect an answer and in nearly all cases would be rather surprised to get one.” (P. 235)

Notice how Pratchett and Gaiman mention that it is difficult for Aziraphale to get a two-way communication. The implication is that, like communist regimes, communication in Heaven only happens from the higher-ups downwards, never from the bottom “citizens” upwards. The parallelism can border on dark humour when it is said that it is easy for humans to get an answer from Heaven, even if they were not expecting one. As if Heaven, not unlike the Stalin’s URSS or North Korea, was randomly listening to conversations, and acting upon them regardless of whether that conversation was public or private.

Moreover, the adherence Aziraphale has for Heaven is as reminiscent of that expected in communist regimes, as Crowley’s acceptance of Hell parallels our own resignation with capitalism. Aziraphale ascribes his support to Heaven to his very nature. Unlike Crowley, who belongs to Hell circumstantially (he fell) Aziraphale belongs to Heaven in as literal a sense as those under communist regimes belonged to the state. Thus, he tells Crowley:

“All right. All right. I don’t like it any more than you, but I told you. I can’t disod – disoy – not do what I’m told. ‘M a’nangel.” (P. 54)

And again, when he realises that he wants to share his discovery about Adam with Crowley, but should report to Heaven instead:

“He was an angel, after all. You had to do the right thing. It was built-in- You see a wile, you thwart.” (P. 234)

It is easy to recognise in this reasoning the same course of mindless obedience indoctrinated in communist regimes: as a citizen of the state, one should behave as it is expected from them, that is, to the benefit of the state always in mind. What really matters is to never diverge from the party’s line, which Aziraphale valiantly tries to do. Meanwhile, Capitalism!Hell, it is all about maximising results, which by the way Crowley tries to achieve as well, even if Hastur and Ligur fail to see so.

Finally, the entire conversation Aziraphale holds with the Metatron further evidences how detached Heaven as an institution is from its most devoted acolytes. A quick rereading of the entire passage will prove that Aziraphale gets no clue as who is picking up the phone, so to speak. Neither does the Metatron see it fit to identify himself to Aziraphale (the angel has to explicitly ask him to do so). Even though Aziraphale’s eagerness and willingness to provide alternatives is clear in his speech, the Metatron never warms up and stays in his role of an annoyed high-ranked official who suddenly has to attend a petty man’s administrative request. Nonetheless, although it could seem that Heaven can hardly be bothered to take Aziraphale seriously, after being admonished, our angel notices that

“[t]he light faded, but did not quite vanish. They’re leaving the line open, Aziraphale thought. I’m not getting out of this one.” (P. 237)

Heaven exerts the same control over its workers as Hell does, but for those of us who have always lived in a capitalist system, Hell’s ways are recognisable, and thus look more efficient. However, Heaven has got a firm grip over its employees too. While Aziraphale was keeping a low profile (allegedly working within party’s line) he was left unbothered, even if in reality he was not being that productive. As soon as he raises his voice, even if a little, even if it is not to express disagreement but a mere alternative, they claim him back, they leave him no possibility of escaping. Most dismal of all is, Aziraphale realises so straight away and knows to have no possible way out, unlike Crowley. Similarly, notice how in the book we never know what happens once Aziraphale goes back to Heaven, nor how he manages to return to Earth and start his search for a receptive body at a convenient geographic location. Much like in the URSS, within Heaven’s walls everything is a secret.

What’s going to be left for you?

The third way in which Book!Good Omens brings to mind the Cold War is to be found in the notion of Armageddon, and in how it is avoid. Pratchett and Gaiman go as far as jokingly have the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse baffled at the fact that the end of the world will not be triggered in a traditional fashion. Instead, as the Metatron explains to Aziraphale, it will all begin “[…] a multi-nation nuclear exchange” (P. 237) I am sure the dark humour did not fly under the radar for the first readers of the book.

Although by 1990 the idea that computers, and more broadly technology, could destroy the world was already flourishing (The Matrix was just 9 years away), the real fear was for nuclear war. Again, James Bond’s movies are brought to mind. In them, the mere pressing of a red button sets into motion a technological weapon able to erase all life around. Thankfully, Sean Connery is always around, knowing exactly how to fix the mess while looking dapper. I would like to quickly point out that in keeping with the James Bond mockery, in Good Omens this job is performed by Newt Pulsifer, who Anathema notices “[…] was tall, but with a rolled-out, thin look. And while his hair was undoubtedly dark, it wasn’t any sort fashion accessory; […] It was the same with suits. The clothing hadn’t been invented that would make him look suave and sophisticated and comfortable. […] And he wasn’t handsome.” (PP. 202-203). To round up the joke, Newt is able to deactivate nuclear Armageddon precisely because he has not a clue of what he is doing.

Thus, the idea of a nuclear Armageddon was not really something that Pratchett and Gaiman came up with, but rather, like any good writers, the result of their ability to pick up the general ambience of their time and express it artistically. And in that sense, Book!Good Omens is the reallt punk tale of getting rid of not one, but two systems. Like the Western and Eastern blocks, Heaven and Hell must be stopped because both of them had become so wrapped up in their ideology, so devoted to their own glory, that they have completely forgotten about the people they both pretended to serve, and for whom they both were allegedly created. Book!Good Omens is truly the hilarious journey to return power to the people, to the collective. It is really a cry towards tolerance and acceptance, towards embracing even those who appear to be your complete opposite, because in becoming united we become unstoppable. I would argue that that is precisely the reason behind the constant mockery of the James Bond films. Book!Good Omens tells us that the world will not be saved by transferring the power from the systems to a single individual (the Hero), but by transferring it to a collective that embraces each and every of its members, because they are all valid. In this sense, one of the wisest choices that Pratchett and Gaiman made was to never get God to meddle in the story. God remains entirely unknown, since in keeping up with the Christian tradition and the Good Omens universe, his/her appearance would mark the revealing of the ultimate truth, the ultimate right (or the ineffable truth and right). But the story is not really about sorting out who is right, so God must stay out of the way.

In that regard, many book fans have complained about Greasy Johnson and the Johnsonites being omitted from the series. Out of all the wonderful details that could not make it to the final cut, I must agree that this is the one I believe to be the most detrimental, since it undermines Adam’s arch and part of the narrative. Both in the book and the series, Adam’s powers awaken with his awareness of how the world is being polluted, deforested, and shortly, destroyed. We manage to sympathise with him even in his darkest hour because all the time his intentions are good. He might be getting his means wrong (antichristing around) but his ends are commendable. We all would like to save the world too. But the entire point of Good Omens is precisely that that is what Heaven and Hell intended to do as well: “‘But after we win life will be better!’ croaked the angel.” (P. 45) Pratchett and Gaiman are being as generous as giving both capitalism (Hell) and communism (Heaven) the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they both sprang from good intentions, but the direction that the whole thing has taken is deplorable. Eventually it has all being reduced to who is going to get to administer the world, who is going to impose their view. That is why Pepper really manages to shake Adam up by asking the crucial question, the question that makes him realises how pointless his intend is: “What bit’re you going to have, Adam?” (P. 303) As Pepper realises, if you transform everything, if you change everything –even if for the good– nothing that you knew before will be left.

However, although that is what helps Adam come back to his senses, it is not what allows him to argue Heaven’s and Hell’s discourse back. Again, that is such a feather in Pratchett and Gaiman’s cap; sometimes you know what you want to do, but you are clueless at how to do it (like a certain angel and demon). Enter here the Johnsonites. Adam eventually realises that Heaven and Hell are like the Them and the Johnsonites, only that the latter pair are clever enough to acknowledge that what makes life fun is actually having a rival to wrestle with:

“I just don’t see why everyone and everything has to be burned up and everything. […] An’ not even for anything important. Jus’ to see who’s got the best gang. […] But even if you win, you can’t really beat the other side, because you don’t really want to. I mean, not for good.” (P. 356)

Just as Crowley slyly pointed out to Aziraphale at the beginning, if Heaven wins maybe life may become better, but it will not be that interesting. His point is exactly the same that Pepper makes to Adam: what is going to be left for you?

More interestingly, as the Metatron and Beelzebub try to rebuke Adam’s argument, the boy tells them:

“I don’t see what’s so triffic about creating people as people and then getting’ upset ‘cos they act like people […]” (P. 357)

And again, that is the same thing Aziraphale and Crowley have been saying all along. As many have noticed, in Book!Omens the angel and the demon are more explicitly united by their love towards humanity. Aziraphale and Crowley have come to love humanity even with all its flaws. They were meant to try and influence (change) humans and instead they have eventually accepted them as they are. Which is exactly what Adam realises in the end: it is not about trying to perfect humanity or the world, even if you intentions are the best. It is about accepting that there is no definite right or truth (God is ) and that good and evil are so tightly laced that the same politician can be in Aziraphale’s and Crowley’s list. Neither communism nor capitalism are 100% good or bad. However, they become dangerous when they try to change people, to transform the world entirely, because in doing so they annihilate the very reason for which they exerted themselves: the people.

Thanks to the Them, and the Johnsonites, and Anathema and her wacky magazines, and Mr. R. Tyler who chases them around town, Adam understands that the world needs no fixing and embraces it as it is. The generosity that such acceptance involves is what enables him to  to free himself from his “nature”. Similarly, all along the story Aziraphale and Crowley knew that they had zero interest in changing the world. But both of them –and I can stress this enough, in the book it’s both of them– struggled to free themselves. Crowley, being always under direct threat, was too afraid to disobey; Aziraphale, being wrapped up in his party’s discourse, thought he was incapable of disobeying. But just as Adam Young eventually finds the generosity to repress his young and naïve impulse to change the world for the better, so do Aziraphale and Crowley. For most of the story, Crowley has been the one who knew that neither of them wanted for the world to change. Aziraphale had trouble admitting that because as I have said, he had to break some mental barriers (“I cannot possibly do that). But once he breaks them, he is the one helping Crowley overcome his fear of Hell’s punishment by using the very argument Crowley has put forward to him. As Satan is approaching, Aziraphale talks Crowley into adopting as generous a course of action as Adam has already done:

“ ‘There are humans here,’ he [Aziraphale] said.

‘Yes,’ said Crowley. ‘And me.’

‘I mean we shouldn’t let this happen to them […] we’ve got them into enough trouble as it is. You and me. Over the years. […]

‘We were only doing our jobs,’ muttered Crowley.

