#i feel like hereditary was good but it was in a certain way a bit disappointed bc it felt like. weirdly collaged

[the-stray-liger]

God I love horror. It makes me so happy

[wifelinkmtg]

TUMBLR POST EDITOR WON'T LET ME TITLE THIS POST ANYMORE SO I GUESS THIS IS THE TITLE NOW. WEBBED SITE INNIT

So let's say you grew up in the nineties and that The Lion King was an important movie to you. Let's say that the character of Scar - snarling, ambitious, condescending, effeminate Scar - stirred feelings in you which you had no words for as a child. And then let's say, many years later, you're talking about it with a college friend, and you say something like, "oh man, I think Scar was some sort of gay awakening for me," and she fixes you with this level stare and says, "Scar was a fascist. What's the matter with you?"

The immediate feeling is not unlike missing a step: hang on, what's happening, what did I miss? You knew there were goose-stepping hyenas in "Be Prepared," but you didn't think it mattered that much. He's the bad guy, after all, and the movie's just pointing it out. Your friend says it's more than that: the visuals of the song are directly referencing the Nuremberg rallies. They're practically an homage to Riefenstahl. This was your sexual awakening? Is this why you're so into peaked caps and leather, then? Subliminal nazi kink, perhaps?

And then one of your other friends cuts in. "Hold up," he says, "let's think about what Scar actually did in the movie. He organized a group of racialized outcasts and led them against a predatory monarchy. Why are you so keen to defend their hereditary rule? Scar's the good guy here." The conversation immediately descends into a verbal slap fight about who the real bad guy is, whether Scar's regime was actually responsible for the ecological devastation of the Pride Lands, whether the hyenas actually count as "racialized" because James Earl Jones voiced Mufasa after all. Your Catholic friend starts saying some strange and frankly concerning shit about Natural Law. Someone brings The Lion King 2 into it. You leave the conversation feeling a little bit lost and a little bit anxious. What were we even talking about?

INTRODUCING: THE DITCH

There is a way of reading texts which I'm afraid is pervasive, which has as its most classical expression the smug obsession with trivia and minutiae you find in a certain vein of comic book fan. "Who was the first Green Lantern? What was his weakness? Do you even know the Green Lantern Oath?" It eschews the subjective in favor of definitively knowable fact. You can't argue with this guy that, say, Alan Scott shouldn't really count as the first Green Lantern because his whole deal is so radically different from the Hal Jordan/John Stewart/Guy Gardner Corps-era Lanterns, because this guy will simply say "but he's called Green Lantern. Says so right on the cover. Checkmate." This approach to reading a text is fundamentally 1) emotionally detached (there's a reason the joke goes, oh you like X band? name three of their songs - and not, which of their songs means the most to you? which of them came into your life at exactly the right moment to tell you exactly what you needed to hear just then?) and 2) defensive. It's a stance that is designed not to lose arguments. It says so right on the cover. Checkmate.

And then you get the guys who are like "well obviously Bruce Wayne could do far more as a billionaire to solve societal problems by using his tremendous wealth to address systemic issues instead of dressing up as a bat and punching mental patients in the head," and these guys have half a point but they're basically in the same ditch butting heads with the "well, actually" guys, and can we not simply extricate ourselves from the ditch entirely?

So, okay, let's return to our initial example. Scar is portrayed using Nazi iconography - the goose-stepping, the monumentality, the Nuremberg Lichtdom. He is also flamboyant and effete. He unifies and leads a group of downtrodden exiles to overthrow an absolute monarch. He's also a self-serving despot on whose rule Heaven Itself turns its back. You can't reconcile these things from within the ditch - or if you can, the attempt is likely to be ad-hoc supposition and duct tape.

Instead, let's ask ourselves what perspective The Lion King is coming from. What does it say is true about the world? What are its precepts, its axioms?

There is a natural hierarchical order to the world. This is just and righteous and the way of things, and attempts to overthrow this order will be punished severely by the world itself.

Fascism is what happens when evil men attempt to usurp this natural order with the aid of a group or groups of people who refuse to accept their place in the order.

There exists an alternative to defending and adhering to one's place in the natural order - it consists only of selfish spineless apathy.

Manliness is an essential quality of a just ruler. Unmanliness renders a person unfit for rule, and often resentful and dangerous as well.

And isn't that interesting, laid out like that? It renders the entire argument about the movie irrelevant (except for whatever your Catholic friend was on about, since his understanding of the world seems to line up with the above precepts weirdly well.) It's meaningless to argue about whether Scar was a secret hero or a fascist, when the movie doesn't understand fascism and has a damn-near alien view of what good and evil are.

There's always gonna be someone who, having read this far, wants to reply, "so, what? The Lion King is a bad movie and the people who made it were homophobes and also American monarchists, somehow? And anyone who likes it is also some sort of gay-bashing crypto-authoritarian?" To which I have to reply, man, c'mon, get out of the ditch. You're no good to anyone in there. Take my hand. I'm going to pull on three. One... two...

SO PHYREXIA [PAUSE FOR APPLAUSE, GROANS]

We're talking about everyone's favorite ichor-drooling surgery monsters again because there was a bit in my ~*~seminal~*~ essay Transformation, Horror, Eros, Phyrexia which seemed to give a number of readers quite a bit of trouble: namely, the idea that while Phyrexia is textually fascist, their aesthetic is incompatible with real-world fascism, and further, that this aesthetic incompatibility in some way outweighs the ways in which they act like a fascist nation in terms of how we think of them. I'll take responsibility here: I don't think that point is at all clear or well-argued in that essay. What I was trying to articulate was that the text of Magic: the Gathering very much wants Phyrexia to be supremely evil and dangerous fascists, because that makes for effective antagonists, but in the process of constructing that, it's accidentally encoded a whole bunch of fascinating presuppositions that end up working at cross-purposes with its apparent aim. That's... not that much clearer, is it? Hmm. Why don't I just show you what I mean?

Atraxa, Grand Unifier (art by Marta Nael)

In "Beneath Eyes Unblinking," one of the March of the Machine stories by K. Arsenault Rivera, there's a fascinating and I think revealing passage in which Atraxa (big-deal Phyrexianized angel and Elesh Norn's lieutenant) has a run-in with an art museum in New Capenna. The first thing I want to talk about is that, in this passage, Atraxa has no understanding of the concept of "beauty". A great deal of space in such a rushed storyline is devoted to her trying to puzzle out what beauty means and interrogating the minds of her recently-compleated Capennan aesthetes to try and understand it. In the end, she is unable to conceive of beauty except as "wrongness," as anathema.

So my first question is, why doesn't Atraxa have any idea of beauty? This is nonsense, right? We could point to a previous story, "A Garden of Flesh," by Lora Gray, in which Elesh Norn explicitly thinks in terms of beauty, but that's a little bit ditchbound, isn't it? The better argument is to simply look at Phyrexian bodies, at the Phyrexian landscape, all of which looks the way it does on purpose, all of which has been shaped in accordance with the very real aesthetic preferences of Phyrexians. How you could look at the Fair Basilica and not understand that Phyrexians most definitely have an idea of beauty, even if you personally disagree with it, is baffling. This is a lot like the canonical assertion that Phyrexians lack souls, which is both contradicted elsewhere in canon and essentially meaningless, given Magic's unwillingness or inability to articulate what a soul is in its setting, and as with this, it seems the goal is simply to dehumanize Phyrexians, to render them alien, even at the cost of incoherence or internal contradiction.

Atraxa's progress through the museum is fascinating. It evokes the 1937 Nazi exhibit on "degenerate art" in Munich, but not at all cleanly. The first exhibit, which is of representational art, she angrily destroys for being too individualistic (a point of dissonance with the European fascist movements of the 20th century, which formed in direct antagonism to communism.) The second exhibit, filled with abstract paintings and sculptures, she destroys even more angrily for having no conceivable use (this is much more in line with the Nazi idea of "degenerate art", so well done there.) The third exhibit is filled with war trophies and reconstructions from a failed Phyrexian invasion of Capenna many years prior, which she is angriest of all with (and fair enough, I suppose.) But then, after she's done completely trashing the place, she spots a number of angel statues on the cathedral across the plaza, and she goes apeshit. In a fugue of white-hot rage, she pulverizes the angel heads, and here is where I have to ask my second question:

Why angels? If you are trying to invoke fascist attitudes toward art, big statues of angels are precisely the wrong thing for your fascist analogues to hate. Fascists love monumental, heroic representations of superhuman perfection. It's practically their whole aesthetic deal. I understand that we're foreshadowing the imminent defeat of Phyrexia at the hands of legions of angels and a multiversal proliferation of angel juice, but that just leads to the exact same question: why angels? To the best of my knowledge, the Phyrexian weakness to New Capennan angel juice is something invented for this storyline. They have, after all, been happily compleating angels since 1997. We could talk about the in-universe justification for why Halo specifically is so potent, but I don't remember what that justification is, and also don't care. Let's not jump back in the ditch, please. The point is, someone decided that this time, Phyrexia would be defeated by an angelic host, and what does that mean? What is the text trying to say? What are its precepts and axioms?

Let me ask you a question: how many physically disabled angels are there in Magic: the Gathering? How about transsexual angels? How many angels are there, on all of the cards that have ever been printed for Magic: the Gathering, that are even just a bit ugly? Do you get it yet? Or do you need me to spell it out for you?

SPELLING IT OUT FOR YOU

There is a kind of body which is bad. It is bad because it has been significantly altered from its natural state, and it is bad because it is repellent to our aesthetic sensibilities.

The bad kind of body is contagious. It spreads through contact. Sometimes people we love are infected, and then they become the bad kind of body too.

There is a kind of body which is good. It is good because it is pleasing to our aesthetic sensibilities, and it is good because it is unaltered from its (super)natural state.

A happy ending is when all the good bodies destroy or drive into hiding all of the bad bodies. A happy ending is when the bad bodies of the people we love are forcibly returned to being the good kind of body.

Do you get it now?

ENDNOTES

It's worth noting that the ditch is very similar to the white American Evangelical hermeneutics of "the Bible says it. I believe it. That settles it," the defensive chapter-and-verse-or-it-didn't-happen approach to reading a text, what Fred Clark of slacktivist calls "concordance-ism". I don't think that's accidental. We stand underneath centuries of people reading the Bible very poorly - how could that not affect how we read things today? We are participants in history whether we like it or not.

I sincerely hope I haven't come across as condescending in this essay. Close reading is legitimately difficult! They teach college courses on this stuff! And while it is frustrating to have my close readings interrogated by people who... aren't doing that, like. I do get it. I find myself back in the ditch all the time. This stuff is hard. It is also, sorry, crucial if you intend to say something about a text that's worth saying.

I also hope I've communicated clearly here. Magic story is sufficiently incoherent that trying to develop a thesis about it often feels like trying to nail jello to the wall. If anyone has questions, please ask them! And thank you for reading. Next time, we'll probably do the new Eldraine set.

[aziraphales-library]

Hey! Thank you so much for all the amazing you do…!

I just wondered if you had any good recommendations for fics with audio options?

Thanks!!

Hello! I assume by audio options you mean podfics? We have a #podfic tag with a few. I don't listen to them myself, but here are some fics I've read and loved that have podfics available...

[Podfic] Petrichor & Parchment by Literarion (E)

“Mr. Crowley, I presume?” Aziraphale asked in lieu of an introduction, which was not forthcoming. The guy hadn’t even removed his sunglasses. Oh God, he had a tattoo on his face. Aziraphale wasn’t one to judge, but… what kind of gardener had a snake tattoo on his face?

[Podfic] Summer's End by Literarion (E)

2095. Britain is a post-apocalyptic wasteland ravaged by droughts, the collapse of civilisation, and hordes of the undead. Despite that, Aziraphale’s life is actually pretty good. He has his caravan, his books, and his work, offering his services to the men who stop by Tadfield on their arduous journey north. One day, a mysterious stranger knocks on his door. Crowley is charming and handsome and he appears to know his way around a vegetable garden. He comes with the tempting offer of a mutually beneficial arrangement. But it’s in Aziraphale’s best interest not to get too attached. A dystopian cottagecore sex worker AU.

[Multivoice Podfic] Choose Your Princes Wisely by Multiple (T)

“There’s an enchanted castle West in the Hellian slopes, and apparently it comes with a prince looking for a bride or bridegroom to free him from a dark fae’s curse.” “I see,” Aziraphale says finally, when he realizes both Gabriel and Uriel are staring at him expectantly. “You want me to marry a beast?” Gabriel's mouth flattens. “I want you to take this gods’ blessed opportunity to secure your family’s future for good." OR Aziraphale is a professional quest hero who just wants to sit by the fire and read a book, if his overbearing family will ever let him; Crowley is a serpent demon who needs a gullible hero he can con into gathering some critical ingredients for a human corporation spell. Hijinks and a lot of terribly inconvenient feelings ensue.

[Podfic] Something to do with these sacred words by nantook (T)

Crowley confesses early, and Crowley confesses often. Aziraphale never knows quite what to say.

[Podfic] Right Here by Im_Not_Occult (E)

Although Aziraphale has sensed Crowley's love for millennia, after their trials he decides to be honest about his own feelings. So desperate to finally be close, Aziraphale doesn't anticipate that physical intimacy might be rather overwhelming for an ethereal being in a human body. He has wonderfully transcendent celestial experiences that take him away from the moment with Crowley. Together, he and Crowley discover a new level of intimacy as they try to work out this issue--and the shape of their new Arrangement. Featuring: 16k words of unrepentant softness, open conversations about sex, ethereal and human intimacy, a certain promised picnic, and a little bit of bickering between hereditary enemies.

[Fic & Podfic] Press L in the Chat (for Love) by Multiple (E)

Bickering fan-content creators Aziraphale and Crowley only have three things in common — they are both avid fans of a new revolutionary TV series about pirates, they are popular for their fantastic fanfiction and fanart… and they are members of the same discord server. Neither of them likes the other, but across the chaotic virtual world of a discord chatroom, who knows what can happen when these two unlikely fans are paired up for an exciting collaboration? Us. We know ;) Discord Server AU — a collaboration between Phoenix_Soar (fic) and Djapchan (multivoice podfic organization & editing) for Pod-Together 2022

- Mod D

[spookymultimedia]

Do you have any headcanons 4 cartman's pets? :3

Oh I absolutely do!! :D (very very long)

(CW mentions of pet death/loss)

Cartman got Mr.Kitty as a pet when he saw her outside at 4 years old. He chased the cat and physically dragged her inside, which prompted her to freak out in the house. Then Cartman fed her cake and begged pretty please with a cherry on top to keep the kitty. Liane has no choice in the matter really so of course they kept the cat. They didn't give her shots or neuter her, they just gave her a bath and fed her cat food and called it a day.

