#i'll post the link again later with a different excerpt

[nym-wibbly]

Fic: My Bonds in Thee by Nym - Good Omens (TV)

Aziraphale comes back. Their love was never in doubt but they still have different exactlys.

Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley Wordcount: 42,600 of (probably 80,000 - WIP) Rating: Explicit AO3 Archive Warning: No archive warnings apply Tags: Second Kiss, First Time, Flashbacks, Angst, Hurt/Comfort Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49148341/

If you need an AO3 invite code to view fanworks set as 'visible to logged-in users only', just contact me at the e-mail address on my AO3 profile.

Excerpt from My Bonds in Thee chapter 8:

The world ended here just a few days ago. His world. He's not sure he feels good about returning, but Gabriel got one thing right (one damned thing in his damned smug damned charmed damned bloody Supreme existence). Home is wherever the heart is. And Crowley's already given his to Aziraphale. That's like Armageddon: You don't get a do-over when it goes pear-shaped. Push on, then.

Crowley scratches his head through the cloth of the hood, relieved to feel that he still has hair.

"How, um, deviant are we thinking? I mean," he gestures to the spiral staircase, upstairs, shocked to feel his cheeks and ears getting hot. "Physically?"

Aziraphale freezes while putting the front door keys into the top drawer of the desk. He clears his throat lightly and composes his features into his usual expression of placid warmth.

"If you can't choose your form, my dear," he says, with a facade of ease that Crowley really admires under the circumstances, "I'd say, 'very'. Not that one knows much about these matters, being an angel." He closes the drawer, slowly, and turns around. "Were you, um, hoping to find out now?"

Crowley pictures Aziraphale in Eden, hastily turning his back on Adam and Eve with a shocked little huff when they figured out what all the naked bits were for.

He still wonders what would've happened if he hadn't tempted Eve to try the bloody fruit. Suppose he'd seduced an angel instead—whispered visceral temptation in that innocent ear and stroked that sweet, soft, angelic hair until Aziraphale shivered and dropped his flaming sword?

That would've looked great in Genesis.

"One doesn't bloody know," he says, throwing himself lengthways onto the couch in a dramatic sprawl. "And one would like a bloody big drink now."

Aziraphale brings him a small drink, a careful measure of Scotch, but he has the decency to bring the bottle too.

For a moment, the angel hesitates about where to sit. Crowley sees the moment when Aziraphale remembers the park, the water's edge, and their kiss. It softens his whole face with wonder and quiet joy. This in turn makes Crowley stop breathing. He pats the edge of the couch beside his hip, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Aziraphale sits there, flustered, and hands him the glass.

"Can we really do this?"

"It's too late to ask that now." Crowley's not sure of much right now, but he's clear on that. They can only move forward.

"No. I mean, the other thing. 'Pillar of salt time'."

"Oh." Crowley empties the whisky down his throat in one gulp. "I've no idea. Can we? It's not actually written down anywhere, is it? 'Thou shalt not have carnal knowledge of an angel stroke demon'?"

"Carnal knowledge," Aziraphale echoes fretfully. "Sounds very bad when you put it like that."

"You'd blush if I put it any other way."

"I'm already blushing. They call it 'making love'. The humans, I mean. That's nice. I like that one."

"I think we..." Frowning, Crowley tries to think it over. He's not supposed to be out of his mind with temptation. It's been his job to do that to other people. But the possibility of the two of them, more together than they're already together... "We can be anything we want. Any shape, I mean. So I guess we can find one that, you know." He gestures vaguely with his glass, unwilling to sully the idea with what Aziraphale would call 'vulgar language', "Works," he finishes, awkwardly.

"Do snakes, um..."

"Don't go there."

"I'm a bit worried that we could accidentally destroy each other," Aziraphale admits. "With carnal knowledge."

"According to most humans, it's one hell of a way to go."

"Oh." Aziraphale bites his bottom lip. Crowley holds up his empty glass with a meaningful nod. Aziraphale ignores it, instead putting the whisky bottle down on the floor. "It's worrying me," he confesses, almost whispering. "I know nothing worries you, but—"

"You think that?"

"What?"

"That nothing worries me?"

"Well..."

"I'm terrified." Crowley slaps a hand to his chest as evidence of his thundering heart. "I'm absolutely scared out of my mind. Hence the empty glass," he adds, meaningfully. "I don't have the answers, Angel. I'm not sure I even know the questions."

Aziraphale takes the glass out of his hand and puts it down next to the bottle with a tidy little 'chink'. Crowley watches it go with a tiny pang of grief, the hint of a pout.

"I had no idea. I'm sorry." He lays his hand on top of Crowley's with slow care. "I assumed again. That you'd— Being a demon, with all the temptations and everything..." It tails off as the merest hint of a question.

Crowley wrinkles his nose.

"Humans?"

"Yes."

"Ugh. No. It was my job to get them doing it to each other without, you know. The love bit. Selfishly. Destructively. Unadulterated lust. Except when it's adultery, I suppose. Does that adulterate it? Does it get cancelled out if it's adultery but they love each other? Or if they love each other but do it selfishly? There's a few decades of temptation time I'll never get back."

Crowley realises he's babbling and stops.