‘Yes. So what? Lots of people in history have only done their jobs and look at the trouble they caused.’

‘You don’t mean we should actually try to stop Him?’

‘What have you got to lose?’ (P. 363)

               Just as we do not get to see or hear God (the ultimate good), in Book!Omens we do not get to see Satan either. In the Dramatis Personae at the beginning, Satan is defined as “the Adversary”. And rightly so. If God is that ineffable goodness, Satan is the ineffable badness. Hence why, once Adam is rejecting to obey his nature out of sheer generosity (goodness) Satan stars raising to scold him. It is the ultimate attempt of all evil in the world (all selfishness, all self-entitlement) to take things back to the status quo. But it is to late already. What Satan (evil) is about to face when he raises up is a compactly united world where everybody has accepted ad embraced their opposite. The Them cherish the Johnsonites; the Witch and the Witchfinder love each other; Madam Tracy and Shadwell are together. And the two agents, the angel and the demon, have just finally told each other that they are together not because the circumstance have forced them to, but because the appreciate each other.

               That is exactly why I would argue that their love confession of sorts in the books is as powerful as the final Ritz scene in the series. All throughout the story, Aziraphale and Crowley have tried to tell themselves that their relationship, the Arrangement, steams out of circumstances:

“It was the sort of sensible arrangement that many isolated agents, working in awkward conditions a long way from their superiors, reach with their opposite number when they realize that they have more in common with their immediate opponents than their remote allies.” (P. 43)

“They got along. They nearly understood one another He [Aziraphale] sometimes suspected they had far more in common with one another than with their respective superiors.” (P. 234)

Hence why their open declaration right before facing the Adversary becomes so striking. As readers we have been able to recognise all along that the angel and the demon like each other, even if they do not want to admit so. But once faced with utter destruction, and ready to try to protect the humanity out of pure generosity and acceptance for humans as they are, they become free to accept each other openly as well. And they do so by acknowledging the impossible in the other. Thus, Aziraphale, the one who was wrapped up in a black&white discourse of right and wrong tells Crowley that there is good in him. Meanwhile, Crowley, the one imbued in a all-against-all system based on appearances and excitement, tells the old-fashioned and bookish angel that he is enough of a bastard to be worth liking. Try to imagine a communist saying to a capitalist that there is good in them and you will get how powerful a confession that is. Try to imagine a wolf of Wallstreet saying to a leftist intellectual that they are enough of a bastard to be cool and likeable and you will get how unlikely a confession that is.

Pratchett and Gaiman eventually come to exemplify how powerless evil is when faced with such a united world, where all are supporting one another despite their differences. Satan does not make it to the surface because it has already been defeated. In the end, in Book!Omens each and every single character relies so much so on the others that as it has been pointed out by many, there is no individual hero. It is not that Aziraphale and Crowley are useless. It is that they needed to rely on humanity as much as humanity needed for them to leave their sides. Just as Adam could not have made it without the Them and the Johnsonites, Anathema could not have been successful without Newt, and Newt would still be the outsider without Anathema. The same applies to Madam Tracy and Shadwell. And that is the whole point of Book!Omens: there is no single hero, no James Bond. Instead, Armageddon, the Adversary, the Cold War are prevented when opposites embrace each other and accept each other. Because the miniseries has been made at a different time, it is accordingly more focused on what is most missing in nowadays ultra-liberal world: love and tenderness, the brave act of allowing oneself to be soft and vulnerable, to confide in others. Paradoxically, what we lack in our current, extremely individualistic world, is the ability to accept ourselves as we are, and demand to treat others and be treated by others with tenderness. But at the time of Book!Omens, the most punk and radical act was paradoxically to abandon two incredibly well-established discourses, two solid blocks that offered equally solid definitions of good vs wrong. Instead, the bravest act was to choose to adhere no narrative, and take part for nobody but humanity itself, embracing all of it. What makes both Good Omens the same work is the struggle for freedom; what makes them different is what that freedom is. But in both Book!Omens and Series!Omens not fighting for freedom entails the same danger: eventually the most precious thing would be lost, namely, the world itself, be it humanity or the most loved being on Earth.

Accordingly, on the first day of the rest of their lives the only two agents to be found at St James’s Park turn out to be working for the same side, although neither of them realised so, to their mutual embarrassment. Aziraphale and Crowley were also on the same side all along, although they did not –or wanted not– to acknowledge so. But now that they have embraced each other, they are free. Like their human counterparts, they are no longer under the influence of Above, Below, or even the Past (as is the case of Anathema). Very much like the rest of the characters, they can look at the future freely and with their own eyes and minds. And so, a nightingale sings in Berkeley Square and an angel and a demon dine at the Ritz.

[hannahcoursey]

Wrong Place, Wrong Time Part 3

Author: Hannahc56

Word Count: 3,896

Request: The reader who lives in a small town called Welling's in Nebraska, her best friend dies and Sam and Dean go to interview her as FBI agents and she doesn’t believe they’re FBI so she follows them one day and gets caught by the Djinn they’re hunting.

A/N: This story is around season 5 when Dean is dealing with the concept of angels being total assholes. So, he’s a little defensive around Castiel still at this point.

PART ONE. PART TWO.

----

You head bobbed lightly against something soft. Cold air whipped around you, slipping over your exposed skin and leaving chills in its wake. Your head felt like it weighed a million pounds. Something was warm up against you, despite the low temperature of the evening. Willing your eyes to open as much as you could muster, you saw the moon’s glow shining down, casting over a stubble covered chin of the man that was carrying you. You caught the fragrance of - was it gunpowder? Maybe with a mix of the lingering scent of body wash and sweat. 

Holding your eyes open was a chore within itself, but the curiosity in you was fighting to keep you conscious. Your hands were folded in your lap, your wrists were red and irritated as if there had been rope around them. His calloused hands were wrapped under your knees and gripped solidly onto your thigh, holding you up against him. You could feel his arm underneath your back as he walked you throughout the night. You could hear another set of footprints coming from behind him. The tall FBI man walked past you in the other man’s arms, as the bobbing came to a halt. You heard him clear his throat and open and then slam closed what sounded like a trunk lid. You kept your eyes shut, forcing yourself to stay awake to gather as much information as you could. 

“Think she saw anything?” You heard the taller man with the shaggier hair mumble. The man who held you in his arms managed a slight shrug.

“I don’t know,” He said, his deep voice rumbling in the chest your head laid on, “I knew it was her following us, but I didn’t think she was so hot on our tails that she’d follow us in there.” 

“Yeah, well,” The taller man took a breath, “She wants her friend back.” He finished. The men said nothing more as they opened up the car doors and settled you in the back. The shorter man slid in the backset and gently picked your head up to rest on his lap, while the tall man got in the driver seat and fired up the car.

“Sammy, you good to drive?” The man in the backseat with you asked. Sammy. 

“I mean, yeah, but I think she’s alright to leave back there.” Sam answered. The other man hesitated.

“You saw the file on her, Sam. She has no one.” He said, his voice low. Your heart dropped so hard, you worried for a slight second that he may have felt the shift in your chest. “I think the last thing she needs is to be back here, confused and alone, with two strange guys wielding machetes and blood stains.” He finished. Neither of them spoke another word as the car roared into gear and left the mill. 

Your mind was begging you to succumb to the sleep that ached for you to give into it. You needed to stay awake, to listen, to gather as much information as you could. But your eyes were heavy and the thought of sleep was growing to be too warm and welcoming to ignore. As the thought passed your incoherent mind, a calloused hand made it way through your hair, brushing it lightly behind your ear. And before you could muster enough energy to fight it, you fell into a deep, comfortable sleep.

----

You cracked open an eye. Your head pounded as if you’d woken up after a weeks’ long bender. This time, you were in your room again. You sat up quick, the comforter moving off of your chest and landing in your lap. The sudden movement sent a body ache down the length of your back, your muscles sore as if they’d taken a beating. Did you take a beating? You turned and threw the bedding off of you, your feet landing on the floor. Your legs ached and your head felt as if you’d been put through the spin cycle one too many times. You fought the urge to collapse to the ground and leaned on the side of your bed to gather yourself. Footsteps gained momentum down the hallway and you looked up from squinted eyes, your free hand to your head. The fake feds turned the corner, the shorter one walking towards you before stopping in his tracks. You backed up a step.

“Who the fuck,” You tried to sound more threatening than you felt, “Are you guys?” You tried not to wobble on your legs that were beginning to feel increasingly weak underneath you. Sam threw his arms up in defense.

“Listen, Y/N,” He started, but you cut him off.

“And don’t tell me you guys are the feds, alright?” You shook your head and squeezed your eyes shut for a second, “I don’t play stupid, I sniffed you out the second you walked in the door with your cheap suits.” You mocked, noticing the shorter one had taken offense.

“Okay, no,” Sam said and cleared his throat, his arms slowly making it back down to his sides, “I’m Sam and this is my brother Dean,” His head nodded in direction to Dean, who gave you a small grin as a hello, “We’re here for the same reason you are, alright? We’re looking for people that have gone missing around the same time as your friend.” The brothers stood next to each other and in the dim light that streamed through your bedroom window, you could see that they were weathered but attractive men. 

“Have you gotten anything?" You questioned, hardly any more at ease that these men were still in your apartment. 

“Uh, not really, no,” Sam said, throwing a look to Dean as he cleared his throat. The air in the room stiffened and the awkwardness was evident in the glare between the brothers.

“I’m sorry, let me ask that again without the bullshit,” You said, your voice wavering slightly. You cringed internally and begged that the weakness in your tone wasn’t obvious to the brothers. After a few moments of hesitation, Dean wiped a hand down his face.

“Okay, you want the no bullshit answer? The answer is that there is a gypsy wagon full of Djinns rolling through your town that is kidnapping people, draining the life outta them and then leaving em’ for dead.” He said, his voice stern and full of an authoritative tone, knowing full well you wouldn’t know what he was getting at. You stood there and stared at the men. 

“Djinn?” You asked, your brows crinkling, ”Djinn.” You took a breath and wiped at your eyes.

“Look, they did a number on you, you should get some rest-” Sam started, but the way your head shot up stopped him in his tracks.