Cartman got Fluffy from the County Fair from winning a pie eating contest. Liane was shocked to see Cartman with yet another animal he wanted to keep. And she can't say no, so Fluffy came home with them. Funny enough she was actually easier to take care of than the cat. They usually fed her scraps. She had a pretty good diet of food that Cartman was supposed to eat but he gave it to her and pretended to eat his veggies so he could have dessert please. He taught Fluffy a couple of tricks like spinning and sitting on command. He even claimed he was gonna take her to the fair just like Wilbur in that Charlottes Web movie. Fun fact for years Cartman was convinced Wilbur was a girl and hated when people corrected him because he's used to thinking about the character a certain way and didn't feel like changing how he watched it.

He loved fluffy to bits but she died due to hereditary health problems. Instead of telling Cartman the piggy was dead she just fell in love with a daddy pig and ran away with him to have sex and babies. Cartman resents Fluffy for being such a whore and leaving him behind. He still cried in bed about it for a couple nights though.

Once Cartman tried to keep a pet frog. On wet mornings when frogs huddled around all the puddles, he and the other 3 tried to catch frogs. All of the frogs they caught always went missing every time they tried, so eventually they just gave up and moved onto something else.

Once Gerald snatched up Mr.Kitty and took her away by force while Cartman was screaming and crying at him to let her go. Later he claimed she wasn't vaccinated so she was dangerous to be around Cartman, but he was also using her for cheesing. Later Kyle helped Cartman steal his cat back and Liane promised they would give the cats shots and gave her neutered. After that Gerald left their cat alone.

When they got Mr.Kitty neutered they discovered that she's is actually intersex. Cartman was extremely extremely happy to have a pet who's just like him. Well not exactly like him but still.

For years he depended on Mr.Kitty to get him through his audio hallucinations and grounding himself. If she didn't wake up then no one is at the door trying to harm him and it's just his head being weird. Petting her is very therapeutic for him and calms him down when he's experiencing big scary emotions. He also liked letting her in his bed so she can be there if he gets a nightmare.

During middle school his cat went missing and he was extremely upset about it. He kept accusing that his girlfriend Heidi is responsible for the cat going missing. The longer she was missing the more he accused Heidi of lying to him, hurting his cat because she resents him and she's an awful person. For two whole weeks Butters helped Cartman search for his cat. His friends also helped but Butters helped the most. One night while he was driving home without Mr.Kitty yet again and realized he's never going to see his cat ever again. He broke into tears while Butters and Stan comforted him. Later Heidi finds him grieving his cat and she tells him he forgives him for getting upset at her and understands he was just stressed and didn't mean it. Cartman didn't apologize at all and let her hug and console him.

After that Cartman didn't own a pet for several several years. When he was in his late 40s and the most depressed he had ever been in his life, his therapist suggested owning a cat to give him a routine to have and help him cope with loneliness. So he adopted a cat and it worked. After awhile he ended up with 9 cats in his house, but then he got his shit together and gave away the ones that had bad relationships with the other cats or didn't enjoy being in his house. Then he was left with four cats. Which was a pretty big improvement but still makes normal people gawk at him. And he kept those cats for a long long time. I haven't thought much about the other three, but I know one of the cats is a three legged cat named Zipper. He was born like that. He's the fastest of the four cats and the most friendly one.

After Cartman passed away from cancer in his early 60s Kyle and Stan the two cats Cartman still had. The cats where very comforting for Kyle since he had a harder time coping with his the loss.

And not a pet headcannon technically but Kyle had a habit of putting cat food and cat nip near Cartman's gave to "keep him company." People give Kyle weird looks when he brings cat food to a graveyard but it makes him happy so he doesn't care.

[askwalmartniko]

"updated concept art" — ooc 3

i don't draw that much, but i was able to get some designs out. i can also talk about each of their personalities, and sure, you can ask niko's parents for something!

though i may not be able to promise like, drawings on everything.

walmart niko:

basically, i kinda wanted to self-project a bit more. walmart niko is a lot more mellowed out but still retains their moral compass, however they just act more lazily (like a cat).

they actually have their hair dyed, and their natural colour is this dark auburn, after their mom. they started dying their hair because they'd see their dad with it, and they wanted to act after him in a way.

they have glasses because they're sensitive to sight, and mainly they have problems with getting adjusted to colours. they get eye strained easily, and mainly because it's just hereditary and also. cat. i kinda wanted to also project how i'm sensitive to certain sensory stuff and wow, cats do have enhanced hearing and other senses!

anyways, they have glasses (also i kinda wanted walmart niko to be unique shhh). they are really crafty and take after both their mom and dad. dad introduced them to games and internet and stuff because he was super into it, and he knew that he couldn't spend time with niko that much, so he wanted to introduce them to something he always had a knack for.

they always hung out with their mom due to this, and they know how to do a bunch of things. how to sew a button on, how to tell if the bread has risen correctly (is that a thing idk i don't really make bread), etc. etc. plus is also great with children and stuff due to taking care of their neighbours.

niko's mom/hazel:

i'm still so indecisive on a name, but i can call her hazel as a placeholder for now.

okay, like i know some stuff with the technical canon nightmargin niko whatever lore but this is the WALMART AU.

tbh im making this up like fnaf lore. but basically like she met her husband because he was on a business trip to their village and all because he was doing something from another place and they got together (may explain why he has other connections outside of their village).

pretty big into agriculture but i feel like she may have wanted to be a rancher but she's like. southern mom. i'm kinda taking inspo off of caroline from sdv but anyways she just wants the best for her kid and all and shes a great mom i'd say. she supports her child's stuff and allows them to talk about it whenever and has drawings all up on their fridge. she's the type of mom to worry about picture day and spend a lot of money on those small photos and embarrass you about it whilst she gives one to every relative of yours

anyways now she works around and like does stuff like iron peoples' clothes, and also cleans and just does housework because of them moving. she preferred whenever she was able to work more with crops and also just in a community, but it's hard for her sometimes now to put emotion into her work.

she's the reason why niko knows a lot of well, basic stuff i guess but it's still very useful. also she's pretty crafty and intuitive! just like her kid. makes clothes and stuff.

niko's dad/ed??:

okay so like i was watching markiplier right (well, listening to his podcast or whatever) and that just happened i'm so sorry. he's like, really into technology and games and introduced niko to them, so they have a pretty good understanding of digital literacy even at a young age. he's a gaymer wow.

he does work a lot because he does care and hopes that, one day, he'll be able to not have to go away so far for conferences and meetings and will maybe be able to own a family-ran store that he'd see around their home village.

he's helped niko on really hard levels in the hit game super mayo bros and helped on difficult gyms in pokeymans. but has also helped with niko's problem-solving stuff due to this exposure to everything. also is somewhat the reason why they need glasses.

i will post cute art of niko's dad and mom together but yeah like they're still happy and all but it's just hard sometimes for 'em.

[leoneliterary]

[POTENTIAL SPOILERS]

Hello! I hope you’ve been well these 2 weeks, and I hope you don’t mind us still submitting questions now and then!

I actually have quite a bit of questions about magic in the HAT universe, but feel free to skip if it’s too spoilery!

Since our MC has mentioned taking Amatus to a healer by the docks before Merikh’s appearance, are healers/magic-users common in the universe?

Is the term “healer” only used towards people with healing magic or can it be used to address a doctor/medic in general?

How does magic work? Does it come from a specific organ in the body? Like concentrated pumping that flows through your veins? Or is it more of a spiritual thing? Do you need magic scrolls? Some kind of writing?

Is magic only limited to a specific type of person? Can it be taught? Is it hereditary?

Are there any serious physical or mental consequences from using too much magic?

Thank you for all the hard work put into this story!!

YES LORE!!

Okay so I'm going to restrain myself and not give too many in-depth answers so that I don't spoil too much. But I'm so glad we're getting more into the fantasy aspect!!

So magic users with healing ability aren't super rare, the issue is that there is no quality control, and most are self taught. This means that every town might have a healer, but that doesn't mean they have a good one. Magic users are somewhat rare, not because a bunch of people don't have it, but because most never find out that they have it.

2. It can be used for both! Healing magic helps with physical injuries, but struggles to address things like sicknesses or poisonings, so medics, shamans, and physicians are still in high demand. Just like their magical counterparts however, it's hard to find a good one.

3. So it depends on who you ask! There are different schools of thought. Some think that the heart is the core of magic, and just like the heart pumps blood, it also allows for the flow of magic. These magic users train similarly to soldiers, because of their belief that strong magic comes from a strong body. Others believe that the Architect of Heaven imbued certain people with it, and that it can be strengthened through prayer. You'll find many monks and theologians in this area. Different spells require different things, but all require effort and/or sacrifice. The bigger the spell, the more preparation and effort. The more targeted spells may require writing, but there is more than one way to get things done...

4. It's something you're born with, but as long as you have some amount of ability, you can be trained. Strong magic users tend to have children that are strong magic users, but it isn't uncommon for a child with no known magical heritage to be born with a strong baseline ability. Hard work usually beats talent. You can be gifted but if you never have your magic identified or learn a spell, the most you might be able to do is have a hotter hearth or an extra productive harvest. And sometimes, having extended contact with magic either in your life or at some point in your lineage, means you might not be able to use magic in terms of spells, but might have something...a little different about you.

5. YES!! They can vary in severity and based on what type of magic you're using. Some magic is more strenuous that others and other magic just shouldn't be attempted.

Spoiler territory but side effects may include: Heart attacks, blindness, madness, loss of physical form, headaches, nausea, diarrhea, loss of taste, burns, frostbite, vertigo, hallucinations, spell backfire, and more!

[drella]

mmm okayy sooo i finally watched midsommar :0

[gothhabiba]

i agree 100% with what you're saying re: "online" connection and i think you explain it beautifully and it's a very important conversation. i've noticed a trend to say someone/something is "chronically" or "terminally" online as a jokey exaggeration, which has felt.. bad to me, but i'm not sure how to put it into words. it seems like criticizing how people can take things too far online has some merit, but some people have taken that criticism itself too far, if that makes sense?

It's interesting that you bring up this language--looking at it, it strikes me that it is of course the language of disease and disability ("online" stands in for the "ill" in "chronically ill," "terminally ill"). The internet is thus presented as a sort of psychical or psycho-physical contagion that can create moral disease or decay in those who are too "exposed" to it, or those who expose themselves to it without the effort, self-control, or mental or physical 'exercise' required to counterbalance that contagion. It reminds me of something I said a little bit ago regarding the idea that "content warnings create an army of weaklings who reflexively avoid any content that they don't like":

The idea that avoiding certain content makes you weak or allows for the deterioration of Brain Muscles that could be strengthened by engaging with said content heavily relies on the idea that suffering is automatically edifying. The entire concept that exercising discipline in the face of something unpleasant builds up Brain Muscles that 1. are morally necessary to build and 2. can then be put to use doing other tasks reads to me as very 19th-century muscular Christianity eugenicist-y Self Control type ideology.

Granted, there isn't a generational component that posits "chronic onlineness" to be a condition that worsens over hereditary time (that I've seen). But the idea that this mental or physical weakness can worsen within a person unless effort is made to counteract it recalls the Victorian concept of racial degeneration, which posits that certain environments (mainly those that are too lush and comfortable) can weaken racial stock. And the mental and physical weakness of being "online" is, again, described using a register that is actively associated with disease and disability--it is described this way because this language is associated with disease and disability, because these writers want to associate being "online" with the reaction of disgust and avoidance called forth by the concept or prospect of disability.

The "physical weakness" aspect of this proposed disease is always there implicitly in our understanding of the kinds of physical postures involved in being "online" versus engaging "in real life," but it is sometimes made explicit as well. A tumblr user, responding to a post referencing the neurochemistry of reward systems and reward-seeking behaviour in encouraging "those of us who are terminally online" to "log off, go outside, hang with friends," writes the following:

imo the more effort something takes the greater the reward. it doesn't actually need to be all that hard it just needs to feel difficult enough so that your brain says "oh good job you did this and deserve a treat." an abstracted social interaction in a virtual space is low effort because you're sitting/reclining/whatever. your body is not engaged and therefore it doesn't parse as worthy of greater reward by the brain. (emphasis mine)

This tumblr user (of whose scientific credentials I am unsure) doesn't specifically exclude those for whom sitting up or reclining while using an internet-connected device does represent significant physical effort from consideration, or express explicit disdain for those for whom all of life is lived reclining and all or most social interactions are "abstracted"--but they don't really have to. They don't reference any actual studies of neuroscience or neurochemistry here, but again, they don't really have to. They're drawing from an (I think, in this cultural and ideological environment) intuitively attractive sort of logic in which individual weakness and disease arising from a too-cozy environment can and must be counteracted by individual effort.

My argument is not that social media are not set up to encourage short-term reward-seeking behaviour in a capitalist economic system, or that repeated engagement with anything thus designed cannot or does not alter individuals' neurology in any way (including to their detriment). My argument is not that changing your behaviour & the ways in which you engage with people or environments online cannot be to anyone's benefit. My argument is not that physical isolation is not to anyone's detriment (indeed, the fact that it demonstrably is harmful is key to understanding the violence of imprisonment & of eugenicist responses to the coronavirus pandemic). My argument has nothing to do with neurochemistry.

Rather, what I'm objecting to is roughly: 1. the idea that any connection occurring "online" is necessarily abjected and unreal compared to any connection or interaction occurring in physical space (as if all "irl" connections are deeply meaningful? as if no "online" connections are? as if all of the internet is large social media sites?); 2. the equation of life lived in physical space to "real" life; 3. the language of disease and disability when applied to the above assumptions ("terminally online," "chronically online"); 4. the emphasis on the individual will as a site of resistance in a way that is implicitly moralised. The idea that this is a type of mental and physical disease, combined with the idea that the individual can counteract it by force of will, relies heavily on our cultural and ideological understanding of disease as a moral failing on the part of the individual. Thus many people will mock individuals for being "terminally online" as though it is a personal failing, without necessarily making an argument about how capitalism impacts the structure of social media (or anything else that can alter behaviour or cognitive functioning on the level of the collective).

The logic that blames the individual for a disease, or that connects disease to a fault of not exerting the will, is the same eugenicist logic that, until very recently, mandated graded exercise therapy as the only NHS-funded treatment for CFS. It's similar to the fascist logic that celebrates physical strength and ability as a reflex of mental ability and as the condition of possibility for a strong political movement, recently circulating in the "iron pill" far-right movement on 4chan. I earlier compared it to the logic of degeneration theory and muscular Christianity. My friend @realgarn pointed out to me the Protestant origins of much of this type of logic (in which morality is tied to ascetic living and to mastery over one’s environment), and the fact that the specific genealogies of this genre of thought are no doubt different in different countries. But there's a specific logical and rhetorical through line here that, of course, does not exempt leftists' thought and arguments.

[i-did-not-mean-to]

I wonder if I could encourage you to write some Silvergifting? For example a sweet and innocent Annatar/Celebrimbor ficlet that includes a bit of teasing?

If you don't feel like it, no worries, though!

Oh...this one...I've stressed and stressed about it, I won't lie...this is some advanced pairing and I am just a good-time word-dabbler...

But...I've said that I'd do it and here it is...(after 5 hours of debating whether I should post it or not)

@elennalore I am very sorry for the sweet and innocent part....It seems a certain flame-eyed gentleman was NOT ready to cooperate with me on this! Angsty bastard!!!!

Words: 2k

Warnings: Erm, it's basically Sauron...so...be advised, I guess (?)

Characters: Infamous pairing N° 2 : Celebrimbor x Annatar

Annatar shook his head slowly, making the luscious hair shimmer like a veil of spun gold coiled against his shapely skull, and stepped into the small room with a confidence that was at least partly feigned.

The smell of hot metal and soft skin washed over him like a wave, pulling him under and cutting off his breath; the voices in his head were drowned out momentarily by the soft humming of the elven smith hunched over his work in deep concentration.

“Tyelpë,” he sighed – half a call and half a wistful statement – and frowned when tools were dropped with a clangourous thud; Celebrimbor turned around with an expectant, open expression on that timeless face that made what he surmised to be his stomach clench. He had never felt quite as ensconced in and bonded with the body he wore like a disguise before he had met this hereditary foe who had weaselled his way into what must have been his heart.

Annatar was not even sure he had a heart – a metaphorical one, that was – but how else could he explain the sudden feeling of tightness and warmth flooding his chest like a tidal wave within this borrowed, fabricated approximation of a body?

“Hullo!” Tyelpë grinned, getting up and stretching his tired limbs with the grace of a shadow-dancer, before slinging his arms enthusiastically around that midriff Annatar had been musing about for the last few moments, “How has your day been then?”

“It was uninteresting,” he replied sharply. It annoyed him somewhat that he was unable to avert his gaze from the pools of liquid silver and starlight that were Tyelpë’s eyes; it truly was ridiculous for he was certainly less beautiful than many a specimen of his race Annatar had seen – and probably killed – before, and yet he couldn’t escape the irresistible allure this particular youth exuded.

Celebrimbor was a world of his own – with his own gravitational field – and as such, he was a force to be reckoned with; at the same time, he was soft and delicate, his eyes open and full of benevolent trust, and his heart so close to the surface that Annatar sometimes felt as if he could plunge his own fingers through his skin as one dipped a brazen hand into a cool pond to retrieve a shiny stone.

“That bad, huh?” Tyelpë hummed, undoing the intricate hairdo his friend and lover had favoured on this day – always a clear indication that he had not been feeling confident about a meeting – quickly and efficiently.

Catching him by the wrists, Annatar couldn’t help but press a tempestuous kiss onto the spot where his blood pulsed under the most fragile part of that silken skin, which made the other laugh breathily and step away farther from his workbench. 

He thought of Tyelpë’s hands too much, Annatar realised, for they were extraordinary; he remembered the obscene, severed monstrosity his master had kept out of perverse pride, and he had to admit that Nelyafinwë’s hand – broad, calloused, and rough – had been akin to a vulgar hammer in comparison to the delicate instruments of sinew and bone with which his nephew made the world itself sing new creation into being.

“How about a relaxing bath while I show you what I’ve been working on?”

With every word falling from Tyelpë’s lips, contradicting urges spread like tendrils of smoke through Annatar’s awareness; on the one hand, he couldn’t deny the almost childishly destructive impulse to crush something so delicate and fragile between his ruthless fingers, and on the other hand, he could almost make himself believe that – held in those strong, impervious arms steered by an infallible moral compass – he could renounce his former ways.

He was not beyond saving, he told himself repeatedly as those honeyed lips slid over the exposed skin of his throat, etching words of hope and of love into it with the same dedicated finesse as was used to engrave precious metals with powerful runes. 

The deliciously confusing contradiction between the shockingly naïve hopefulness and the established mental strength of the puzzling and dazzling creature embracing him as if it was he who was crafted of finest crystal and threads of gold made his head spin, every doubt he’d ever known or allowed to take hold in his soul a live wire thrashing through a hollow body, sending out vicious sparks to set all his nerves alight. 

Impetuously, he hugged Tyelpë back, burying his face in the dark hair that should have made his skin crawl, but its warm smell of ash and molten metal inspired confidence and a feeling he would have identified as homesickness if it had been described to him rather than burgeoning in his own mind. 

“Oh, let’s go then,” the smith cooed, “I’ll draw you a bath and we can just talk.”

Talk, Annatar wanted to shake his head again to dispel the toxic, cloying fumes that paralysed his sharp wits and lulled his fire into abating into smouldering embers; he didn’t feel like talking, he never did, but – if he was to reveal himself to this perpetual stranger – he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“Alright,” he heard himself say as he gave in; Tyelpë pulled him out of the room by the hand – his own so lithe and yet steady – and into their private quarters with so much genuine anticipation that Annatar didn’t have the heart to struggle. 

He had a meticulous, orderly mind that revelled in long-winded plans and so, he could but stand and stare as this scion of a cursed bloodline flourished into a hurricane of movement and action – each step a dance, every gesture a prayer – for the sake of a state of relaxation he could not possibly hope to achieve.

Before he had even taken a single step into the spacious bath chamber, Tyelpë was back – smiling up at him fondly – and shifting his tunic over his shoulders with gentle, steady fingers; a single sigh, drawn-out and low, trembled in the steamy air between them as that painfully brittle creature knelt in front of him to relieve him of his trousers as well.

Again, Annatar had to swallow against the rising desire to hug him so tightly that he’d end up squeezing the very life out of him; he had never thought himself obsessive – despite what people whispered behind his back – but, when it came to Tyelpë and his many inherent mysteries and contradictions, he knew that he’d rather see him dead than severed from his influence. He was consumed by the elusive charm of one who gave himself so freely that it stoked a hunger for more than he was willing and able to give in the endless darkness that thrummed like a living, beating heart within Annatar’s being.

“Come now,” Tyelpë purred seductively, “oh, you’re absolutely stunning; if I didn’t know better, I’d say you become more beautiful every day.”

The same illogical, absurd thought had already crossed Annatar’s mind as well; as if Tyelpë’s magical hands roaming across his skin, that was naught more than sheep’s clothing for the wolf, were moulding and polishing him into renewed and heightened splendour day by day, he seemed to become more hypnotising and enchanting with every second he spent in this conflicting togetherness that was his sanctuary and his prison.

Celebrimbor sighed under his breath when he saw how tense Annatar still was; he looked positively statuesque as he stood there – naked and motionless – as if he was waiting for some catastrophe to befall them that only he could see darken a horizon that looked clear and bright to anybody else. 

The recollection of other people – deeply loved, desperately cherished, and deplorably lost – staring obsessively into a faraway future welled up in Celebrimbor and he pushed the thought away with all his might; he missed his family every day and yet, he knew that he could not have changed their path neither by threat nor by pleading. 

“Look at me,” he whispered urgently, drawing that flaming gaze to his reassuring smile, “stay here with me!”

Every time the fire of his own blood, the weight of his legacy, flared up within his soul, he forced it down again inexorably; he had chosen another kind of bravery, he had opted for warmth and solace – a conscious decision that still cost him dearly – and for faith and creation instead of mindless, begrudging destruction.

They both had known the overwhelming persuasion of someone older and stronger and they had been led astray by their own willingness to obey and to serve what they had thought to be the greater good; it would not help nor heal anyone to dwell on these things, not now that they were given another chance – if not to rewrite history – to be and do better this time around.

Leading Annatar, like a blind man, over to the filled tub, he slid his hands behind the other man’s shoulder blades to let him glide gently into the hot water.

He was so blindingly beautiful that Celebrimbor – even knowing that it was all just a façade – could not help but admire the creativity of the cryptical entity sharing more than just his bed; in his expert opinion, it took a certain type of genius to even come up with a design so flawless and entrancing.

Running his fingers along the ridge of Annatar’s spine, he revelled in the sensations of smooth skin and sharp bone; he was a crafter at heart and the exquisite textures, the extraordinary balance, and the exceptional composition of his lover’s form made his heart soar and plummet weightlessly in turn.

“You’re so good to me,” Annatar grunted; it almost sounded like an accusation as if any shred of common decency was anathema to his very existence.

“Someone has to, no?” Tyelpë answered lightly, smoothing a tender palm over the now unbound hair, carding his fingers through the silken strands, and rubbing tight circles onto the abused scalp; yes, he had set his mind and heart on being a comforting presence, and not even the lingering threat in the air would dissuade him. He would show him what it meant to be cherished and cared for!

“I am not sure of that, Tyelpë, my dear,” Annatar laughed mirthlessly, “but I am thankful to you, nonetheless.”

His movements were quick and fluid – serpentine and unsettling – as he grabbed Celebrimbor’s wrist and tugged hard enough to almost make him lose his balance; twisting like molten gold or liquid glass, Annatar surged up and pressed astonishingly warm and soft lips onto his, half-open in wordless shock.

Their kiss deepened, wet fingers tangling in dark hair, and Celebrimbor sighed into the bottomless void that swirled and eddied within that glorious body; the echo – deep and hollow – didn’t take long to resound and, shrugging out of his own clothes hastily, he let himself be dragged into the tub.

Settled against the pristine, white chest of his lover, he spoke of his newest experiments with much enthusiasm while Annatar rubbed perfumed oils into his sore shoulders, humming now and then appreciatively to keep him talking.

“You are precious,” the elusive Maia then purred without prelude, “and adorable.”

“You adore me then?” Celebrimbor grinned to dissimulate the ripple of stunned pleasure coursing through his system.

“Hmmm, I do,” came the pensive answer, interrupted and punctuated by small kisses lavished upon the crown of his head, “I truly do.” 

“That is good then,” he answered earnestly, “for I am quite fond of you myself, good emissary.”

“Is that so? How about you prove it?” 

And because Celebrimbor could sense that Annatar was preoccupied and heartsick tonight, he let this monumental confession die away unheeded and uncommented, and eagerly turned around in those strong arms to face his lover, peppering his own slew of teasing kisses across his chin and jawline.

Flames were lapping at him – dark and voracious – but he was not in the mood tonight to question whether it was his heart or his flesh that was led to the pyre; he had braved fire and blood before, and he was not afraid to do so again.

I am so sorry if this is all wrong; I have given it my best shot 🙈

@medusas-hairband you said you wanted to see this, well, here it is 🥺

As always, lots of love from me (de profundis)...always willing to try, never sure to succeed...

[lyricalporcupine]

Finally done though I am not happy with it lmao imagine that

ANYWAY

I can’t remember if I posted the snippet that this piece is based on but it’s under the cut anyway. Please enjoy!

~~~~~~~~

(Note: Takes place several weeks after arranged marriage. There is an attack from another tribe and it’s the first real fight Beau’s been in. They haven’t had their first kiss yet, let alone had sex. This takes place before all that)

~~~~~~~~

The last thing Beau remembered was an arrow piercing her belly, near her hip, a shout, and total darkness. 

She woke up some time later, though she’s not sure how much time had passed, in her bed. The furs were heavy but soothing, the familiar scent of animal musk and the sweat of herself and Yasha prominent deep in the fibers. 

She felt a large, calloused hand holding hers and she took a deep breath and slowly blinked her eyes open. The hut was cast in its typical dimness. The ever present fire was softly crackling in the middle of it and when Beau turned her head toward it, she saw a large bodied silhouette. 

“Yasha?” Her voice cracked, throat dry. She tried to swallow and her throat stuck, causing her to cough. 

The hand holding hers pulled away and she watched, with bleary eyes, as the figure picked up a waterskin and held it up to Beau’s mouth. 

“Drink,” came the familiar voice of her wife. 

Beau raised her head and drank deeply from the canteen, her hand wrapped loosely around Yasha’s wrist. After a few deep gulps Beau pulled away and took a deep, shuddery breath. 

“What happened,” Beau asked as she settled back into the bed. She blinked her eyes and her vision refocused and she watched as Yasha corked the waterskin and sat it aside. 

Yasha herself resettled beside Beau, legs crossed. “You were hit with a poison tipped arrow,” Yasha said softly. “We thought—“ Yasha paused, swallowed and tried again. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

“How long have I been knocked out,” Beau asked, her voice still rough. 

“Half a day,” Yasha replied. “Give or take an hour. After the healers did all they could I moved you to our bed.”

Beau reached for Yasha’s hand and the barbarian quickly gave it, her grip light. “Have you been here the whole time, watching over me?”

Yasha’s gaze fell to the bed and she gave a small grunt. “Mostly. I did have some matters to tend to that couldn’t wait. There are more I need to deal with.”

Beau nodded and released Yasha’s hand. She tried to push up into a sitting position and hissed in pain. “Fuck.”

Yasha was immediately hovering over her. “Be careful,” she said softly. “Please.”

Beau groaned and moved the blanket from her lap. She found a bandage wrapped around her belly and down around her hip and upper thigh. The bandage was stained a light red and she looked up at Yasha. “What did the poison do?”

“I was told it kept your blood from clotting,” Yasha answered. “There’s also a chance the wound may be infected. It’s a very large gash.” 

“Greeeat,” Beau snarked flatly. 

Yasha reached out and gently laid her hand where she knew the wound was. Her palm began to glow and warmth flowed from Yasha and seeped deep into Beau’s skin, even through the bandage. Beau felt the pain severely lessen even if it didn’t fade completely. 

“That feels great,” Beau said with a groan. When Yasha pulled her hand away, Beau looked up at her. “You have healing magic?”

“Some,” Yasha said softly. Her eyes were still cast down and she wouldn’t meet Beau’s gaze. “The healers in the tribe are good at what they do. They saved your life. But I’ve been trying to find a cleric. It’s been difficult. Not many people want to be part of semi-nomadic tribe in the wastelands.”

Beau reached for Yasha’s hand and, once again, Yasha freely gave it. “I do,” Beau said softly. 

That got a small smile from Yasha and she gently squeezed Beau’s hand. “After today, I’d say you’ve earned your place in our tribe.”

Beau smirked. “I didn’t earn it by marrying you?”

Yasha’s smile turned into a smirk. “Sadly, no. In fact, that made the other tribe members more wary of you. They wanted you to go through the standard trials to induct you into our clan.”

“You couldn’t have convinced them otherwise,” Beau asked. 

Yasha gave a small shrug. “I could have. And considered it. But a lot of them do not like what I’ve done with the clan since taking over. They think I’m soft.”