“On me? They got to me?” Your eyes were the size of melons, meanwhile Dean looked as though you were wasting his time. You looked down and noticed the red trail of burns around your wrists and a few inconsistent spots on your arms that indicated fresh bruises. The way your head was swimming began to make sense. “Okay,” You took a deep breath, trying to keep yourself as calm as possible, “And how did I get here?” 

“We killed them-” Dean started, his voice as plain and bored as his face.

“Jesus, Dean-'' Sam said exasperated, “Y-Yes, we killed them.” He said, his hands falling at his sides. Dean shot his brother a confused look before turning back to you. “They were going to kill you, Y/N.” Sam said, his tone serious. You connected the dots as you listened to the men talk.

“So, that’s who that woman was; The one that you killed? With the tattoos?” You inferred. Dean nodded.

“Yeah. their tattoos grow when they start to enchant you and their eyes have this-”

“Glow.” You finished his sentence for him. The men stood there, awkwardly. 

“Well, yeah - They glow,” Dean said and shrugged, “You’re handling this pretty okay.” He said, his expression giving away the concern behind his eyes.

“‘You think I’m taking this okay? I mean, I feel like I’m a second away from hitting the floor, but I’m glad you think I am.” You laughed nervously and sat on the edge of the bed. Sam walked out of the room and Dean made his way over to you. He looked down at you as if he was inspecting you. You patted the spot on the bed beside you and to your surprise, he followed. 

“Listen, kid-” He began, but you scoffed.

“Kid? I’m not a kid, I’m a news reporter - Do you realize I’ve snuck onto crime scenes before the cops had even gotten there? A-And I’ve seen things, a lot of bad things - So don’t act like I don’t know what I’m doing.” You defended yourself, “Don’t sugarcoat this. I can handle it, alright?” You took a breath and wondered how true that statement was. What if they told you Lizzie was dead? What could you handle? What would be the final straw? The thoughts of just where that line could be raced around your head, but a calloused hand on yours took your mind off of it. You looked up at him.

“I’m not saying you’re a kid. I’m saying it’s alright if you feel like the world just came crashing down on your shoulders,” He said, his hand leaving where it rested lightly on yours, “You don’t have to be the hero here.” The room grew silent and with every fiber in your body, you looked down and forced the tears from where they threatened behind your eyes. You nodded. Before you could muster up the words to answer, Sam walked back into the room with a glass of water and you graciously took it.

“So, it looks like last night we found their nest. The only downside of that is that we left it a bloodbath.” Dean stood up and crossed the room, thinking out loud.

“So they’re on the move,” You said, “They know they’ve been made so they won’t stake out there any longer than they have to.” You looked down at your glass, the water inside of it unsteady as your hands shook slightly. You put it on the end table next to you. Both boys stared at you a moment before moving on.

“Right,” Sam said, clearing his throat and cocking his head to one side, “The next question is where are they running to?” He finished.

And just like that, within a snap of fingers, you were in.

----

Before you knew it, you were sitting in a motel room. The walls were littered with impressions of fake tropical palms and the sheets that poked out from under the thin, scratchy comforter had stains splayed across them. You fought back the chills that climbed up your back and left the hairs on your arms on edge at the thought of what might have caused those stains. The brothers stood in front of you, wordlessly sifting through luggage and duffel bags full of weapons you’d never seen. Every so often, one of them would shoot you a look, as if they were half expecting you to be running for your life or passed out from the effort it took for you to wrap your head around this whole situation they’d just explained to you. If you were being honest, you were a little surprised you hadn’t done either of the two. Hell, you’d seen things in your time. The thought of what happened on that snowy day, the same day you went to in your dream, made your heart speed up in your chest. Color climbed up to your cheeks, and you could’ve sworn your fast heartbeat was audible from across the room. You forced your mind to another topic, focusing on the worn particle board dresser in front of you. Your mind wandered to those things, those Djinn. Naturally, questions were lined up on your tongue, ready to come spilling out whenever you let the floodgates open, but you decided to keep them to yourself for now. You picked at your nails, the only thing that lulled the shake in your hands to settle, even if only for a moment. When you looked up, Dean was eyeing you from the corner of the room. When your eyes met, you both shot your stare in another direction. The silence in the room was doing nothing to ease your mind. 

“So,” You cleared your throat and both brothers looked over at you, almost as if they too were thankful for the momentary break in silence, “What do these Djinn do? I-I mean I know you said that they drag you under and suck the life out of you but - What’s their point?” You rubbed your hands nervously against the length of your thighs, the thin layer of sweat that coated your palms now soaking into your denim. Dean walked over to you, a pearl accented gun in hand, and sat on the other bed adjacent to you.

“You’re food to them,” He shrugged, “They put you in this dream state where you get to see what your perfect dream life would be like so that you never fight it,” He looked down at the gun and pulled out a rag from his back pocket and began to mindlessly rub at the pearl accents that ran along the handle.

“Your perfect life? That’s what you’re supposed to see?” Your brows furrowed in confusion as you thought back to what you’d envisioned. There was nothing good about it. Dean matched your expression.

“Well, yeah,” His hand stopped moving along the gun, his attention fully now on you.

“Why?” Sam asked as he stepped closer from across the room, intrigued by the turn the conversation had taken. You swallowed hard and took a breath.

“I didn’t see that,” You ran a hand through your hair, “I didn’t see anything good when I went under - or whatever you call it.” You said as the temperature of the room began to feel warmer with the territory they began to get into. The brothers looked at each other and your heart beat faster in your chest. “What?” You asked. Being the only one left in the dark was starting to become an annoyance. Sam cleared his throat and scratched at the back of his neck. 

“I mean, I don’t know,” He said hesitantly, Dean looking at you as his brother spoke, “That’s never happened before.” He finished. The both of them looked at you, as if thinking that maybe if they glared a little longer, the answer would appear across your forehead. You rubbed your hands together anxiously.

“Okay, I guess that maybe that can happen to people, maybe you just didn’t know that.” You tried desperately to sound grounded. Dean shook his head and mindlessly chewed his lip.

“No, I don’t think so. They got their inky hands on me one time and,” He shook his head, “Let’s just say, with the things I’ve seen, they probably had to get creative to find anything good enough to make me wanna stay.” He stated the dark undertone of his statement obvious in his eyes. You decided it was best not to poke him about it any further.

“Okay, whatever,” You let out a nervous laugh, “Just forget I said anything.” You shook your head and forced a small smile. Neither of the boys returned it. 

Before they could interrogate you any more, a man in a trench coat appeared behind Sam. A scream left your lips and you fell back onto the bed, your eyes practically bulging out of your skull. The boys stood up quick at your screech and as quick as they’d gotten up, they’d calmed down once they turned and saw the man. You sat there, your chest heaving, looking from the brothers to the man who inspected you curiously as if he was the one who was interrupted by you. 

“Hey Cas,” Sam said, turning back to face you. Dean glanced over his shoulder and nodded a greeting to the man as he sat back down where he’d previously been across from you. 

“That’s our friend Cas,” Dean looked at you, “He’s uh, he’s-”

“An angel of the Lord.” A deep, scratchy voice finished the sentence for the elder sibling. You looked back and forth between the three men.

“A-An angel? Like an angel?” You asked, your voice coming out in soft, hesitant strangles at the sight before you. He looked normal; Almost too normal.

“Of the Lord; Correct.” The man answered your rhetoric question, his brows knitted in confusion as if his presence was an easy concept to digest.

“Okay, an angel,” You sat up straighter, inching closer to the headboard and further from the dark haired man, “So, you mean that even with all of the crappy things like the Djinn and other monsters, there’s still something good out there?” You tried to desperately make sense of this, of any of it. Dean shook his head.

“Nope, nothing good about em’ they’re all dicks.” He said, shooting a look over his shoulder at the man who claimed to be an angel. The tension in the air was obvious and was only slightly broken when Sam cleared his throat.

“No, Y/N, listen,” He shook his head emphatically and moved closer to you, “There is good out there. It’s not all crap. We just focus on the shit work so that maybe other people don’t have to.” He said, trying to sound reasonable despite the issue at hand. 

“Yeah,” Dean laughed sarcastically. There was no humor in his chuckle and it reminded you of the dark look in his eye he’d had moments before. “Well, I'm glad that at least someone still thinks that.” He ran a hand over his face and you could tell by the way he moved that he was worn. It was your job as a reporter to notice a person's stance, their body language and nonverbal cues. Dean’s were easy. You just had to pay attention to them.

“I’m not here for you,” Castiel walked over towards you as his cold glare focused on Dean, “I came for her.” He finished, his shockingly blue eyes now trained on you.

“Me?” You asked, pointing a finger inwards. The man hardly nodded in response.

“We called you about the Djinn, alright, leave her out of it.” Dean stood up, his demeanor puffed and irritated.

“Dean, just hear him out.” Sam said, his voice solid. You’d been able to pinpoint the dynamic between the brothers in the time you’d spent with them. Sam was the safe one. Sam was logic and fact driven, he’d hardly broken his calm attitude in the time you’d been observing him. But Dean - Dean was a fire, igniting everything in his path when he felt it deserving. You had no idea what had happened between the angel and them, but Dean’s reasoning ran deep. He had the type of calm that was unnerving, unlike Sam. As if he was almost always teetering that border of blowing up the whole building with only himself inside. Even in a tense conversation like the one you currently sat in, only Sam could bring his brother down off that edge. 

“I’d talk fast if I were you.” Dean said, his voice as cool as the delivery in which he’d said it. He sat back down on the bed and looked down at the gun he hadn’t finished cleaning. Castiel took in a long breath as if to shake off the threats before returning to the purpose of his being here.

“You said you didn’t see a dream world when the Djinn poisoned you,” He looked at you intently.

“Poisoned me?” You looked over at Dean who shook his head.

“Jesus, Cas. Baby steps here, maybe? The girl just got the talk an hour ago.” He wiped a hand down his face as Castiel turned back to you.

“Uh, my apologies,” He said, his voice as robotic as his movements, “I have to ask you; What did you see?” He finished, asking the question that you’d been avoiding this entire time. You maintained eye contact with him as you thought about what you should reply. Is it a sin to lie to an angel of the lord? Was he even an angel? 

“Nothing,” You said, praying that the eye contact you held with him would make your white lie appear to be more solid, “Just didn’t see a dream world or anything else for that matter.” You finished.