Beau’s eyes dropped to Yasha’s hand still held in her own. She flipped it over and began tracing her fingers along the various grooves along Yasha’s palms. “I remember you telling me our wedding night that the Skyspear position isn’t hereditary.”

“That is correct,” Yasha said. 

“So how did you become the Skyspear?”

Finally, Yasha looked up at Beau. Her eyes were hard, cold, but it wasn’t  directed Beau herself. “I killed the last one.”

Beau’s eyebrows raised. “Can I ask why?”

“It is tradition,” Yasha said. “To gain a new Skyspear you have to slay the previous one. That’s how it’s always been.”

“Alright,” Beau said. “But I have a feeling something happened to make you challenge her. You don’t seem like the type to want the power.”

Yasha shook her head. “I did not.”

Yasha fell silent and Beau waited. When it became apparent that Yasha wasn’t going to elaborate, Beau decided to prod her a bit. “What changed your mind?”

Yasha’s eyes fell again. She was silent for a long while but Beau could tell it was because she was considering her words. 

“Tribal life is hard,” Yasha began. “There are certain rules and oaths one takes when committing to the clan. To become a member you undergo severe trials. Survive them and you become a member of the clan and earn your name. Before becoming the Skyspear, my clan name was Orphanmaker.” As she spoke her old name, sadness tinged Yasha’s voice and Beau gently squeezed her hand. 

“Once you become a member,” Yasha continued, “you vow celibacy until an appropriate mate is chosen for you.”

“You don’t get to choose your own spouse,” Beau asked, disbelieving. 

Yasha shook her head. “No.”

Beau picked up on the grief in Yasha’s tone and quickly put things together. “But you did anyway. Didn’t you?”

Yasha smiled at Beau’s quick mind. “I did.”

“What was her name,” Beau asked gently. 

Yasha’s smile grew and became wistful. “Zuala,” she said quietly. 

“Can I ask what happened to her,” Beau asked softly. “I’ll understand if it’s too painful to discuss.”  

Yasha surprised her by shaking her head. “It is painful but. I want you to know.

“We married, in secret,” Yasha explained. “And we were happy, for a while.” 

Yasha’s face fell and Beau knew why. “You were found out.” It wasn’t a question but Yasha nodded slowly. 

“We were.”

Beau’s heart sank. She was sure she knew how this played out but found herself asking anyway, “What happened?”

Yasha took a deep breath and released it slowly. “We were taken into custody and held for a day. Or less. I’m not sure. Then the Skyspear called for Zuala and she was taken from the cell. 

“I managed to escape,” Yasha continued and Beau could hear the emotion causing Yasha’s throat to thicken. “I ran to where they had taken her, which was to the executioner. But I was too late. I watched, too terrified to move, as they killed her.”

Beau felt her eyes burn, bison blurring slightly from tears. “Yasha…”

Yasha shook her head slightly but continued. “I’m…unsure what happened after that, exactly. It’s a blur. I blacked out and the next thing I remember was standing over the Skyspear, my sword plunged into her chest and hearing her gasp for breath. 

“More fights happened after that,” Yasha continued. “Some clan members claimed I was the new Skyspear. Others said I had betrayed the clan. Some of them attacked me and I fought to defend myself. Most of them did not survive.

“To make a long story…slightly less long, I became the new Skyspear. I changed a lot of things. No more assigned mates, for starters.”

“Yeah, I can see why you changed that,” Beau said. 

Yasha smiled at her. “I also put a stop to the children fighting.”

“The kids fought,” Beau asked, surprised and slightly aghast. 

Yasha nodded. “I fought many other children while I was a child. Most of those fights were to the death.”

Beau’s welted widened and her mouth hung open. “You killed other kids?!”

Yasha’s head hung with shame. “I was being primed as the Skyspear’s greatest weapon.”

“And then she totally fucked you over,” Beau said. 

Yasha shrugged. “I knew the rules. So did Zuala. But.”

“The heart wants what it wants,” Beau said softly, to which Yasha nodded. 

They sat in silence for several moments. Beau was lightly running her thumb across Yasha’s knuckles when Yasha finally spoke up. 

“I was scared.”

Beau looked up from Yasha’s hand. “Scared?”

Yasha nodded. “I saw you get hit with the arrow. And when you fell I feared I had lost you.” 

Yasha looked up at Beau and the human could see fear in Yasha’s eyes. But there was something else there, too, that caused Beau’s breath to catch. 

Yasha pulled her hand from Beau’s, only to flip their positions and to hold Beau’s hand in hers. “I have grown fond of you, Beauregard. Far more so than I expected, especially given how little time we’ve known each other.” Yasha’s eyes fell shut and she took a deep breath and blew it out of her nose. “I do not wish for you to get hurt.”

Beau reached out with her other hand and lightly gripped Yasha’s wrist. The barbarian’s other hand lightly laid across Beau’s, gently holding it in its place. “Y-yeah,” Beau said, stuttering slightly, feeling her heart beat rapidly against her ribs. “I like you, too, Yash.”

Yasha gave Beau a small but genuine smile. She squeezed Beau’s hand before gently pulling hers away. “I have to go,” she said, quickly standing. 

Beau’s heart immediately sank. “You’re leaving?”

Yasha sighed as she made her way to the yurt’s leather flap that acted as a door. “I need to check with the healers and see how the others are doing.” She turned back to Beau. “You wish me to stay?”

“Of course I want you to stay,” Beau said softly, almost sadly. 

Yasha looked at her for a moment, then to the flap, and back to Beau again. She moved back to the bed quickly and bent forward. She raised one hand and gently cradled the back of Beau’s skull and leaned down to place soft kiss at Beau’s hairline. Yasha pulled away only to press her forehead against Beau’s quickly. 

“I’ll be quick,” she whispered before pulling away and quickly headed outside. 

[vagrantblvrd]

AU where Luke and Leia are the children of the queen of Naboo and powerful and well-respected Jedi Knight, just about the age to marry and it’s this Responsibility hanging over their heads.

Their parents would never marry them off to someone horrible, but that’s not the point, and anyway, anyway, they know their duty.

(It breaks their parent’s hearts, but barring the same sort of Very Specific and Unique events that conspired to allow Padme to marry Anakin the best they can hope for is to like their future spouses, so.)

But then!

Conspiracies and the whatnot, and whispers of war spreading across the galaxy thanks to some faceless warlord pulling strings from the shadows and so on.

Worlds that co-existed, thrived, suddenly at one another’s throats and out of fear for their children’s safety they arrange for them to visit dear friend Bail and Breha on Alderaan.

(There’s meant to be a celebration, eligible suitors for Luke and Leia while keeping them far from skirmishes that have taken place too close to Naboo.)

Unfortunately Leia gets sick just as they’re about to leave, nothing too worry over, lose sleep over, but travel would only make it worse so she’s to stay behind while Luke and leaves for Alderaan on schedule.

(He visits her, the night before he leaves. Sneaks into her rooms the way he used to when they were younger and supposed to be asleep hours ago but young and foolish and the kind of reckless rebellion of the young and so on.

Leia’s tired, still recovering but she still manages a smile, a laugh, when Luke tumbles in through the window a though their parents haven’t been training them since they were young.

Politics, of course, but their father is a Jedi Knight and their mother is the queen, and anyway, anyway, any clumsiness they show these days are deliberate, so.

They talk, aware this may be one of the rare chances they’ll get like this again, what with their duties and responsibilities and privileged as they are the universe is far from fair.

Luke smiles, jokes, but there’s a flat tone to it that Leia hears all too clearly and Luke -

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he says, wry twist to his mouth.

It’s a childhood joke borne of the stories their father and his former mentor would tell them at bedtime, well-worn phrase that heralded the kind of adventure that made them into legends, and now -

Leia grips Luke’s hands tight in hers because she does as well, dread a heavy weight in her chest.

“Don’t go,” she tells him, knowing he has no choice in the matter. “Luke, please.”

It’s on her face, in her voice, her yes, and there’s nothing they can do.

So.

Luke smiles, jokes, reminisces with Leia about the adventures they had running around the palace and its grounds and causing no end of trouble to their minders when their parents were busy until Leia falls asleep and Luke slips out the window and back to his own rooms without waking her.)

Leia knows long before word reaches Naboo that Luke’s ship was attacked in transit, all hands lost.

(Knows when their father senses it too, his rage and grief enough to send her to knees, draw the tears she refused to shed until then. She’s Force-sensitive, yes, but her father and brother are stronger, and if he’s so certain Luke is gone, then there’s no hope left for her.)

BUT THEN.

Luke’s not dead, of course he’s not, what kind of story do you think this is?

As it turns out, Luke’s ship was attacked, but one of his guards, escorts, manages to get him to an escape pod and away from the ships painted to look like one of Naboo’s allies turned jealous and bitter and angry over years and some insult or other.

(Conspiracies on conspiracies and so on.)

Lands on a planet, rocky and desolate and very much alone, injured.

Stumbles out of the escape pod, emergency supplies held tight in hand and absolutely certain he can’t stay there. Can’t wait for rescue to come, not knowing if whoever attacked his ship might find him first and finish the job that claimed his ship and the lives of people he’s known since he was young.

Manages to get a decent ways away from the escape pod before exhaustion and his injuries lay him low.

Cave in the distance he might be able to seek shelter in, assuming there are no native predators or otherwise living there, and he almost, almost makes it before he passes out.

Comes to however many hours later to a voice he doesn’t know pitched low and annoyed, but the hands checking him for injuries - he hopes, would be the worst luck to be robbed, looted, after recent events - are surprisingly gentle.

“What?”

Luke said that out loud, didn’t he.

“...Yes.”

Luke would laugh if it didn’t feel as though his head might burst, result of his skull meeting with a bulkhead at inadvisable speeds, and that had happened before the escape pod landed, so.

“Sorry,” Luke mumbles, because he does have manners. “But if you are robbing me I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer.”

There’s a long pause then, whoever is there with him so still Luke has a moment to wonder if they’ve left, offended by Luke’s words or disappointed he’s not worth robbing and then -

“Hmm.”

Luke frowns, risks opening his eyes and sees a kneeling beside him, oddly shiny.

“’Shiny’.”

Luke squints, tries to make out the figure, but it’s difficult as there seem to be two of them, and -

“I think I might have a concussion,” Luke informs the oddly shiny figure, and passes out again.

Later, however many hour later, he comes to with that same annoyed voice in his ears, but now there’s a fire merrily burning.

Nice, because it’s nighttime now, and cold and -

“You’re awake.”

As far as observations like that go, it’s incredibly unimpressed.

“Hmm,” Luke hmms, fuzzy memory of his oddly shiny companion doing the same, and also Luke being a natural-born smartass,

(Hereditary, he’s been told, along with stubbornness and fondness for eschewing things like common sense and a flair for the dramatic.)

There’s a sigh, long and heavy, and then the sound of the oddly shiny person moving closer, shadow falling over Luke that he can’t see with his yes closed the way they are, but, well.

His father is a Jedi Knight and he and Leia take after him in noticeable ways.

Luke opens his eyes and thinks oh, and hmm, and Leia is going to kill me, because his companion is indeed oddly shiny.

Or, well.

Perhaps not so odd, what with the armor and all.

Din - because of course it’s Din - is super unimpressed with Luke and his everything and Luke is just ??? because Mandalorian???

Not known to be BFFs with Jedi or Jedi-in-training, like Luke???

But Din can be excused for not partaking in this old feud/rivalry/animosity between them because Luke isn’t dressed as it befitting someone of his position, no.

He’s wearing the clothes he prefers on long trips when the are no other dignitaries along because to start with, they’re comfortable? But also Luke likes to tinker??? Little projects and such and maybe his father sent along a speeder or some other tinker-able vehicle to keep Luke occupied on the trip, use when he gets to Alderaan or...whatever.

Doesn’t look like the royalty, especially after recent events, and nothing to mark him as the prince of Naboo, or a Jedi-in-training and sworn enemy of the Mandalorians, and really, it’s incredibly, amazingly convenient, but it is what it is.

Din grumbles and complains, but he stays with Luke until he’s able to stand on his feet and even walk a fair distance without falling on his ass, and sighs when Luke invites himself along later that day when he says he has business elsewhere,

And then the two of them traveling to...somewhere, Din didn’t volunteer that information and Luke was too grateful to be headed away from where his escape pod crashed and potential search parties (doesn’t feel like trusting to the fact they’d be friendly towards him) and so on.

Doesn’t chatter incessantly as the annoyed set of Din’s shoulders heavily imply, because Luke is still injured and while his head isn’t an agony at the moment, it’s hardly a joy to deal with.

But, he does talk.

A lot.

About everything and nothing, off on a tangent here, there, wander far and wide the better to annoy Din into forgetting what questions he asked Luke. (The ones asking who he is, how he got there, and where the hell he’s going next, because Din’s patience lasts only so long.)

To Dins quiet horror, however, he actually starts to like Luke???

Like.

Annoying, yes, with the talking? But he doesn’t complain about all the walking they’re doing, or sleeping conditions when they make camp for the night and so on.

And, alright, sometimes it does get a bit lonely out here - conveniently far enough away from settlements or cities where someone would definitely recognize Luke - but he doesn’t tell Luke that, goodness no.

They run into trouble, after a while.

People who took part in the attack on Luke’s ship and other baddies on Mandalore connected to them and it’s a matter of bad luck meeting worse luck, and anyway, anyway.

There’s a fight, and some guns with the pew-pew shootout and Luke being the one to save Din’s life, escaping with him to some abandoned mine or underground tunnels, something and -

“Ah,” Luke says, breathless from the running and hiding and saving Din’s life and then hauling him somewhere that was supposed to be safe, even with the help of the Force.

(His head is killing him again, nowhere near healed enough to expend as much effort as he has just now, but it that or die, and he’d rather not get Din killed as well since the man’s only shown him kindness - and his special brand of charm - and anyway. Yes.)

He’s expecting it to be the people who ambushed them, but to his surprise, wariness, dread, it’s a Mandalorian. (Armor’s a dead giveaway and all.)

One who cocks their head when they see Luke’s face, blaster dipping slightly at the sight of him.

Luke tries for a smile, but Din groans, low, pained, and the best Luke was able to do was check the wound wasn’t life-threatening and slap a patch-job bandage over it before they made a break for it, and -

“I don’t suppose it would be asking too much if you had medical supplies, would it?” Luke asks, expecting to get shot for his trouble - sass, snark - but the Mandalorian holding them at blaster-point huffs out a laugh and holsters said blaster.

Jerks their chin towards a side tunnel and strides off, clearly expecting Luke to follow, and after a moment’s hesitation - no way to know if the Mandalorian is taking them to their deaths - but no better option available to them, so Luke follows.