“Y/N, you do realize I can hear what you’re thinking,” He said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he stared intently at you, “And no, keeping eye contact does not make your lie sound any more valid than it already is.” He finished, as if he had just said the most normal thing in this world. Your lips formed a line, trying to maintain some sort of composure.

“Alright then if you’re so high and mighty, you should already know exactly what I saw without asking me.” you replied, your tone tight and smug. Silence filled the room and before you could understand what was going on, he pressed two fingers to your forehead. 

----

Part 4 coming soon!

[kissjane]

DIE A VIRGIN / Short fic

#19 from this prompt list

Blurting out a confession of love

Lucas blames himself, of course. He had left his phone in his locker when he came to search for some obscure textbook he foolishly wanted to quote in his paper for international law.

But he blames the other guy even more.

The other guy who had come into the dimly-lit, cold, remote back room at the far end of the library corridor, for whatever reason Lucas failed to grasp, and who had closed the fucking door.

Lucas had been too engrossed in his book, trying to find the quote he was reasonably sure should be somewhere in it, to notice it before it was too late.

Because the door has been broken for as long as Lucas remembers. On his first day on campus, the older students had told tales of students getting trapped in there, and even though Lucas was sure they were gross exaggerations, he had made sure to adhere to the rule – never, ever, ever close the door of the archive room down the hall.

And it seems like the stories might have been true. Because Lucas is pretty certain more than an hour has passed since he came over here, and that had been twenty minutes before closing time. So it looks like the staff doesn’t bother checking out if anybody got locked into the back room before leaving for the night.

And to add insult to injury, not only did the other guy close the fucking door, but his phone battery is apparently dead, too.

Oh, of course, they tried yelling. They tried banging on the door. But nobody came running to their rescue, so now Lucas sits on the floor, back against the wall, hugging himself for warmth, refusing to look over at the other guy.

Because – and this is just the cherry on Lucas’ cake today – the other boy is absolutely gorgeous.

“I’m really, really sorr-”, the guy tries, for the thousandth time, but Lucas has just about had enough.

“Yeah, so you’ve said,” he interrupts curtly. He realizes he is being rude, but he needs all his strength to stave off a panic attack. His mind is going in a million directions at once – how long can a human body survive without water? How much air is in this room, and how long before they use it all up? He wishes he had paid more attention to Imane’s explanations when they were studying together. All he can think about is how he will die in this dusty library room.

“I know I did, but –”, a hesitant voice comes again from his left side.

“Listen, man,” Lucas sighs, “I forgive you, okay? It’s probably best not to die with a grudge, anyway.”

“We are not gonna die. We have a long, cold, hungry and probably sleepless night ahead, but in less than twelve hours somebody will come and open up and we will be free.”

Twelve hours. Twelve goddamn hours, and they don’t even have a way to track how many of them have passed. And what if nobody needs this room in the morning? Or all day? Or even all week? It’s not like they keep the most recent and most used volumes here.

Lucas feels his heart rate speed up, and he struggles to breathe. See, there it is, they have already used up most of the air, and –

“I can’t breathe,” he manages to stutter. “There’s no air… we’re going to die…”

In an instant, the boy is crouched in front of him, both hands on his face.

“Hey… Hey, look at me. We are not gonna die – or at least not now, not here.”

The guy chuckles a bit, but Lucas feels like he is drowning.

“We will… There is no air, we’ve used it all up, I can’t breathe!”

“Calm down, please… There is enough air in this room, believe me. And even if there wasn’t, the door isn’t airtight, fresh air comes in through the gap underneath. There is air enough for us to sit here for days, don’t worry, just breathe.”

“Days? You said twelve hours!”

“Yeah, I did. We’ll be out tomorrow, and there’s enough air for at least three days, so you can just breathe. In, and out. Just follow my example, in and out… Like that…”

Lucas tries to focus on the guy breathing slowly, his hands still cradling Lucas’ face. Slowly, he feels his heart getting back to a more normal rhythm.

“What if nobody comes here tomorrow, though? This is not exactly the most visited part of the library. We could be stuck here for days…”

The guy’s optimism seems to falter a bit, and he lowers his hands. Lucas feels the loss stir something deep inside him.

“Somebody will notice us missing, surely…”

“And the first place they’ll think to come look is the library?”, Lucas snorts.

“Well, okay, maybe not the first, but after a while, somebody must figure it out, right? Like, didn’t you tell anybody you were coming to do some research?”

Lucas tries to think. Did he?

“I can’t remember,” he truthfully answers after a moment, but at least the thinking has made him calm down. “What about you? Do your friends know you’re here? Or your girlfriend?”

“No girlfriend,” the boy answers with a slight smile. For some reason, Lucas feels a bit easier at that – though shouldn’t he hope for more people who might miss them?

“And no, sorry, I didn’t really tell anybody I was coming here.”

“What were you doing here, actually? You’re not a law student, are you?”

Another chuckle. Lucas kinda likes the sound of it.

“Ah, no. No, uhm, I’m in arts. My name is Eliott, by the way.”

“Arts? Then what are you even doing here?”

“I, uh, guess I took a wrong turn?” Eliott sounds a bit strange, but before Lucas can get into it, he quickly tacks on, “What’s your name, then?”

“Oh, I’m Lucas. I would say it’s nice to meet you, but, yeah.”

Eliott sits down cross-legged.

“It’s not that bad, is it? We have time to get to know each other, at least.”

Lucas glares at him.

“Yeah, sure. I suppose we do. At least then we can be friends when we come back to haunt this place after we die, right?”

“Oh, shut up,” Eliott laughs. “We’re not gonna die, I’ve told you that already.”

“I just fucking hope not,” Lucas mutters gloomily. “I don’t wanna die a virgin.”

As Eliott’s eyes open wide, Lucas realizes he said the words out loud.

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Forget I said anything…”

Eliott’s eyes seem to glimmer weirdly.

“So, uh, no girlfriend either, then?”, he asks. It comes out a bit stilted.

“Wouldn’t want any,” Lucas replies. “But no boyfriend, no. Unfortunately.”

“Ah.”

Lucas doesn’t know how to take that answer. It doesn’t sound appalled at all, rather – relieved? But then Eliott doesn’t say anything after that, so maybe he doesn’t want to be locked in with a gay guy.

“Is that a problem?”, Lucas finally asks, pointedly, after a few minutes of silence.

“What? No!”, Eliott replies hastily. “I was just wondering how badly you don’t want to die a virgin.”

Huh? Lucas stares, and he opens his mouth, but he closes it again without answering, not grasping what Eliott is trying to infer.

“Because, well, I’m here.”

What?

He must have voiced his confusion, because Eliott takes a deep breath, and then the words tumble out of his mouth rapidly.

“I’m sorry, that was just… presumptuous and stupid. Just – forgot about that. It’s only that… I guess… well, I suppose I should confess. I didn’t stumble in here by accident, I – I followed you, I – I just… I mean, I saw you a while ago, you were walking through the hallway with your friends, I assume, but – I just couldn’t keep my eyes of you, actually. And – god, this is gonna sound creepy, but – nothing else has really mattered since. So I followed you here today, and I was trying to find a reason to come talk to you, and then you came in here, and I just – I thought it was my chance. I swear I didn’t know about the door, though! I’m not some weirdo stalker, I promise.”

Lucas is suddenly pretty sure all of this must be some elaborate prank.

“Let me get this straight,” he declares, “you followed me here?”

Eliott nods, his eyes on the floor.

“Because you saw me on campus one day?”

Eliott hums, still not looking up.

“And you wanted a chance to talk to me? You followed me because you wanted to talk to me?”

“I know it’s crazy –”, Eliott starts to say, but Lucas interrupts.

“And now you’re offering to help me get rid of my virginity?”

“I’m sorry!”, Eliott says hotly. “I know it’s stupid, but when you said you were into boys, I just – Just forget I ever said anything, okay? Just forget my name. Pretend you’re here alone. We’ll get out here soon and you can forget we ever met.”

Lucas stares at Eliott. He is the goddamn hottest guy Lucas ever saw, and he is sitting here trying to tell Lucas he is into him? Yeah, definitely a prank.

But on the off chance it isn’t – and considering they might die soon anyway…

“Oh, no,” Lucas states. “You’re not backing out of this now. I’m not saying we’ll get to the virgin part, but I think you definitely owe me a kiss for locking us up in here.”

Eliott finally looks up, and the confusion on his face mirrors what Lucas felt earlier. But then, Lucas can see the moment he decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth, or grab the horn by the bulls, or whatever animal he would like to compare Lucas to – he doesn’t waste another second and crashes his lips to Lucas’.

  When the night guard arrives a few hours later – “Saw the light coming from under the door, figured something was up,” – Eliott can’t help but tease Lucas.

“Told you we weren’t gonna die in there.”

Lucas glares, but he doesn’t think it’ll have much effect, with his tousled hair, his bright eyes, his lips red and kiss-swollen, and his shirt on backwards due to their haste to get presentable when they heard the guard coming.

“Fuck off.”

Eliott laughs, and tugs Lucas by the hand.

“Come one. Better take care of – some things. You never know when you might die, and you know, you don’t wanna die a –”

Lucas shuts him up with a kiss – but it may not be a bad idea to follow Eliott home. Just in case.

[dreamlover31]

Love Will Find a Way: Chapter 20

Early the next day, Alexa and Rafael hitched a ride with his friend the realtor to explore the various properties that she had open listings for, their tour lead them through the various neighborhoods of upper and lower Manhattan; while the locations were in suitable surroundings as far as safety and space were concerned, Alexa felt that each of them didn’t live up to her standards.

In some instances, Alexa picked up some bad vibes from the neighbors next door, a few of them stared at her and Rafael as if they were outsiders honing in on their territory; the typical upper class morality in which if they weren’t in the same social circle then they were outcasts. Also, there were a few places where she found more than a few cracks in the drywall and minor structural damage.

Rafael tried his best to be patient with her, however, when they careened through the last couple of houses, he felt that they were more than satisfactory. After they scouted a four-bedroom townhouse, the trio made their way to the last spot on the realtor’s list. The car pulled up to a building that from Rafael’s viewpoint looked promising, as they piled out of the vehicle, Alexa scanned the exterior; small rectangular windows covered the front while frosted glass encased the panes of the double-sided wooded doors.

Her eyes fell downward to the cement staircase and its iron railing, the surface of the building was coated with the mixture of beige and a brown that vaguely resembled the color of chocolate, the overall texture of the building took on a faded and aged appearance, almost as if it was built sometime in the 1940s. Upon further examination of the building, Alexa concluded that it was a brownstone, as she continued to photographically memorized every feature, her eyebrows furrowed, something about its architecture caused a spark in her memory. It was at that moment that she voiced her inferences.

“Is it just me, or does this brownstone kind of looks like the one Langston Hughes used to live in when he was living in Harlem”

The realtor, dressed up in a pinstriped skirt with a blazer to match and her red hair propped up in bun, looked over at Alexa and confirmed her assumptions, she went on to explain that the previous owner was such a huge fan of his work that he wanted his home to have similar characteristics to Langston’s. Alexa turned to Rafael who shared her look of amazement at the interesting turn of events, the realtor gestured her arm forward to signal that they should make their way inside.

From there, they trekked up the stairs and entered through one of the doors into the vestibule where they glanced around the interior of first floor, at that point, the realtor guided them to the room on the left side of the dwelling. The young red haired woman stood back while Rafael and Alexa explored what was noted as the kitchen/dining area, the room itself was spacious enough to cater to a large gathering and the kitchen was practically bathed in silver and granite, from the refrigerator to the dishwasher and the countertops.

Apart from the cabinets, which were painted an off-white color, Alexa smiled softly as she combed through the various drawers and grazed her fingertips along the door of the refrigerator, a warm feeling spread throughout her body; it was as if something was telling her that this was the one. After they finished in the kitchen/dining room, the trio entered the room to the right where it was established as the living area, aside from the hardwood flooring that covered both rooms, it was an exceptionally medium sized room that would fit most of their furniture, and a prime location for any future family bonding activities.

The realtor lead them up the wooden staircase to the second floor where she pointed out two adjoining bedrooms and articulated that the hallway and master bedroom had their own bathrooms, Rafael’s eyes peeked inside the bedroom through the opened doorway, then shifted his focus over to Alexa and gave her a quirk of his eyebrow and a flirtatious smile; she blushed as a small smile crept along her face.

Suddenly, the sound of a phone ringing echoed in the middle of the hallway, Rafael and Alexa checked their pockets but the sound wasn’t coming from theirs. The realtor scoffed as she rolled her eyes at the realization that it was her cell phone, she reached into her blazer and pulled it from her inner pocket.

She briefly viewed the name on her lock screen and retorted, “Sorry guys, I have to take this but feel free to look around”

Rafael and Alexa nodded, she made her way downstairs to answer the call, in the meantime, the couple walked through the open doorway of the bedroom. Rafael stepped over to window while Alexa peeked inside the bathroom, the setup resembled the one she had at her apartment; simple shower/tub combination with the standard toilet and sink plus the cabinet underneath.

Her gaze shifted towards another set of double wooded doors that were next to it, she reached for the brass handles and pulled them outward, after she flipped on the light switch, her face lit up at the size of the walk-in closet. Alexa placed herself in the middle of the closet, her mind took in the layout of the enclosure, in that instant, a pair of arms looped around her waist. Rafael came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her and rested his chin on top of her shoulder, at the same time, he slowly swayed her body.

“Mmm…what do you think you’re doing mister?”

“I heard its good luck to christen every room of a new house”

“And you thought we would start with the closet?”

“Well…it’s the only bit of privacy we have now, might as well make the best of it”

Alexa giggled and the faced Rafael, he closed the doors behind them as their lips began a slow and sensuous dance, each of them left a trail from the neck to the collarbone; at one point, Alexa pecked his cheek and nipped at his earlobe. One of his hands perched itself on her hip at the same time the other slipped under her shirt, Alexa shuddered as he stroked her stomach then let out a small gasp when he firmly cupped her clothed breast.

Both sighed and moaned softly while their lips met once more, simultaneously, Alexa unbuttoned Rafael’s jeans and pulled down his fly but just as she was about to dip her hand inside, both the closet doors flung open. The two of them jumped back from each other and Alexa quickly straightened her ruffled clothing as Rafael zipped up his pants, the young woman smirked at them with her arms crossed.

“Was I interrupting something?”

“No,” they said in unison.

“Well, the brownstone is yours if you want it…unless you need more time”

“We’re just going to look around some more and we’ll let you know”

“Do I have to chaperone you guys?”

Alexa nervously laughed, but she reiterated that they would be on their best behavior, they exited the closet and took one final look before they headed into the next room. Alexa stood in the spot where they would set up their bed when her attention drifted upward to a small opening in the ceiling.

“Rafi, look there’s a skylight in here”

Rafael joined Alexa by her side and placed a hand on her shoulder, his eyes looked upward at the glass opening.

“Wow”

“I know, but it’s perfect…we can see the stars at night or listen to the pitter patter of raindrops”

“Sounds romantic”

It was then that the realtor cleared her throat and made the gesture towards the door that they should proceed onward, the room next to theirs was equally spacious, Alexa walked over to the window where her eyes looked at the scenery.

The large oak tree in her peripheral view, whose leaves were coated in a beautiful shade of orange and yellow grabbed her attention, suddenly, an image of her rocking back and forth in a chair as she cradled her child while the tree was in her rearview flashed in her mind; Alexa smiled to herself at the thought. Across the street from the brownstone, there was a park, Alexa smiled cheekily at the sound of children playing and laughing, in that instant, she spotted a few climbing the monkey bars or running along the jungle gym.

It was then that she caught a glimpse of something at the corner of her eye, her attention was now focused on a young couple pushing a stroller down the sidewalk; once again Rafael stood at her side with an arm draped around her. Their eyes were trained on them as they walked hand in hand, Rafael leaned his head against Alexa’s and said:

“That’s going to be us soon”

Alexa reached over and put her hand on top of the one that was placed on her shoulder.

“I know”

“So, what do you think? I mean I like it…”

“I do too, and I already decided that this room is going to be the nursery”

Rafael nodded, the couple turned around to where the realtor stood, they verbally relayed to her that they were going to be its new occupants.

“Great, I’ll draw up the papers and as soon as I get the go ahead from the bank, you guys can move in. Oh, before I forget, there are two more rooms on the floor above us, and I know Rafael here is always burning the midnight oil, so you can use one of them as your private office and the other can be a guest room”

“Sounds good to me, thank you for everything Denise”

“No problem, I’m always happy to help out a friend”

For the next few days, everyone from the squad and a few people from the shelter helped with the move, it took two moving trucks to pack up both Rafael’s and Alexa’s belongings.

When they arrived at the brownstone, it was an assembly line of people coming in and out with boxes, inside, Alexa was directing them where to put the them; when it came time for the heavy furniture to be unloaded, Sonny and Fin lifted the couch from the truck and brought it into the living room. The guys from the shelter picked up the mattress, that was the only piece of furniture left and escorted it to the bedroom, when both trucks were emptied, Alexa applauded them for all their hard work and that they were relieved of their duties as movers.

With a collective laugh from everyone, they made their rounds and patted one another on the back and before they left, they each gave Rafael and Alexa hugs. Later that evening, Alexa lit some candles around the house as Rafael unpacked a few essential things from the boxes, he had already placed pillows and a blanket on top of the bare mattress in the bedroom; now he was looking for where he put his phone charger. Alexa chuckled lightly at the sight of him fumbling around the cardboard box in front of him, he turned around and smirked at her.

“Do you know where my phone charger is?”

“Yeah, it’s in my purse”

“Oh…”

Alexa sauntered towards him and pulled him into her embrace, their foreheads touched as she swayed his body a little.

She let out a disappointed sigh and then said, “Well…this isn’t exactly how I wanted to spend Thanksgiving”

“I know…instead of having turkey, we’re going to have to order take-out”

“We’ll make up for it at Christmas”

Rafael lifted his head and gave a small peck on her forehead, then she walked over to where her purse sat on top of another box, she pulled out Rafael’s charger and handed it to him. When she was about to reach for her own, there was a knock at the door, she glanced over to Rafael who shared her look of confusion, as she opened the door, she was welcomed by a semi large crowd of people.

“Oh, my god…Sonny?”

“Hey Lex, happy Thanksgiving,” Carisi hugged Alexa as he balanced a large Tupperware container, she stepped aside to let him in when he was followed by Olivia and Amanda, who were also carrying containers that appeared to have small quantities of food inside them. Fin and a few more people made their way inside, Rafael came out from the dining room and was in awe at the amount of people that corralled in the entryway.

“I don’t understand…”

“Well, we couldn’t let you guys go hungry on your first night in your new home, so we each brought you guys some leftovers from our family dinners”

“But half of our things haven’t been put away yet”

“It’s ok, we’ll make room in the dining room, Fin brought a couple card tables and folding chairs and Amanda has some plastic plates and silverware, and of course Liv brought wine for Barba and Sparkling Cider for you”

Alexa became overwhelmed by the outpour of love and support coming from everyone, in that moment, tears began to well up in her eyes; she leapt forward and hugged Carisi.

“Thank you all so much, you guys are the most wonderful group of friends anyone could ask for…and that’s not the hormones talking”

Everyone burst out laughing, as soon as it quieted down, Fin and a friend of his grabbed the items from the SUV parked out front and set them up in the dining room after Rafael and Alexa shuffled some boxes around to make room, Olivia set the table as Amanda placed the folding chairs in their appropriate positions.

After everything was in place, they all sat at the table, at that same time, Alexa opened the containers and passed around pieces of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy and string bean casserole. Rafael was in the kitchen unpacking the glassware from the box that sat on top of the counter, he brought glasses back to the table two by two, once each plate had a glass, he poured the wine. Alexa poured herself the Sparkling Cider and took her place at the table, throughout the rest of the evening, everyone dined on their meal as they laughed and talked about the current events in their lives.

Alexa watched silently as they continued their parade of laughter and overall enjoyment, her heart swelled with pride at how lucky she was to be surrounded by a group of people who fought for justice but who also took the time to enact the simplest acts of human kindness, in addition, she thought of how much her life changed and will continue to now that she was carrying the love of her life’s child inside her.

At one point, Rafael raised his glass and proposed a toast, to his everlasting friendship with everyone at the table, to his wonderful and adoring girlfriend and to impending fatherhood; with that, everyone else raised their glasses and voiced their agreement at his words. This would certainly be one of many cherished memories to come for Alexa and Rafael.