(Murmurs an apology to Din when he groans again, guilt heavier than Din’s arm slung over his shoulder, the weight of Din and his armor, knowing he wouldn’t be in this situation if he’d left well enough alone after stumbling on Luke. So.)

Mystery!Mandalorian leads Luke to a room with medical supplies stored neatly. Clean and well-lit and after getting permission - nod of Mystery-Mandalorian’s head and wave of their hand that seems more amused than mocking - Luke sets about properly treating Din’s injuries.

Fumbles a bit, because Luke’s still injured himself, over-extended himself in the earlier fight, and it’s catching up to him now they’re somewhere arguably safe.

(No one actively trying to kill them, anyway.)

Mystery!Mandalorian watches as Luke tries to et his hands to stop shaking - stress, injury, exhaustion, any of a dozen reasons and he swears, low under his breath because now isn’t the time -

He startles when Mystery!Mandalorian takes the medical supplies out of his hands, didn’t notice him moving close enough to do so, and allows the hand on his shoulder that guides him into sitting on a stool as they do for him what he can’t in that moment and looks after Din.

Watches quietly, closely, but Mystery!Mandalorian knows what they’re doing, and truthfully Luke knows if they intended them harm there would easier ways, more efficient ones than this.

So.

He watches Mystgery!Mandalorian tend to Din’s injuries, and blinks up at them stupidly when they turn back to him, head tilted just so.

“What?” Luke asks, and Mystery!Mandalorian huffs out a laugh, quiet breath of laughter and then it’s Luke’s turn to be treated.

Careful, gentle hands and Luke’s mind drifts while Mystery!Mandalorian cleans and dresses a blaster burn on his shoulder, graze courtesy of a shot he hadn’t seen coming, attention on Din instead and he knows if it were a normal (...somewhat) normal situation he’d get a lecture on that lapse.

(A lecture, his father’s face stern, and under it worry, concern for him Luke’s never doubted, and after that his mother and quiet, soft words interwined with the same firece love his father has for his children. .)

As it is...

“Thank you,” Luke says, hopes Mystery!Mandalorian hears the things he can’t find the words for, the gratitude he feels.

Mystery!Mandalorian studies him for a long moment, Luke returning their regard best as he can even as he feels his mind going slow, stupid, as exhaustion rolls over him.

He can feel Mystery!Mandalorian watching him, them, unexected guests, visitors, complications, and there’s another sigh.

A gesture towards an unoccupied medical bed, slight tilt of his head that feels of that same brand of amusement from earlier.

Luke eyes it longingly because he’s tired, isn’t he, too much happening in too short a period of time and this feeling in the back of his mind that something is happening.

Whispers and rumors building towards something catastrophic if left unchecked and murmurs though the Force he’s known all his life.

“Rest,” Mystery!Mandalorian says, gentle, kind. “I’ll keep watch.”

It shouldn’t be a reassuring as it is, shouldn’t feel like Luke is breathing his first full breath since the alarms on his ship started wailing, intangible dread he’d felt once they left Naboo’s made real.

And yet...

There’s something about Mystery!Mandalorian he can’t help but trust, and Luke’s mind is tired, muddled, clear thought a struggle but the way the Force coils around them is enough to set his mind at ease.

“Thank you,” Luke says, and the words aren’t enough to articulate what he means, but it seems to be understood anyway.

He makes his way to the medical bed, and it isn’t long until he falls asleep, swears he hears Mystery!Mandalorian say, before he does, strangely soft, fond.

“You really are just like your father, aren’t you?”, and with no little amusement, “Skwalkers.”

And then shenanigans???

Luke waking up to Din staring at him from his own medical bed, at a loss regarding their situation, everything, and annoye (at himself???) about it, because Luke saved his life, didn’t he?

Saved it, and saved it again by getting them to safety and out of the hands of whoever attacked them, and that’s about the time Mystery!Mandalorian shows up, and Din is -

Not thrilled???

Doesn’t recognize the armor, person, regarding the two of them with this underlying amusement. (It rankles, that amusement, leaves him wrong-footed.)

Still, he follows Luke’s lead when he insists Mystery!Mandalorian is a friend - “Well,” Luke allows, at the look Din gives him when he says that. “He hasn’t tried to kill us. Yet.”

Which.

Fair, if not a ringing endorsement, but it’s not like they have much choice in the matter when Mystery!Mandalorian tells them to follow them, and off they go.

Underground tunnels and such until they get to some sort of base.

Other Mandalorians and Din is like oh, no, because these ones he does recognize.

“Resistance,” he says to Luke who’s picked up on his unease, gaze flicking to Din’s behind Mystery!Mandalorian’s back as they’re led down corridors to meet with what must be leadership.

Because Mandalore and unrest and that same something Luke’s known about his whole life and the way it affects the universe around him and just, yes.

Mystery!Mandalorian cocks his head as the lift they’re on descends, listening in, and still that amusement.

“Indeed,” he says, and something about it snaps Luke’s attention to him, makes Din...wary.

Just as well the lift stops, doors sliding open and then more corridors that seem to go on forever until they reach a set of doors.

Mystery!Mandalorian glances back at them for a moment, and huffs a quiet laugh at whatever he sees, and then they’re pressing forward.

It’s...not what he was expecting.

An office of some kind, with a holomap table off to one side and monitors and consoles beside it. A stripped down version of the control room they passed by floors down, and a slight figure in armor, head bowed over the holomap table.

Mystery!Mandalorian clears their throat, a courtesy, and the armore figure lifts their head, looks over at Luke and Din.

At Mystery!Mandalorian, and there’s a look exchanged between the two, silent conversation before Mystery!Mandalorian glances at Luke and Din again.

Sighs, and reaches up to remove their helmet, crooked smile on their - his face - at the way Luke goes so, so still beside Din.

Silence stretches long enough for Din to feel it, the weight of the revelation even if he doesn’t understand it.

“Hello, Luke,” he says, tired, aching.

Sharp inhale, and Luke tears his eyes away from Mystery!Mandalorian to look at Din, something so very wrong with the smile on his face.

“It’s Ben,” he says, and his voice cracks as he looks back at Mystery!Mandalorian, laughs at something Din doesn’t understand, something that makes Mystery!Mandalorian wince, even as he holds Luke’s gaze when he looks back at him. “Old Ben.”

Din frowns, because the man is older than them, Luke, that much is certain, but surely not old enough to have earned a title like that.

Because, look, alright.

Look.

Obi-Wan and sekrit missions because everyone knows trouble’s brewing, and a duchess of Mandalore contacted Padme, and things kind of just. Grew from there, to the point Obi-Wan went to Mandalore as an emmisary, ostensibly for political reasons, but really to help root out what information he could with Satine’s help and things went wrong.

Had him, and Satine, presumably killed in an uprising, no longer a threat to an unknown enemy.

Until the resistance took root, grew, and other such things.

Satine and Obi-Wan at the head of it, getting what information back to Padme, Anakin they could and everyone agreeing it was best for the time being if they stayed dead.

And then Luke’s ship being attacked and everything that followed, and anyway, anyway welcome to the resistance Luke Skywalker and friend, glad to have you.

Luke is understandably confused, angry at having been left in the dark, and angrier still that he has to admit to the necessity of it.

(He understands, but he’d still mourned for Obi-Wan, his father’s former mentor, teacher, and beloved uncle to Luke and Leia. He understands.)

And then there are briefings, because it’s very much a war the resistance is waging, against a common enemy and while Luke pay close attention to everything he and Din are told, he watches Obi-Wan, Satine.

Thinks oh, of course, when it hits him why the way the two of them interacts seems strangely familiar, known, because it’s the way his parents are, isn’t it?

Familiarity and trust, a knowing, and that little knot of anger buried deep in his chest at the deception involving Obi-Wan’s supposed death all those years ago unravels until he’s no longer breathing around it.

And then!

Shenanigans in which Din very much tries to NOT be part of this madness, because no, okay, no.

Simple bounty hunter and so on, and Luke don’t look at him like that, it won’t work -

So of course that’s when things go to hell and the base is attacked and Luke is taken and Din finds himself staring “Old Ben” down in the aftermath because this may not be his war to fight, but Luke is an idiot.

“Well,” Obi-Wan says, corner of his mouth quirking. “He does take after his father that way.”

Dramatic Rescues and Dine being So Done with everything, but also, like. Being heroically injured by shielding Luke and Luke’s pale face and fear in the back of his eyes as he leans over Din to keep him from bleeding out.

Striving for calm, soothing Din in between yelling for help, Obi-Wan and the others on their way, and Din laughing at him because he was told Jedi didn’t panic.

“Shut up,” Luke says, laugh all wrong. “I thought nothing could get through Mandalorian armor?”

Well.

Things go fuzzy for a bit, Din remembers pain and blood and yelling - a lot of that - and then he wakes up in a medical center somewhere.

Not the resistance base, but he doesn’t recognize it.

“Idiot,” is the first thing he hears, and then, “Stupid,” and so on, and when he turns his head Luke is glaring at him.

He must make for a terrible Jedi, Din thinks, because Jedi aren’t supposed to have attachment, are they?

Dangerous, terrible, and yet.

“You are, yes,” Din says, voice haorse, more of a croak, and when he laughs at the affornted look Luke gives him for that it hurts - still healing and all - but so very worth it.

And then, okay, and then.

It comes out that Palpatine has been building a base of power for himself for years, slow patient, and setting his enemies at one another’s throats to weaken them.

Conspiracies on conspiracies and Din watches Luke as his father - his father, mother, and sister who hasn’t left Luke’s side since they arrived - tell them.

(Because, you know, because. Luke’s family and secrets weighing heavy and of course, of course Leia would not be held back, would not just let Luke’s death go so easily.

Would investigate, relentless, until she stumbled over everything and her parents and a shared look and she gets it from you, you know, and me? you have to be kidding, and I get it from both of you, now tell me what’s going on right now.

Adventures, because Skywalkers. A chance meeting with a scruffy smuggler and his long-suffering Wookie friend, and a rickety, rusty freighter

.Hey, that’s no way to talk about a lady, and as if you’d know, and don’t encourage them, Padme, and Of course not, Anakin, and heavy, resigned sighs because Leia has always been terrifying like her mother and somehow more stubborn.

A resistance - “Rebellion,” Obi-Wan says, glint in his eye when Anakin looks at him, “seems more fitting don’t you think?” - growing as well in secret.

Both brought into the light with recent events and untold battles ahead, and just.

It’s a lot.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Luke says, and Din doesn’t tense at his voice, quiet, something sad to it under his amusement.

Din hmms, glances towards Luke.

So much has happened since they meet, learned of things far bigger than them, and still -

“We’re meant to be enemies,” he says, a Mandalorian to a Jedi, albeit one still in training if what Luke told him is true.

Luke cocks his head, and still crosses the clearing to sit beside him.

Hmms, right back at Din and Din bites back a sigh, watching Luke from the corner of his eye.

With everything that’s happened, they’ve learned, the old grudge seems petty in comparison.

Also, Obi-Wan and Satine, and it hardly seems important anymore, long before his time as it was, and while Luke’s certainly many things, he’s never felt like an enemy.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, calm, cool of the night and so much between them they don’t have words for yet, and none of it unwelcome.

When Luke gets to his feet, holds his hand out to Din, he doesn’t have to think about it when he takes it. Lets Luke pull him to his feet with that surprising strength of his, and falls into step with him just as easily.

And then they have Adventures and death-defying shenanigans and such. Steal kisses here and there and never put a name to this thing of theirs, but it’s strong enough to last through a war and to the other side of it.

Would-be Empire scattered and broken and a good bounty hunter’s experience is invaluable in stamping out the remnants.

Almost as much as a Jedi Knight who earned their title through countless battles and conflicts, steady familiar presence at his side.And really, really, it shouldn’t surprise him so much when Luke gives him this soft little smile when Din comes home after a solo mission, small green gremlin of a kid he’d found (rescued) in his arms and knows their little family has gained another member.

(And again and again, because Luke’s just as bad as him and Finn and Rey are fine on their own, but Grogu? An absolute nightmare and evil mastermind and Din doesn’t care what Luke says, the small green gremlin child gets it from Luke’s side of the family.)

Also, though.

The day Finn and Rey met Poe (Ben a little confused, bemused, blissfully unaware of what he was witnessing) signaled the beginning of the end and Luke is absolutely laughing at Din, don’t think he doesn’t know what that looks like by now. >:(((((((((((((((((((((((((

[pigeonfancier]

TBC is done! My giant comic project is also done, and I'm both pleased and a little distressed: what am I going to do with my time now? Finish up my dozens of older projects? That's not very me.

I thought the ending would feel very bittersweet - I've been in a bit of a distressed kind of Mood about the game lately, not helped by the community's reaction to the ending - but no, I'm actually fairly satisfied with it, and I'm pleased that a great deal of the ending was ultimately left ambiguous. It leaves room for everyone to come to what conclusions they want, and with stories, that always feels the best.

In health news: I attended my dermatology visit, which was very stressful going in, and significantly less so coming out. The doctor apparently saw my chart, and got very excited, because autoimmunal pancreatitis is rare, and he thought that I must have it from IGG4, if I was having skin issues. So he brought in his entire gaggle of medical ducklings..

.. and then got disappointed to realise that I do not have IGG4 symptoms, which is a surprise to me, haha. Pancreatitis is so hard to research! I know I have autoimmunal, but I did not realise there was even a difference between hereditary and IGG4-based pancreatitis in the first place. He still used it as an opportunity to drill his students on pancreatitis, though, which was fun, and educational to me as well, haha.

He also gave me a referral to a pancreatric specialist with his network, too, which is nice: I went to Cleveland to get seen by one of the state's Top Specialists, per google and my GP, and said specialist was very thrown over the fact I didn't have substance-based pancreatitis. Very thrown, and kind of judgemental! Meanwhile, this doctor's first words after interrogating me on pancreatitis for his students were: "oh, you must get people thinking you abuse alcohol a lot, huh?"

It's very nice to have a doctor.. not assume I am lying, or immediately jumping to negative conclusions, lol. Very nice, and unfortunately, very rare! But his network actually handles autoimmunal and hereditary pancreatitis, and I am so relieved that there is potentially an end to sight in dealing with this. He seemed very certain there were multiple treatment options involving pills, rather than surgery, for it. I'm crossing my fingers!

Also crossing my fingers that, for all that I'm pleased over him inexplicably hyperfocusing in on my pancreatitis, he is not entirely correct on his diagnosis of my skin issue? He looked over the dark spots, asked a lot about family history and my grandfather's mysterious abdominal surgeries, and then immediately said, oh, this is almost undoubtedly Peutz-Jeghers Syndrome, and I probably just hadn't noticed any of the symptoms in the past, because pancreatitis is a good way to mask it, but my bizarre lip spots are pretty indicative of it. So go to the gastro he was referring me to, get the pancreatitis checked, and get testing for the PJS, so it can be treated!