Tagging: @madpanda75 @madamsnape921 @teamsladsandgents @itsjustmyfantasyroom @thatesqcrush @laceybellerain @southern-magnolia @tropes-and-tales @beccabarba @glimmerglittergirl @karens-imagined-world

[lemonietrinket]

Fragile Like Chandeliers ||| YoungK x Reader

Summary: You meet a truly intriguing man inside an expensive lounge on the job  Genre: Small bits of fluff but its weak bc its more sensual, some angst, uhhh??? idk    noir, gang Warning(s): very very vague references to injury/death Word Count: 2763  Song(s): Ambience AN: hey anon! sorry this took a little while :((  i also have... no idea if this was what you wanted. and its... also longer than my word limit that i put on my request notice. uh. oops. i tried to put some italian in there (for fake names of things) but i am not fluent and though i researched grammar, there are obviously many nuances to the language that i dont know so i apologise if they sound bad (feel free to correct me!)

fem!reader

~~~

Smooth jazz filtered through the swathes of people, bunched in small bouquets of dazzling jewels and shining gold. The low quartz-tinged lights kept the shadows in the corners, gently swaying to the beat as swept past, silver trays empty. 

You were perched quietly at the sidelines, crimson velvet plush beneath your draping onyx dress. Eyes flickering across the chandelier above, you couldn’t help but smile at the memories that arose. The Eiffel Tower had been so beautiful in that moment, reflected in a thousand crystals suspended in mid-collapse before they shattered into their oblivions.  Your fingertips traced across the emerald gem between your collarbones, settled comfortably between intricately carved swans. With their heads bowed and wings splayed they reminded you of home, a place you hadn’t set foot in for a long time. The aching rarely reared its head, but this evening it teased at your heartstrings in a way you would never admit to any other.

Well, perhaps maybe one.

As your attentions were briefly piqued at the sight of a man with a bellowing laugh, who strode past you with his arms wide and decorated with cufflinks made of silver knots, you had moved your feet to stand. However, that was when your keen eyes glanced back across the room, only to meet another pair. 

They were the eyes of a fox, ablaze with wit and narrowed in curiosity, and they stared you down and enraptured you in seconds. You found yourself glued to your spot and not giving a single damn about it, as the man bid his colleague a farewell and began to make his way towards you.

With a face that only a dream could make, the smile he gave a passerby who greeted him oozed confidence; the single nod of his head that followed knocking his effortlessly curled fringe ever-so-slightly into his eyes. It led him to run his hand through the tousled locks when he faced you again, and had you not been on the job you would have no doubt swooned.

The man was clearly something special—his suit crafted of ambrosia, a clean cut jet besides pristine white, paired with dress shoes that shone as he reached where you were sat. 

You peered up at him silently, waiting to hear the voice that fell from those plush lips.

“Good evening,” he greeted.

And boy was it luscious. 

You responded in kind, consciously making your eyes bigger as he extended a palm gently towards you. “Might I take you for a dance?”

After a few seconds pretending to mull it over, you let your hand slip into his. He helped you to your feet all while you were too focused on the rough pads of his fingers stroking the back of your palms. 

He led the pair of you to the small area sectioned off for dancing near the live band. Passing a few other couples already swinging with the saxophone’s melody, you were captivated by how he effortlessly weaved the two of you to the centre.

All he’d said had been ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ but somehow it had eased anyone in the vicinity and made them move away with no less than a grin and ushered laughter.

He was remarkable. And if it turned out he wasn’t what you were looking for, you would be stunned.

Coming to a stop, he stood broadly before you. With a hand caressing down to your waist before settling there as if it had always meant to be, you entwined your fingers with his other as you felt across his shoulder blade.  His sensuality was thrilling, the closeness of your chest to his sending your heartbeat into irregular motion, and you had to admit he was talented.

“So,” he began, voice low and smooth like the late evening wine sipped in candlelight, “what must I call this gorgeous beauty before me?”

Lip unconsciously teasing between your teeth, you simpered. “You first.”

A smirk formed on his lips. “Younghyun.”

“Y/N.”

“Ah, a perfect name for a perfect lady.” He took the lead and you let him, following his slow sways with small steps of your own. “And a perfect voice too—there’s an accent there, if I’m not mistaken?”

“There may be,” you replied coyly, “Italian, born and raised.”

His smile brightened, “I’ve always wanted to visit Italy. The views, the food, the music...” he stopped himself with what could only be described as a sheepish laugh, “sorry, I’m probably preaching to the choir here.”

“It’s fine! I miss all of that quite often nowadays.”

Your grip tightened while your heart lurched. Attempting to keep yourself under control, you hid your disdain behind a smile. How had you let yourself slip up like that? Since when did you wear your feelings on your cheek for a man you only just met? 

As the song changed and the tempo quickened, Younghyun twirled you round by your fingers. “So what brings you all this way here, to one of the most exclusive bars in Seoul?”

“Why, do I not look like I fit in?” you enquired. 

As he pulled you back to his chest, he stayed quiet for a few moments, his eyes carefully taking in the curve of your cheeks. “I’ll be absolutely honest with you,” he glanced around the room before coming back to look you in the eye, “you’re too good to fit in here.”

“I am?” You were hanging off his words, and despite your rational brain reminding you that he was just smooth talking, the way small butterflies began to send ripples through your chest had you very nearly believing him. It was as if that emerald upon your neck carried no weight at all.

“Of course.” His response was quick, sincere, and slowly the heaviness returned. You could feel it swaying a beat behind your movements together.

“I’m here to get away,” you finally explained, eyes lowering from his and focusing on his bow tie. It was spotless, folded crisply at his collar, and for a split second you wondered if it too pressed at his neck. “I’m a writer but... life can be so restricting, you know? How can I write about lives when I haven’t lived myself?”

The words slipped easily off your tongue, and you felt the tension leave your shoulders. Meanwhile, when you gazed up again, you found his smile tinged with sadness.

“I understand that. Sometimes what you end up in isn’t what you want,” he said. 

Confidence filling your veins, you slipped your fingers from his and ran your hands to interlock behind his neck. “I’m so glad you get me,” you whispered in his ear, “no one really does.” Closing the distance, you rested your head against his chest, face turned away from his knowing eyes that seemed to cut into you.

It was only a matter of seconds before Younghyun’s hands both swept to the small of your back, cradling you gently.  You pondered upon how he looked at you right then, as your eyes watched the couple beside you. They were in the same position as the two of you, swaying with the dwindling music. When they caught a beam of light as they turned, you saw how old they were, time etching at the corners of their eyes, giving them permanent eye-smiles. The man in question was truly beaming however, at the woman in his arms. He had a knowing glint in his eye, something you simultaneously wished you knew and were happy to not know the context to—without it, after all, they stayed painted in silver. The woman, much shorter and spindly in her old frock—you imagined it was the one she wore at the last wedding she attended—seemed so content, her lips mouthing the words to an unknown song, her feet moving in synchrony with his.

Her eyes were closed, you noted, and once you had done there was no going back. You turned your head the other way, your own gaze remaining wide open.

“Enough about me, what job do you do?” you asked, loud enough to be heard without moving, but it was pointless, as his answer came back as a teasing retort.

“What do you think I do?”

You shifted your head to come face to face with him again. You were so close to his lips it would only take seconds to bridge the gap, and the apprehension hurt. “I don’t know. Something dashing.”

“Oh really? How come?” His smirk had returned, mischief glimmering in his eye much like the chandelier lights did, urging you to say out loud what you only intended to infer. 

Cocky bastard, you thought, smile growing as you spoke. “Because someone as handsome as you could only do something dashing. Otherwise it wouldn’t be fair.”

As the saxophone picked up behind him, you moved your head to settle upon his shoulder, snickering as he whispered into your ear. 

“There it is...!” 

You playfully tugged at the hair at his nape to chide him. “Come on, tell me, what’s your job?”

He seemed momentarily distracted, before brushing off your words with a laugh. “Trust me, it’s not as interesting as you think.”

“How could it not be interesting?” you countered, leaning in closer to his neck so that your breath would flutter across his skin there, “you wouldn’t do it otherwise.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” he retorted, swinging you round and pulling you back so your shoulders met his chest, “you’ve only just met me.”

“And sometimes a chance meeting is all it takes,” you uttered, running your fingertips down the backs of his hands at your waist. With your head turned towards him, but your eyes remaining apart, you swayed your hips with his as you continued, “I’ve seen many faces, Younghyun, I think I know people well now. And you have the face of someone who knows so much and yet hasn’t said a word.”

You got no words in direct answer to the ramble of ones you had procured. Instead he spun you back around so that he could take another good look at you, and he drank in your beauty as if he were a dying man. His lips parted to speak hours before he finally did.  “How much more do you know about me?” he eased through a coy smile.

“I don’t know,” you hummed, tracing the line of his tie with the back of your finger, “why don’t we find out?”

Your boldness earnt a single laugh, your dance partner silent before he adjusted his grip at your waist. One hand shifted up your back and held you close in an embrace, before he gently lowered you back. You held onto his shoulder as well as his gaze, as he followed you into the dip.  With lips millimetres away from yours, you had been certain he would close the gap, and press a kiss where he’d been hinting for the entire night. His eyes fluttered down to the sight of your painted lips, then back up to your curious stare. “Shall we get drinks?”

You beamed. “Sure.”

Lifting you back to your feet, his hand never left the small of your back as he guided you towards the bar, back across the lounge. You stuck close to his side to avoid the clusters of crowds as the grew and punctured the sensual melodies of the band.  Tucked by his shoulder, a sense of peace washed over you. When there was a sudden crash of spilled drinks to your right you didn’t even take a glimpse of it in, and instead kept your head low and inclined towards your partner of the night. 

You reached the bar in no time, and the only time he left your side was to minutely slip ahead, to pull a bar stool out for you to sit upon. 

Sending him a teasing eye roll you giggled at his silent gasp of exaggerated disdain, before he sat beside you. With his body facing you, he leant on an elbow until the bartender came over.

“Sir, madam,” she greeted with a polite smile, “what can I get for you?”

“Bokbunja for me please, and for the lady,” he addressed you with a smile, “drinks on me, what would you like?”

“No, it’s ok, I wouldn’t want to cost you—”

“Oh, Y/N, you could cost me the world and I wouldn’t care,” Younghyun interrupted, 

You considered continuing with the humble act, but truth be told you didn’t have the patience for it, and you were pretty sure it wasn’t necessary. If that wasn’t an expression of a hooked man, then you no longer knew what was. 

You scoured the towers of intricate bottles behind the bartender, hued amber through to olive and deep magenta. They were oddly beautiful, catching the light not unlike a thousand crystalline shards, muted by their labels written in calligraphic ink.

Making eye contact with the bartender, the corner of your lips easing into a tiny smile while you ordered, “Well, if you’re so sure. Segreto Classico, please.”

The woman’s stare widened, her smile becoming rigid as she glanced at the man at your side. You followed her stare a few moments later, once she’d stepped away with a nod of her head to make the drinks. You languidly drew your eyes up and across Younghyun’s figure. It was as if he was made for tuxedos, his clean cut jacket lining his chest perfectly and accentuating his shoulders. Now that he wasn’t touching you, your hazy thoughts began to playfully contemplate if he was real at all. 

You found him frowning at his phone quizzically. “Everything ok?” you asked, leaning upon the counter to try and get a better look at his face. 

He did a double take to the bartender and then finally to you, a dispassionate grin covering his lips. “Oh, yeah it’s all good, I’ve just... got to take this call, if that’s alright?”

“Oh, no problem, I’ll be right here waiting for you,” you settled your chin upon your hand at that moment, though he didn’t appear to catch your sultry display as he smiled blankly, before raising his phone to his ear and walking towards the balcony. 

You watched him leave, the energy of the room dipping as he melded with the crowds. 

You were brought out from your vacant stare and spiralling thoughts by a a sudden clink to your side. Snapping your head over, you found your drink placed by your elbow, the lace design in the glass shimmering in the dim lights. The bartender meanwhile glared at you while she poured the second drink.

“You shouldn’t order that so blatantly,” she scolded, “you know full well that the drink isn’t on the—”

“And you think a member of la Giarda would drink anything else?” you interjected bluntly, taking your glass into your hands and swirling the ice amidst the clear liquid. The mint scent wafted around you and slowly cleared your mind, leading you to recount in your head what had occurred mere moments prior as if weeks had passed. 

The bartender shushed you urgently, but her tension didn’t travel across the counter. 

“Relax,” you urged with a snicker and knowing look, “no one knows the name here. He hasn’t got a clue. I’ll gather the information without a hitch don’t you worry.”

The woman places the second glass, taller and more simple than yours, in front of the empty bar stool. “You better not blow my cover,” she mumbled sulkily.

“You know I won’t,” you iterated, taking a sip and letting the electrifying taste sink in as you watched where he had disappeared off to.

“Because we’re only going to get one shot at this, so he better be—”

“He’s the right guy,” you snapped. 

And just as your glare dwindled, the crowds parted to reveal Younghyun, phone tucked back in his pocket and expression back to life. You caught his eye once again, and in an echo of the first time, you were captivated once again. This time however, in a different way.

As he approached, you felt a jab to your heart, like twisting glass. The newfound clarity had left you open and vulnerable, and here he offered the blow without knowing. 

When the chandelier cast dappled lights fraught with shadows and curtailed amber across his handsome face, all you could see was the suspended chandelier shattering to the ground. The shards finally experiencing their fate as time caught up with them. 

You didn’t want him to end like that too.

~~~

AN: i took a fair bit of inspiration from noir films, so i apologise if you don’t wear dresses/heels

Masterlist

[trashassassin]

Two Halves of a Whole | 5: Privacy Policy (V x Reader)

You really need to stop making such misguided decisions, my dear reader. Though, I guess if you listened to your better judgement, then this series never would have happened, would it?

Word Count: 2338

Warnings: Strong Language

You were always a little bit nervous getting out of your car after returning home late at night. Logically, you knew that if someone wished to do you harm, there was nothing that would stop them from breaking your window to get to you, but the belief persisted nonetheless. The car was safe, outside was not.

It wasn't that you lived in a particularly unsafe neighborhood. It was simply that you assumed the worst of everyone you happened to come across. And it didn't help that you'd been feeling an increasing sense of unease as of late, the source of which remained elusive.

Your own cruel mind, most likely, but you couldn't help feeling that there was something different about it this time, even if you couldn't put your finger on exactly what it was.

After sitting in your car far too long contemplating all of this, you opened the door and stepped out onto the street.

It was always a bit of a walk from your parking spot to your apartment complex due to the fact that, if you wanted to park closer, you would need to shell out for a parking pass, which you were entirely unwilling to do. You recognized that the negligible amount of money you saved was not a good tradeoff for the anxiety you felt on your nightly walks, but at this point, you continued to refuse to pay on principle alone.

Cutting through the alley was the fastest way to get to your complex, as it led directly to your back door, even if it made the journey more nerve wracking. Your standard strategy was to take it at a faster than average pace, but not at a run in case that made you a more conspicuous target for someone untoward, throwing casual glances over your shoulder every so often just to make sure no one had followed you.

On this night in particular, upon one of your glances, you noticed something in the distance that made your heart drop. It was a shadow, stretched across the brick wall behind you. At first, you tried to convince yourself that it had been there the whole time and you simply hadn't noticed it, but as you continued to stare at it, it shifted slightly.

Your mind tried to push you to run, but your body was stuck fast. Would it move again? Something compelled you to wait and see if it would.

And it did, in a way that you never would have noticed if you hadn't been watching so closely. It seemed to you that whoever, or whatever, the shadow belonged to did not wish to be seen.

This allowed you the perfect opportunity to turn around and continue to your apartment, and possibly consider picking up a parking permit after all once you'd reached it. And yet, as you turned, you found that you still couldn't force yourself to move.

Curiosity burned in your mind, egging you on to turn back around and investigate. But only a fool would do such a thing, and you were no fool.

Right?

You glanced back again and the shadow remained in your vision.

Perhaps you were a fool after all because, slowly, with one hand wrapped around the pepper spray affixed to your keychain, you started toward it. You hugged the wall to your left as you inched forward in the (likely false) impression that this would help you maintain the element of surprise. As you reached the edge, you peeked around it, only to be met with a rather peculiar sight.

There was indeed a figure there, human, you suspected, the finer details of which were all but obscured by the glare of the streetlight not far behind it. It was covered almost entirely by a black cloak, or possibly a blanket. At least, it appeared to be black in the darkness.

The confirmation of another living creature gave you the motivation you needed to finally turn around and, just when you were about to do so, the figure lifted its head and looked up at you.

Your blood ran cold and your body froze in place.

This was it. This was how you were going to die and it was all your own stupid fault for not running away like you knew you should have. Curiosity killed the cat, as you'd always been told, and today, the cat was you.

The figure stood, appearing unsteady on its feet for a moment, giving you another perfect opportunity to run away, but it was as though your feet were glued to the concrete below. As it began to walk toward you, its eyes found yours again.

It didn't appear to have a particularly threatening physique beneath the blanket it wore, but you were well aware that appearances could be deceiving. It paused about a meter away from you and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the impact of your untimely demise.

But, it never came.

Instead, the figure spoke.

"Excuse me."

You opened your eyes. It was just a man, you realized, a perfectly ordinary man. The images you'd begun to formulate of a horrifying monster hiding beneath the sheet evaporated.

"I don't want to impose," he continued. "But, I was wondering if you might be able to help me."

You cocked your head to one side.

"What, do you need money, or something?" you asked. "I don't have any cash on me."

He shook his head, then reached his hand into the blanket. You took a few steps back, half expecting him to produce a weapon and begin brandishing it at you. But instead, it was a thin piece of paper, which he extended toward you.

"I was hoping you could help me find this man," he said.

As you took the paper from him and examined it, a chill ran down your spine. You did indeed know the man whose photograph was displayed there. He was a good friend of yours.

"Where did you get this?" you asked.

"That is… unimportant," he said, and alarm bells rang in your mind.

Then again, you were familiar with the sort of business your friend was involved with and he did tend to attract a rather unusual client base. So in that way, the interaction you were currently having was par for the course.

"You got a job for him?" you ask. "Something tells me you didn't find him by accident."

"Your assumption is correct," he said.

You didn't know a whole lot about the company's goings on, but you knew enough to know that anyone who sought out Devil May Cry and, by extension, its frontman, Dante, had a very specific purpose in mind.

"Alright," you said. "I'll give him your contact information next time I see him."

"I'd rather speak to him myself," he said. "It's quite urgent."

You did not drop your guard as you continued to stare down the strange man in front of you.

"How do you know him?" you asked, and he simply smiled. "Okay, then. Well, uh…" You pulled out a paper of your own, this one taking the shape of the business cards Dante had forced you to carry. "… Feel free to stop by in the morning whenever you get a chance. He hasn't been very busy lately, so I'm sure he'll be able to see you right away."

You handed him the card and turned to walk away for what you hoped would be the last time.

"Actually," he said, and, for some reason unknown to you, you again paused in place. "I was hoping you could offer further assistance."

Everything within you was telling you that continuing to listen to this possibly insane man was a very bad idea, but you stood your ground.

"What?" you asked, your voice cold.

"You see, I have nowhere to stay for the night."

Your eyes narrowed.

"There's a motel down the street," you said, pointing off in the vague direction of it. "I'm sorry, I can't help you there."

"Please." His face suddenly took on a rather urgent expression. "I'm in a bit of a difficult situation here. I only need one night."

The thought crossed your mind that this was possibly one of Dante's weird friends playing a trick on you, but you dismissed it as quickly as it appeared.

"A difficult situation, huh?" you asked, your voice dripping with disbelief.

"I don't have anything," he said. "They won't let me stay without identification. Please."

No identification? As sketched out as you were by the situation, your curiosity was piqued once again.

"Are you from out of town?" you asked.

"In a way," he replied.

This only intrigued you further.

He did seem harmless enough as you took a better look at him. In fact, he looked rather pathetic with the blanket draped over his thin frame. You realized upon closer inspection that the blanket was the only thing he had draped over him at all. His bare legs and feet were poking out the bottom and you could only infer that the rest of him was in a similar state.

So, you'd encountered a naked stranger in an alleyway, one who just so happened to be seeking a close personal friend of yours, with no identification on him whatsoever, and you were about to invite him into your home.