And in the meanwhile, don't freak out! :)

Because, as he lovingly informed his ducklings, patients always look these things up on their phones and then spend the next three months freaking the fuck out.

And who am I, but a stereotype?

I'm not letting mysef froth over it too much, haha, or at least, I'm trying not to! Darcel and I do have markers for it, per Promethease, but that isn't necessarily reliable, and it's certainly not a diagnosis of anything. Still, I keep eyeing that, and then eyeing Cleveland Clinic's cheery note that "the lifetime risk of developing any sort of cancer is estimated to be as high as 93 percent", and midkey frothing. I would really just like to be healthy! I do not want to have to memorise how to spell fucked up German disorders! Going into an appointment to ensure I do not have cancer, and getting told "you don't have cancer! but eventually you might! :)" is not my favorite activity!

But if I do have it, whatever, lol. This shit is what preventative care is for, I suppose, and if I have to make time to go and get checked out regularly, I'll make do. The health complications and risks seem as if they primarily come down to not having preventative care, which is something I can work with.

[purplerose244]

Irrational - Chapter 4: Study

Fourth day of the @spacecampweek, here I come! We’re talking ‘Freckles’! 😍

This is a short, fluffy one, with the participation of head over heels Seamus and oblivious Krel! Enjoy!! 💙💙

Summary: It had started as a random subject of a research during his free time. It had turned into a realization science could hardly explain.

Read it on the AO3

Krel was finally ready to put an end to this.

After all, at first, it had been all abound finding a way to pass time while Mrs. Janeth explained her limited understanding of math to the class. In all honesty, it could had been anyone else in that room, every single human might had caught his eyes during his desperate effort to find something interesting to do. It had turned out to be him probably because having another person besides himself appearing this bored – to the point of falling asleep, impressive – had been almost comforting. Giving a look had been normal, staring a natural consequence.

Then, he had noticed them.

Despite what absolute new environment was this planet, he had taken his time to discover a bit about this place. It had turned out that biological bodies possessed quite the variety of features, and those red dots were only a minuscule part of it. They were called ‘freckles’, defined as extra patches of coloring or pigment under the skin: a hereditary trait, typical of humans with clear skin and called ephelides by professional human healers. They apparently emerged as an over product of melanin, and they reacted to ultraviolet radiation – if their morning star was such a problem, how come they had not worked on a planetary shield yet? Ay ay ay, these humans.

Even with this knowledge and the awareness that it was nothing more than a few points, Krel hadn’t been able to look elsewhere. There was something fascinating about seeing theory applied into reality, even for a matter as simple as this – besides, anything was better than this lesson.

It had started like this.

Then, it had become a constant. A regular occurrence to hold on to.

His life was the very opposite of normal, his existence alone would have gained him that infamous ‘weirdo’ nickname even without his own apparently unnatural personality. There had been hardly a time where he had the benefit of having something to hold onto, his sister was his rock but with the arising danger the risk of losing her as well as their parents had made him grown restless. His mind was too much sometimes, highlighting every single thought. He had needed a distraction.

A study.

Of course, it was so simple! There was clearly a reason why that freckled face was so captivating to him, he needed to research, as always! When something other than fixing their ship to go back home had made its way into his mind, life had turned out to be a little less stressful.

Getting a good look at Seamus during lunch was awfully easy, the blonde himself always seemed interested in him – not sure why, perhaps Krel’s way of eating was almost too human like –, and it seemed like every time those red points doubled. He was sure of it, even during the skelteg situation, seeing him run away had been enough to notice the change – that occurrence had been particular, especially since Mary had given him such a smirk, was she aware of his experiment? –, concluding that there was definitely something going on. Between bounty hunters and school, the chances to take a look had been quite numerous, to the point he had noticed Seamus staring back sometimes, a scowl on his face – hard to tell if it was threatening or his natural expression.

Then the math duel had happened, some pleasantries had been exchanged, the subject had turned out to be someone he might had been interested even as a friend – hearing him looking at him in amazement later in Battle of the Bands had definitely helped –, yet somehow Krel had managed to forget to check on his face the entire time. Which was ridiculous, since he had been unable to think of anyone else but him, even after the delson was over.

What was worse, observation had turned out to be extremely difficult from that moment forward.

It was clear, the blonde was now aware of his study and was doing his best to prevent him from doing it. That had involved covering his face, turning away from him when he was around, and most of all activating biological defense mechanisms. Turning his face red in order to hide his pigments, a truly advanced tactic.

Luckily it worked only when Seamus noticed him staring. Seeing his freckles over his nice, relaxed, pink skin was quite the moment. Even a pleasant one.

More delsons had passed… more than they were supposed to.

Krel was still not back to Akiridion-5. They were still not home.

Not only that, but everything in his life was crumbling. Morando was still out there plotting who knew what, the Mothership was grounded with little chance to go back to fly, Varvatos was a traitor and had almost died for them and now had disappeared. It was piling all over, one brick over the other, it was getting hard to deal with everything. Aja had said it was going to be okay and that had been nice at first, but somehow infuriating later. What did she know? What if it wasn’t? what if it wasn’t going to work out, and they were only stalling the inevitable??

At the end, behind all of these problems, all uncertainties about the future, everything came down to this stupid, insignificant thought into his mind, the one that kept making him inevitably interested into that guy. His own most serious issues weren’t going to be solved anytime soon. If he could at least stop stressing over one thing, it was going to be for the best. It had started as a way to spend free time, but now… he was afraid of what it implied.

Steve had been useful for once, explaining to him where to find Seamus – “Good luck lovebird!”, he did not need that name after the birdie encounter. The theatre was not very crowded for now, he had been able to lean against the wall to wait without being bothered by humans. Today it felt like he could had lost his patience very easily.

At some point a group of guys exited the building, blues eyes crossed his.

There they were, those freckles. They were more than ever. He truly didn’t understand what was happening, why couldn’t he give it a rest and- ah, there it was again, that defense ability of his. Biological beings were such a mystery.

“Tarron?” Seamus blinked at him, confused. “Huh, uhm, hi, what are you doing here?” His friends waved at him with little grins, leaving them alone.

Krel breathed out, feeling the weight of everything ease a little from his shoulders. Huh.

“I am here for an experiment. I have been conducting it for some time now, I am sure you have noticed.” Judging from his confusion it seemed not, which made no sense considering his responding attention to his movements. “I have a certain fascination towards an aspect on you, and I would like to conduct one last test before leaving out the question once and for all. I am dealing with a difficult situation, I do not want any other problems getting in the way.”

“Problems…? Wait, f-fascination?” Oh, apparently there was no limit on how red this human could get. If only he wasn’t there to end his research he would have gladly tried to pick on this new topic. “F-for me? Huh, I mean… what experiment?”

“I will need you to stay still for me. I promise I will not harm you.”

“Whatever you wa- I mean, uhm, s-sure no problem!” Seamus was still staring, a little red, nodding his head. He looked in a way Krel couldn’t described. Not bad. Very nod bad.

“Very good. With your permission.”

It was only a study. He had weirder stuff in the past, especially during his skelteg interest phase – he had enough of those bugs for now –, this was nothing. Observation had brought him nothing, there was a chance tact was going to be useful and lips were the most sensible part of the human body. It only made sense, so he held Seamus’ cheeks and pressed his mouth over his freckles, between his eyes and his nose. Nothing. No difference in texture, nothing he could reasonably conclude. There really was no point into his tests. Despite the feeling of failure, there was something pleasant into touching warm human skin like this.

When he pulled away, a wave of shame hit him, as this problem wasn’t going to be solved and was going to be add to all the others. Then he looked up, seeing the freckles disappear once again, and the largest grin he had ever seen appear.

Seamus was giggling, eyes glimmering.

“That… that was… eheh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “… nice.”

“Nice? Really?” Krel was confused. Was his failure a joy for others? This human couldn’t be that cruel. “It is good to know I guess, because my study was a complete failure.”

“Your what now?”

“It does not matter… I should go.”

“What?! No, wait!” Humans could be quite swift. Even strong, at least judging from the way Seamus had clawed his shoulders. “You didn’t! I mean, I have no idea what this is about, but it wasn’t a failure, I promise!” There was still no trace of the freckles. It felt like this entire experience was place outside his comfort zone, Krel was starting to shake. Curiously… he didn’t hate it. “I liked that, I swear, I’ve been thinking about doing stuff like that with you for a while now!”

Krel widened his eyes. Stuff like that? Stuff like what? Checking the subject of his study? Allowing others to perform tests on him? Why was this confusing, he was never confused!

“I don’t understand…”

“You kissed me, you do understand! And it felt good, and I would like to do it more!”

Kissed?… wait.

“It felt good? Really?” Seamus nodded vividly, looking like he was dying to be understood. But… but that was ridiculous, it was only a brush between human skins. How could it be something pleasant to experience? “Does it truly feel this nice?

Seamus widened his eyes. He swallowed, stepping closer.

The prince felt a sudden wave of tension hit him.

“Yeah, it does. It’s like, well…” The blonde swallowed again, slowly holding up his chin. “It’s… it’s probably clearer through practice than theory.” His finger was shaking. Krel was also shaking. His blue eyes were getting closer and closer, bigger and deeper, something he had always known from the very beginning. Huh. Perhaps he didn’t notice his freckles alone. A sekton later they were closed, and the prince felt a pressure over his cheek. His entire body was enveloped by flames. His mind was emptied, finally free from pressure and pain. “… s-so?” Seamus was looking again, still with those enormous eyes, expecting a conclusion.

Krel was frozen. Oh. Huh. That was new. Feeling stupid. That was very new.

Those freckles were never multiplying, nor they were particularly engaging on a scientific level. They were Seamus’, he was getting closer. That had always made the difference.

A little smile arrived, because at last, he did have one answer.

“You’re right, it does feel nice.”

Seamus breathed out, looking relieved and so, so happy. So very endearing.

“Good. Great, awesome, I mean…” He reached out for him again, embracing him, close to his chest. Krel could hear his human heart. It was beating. What a very fascinating topic again. “D-does this mean the experiment is still on? Are you still gonna watch me during math class and all those times?” He did notice. He really was smart. Perhaps he wasn’t completely accurate at determining exactly the topic of the research, but he was close enough. Krel really liked that aspect of him. “Because, well, in case you want to go beyond observation and deepening the study, we could, I don’t know…” He laughed nervously, his hold tightening. “Uhm, deepening the research? Maybe d-during lunch or something?”

It felt like reaching a very high point in science. It felt like at least one thing was going right into his life. He was right, the research was still very much open and able to develop, it only had a wider subject now: the entirety of the Seamus Johnson.

The prince slowly smiled, welcoming the feeling of warmth over his face.

“I’d like that.”

[ishouldgetatumbler]

Kissed an cast into the sea

Fandom: HunterxHunter

Pairing: Mito Freecs/Illumi Zoldyck (Miumi)

Warnings: Alcohol, Illumi’s brain

Word count: 5343

AO3

1

      A man was sitting at her kitchen table. He was tall, even sitting he was nearly as tall as Mito. He was watching her with the palm of one hand resting on the back of his other. His hair was long and black; it seemed expensively cared for. His clothes were clashing, and poofy, but his face was all business. Mito wanted to curl up in fear of his big dead eyes.

      Right. Okay.

    She was standing in the doorway of her home, holding a fish by the severed fishing line. Her hair was tied back and her dress was sky blue with clouds drawn from spilled bleach and white paint. It was darker blue at the knees and below, where the marsh water soaked it through. Her rubber boots squelched on the tiles of her kitchen, mud caked wellington boots oozing onto the floor.

    Right. Okay.

    She set down her catch on the cutting board before stepping on the toe of her rubber boot and working herself free of it. The next shoe she stood on one foot to pull off with her hands. She set the both of them in a tin caked with sand and dry and turned to the person sitting at her table. 

    He was still there, eyes on her curiously as she stood in soaked wooly socks. The fact he was still there made the fear worse.

    Right. Okay.

    "Ging isn't here right now."

    The man cocked his head to one side, curiously.

    "You're not the first person to try this. I don't know where Ging is and I don't know how to find him."

    She'd said that to everyone who had come through looking for Ging. It was the truth, but she always imagined she could find Ging if she really wanted to.

    "Gon Freecs? Do you know where he is?"

    That was new. Gon really did take after his father.

    "No."

    The stranger looked at her reproachfully. He wasn't the first to believe breaking into her house would scare her. They'd come and gone, polite euphemisms for threats and poorly concealed weapons. She didn’t see any weapons, but the man was too calm to be threatening her without one.

    "He broke my arm." He added after a moment, still reproachful.

    She gave a tight smile with no humor or joy.

    "I'm sorry to hear that."

    The stranger continued to look reproachfully at her.

    "He kidnapped my brother as well. Boys really should not be taken from home at such a formative age."

    "Kidnapping? That doesn't sound like Gon."

    "I'm very certain he did. Killua Zoldyck?"

    Things clicked into place. She tried to remember his name, scrawled on loose leaf paper three times folded. Gon's handwriting was nearly illegible when he was excited. That name was in one of the three paragraphs reduced to squiggles as he talked about Killua.

    "Illumi is it?"

    He raised both his hands from the table, putting them up as if to say 'you caught me.'

    "Hi."

2

    He watched her as she gathered laundry for the drying lines, swept out the mud she'd tracked in and washed her hands again to begin preparing the fish. She hesitated for a moment before grabbing her knife. Good, she understood the situation.

    She scraped the scales from the fish with the same intense focus Gon had broken his arm. So it was hereditary. She laid the fish on its side, deboning it and gutting it with a few sharp moves. She glanced at the fish as she set it aside, blindly reaching for another. Her hand found an empty countertop, and she turned to Illumi.

    "Could you go to the market and buy another salmon?"

    Illumi cocked his head to one side. She didn't seem unnerved. "Why?"

    "Because I have two people to feed tonight." She grabbed her apron, using it to wipe at the bits of fish on her hands.

    She’d moved on very quickly. She knew he was dangerous, she knew he was after her son by extension, but she didn’t know why. It was probably in her best interest to stay polite, in case he was there to help. But she knew about him, she knew his name. How much did she know? She was offering him dinner, so it couldn't be much.

    He could kill her and puppet her, but maintaining that concentration would be harder than just waiting for his brother to return. Maybe a few needles, to make her more obedient. The Zoldycks were made to have power in any case. 

    He tutted his tongue as it occurred to him Killua would notice if he ever came back, and that attention to detail was why he'd tried to cut his prodigy brother out of the mix in the first place. Everything would be so much more… cooperative when he'd stuck a few needles in Killua's brain. He was twirling a needle now, spinning it end over end between his fingers. 