You wanted to make sure that you had properly established your ludicrous plan before you carried it out.

"I don't know who the hell you are," you said. "But you seem harmless enough. Come on."

You motioned for him to follow you.

"Thank you," he said, and he sounded genuinely relieved as he said it.

Even if you did end up dead and dumped in a sewer somewhere come morning, you were sure that Dante would stop at nothing to avenge your death, at the very least, so you had that going for you, if nothing else.

Against your logical judgement, you led this strange, naked man back to your apartment and allowed him inside.

"So, what do they call you?" you asked.

You flicked on the light and grimaced as your messy living room became illuminated.

"V," he replied.

"What, like the letter?"

"Yeah."

Yet another unusual thing about him.

"Well, V, make yourself comfortable," you said. You cleared off the couch a bit, tossing its contents wherever there was enough space, and motioned for him to sit down. "Would you like anything? Tea, or coffee, maybe?"

"No, thank you," he replied.

He sat down on your couch and was visibly shivering beneath the thin blanket he wore.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

You lifted your fleece blanket from the edge of the couch and tossed it at him.

"I'll be right back," you said.

You were going to make him some tea whether he asked for it or not. You couldn't just let him freeze on your couch all night after you'd so generously allowed him inside. And so, you grabbed the first box of teabags you saw, lemon ginger flavor, and brewed him a cup, along with one for yourself.

When you returned to the living room, he was already lying down beneath the blanket you'd given him.

"Here," you said.

You thrust the cup in his direction and he sat back upright.

"You didn't have to do that," he said.

"Well, I did, so take it."

He took the cup from your hands and you leaned back against the wall across from him, taking a sip from your own cup as you did.

"So, what's your story?" you asked. "How did you end up out here with no ID and no clothes?"

He stared at the floor.

"I have a bit of inside information that may be of use to your friend," he said, avoiding your question entirely.

"Inside information, huh? So, are you from the Underworld, then?"

He didn't respond.

"I'll take that as a yes," you continued. "Well, you don't look much like a demon, if that's any consolation, but I know that looks can be deceiving."

He still said nothing.

"Look, I'm not trying to pry, here. I just wanna know a little more about the weird naked guy I let into my house."

"If you think I'm crazy now, you'll only think me more crazy if I tell my story," he finally said.

You scoffed.

"Believe me," you said. "I've worked around Dante long enough to hear some seriously crazy shit."

It was clear to you that he wasn't going to relent no matter how many questions you threw at him, so you gave up asking and went back to your tea.

"I truly am sorry," he said. "Believe me when I say that I would not ask you to do this if I had any other option."

You shrugged.

"Whatever," you said.

You would have to have a chat with Dante regarding his clients and your privacy at some point in the future.

"I'll be sure to find a way to make it up to you when the case is settled," he said.

You weren't going to hold him to this, but you had to admit, you appreciated the sentiment somewhat.

"Well, I'm going to bed," you said, setting your still partially full cup on the coffee table. "Don't touch any of my shit and be sure to close the door when you leave, alright?"

"You have my word."

The entire thing began to feel a bit surreal as you headed up the stairs to your room. You could tell that there was so much more to this than he was letting on but, rather than putting you off, this fact intrigued you. You wanted to know more, so badly in fact that you had every intention of heading down to Dante's office the following day to ask him what the hell was going on.

Regardless of what it was, somehow, you got the distinct impression that you were already in way over your head.

[homestuck-kinstuff]

Can I request a tarot reading for my Cronus Ampora timeline? Thank you :))

Hello Cronus,

I'm happy to see your name in our inbox. Here's your spread dear, along with 4 advice cards that are not shown above.

I apologize for the muddled nature of the spread, my readings tend to be rather free-form. This can lead to some confusing setups, but I promise it all makes sense in context. The contents of your reading can be found below the cut:

Beginning Events

The Hanged Man, Upright:

From a very young age you saw value in self sacrifice. Sometimes, in order to progress forward, you have to take a couple steps back.

Early on, you perhaps needed to make sacrifices for the "greater good." You may have needed to sacrifice things that you loved for the benefit of people you loved.

My intuition tells me that this self sacrifice may have been necessary at the time, but was probably not necessary moving forward. However, seeing how early this happened in your life, the positive results of your sacrifice likely left a deep impression on you.

You may have adopted this self-sacrificial behavior as a tool to help others. You may have continually put your needs last, even if the situation didn't really call for it.

5 of Cups, Upright:

This card speaks about sadness associated with loss. It speaks about grief. Early in your life you lost someone close to you, (though not necessarily through death) and it affected you deeply.

The self-sacrificing behavior mentioned above may have been necessary in helping those around you mourn and cope.

Seeing as this card appears in your beginning, it likely it impacted your developing personality.

9 of Swords, Upright:

This card represents anxiety, plain and simple. Of being trapped by negative thoughts, whether or not the situation warrants it.

You were likely an anxious youth. Whether or not this had any relation to your loss, I am not sure.

Qualities Affecting Cards beneath me

4 of Cups, Upright:

This card represents apathy. Of being so wrapped up in your thoughts, that you're unable to see the good the world has to offer.

I assume this fog of apathy that befell your loved ones, was simply grief.

Two people very dear to you

King of Swords, Upright:

A person who represents truth, and authority. They see easily through deception and are thoroughly intolerant of it. This person rules their life with a stern but calm intellect, and is a pillar of strength to all who know them.

This person likely wasn’t a very emotional person to begin with, and in relation to your loss, they probably struggled to express themselves, empathize with you, and offer support.

In the wake of your loss, they may have been difficult to talk to, difficult to read, and you may have felt very distant from them as a result.

Page of Wands, Reversed:

The Page of Wands is normally a person brimming with excitement, with a lust for exploration, and a love of discussing and discovering new ideas.

When Reversed, this individual is lost, feeling a general lack of direction in their life. Their projects and visionary ideas have been cut short of their potential. They may have felt trapped or caged because of this.

This person likely struggled as they did because of this loss. I would infer they sunk into a depression, and your relationship with them suffered as a result. Facing all of this failure and grief, they lost sight of the good in the world.

You, the middle of your timeline

Page of Pentacles, Upright:

By looking at the placement of this card on the left, my intuition tells me that this is representative of you before you were affected by your loved one's apathy. Core traits of yourself that may have been overshadowed by greif.

The Page of Pentacles is filled with and seeks new opportunities, budding dreams and desires. This card indicates you're on the edge of a new venture that would bring you luck in the material world.

10 of Wands, Reversed:

Just as the card before indicates the you before you were changed by tragedy, this card (on the far right) displays traits that grew as a direct result of the hardship you faced.

This card speaks about being overburdened with extremely hard work. However, as it is in its reverse, this card implies that you are holding onto this work and burden unnecessarily: that you are doing everything yourself when you could easily delegate tasks to others.

You don’t trust anyone to help you.

It's likely in the wake of your loss, and in response to the emotional unavailability of your loved ones, you threw yourself into the new venture that presented itself above, and tried to lose yourself it it. Drowning out any free time to think with work that "needed" to be done.

Your present situation in your timeline

10 of Cups, Upright:

This lovely card speaks about a deep emotional happiness, directly resulting from a concrete sense of unity with the world.

It's the joy you feel when it seems all facets of your emotional life come together. No conflict within or without your different circles: friends and family exist in harmony, and the community that results from it is deeply rewarding for you to experience.

The Lovers, Upright:

This card represents unity, represents two becoming one. It speaks of a rewarding relationship in your life, full of trust, confidence, and strength.

The nature of the relationship may vary, however: An emotionally charged, and physical romance. A bond of friendship, forged hot and unshakable. Two warring aspects of your own personality finally finding peace with one another.

You

Knight of Pentacles, Reversed:

The knight of Pentacles is not afraid of hard work. He will toil and put his shoulder to the mundane for endless hours to do what needs to be done. This can be an incredibly useful trait to have.

Reversed as he is, his work becomes obsessive. He allows himself to be lost in it-- to lose sight of the bigger picture completely.

In the context of this spread, I think the bigger picture you're not allowing yourself to see, the reality you are shunning by obsessing over work, is a sense of community and togetherness. You're denying yourself the opportunity to make new, rich and rewarding relationships by isolating and ignoring the world turning on around you.

You may be making assumptions that aren't true about the nature of your current relationships, or feel yourself lacking or inept in some way, feeling incapable of reaching out and loving again.

This is simply not true. Good things are waiting for you Cronus, if you'll take the chance and reach for them.

Advice

The High Priestess, Upright:

The High Priestess calls for you to take the time to understand your own inner world. In your brief obsession with the physical, you may have lost touch with your inner voice.

Take the time to listen to yourself, to relearn your needs. Don't shame yourself for having needs, you deserve love and rest and care just as much as everyone else.

Justice, Reversed:

Justice sees truth. They cut through crap and deal plainly with facts. They are fair.

Reversed as they are, it signals that you are unable to see the truth. You do not have an accurate view of yourself and your surroundings.

You likely have an unfair view of yourself. You may be ignoring your goodness, or condemning yourself unfairly for a flaw.

You are being too hard on yourself, and are blind your true worth. You are valuable, Cronus, and not because of your work ethic or output. You bring enough to the world simply being as you are.

2 of Wands, Upright:

This card represents the act of making plans. Of taking raw vision and ambition and turning it to planning and progress. It also implies that you have everything you need to make these plans a reality.

Don't misunderstand the message here. Hard work is important-- but it may be a good idea to take another look at the direction of your work, and apply a little more structure.

You are smart, Cronus. You are capable, and you have everything you need to do incredible things.

The Sun, Reversed:

The sun is a card of radiant joy. When reversed, this joy is hidden. Much like the sun can be, behind clouds.

Your pain and sadness is real and valid. It can feel all-encompassing and never ending, but it is not, Cronus. The sun is still there. The clouds are parting. You owe it to yourself, to let yourself feel the warmth again.

Thank you for taking the time to read all that, I know I can be a little wordy. 👾

As always, trust your instincts with this sort of thing. If it doesn't feel right, it probably isn't. I'd recommend looking up the card's meaning in that case for a little more clarity.

And please, don’t hesitate to let us know if you'd like anything else from us, we're happy to lend a hand.💜

Kind Regards,

🌹Mod Rose🌹