    Killua would be the head of the family, of course. Tradition had to be upheld, and it was easier to deliver bad news through someone else's lips. And maybe, for some mysterious reason, Killua decided never to marry or officially sire that duty would just have to fall to the eldest relative. And after having a son who could be heir, Illumi could-

     Illumi noticed he was walking back up the hill, holding a bag in his other hand. He stopped, instinct stopping the needle he was holding in the throwing position. How had she done that? He stared at the ground, at the foot worn path back up the hillside and he waited for the feeling of nen to crawl over him.

    Instead, he remembered what happened; his memories creeping out from hidden places like they were ashamed. He was embarrassed to see them.

    She had just… asked him to go shopping again. He replayed it in his head over and over, trying to piece it together. He was distracted, thinking about the future, and she'd said, very firmly, "You're just going to sit there and think, go out to the store already!" He’d idly translated this, before saying "Guáng  jiē", repeating the verb to indicate he'd do as he was told.

    He'd only ever spoken Chinese with his mother and grandfather, and both of them spoke like that to him. Was that all it had taken?

    Illumi started walking again; his steps short and angry. No, that was quite impossible. He'd worked very hard to remove such needless extremities from the brutal, exact machinery of assassination. Emotional blindspots were a luxury he couldn’t afford. The six dozen needles he kept lodged in various parts of his body were supposed to help with that.

    He stopped, before digging his heel into the dirt with force enough to fold sheet metal. He was pouting, he knew he was pouting and he was basically stomping and whining, but it was a Command. A command he had listened to. He never wanted that to happen again, that's why he did any of this. Power is just the ability to say No.

      Mito was halfway down the glass before she caught herself. She was thinking about the boys again, about Gon and Killua. Apparently her hands had grabbed the bottle and a pair of glasses from the cupboard. Scotch. She licked her lips, trying to chase it’s cruel taste away. The scotch laid plans on it’s own; oiling the inside of her skull to send her brain skidding across it.

    They were probably in the forest somewhere, having an adventure. Chasing rumors and stipulation through the wild places. She scoffed at her own fantasy: it would be nice if the world worked like that, but it didn't. There were people out there, intelligent motivated people, who only wanted to hurt people. As she thought this to herself, she saw Illumi crest the top of the hill, gaunt form holding a gently swaying bag. He might kill her.

    She took another drink and her eyes watered; at the taste, at the smell, but mostly at the fact she hadn't been strong enough to dump out the glass. 

    She could still see his silhouette from the road. He was tall, must have been more than six feet. His hands, fingers long thin and agile, sprang into her mind. It was easy to imagine them slipping gently around her neck. She gripped the front of her dress and tried to make that a scary image.

3

    She was sitting at the table: brown skin and freckles, soft red hair cut short and strange. He gestured with the bag. She smiled at him.

    "Thank you."

    He made a noncommittal noise and nodded his head.

    She stood, before walking closer, but he cut her off, stepping smartly to the counter's edge and placing the bag down on it, before looking at her.

    "Yú."

    Mito nodded, and took one or two slow, lumbering steps to the counter. He couldn't be bothered to count for once, he was busy watching her face.

    You were supposed to be able to learn alot from watching someone's face, but Illumi had never quite got the trick of it. He could tell you what a face was like, if he liked looking at it and what it was doing, but had no idea what it was supposed to mean.

He could see the redness of her cheeks. The glassy, watery look in her eyes. Her eyelids were puffy as well, agitated and swollen. She took a short glance at him, before turning back to her fish and cutting board. 

A moment later she said, "If you're just going to stand there gawking, go and close the door."

    Illumi was halfway turned around when he caught himself. There it was again: that emotional blind spot. He turned back to her.

    "You keep doing that. Do you mean to?"

    Mito’s knife dug in at the base of the fish's spine, and froze there. Her eyes went wide looking at it. Fear was an expression he knew, but it was a volatile thing: it melted into other expressions and emotions so quickly it was useless to identify.

    "No." She said, after a pregnant pause.

    Illumi considered this, rolling it around in his mind, this way and that.

    "You're lying," he concluded.

4

    Fear pounded at the back of Mito's mind. She would have a headache from it later, if the scotch hadn't already taken care of that. He was looking at her like a child inspecting an ant. She wanted to be angry about this, but she was just scared. He could kill her.

    She mustered the will to look him in the eyes. They were dark brown,  she'd mistaken them for black from a distance. His nose was small and pointed. His mouth pressed into a thin, expressionless line. She looked away, back to the fish before deboning it.

    He was tapping his finger on the counter. His body was contorted, bent at nearly every joint to put his face next to hers. His hair drooled down onto the cooled burners, and his eyes bore a hole in the side of her face.

    She realized he was offended, and was waiting for her to apologize. She, an ant to his eyes, had told him to do something, and he'd done it. This was an affront to his power and oh, he's a boy. Roughly her age too, by the look of him. Boys never liked to be bossed around by a girl their own age; they were sensitive about that sort of thing.

    Her mother and father had met in a similar way, albeit less veiled threats and mysterious intentions. She had walked into the wrong house, and was halfway through making herself a snack before she noticed. From her father’s perspective, a beautiful woman had wandered in and started eating his food. 

It was like that, the scotch told her, before she tamped the thought down. The giddy feeling still bubbled up out from under her heel and let out of her in a soft teary giggle.

    "What's funny?" He asked finally.

    His tone was calm, speaking like the sound of an iced over lake cracking. Mito's brain whirred, and her hands gutted the fish on instinct. 

    "I was just thinking this almost feels like a date."

    She shouldn’t have said it. She should have kept it to herself, but the sickening taste of booze made her tongue eager to move.

    Illumi took a step back from her.

    Oh. Oh. Why had he never thought of that? He had never considered she could be useful. He was daydreaming instead of planning. After he'd puppeted Killua, after his father retired as head and Killua succeeded him, Illumi would need to sire the next heir. 

    She had clearly raised a capable son. She would, as was tradition, kill his mother and take her role as matriarch and teacher. He could sculpt the next generation through her. It would be so eloquent. The same person he used to establish his power would solidify it.

    Illumi sat at the table, brushing away imaginary dust.

    "I suppose it is." He said finally.

5

    They had never said a word.

    Illumi had sat across from her, taking seconds and thirds without a moment of eye contact or conversation. He seemed to be judging her by the food, taking a moment or two sometimes to slowly chew, or try a sauce in isolation. He didn’t speak, perhaps waiting for her to crack. She could feel him watching her when she looked away. It was like the feeling of a spider crawling up your back.

    Mito hadn’t spoken either, but she had no idea what to say. Her drunken suggestion had been taken all too seriously, and she really didn’t know what to do now that she had been taken up on it. What was she supposed to say? "Why do you want to kill my son?" The answer was obvious: Gon had stepped in Illumi's plans, sprinting down the muddy road towards Ging. He must have done it a hundred times on his journey.

    And what about Illumi? What did he want in any case? Why sit down to dinner? She had decided not to ask based on a parable Abe had once told her, about asking a tightrope walker how he kept his balance. If you asked the wrong question, someone could die.

    She dabbed at her mouth, cleaning the sauce and fat from the edges of her lip. Illumi looked up, fork laden with breaded fish and seared vegetables.

    "Can I help you?"

    It wasn't a rude thing to ask, and she was genuinely interested in the answer. He was on his third plate in any case, When someone's belly was full was the best time to ask probing questions.

    Illumi set his fork down.

    "Do you live alone here?"

    Mito stood sharply up, turning to wash her plate. His hand was around her wrist. Her brain sloshed angrily around in her head as she jerked to stop, mashing into one side and the other. The back of her eyes hurt too, stinging and aching in turns. She tugged against his gripping fingers, the joints in her arm threatening to dislocate as she pulled

    "You're very strong." He commented.

    She looked back at him.

    "Yes, I am. Those who live on Whale Island are hardy."

    She tried to spin the inflection so that it sounded like they were a community. The truth was that she was so strong because she worked the pole barges and row boats by herself, refusing to split her wages with anyone. They'd needed that money once; doctors were expensive on Whale Island. Now that Abe was gone, she did it for the principle of the thing. 

    "You're angry." He said, slightly accusing.

    "Never touch a woman without permission, you're liable to lose a hand."

    He looked at her, and then cracked into a smile. She tried to not to be fascinated by that smile.

    "You know I live alone," she finally answered.

    Illumi nodded, saying "yes, I suppose I did. I was waiting for you to lie to me."

    The anger and fear were mixing with something in her guts, probably the alcohol, and the mixture made her stomach froth with undigested butterflies. 

    “I don’t lie.”  she said, lying.

    “Then perhaps you’ll tell me the truth this time. Where is Gon Freecs?”

    He wasn’t squeezing her arm, just holding his hand in an implacable shape around it; only touching her skin when she pulled against him. She tried to think, but found her mind stumbling back and forth over the warm pressure of his hand around her wrist as she pulled. She was still drunk, the processes of her mind mummified by alcohol.

    “Do you really expect me to sell out my child?”

    Illumi hummed.

    “I hoped you would.”

    Mito snorted, “You don’t know me very well.”

    Illumi nodded, and said “I suppose I don’t, but I think you could be useful.”

    He added, after a moment, “I could make you tell me.”

    For the first time, he tightened his grip slightly around her wrist. It wasn’t a painful grip, like sailors would use, it was nearly promissory; implying he could squeeze much, much harder if he had to.

    She could struggle, but part of her suspected he would tear her arm from the socket and that would begin the pain. He’d reacted well to an offer of dinner, perhaps he would be willing to sit through more. Or he would get tired of the charade and break her arm. The heavy meal was sobering her quickly, and aggressively apparently. She licked her lips, and tried to pitch the tone right.

    “Drink with me.”

    Illumi browsed over her liquor cabinet, and she busied herself with the dishes. Her pulse jumped when she suggested it, which meant she may have poisoned them. At the same time, he had no idea what he was looking for, and it’s not as though poison would do much. There were bottles of various heights all crammed into the cabinet, and at least a dozen of them were identical and unlabelled: frosted glass and rounded edges. He tapped a finger on his chin, and turned to look at her by the sink.

    She was humming to herself. It was sad, and the tone tilted and swayed like a ship in the sea. He could feel his emotions stir inside their cage. One of the pins in his chest twinged, regulating his heartbeat. He looked back to the cabinet, before pulling out one of the identical bottles from the middle of the pack. He set it on the table as she wiped her hands on her apron.

    "You can pick one of the nicer boozes." She said lifting his bottle to  inspect it.

    Illumi cocked his head to one side.

    "Isn't it what you use the most of? I imagine you'd be less likely to poison those. Not that poison would do much mind you."

    She scoffed, and delicately bit the cork and pulled it loose with her teeth.

    "Boaster."

    She made a good point. Why had he told her that? It served no practical use to mention, it was better to wait for the taste of poison. His father had once mentioned that he believed everyone could be seduced by power. This probably wasn't the seduction he meant, but Illumi supposed it would work. He could show his power to her, informing her the differences of their abilities.

    Gently, he slid his fingers between hers, around the bottle. She turned slowly to face him, her other hand frozen while rooting through a cabinet for glasses. He took the bottle, pressing the mouth of it to his lips and drinking.

    The taste was unpleasant.

    He set the bottle on the table without looking at it. Her eyes were hazel, not the pure brown of her son. They were looking at him the way Hisoka looked at everyone, though perhaps not exactly the same. She wasn't like anyone else.  After having this thought, Illumi realized two things. 

    One, his mother should have trained their tolerances for poison more broadly. She had insufficiently trained them for what she called "low poisons," or poisons people generally used for entertainment. This would be rectified when Mito was matriarch.

    Two, whatever they were drinking was, at least legally speaking, unfit for human consumption. It had more in common with disinfectant alcohol than anything most humans could safely drink. Perhaps Gon's remarkable tolerance was genetic.

     She looked him in the eyes as she turned her head slightly away from him, lifting the bottle and pressing it to her lips. She drank silently and greedily, and when she turned back to him, her mouth smelled of pungent moonshine. He wanted to kiss it. Instead, he took the bottle back from her, feeling the skin of her hands a much as he could before she relaxed the neck into his grip, and took his own drink. 

    Chasing the imagined taste of her lips, he drained the bottle through his Adam's apple, feeling it burn in the backs of his eyes and the weight of his stomach. He hadn’t been truly poisoned in such a long time, the feeling was nearly pleasant. He sat at the table, deliberately and carefully setting down the bottle with the care of someone who doesn’t trust his fingers. He adjusted his ass, having apparently missed the chair the first time. He looked up at Mito expectantly.

    She grabbed another bottle, and a pair of glasses, before sitting across him, apparently less drunk. She poured each of them a generous glass of ethanol flavored like sulfur. She drank first, taking a long shallow drink of the stuff. He matched her pace, drinking less steadily and more deeply. He could feel the tight pressed spring of his instincts and reaction time starting to loosen. It made him feel vulnerable, insecure. 

She was pouring him another glass, hardly looking at him. He furrowed his brows looking at her, trying to read her face.

    “What are you thinking about?”

    The clear, reeking liquid stopped in it’s journey to his glass, the bottle turned at an angle to stop it. She chuckled slightly.

    “Gon and Killua,” she said.

    Another needle jammed into the base of Illumi’s throat twinged, stopping a hiccup before it formed.

    “He would be safer at home,” he said.

    Mito chuckled.

    “I don’t think Killua would see it that way.”

    Illumi shook his head, before taking another few swallows of the stuff. It hurt, and the needle he’d used to stop hiccups would twitch every few seconds, hurting him to inform he was drunk. The tears dried behind his eyes made it clear they wanted out.

    “ I’m not talking about Killua. Gon. The boy. Things would be easier for me too if he was home.”

    He finally drained the glass again, and as he set it down Mito refilled it, expression blank, staring off at his chest.

    “We want the same things,” he ventured finally.

    She chuckled. It sounded like windchimes 

    “Do we?”

    He nodded, ignoring the pain of bouncing his head.

    “Safety for the people we love. A future full of choice. Power.”

    She chuckled again. It sounded like rain tapping on the roof.

    “You’re a very sad man Mr. Zoldyck.”

    Illumi shook his head, making himself briefly dizzy.

    “Nuh-uh.”

    “Drink up.” she said, in that ordering tone of hers.

    Illumi pressed the rim of the glass to his mouth, and paused.

    “You’re poisoning me.” he said after a moment.

    Mito hummed a questioning sound.

    “You’re poisoning me.” he repeated.

    “No,” she mused, “you’re poisoning yourself.”

     He surged to his feet, but drunk he was too slow. Glass shattered and her hands were wrapped around his throat. She had to stand on tip toes to reach him. He could feel the cool edges of her fingernails scrape the skin. She’d overpowered him. A needle he’d stuck into his hip twinged, keeping his cock flaccid. They froze for a moment. 

    “What now?” he asked, airways unrestricted.

    Mito looked him in the eyes, before finally answering, “you’re drunk.” 

    Illumi nodded limply.

    She pushed and he keeled backwards, losing balance like he’d never had it to start. His view of the world sloshed and slid, like his eyes were made of water.

    Why had he played this game? He would have never challenged father, or Killua, or even Gon to it’s like. Perhaps his mother. Perhaps any other woman. Did the Zoldycks have blindspots just the same as everyone else? That was a worrying thought.

    Fortunately, his head impacted the floor a moment or two after he’d had it.

6

    Mito tried to find her balance, her equilibrium apparently as drunk as she was. It swayed and tottered as her feet danced the sailor’s two step, then five step, then steadied her. She’d had to put her full strength and weight into shoving him over. His skull had dented the flooring. She wound one leg back and swiftly kicked him between the legs.

    He didn’t make a noise, just rocked slightly in place. Then he was good and unconscious. She waddled drunkenly to his other end and tried to weave her arms under his armpits. It took a few tries, between drunken guesstimation and catching, vinyl fabric of his clothes. Once she had a grip, she crouched low and heaved. His body dragged and Mito took it with her as she took a few clumsy steps back.

    His ass caught on the doorframe. She hadn’t actually thought this out past this. What was she going to do with him? Drag him out to a sandbar and leave him to drown at high tide? Drop him face first into a puddle? Somehow it all felt cruel. He hadn’t hurt her, and the fact he would if he could was hard to hold against him, seeing him laid out. In any case, he had to get out of her house.

    She relaxed, letting his head hit the porch wood. She stretched out her back, wishing she hadn’t been so damn hard on her body when she was younger. She looked down at him. His shirt had hiked up to reveal skin across his stomach, equal parts toned and scarred. He clearly hadn’t had a terrific childhood either. He could just be a victim of circumstance.

    She stepped carefully around his sprawled arm, grabbing a tacky high heel shoe with each hand before stepping back. She heard his head impact the wall as she tried to rotate him through the door, watching his body curl to fit. With a last, less-than-safe heave, she pulled him though. He would likely be in a lot of pain tomorrow anyway. Would a hangover and mountain of bruises not suffice?

    She squatted low again, and a little sobered by the work, she tried to lift him. Carrying it like Abe’s bags of sweet trout, she laid him across her shoulders. He was dangerous, that much she could be certain. She could write a note, explaining he would be killed next time she saw him. But he was well mannered, human even, under the odd clothes and blank expression. She started waddling to the port. She wanted him off her island at the least.

    She found a secluded jetty, a few rowboats with sailor’s most complicated knots tying them to the docks. She picked hers, farthest inland and threw, as best she could, 200 pounds of murderer into it. He landed feet first, the boat keeling and splashing as his full weight hit the bow. In a moment of surprise, she found her hands reaching for her apron tie, ready to strip the excess fabric and dive in to save him. The boat steadied. 

She stepped in, carefully to avoid stepping on him. She let out a sigh. What now? She could row him to the Gzana, drop him at one of the hotels near the port. She hadn’t brought her coins, and she couldn’t risk him coming too while they were halfway there. She sighed, looking back at him.

He was pretty, and that might be the hardest part about killing him. It was a shallow reason to be sure, but she couldn't shake the feeling it would be wrong. The world would be a better place, but it wouldn't be the right place. She traced her hand along the line of his jaw, feeling the steady pump of blood. She hadn't killed people before, and it was supposed to change you to do so.

He was very pretty, lips softly parted and long black hair splayed out like an angel's halo. It mingled with the water, cast across the boat like the shadows of night. His eyes, wide and disconcerting, were closed.

She leaned down, careful to keep balance in the small row boat, and kissed him. Then she clambered back onto the pier, taking a sharp breath to bring down her blush.

One hand on the dock’s pillar for support, she got down on her knees to unmoor the boat, and, as an afterthought, snatched one of the oars, before gently shoving the boat out to sea with a bare foot

The tide around Whale Island is different than it is around most land masses; the sea seems to ignore it, like a sandbar or a sea stack. On clear night at low water, it's as good as riptide for getting out to sea. Mito watched as the horizon, blurred by fading moonlight, swallowed her small boat.

7

    Illumi awoke to the scream of seagulls and the piercing pain of his headache. There were other aches and pains, spread out like paint smears across his body. Without open his eyes, fearing he would be blind with pain and sunlight, he stuffed his hand in his pocket and withdrew a needle, sticking it carefully between the ridges of his spine. The pain stopped, and he dared to open his eyes.

    A sky blue dress with clouds of bleach and flour.

The needle in his spine was not something he liked to use, he was liable to forget it was there, and pain was useful for keeping track of damage, but worst of all it stopped his other needles from hurting. The only way he knew his heart rate picked up was the feeling of it, hammering in his chest. He sat up.

The ocean surrounded him, featureless. He might have imagined it was heaven or hell if not for the smell; too imperfect to be either. He withdrew his phone from one pocket, turning it on to ascertain his location.

He’d missed messages from his father. That would be trouble, but it could wait. He flipped on the GPS, and tried not to sigh. He was nowhere near anything, floating in the international waters between Azia and Yorbia. He looked around, trying to take stock of what he had. One oar, an empty tackle box, and his phone.

Only one oar. Quaint. It left him unable to row his boat, only to meander in circles. No doubt it was a popular way for amateurs to kill, they generally don't enjoy the crunchy parts of the work.

For a moment, he considered calling his family for help, but he knew better than that. He took a few minutes to braid his hair, holding the phone in his teeth, before stripping and folding his clothes in the boat. For a moment he took the phone in his hand, ensuring he understood the direction he had to go, before smashing against the floor of the boat. It would never survive the journey.

He tried not to think about her, and found it vexingly difficult. She could have killed him. She should have, by all rights. He was a danger to everything she held dear. He cracked his neck, then his shoulders, then his back.

She should have killed him. Why hadn’t she?

He dived.

[sometimeseffable]

It’s been a rough week and I wanted to try my hand at some Book!Omens fluff

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Crowley sat hunched at the wheel, parked outside St. Pancras International. Mid-December sunk a chill into the cabin of the Bentley. The demon’s 1926 model had not come with a heater, and as he had yet to drive anything else, Crowley hadn’t thought to miracle something up. A breath condensed in the air. Knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, though that was less from the cold than nerves, of all things.

The clock chimed 3 o’clock; Crowley kept his shaded eyes glued to the paving slab in front of the door. No hint of blond hair or a pink jumper showed itself. His foot tapped anxiously on the floor next to the pedal.

Finally, the door swung open. A blustering figure in an ancient camelhair coat and dark green slacks hurried quickly towards the Bentley. Crowley relaxed a touch.

“Hello, darling,” Aziraphale said as he opened the door. He slid his briefcase into the back before taking the passenger seat.

“Hey.” Crowley turned his head to accept the quick peck on the lips. “Good trip?”

“Oh, ghastly,” Aziraphale moaned as the demon pulled away from the kerb. “Even for Heaven’s standards. Honestly, sometimes I wonder if they really are cross with me and these are the punishments.

Crowley snorted. He remained mostly quiet the rest of the drive, letting the familiar sound of Aziraphale’s griping wash pleasantly over him. While Hell and Heaven had never touched upon the subject of Armageddon with the directly. A scant few years after the whole debacle, assignments from both sides started showing up again. Minor temptations, quick miracles. Nothing that would really tip the balance. Not wanting to risk the tentative peace post-Apocalypse, both celestial beings had shrugged and carried on with their assignments.

Despite the apparent apathy of their respective employers, Crowley still couldn’t help but feel anxious whenever Aziraphale was away for too long. Heaven sometimes asked him to perform arduous and long-distance duties. It wasn’t hard to imagine, in the heavy silence of an empty bookshop, that they could attempt to do away with him while Crowley waited, unaware, miles and miles away.

Alone.

They pulled into a miraculously free spot in front of the bookshop. Shut off the car with a low rumble. Climbed out, calm as ever – Aziraphale prattling on as he collected his briefcase, Crowley with his hands shoved in his pockets. Unlocked the bookstore and stepped into the drafty, dusty darkness.

The lights lit themselves near at the same moment Crowley leapt into Aziraphale’s arms. The angel caught him with a deep chuckle as the serpent’s legs wound around his waist, arms around his shoulders, face tucked into the crook of his neck.

“Missssed you,” Crowley mumbled into the fabric of the battered coat. One hand braced his back, the other playing tenderly with his hair.

“My dear, I missed you so horribly.”

In the same vein that they continued going on assignment for their respective Sides, Aziraphale and Crowley both hesitated in overt displays of physical affection. While their superiors were almost certainly aware of their partnership – an affectionate friendship, even - a romance seemed to be pushing the envelope a bit too far for comfort. They would take the apathy as the blessing it was and not dare ask for any more.

But here, in the quiet and sanctity of the bookshop – Crowley tightened his arms around his angel. They could be safe. They were safe. He would protect his angel; his angel would protect his demon. Nothing in Heaven or Hell was so certain.

Aziraphale shifted to press a kiss to his temple. “How about we go into the backroom for some tea, dearest? I found the most wonderful chocolates on the way home through Paris. The one that used to be that tailor’s house in 1843, do you remember Yves?”

Home.

“Mm.” Crowley distangled himself and hopped to the floor with a thump. The word home bounced off his ribs and plucked his nonexistent heartstrings, warm vibrations ricocheting around his chest. He let himself be led to the promised haven by the hand, barely absorbing a word his partner said.  

The weak lighting glinted off the grey at Aziraphale’s temples like silver, butter-soft strokes along plump cheeks. He was wearing that Someone-awful pink, sleeveless jumper patterned with hearts. It had been a gag Valentine’s Day gift from Crowley, which Aziraphale had obliviously ignored the ‘gag’ part and immediately put on with pride.

Aziraphale nattered happily on as he set about pouring tea and rummaging for the chocolates in his bag. When he joined Crowley on the couch, he found himself set upon by an attention-seeking, touch-starved, adoring demon once more wrapped around his waist.

“Oh, dearest,” he murmured, smoothing back the dark locks of hair in his lap, “Was it really so long this time?”

“Ngh. ‘sss worssse when it’sss cold.” Crowley flicked his serpentine tongue against the rough weave of wool. It smelt of chocolate and tea, dust and old paper and spicy cologne.

Home.

Aziraphale’s plump hand ran lovingly down the length of his spine. “Well. I shan’t take another assignment so far away for a while. Would you prefer we have a quiet night in? Snuggle up?”

“Ugh. You know I hate that word.”

“What word?” Oh, he could sense Aziraphale’s smirk. The bastard leaned down to brush lips against the shell of his ear. “Snugbug?”

Crowley whined into his thigh. “You’re horrible. You’re horrible to your demon.”

“Of course.” He peaked up to see not a smirk, but a smiling vision in tartan and pink. “Hereditary enemies, aren’t we? We have a reputation to uphold.”

--

For the record, I definitely imagine @10yrsyart ‘s versions of Book Az and Crow

AO3 / Tip Jar

[hekate1308]

I Shall Wake In The Morning To Sing With The Lark, A Drowley Christmas Calendar, Chapter 7

Masterpost

AO3

The thing about having a deadline, Dean decided somewhere around midday, was that it was kind of fun, having a certain goal to work forward to, if there was nothing to truly stress out about, and in this case, there wasn’t. What was going to happen was that he was going to hang out with a sarcastic, hot guy for a bit (was he supposed to think a demon was hot? Probably not, but then, he had already bet his soul in a way, so he’d probably end up in hell regardless of what happened), who wouldn’t be able Tio guess what he truly wanted, and then Crowley would vamoose out of his life again, so really, what did he have to lose? Nothing, and that was that.

He whistled as he worked on the Lamborghini even though normally, he would have felt utterly put out. Instead, he was only vaguely annoyed.

“Hey Dean!” Garth, his happiest co-worker, beamed at him. “Why so cheerful?”

He was staring to wonder if he had truly acted so miserable before. Certainly not – there was no reason for him to be miserable. Yeah, Sam was far away and that sucked, and he didn’t really know where his life was going, but he had a roof under his head, a job, and his car. He was doing fine. “Just feeling good, is all”. He grinned. “And, how are the twins?”

Garth and his wife had lately welcomed two very noisy but at the same time constantly grinning babies (Dean thought it was hereditary) and so far, they were always worth a story.

“Oh, you know, the usual… won’t let us sleep a wink at night, but other than that, they’re perfect” he beamed characteristically.

Sometimes, Dean had felt inclined to feel jealous of Garth – back when he was a kid, he had always imagined having kids himself and giving them the life he cold only ever have dreamed of; but – but – well, he had eventually started to realize that maybe he was not the kind of person who wanted to settle a child with all the baggage he was carrying. He wasn’t Dad, after all. Still, it was kind of fun to go see Garth and Bess and the twins, albeit it was always, always noisy. Come to think of it, he hadn’t done that in a while. Maybe he should drop by, just to make sure they had a little bit of room to breathe.

A pause settled between them, which was unusual in itself because Garth liked to talk (boy, did he liked to talk). So Dean decided it was probably going to be one of the days where Garth wanted to ask his advice or talk about something really important, like when he had decided he wanted to propose to Bess.

But instead, his friend suddenly said, “It’s nice to see you smiling.”

“I smile all the time.”

“I meant a real smile” Garth then said and now Dean was officially lost. He knew he wasn’t as happy-go-lucky as he had been in his early twenties when he had been focused on getting Sam into college with as little debt as possible, but still…

“Don’t worry about me not having a good time, Garth. Trust me.”

“Not what I meant.”

That may be, but he had no freaking idea what Garth truly meant, so he should best leave it at that.

Thankfully, Garth decided that they should not be talking anymore as well, so Dean could focus on the task at hand, not wondering at all what Crowley was getting up to. Demon stuff, he supposed. He couldn’t imagine that their bet was the only thing he got cooking at the moment, so he was probably closing three deals at once, sipping Craig in some fancy bar… at least demon deals were the only reason Dean could imagine that some douche bags had all the luck. Hm. Maybe after he had won the bet, he should ask Crowley to make the next rich guy’s life as miserable as possible. That would be fun.

The Lamborghini had nothing wrong with it per se, but Ketch had once more decided it wasn’t working up to standards (whatever that meant) so Dean got to play around with an almost perfect car (only Baby was perfect) for two hours, which was just fine by him.

Still, he was somewhat surprised when he suddenly got a text from an unknown number.

Hello. Fancy lunch? XOXO C.

There was only one person it could be, and he shook his head even as he sent an affirmative reply. Why not have lunch with a demon. Life was shorts enough as it was.

He didn’t even bother to worry about where Crowley had gotten his number. Guy must have his sources, being a big bad crossroads demon and all.