"I see." Aziraphale's fingers curl around Crowley's unresisting hand, fingertips brushing his chest. Even through two layers of clothing, the sensation makes Crowley's toes curl. "And how exactly does one tempt a human to succumb to the flesh?"

"Uh..." Crowley blows out his cheeks. It's been a while. His temptations, halfhearted anyway, have been on a larger scale since the Industrial Revolution. Whole populations, technology, not furtive couples. "Well, you know. Rainstorms, shelter together under an awning, Jane Austen's balls. That sort of thing. They look uncertainly into each other's eyes, go in for the big, climactic kiss and... and Bob's your uncle. Carnal knowledge all over the sho—place." He fidgets uncomfortably, suddenly regretting the way he draped a nonchalant leg over the far arm of the couch. He's exposed everything, and Aziraphale is looking uncertainly into his eyes. His sunglasses, anyway. "It's programmed in for them. Some of them. A lot of them."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, making a devastatingly unsuccessful attempt to look naughty. "Take off your glasses. I can't kiss you if you're not looking at me."

Never, never, in the thousands of years since he invented the bloody things, has it taken Crowley so many agonising eternities to snatch the stupid bits of glass and wire from his nose.

Aziraphale plants a hand on either side of Crowley's shoulders and bends swiftly, pecking him on the lips and—Crowley gulps—chuckling in the back of his throat. It's a deep sound. It's the sexy, evil twin of Aziraphale's guilty, nervous titter.

"Oh, God," Crowley mumbles, kissing upwards, like it's programmed in. "If this doesn't work—" kiss, "—we'll be cringin—" kiss, "—cringing about it 'til mumnff—" kiss, open mouths, a shared gasp, "'til the heat death of the universe."

[continue reading on AO3]

[i-heart-hxh]

Do you know what Alluka's exact wording was when she promised she'd give Killua back to Gon? I've seen different translations of those lines and was wondering what was the most accurate (a lot of nuance gets lost in the English translation).

Hi! She said "しばらくの間独り占めしたらお兄ちゃん解放しますから

また遊んであげて下さいね.” (Shibaraku no aida hitorijimeshitara onii-chan kaihoushimasu kara. Mata asondeagete kudasai ne.)

This is essentially, "I'll release my big brother after I've had him all to myself for a while, so please play with him again later."

There is some very good insight into the exact wording/phrasing used in this post (that I link constantly, but it's really helpful). I was going to pull out an excerpt, but I think it's better to just read the whole post--it has a lot of pieces that all tie together, and pulling out parts of it doesn't allow for a full understanding.

But basically, she's saying that she's going to keep Killua to herself exclusively for a while, and then she'll release him back to Gon so they can play again. I think this statement bodes very well for Gon and Killua's relationship in the future, both because Alluka is saying that so directly and because Togashi chose to have her saying such a thing, as if telling the readers clearly, "Yeah, they'll get to be together again in a while, don't worry."

Though, I wonder what it will mean for Alluka when she does "release" him--what she'll do at that point, what that will mean for her. Of course, it's possible they'll just all stay together nonetheless, and I'd love to see that, but I almost wonder if Alluka knows something we don't about her situation with Nanika... It's a slightly ominous feeling I get with regards to Alluka and Nanika's future, but I could be overthinking it.

I hope that's helpful!

Also, here's the official translation just to compare with:

[aetheltrythh]

You Drive Me Mad, Hob Gadling

7.2k words, Dreamling, Mature (but only slightly :P), Established relationship, Dream's POV, Competence kink, Banter, Teasing, Fluff, Winter hike, Snowshoeing, Light Angst, No car sex - surprisingly, Marriage proposal

My piece for @designtheendless' contest. It is the inevitable fic for that topic. Someone had to :-). You are welcome to the cheesy title too :D. Read it on AO3.

Summary:

On their winter getaway, Dream and Hob have their transportation differences, starting with opinions on snowshoes, and continuing with cars. What could possibly go right? Little does Dream know that he can enjoy confined spaces of glass and steel, that he'll gain a new goth accessory, and that he's doomed by the narrative to be proposed to in the least spectacular way possible (sweet nonetheless).

Excerpt:

"Hob. Stop the car. Please."

Hob shoots him a concerned look. "Right now?"

"At your earliest convenience."

"Okay, hold on a sec. I'll pull over as soon as I can. You can't get motion sickness, can you?"

"No. You need not worry."

Within a minute, Hob stops where the road is wide enough at what appears to be a lookout point. Maybe Dream will admire the scenery a bit later.

As he pulls the handbrake, Hob asks, "So what's going—"

Dream launches himself from his seat across the centre console (or maybe he moved through the Dreaming) and lands in Hob's lap, silencing him with a kiss. His lover tastes after tea and biscuits, soothingly familiar, and when he has to resurface for air, Dream purrs, "Nothing is going on. Only that you, Hob Gadling, are driving me mad."

Fumbling with the key behind Dream's back, Hob manages to turn off the engine. "You're a menace, dove. This the true reason you were avoiding cars? Mortally attracted to whoever's driving?"

"No."

Dream locks his lips against Hob's again, fingers going through his hair, and wriggles in his lap until he can feel Hob's growing interest and hear his heartbeat quickening.

"Whoa, if you keep this on, it might lead to some public indecency. Unless you get back in your seat and I'll just hide my head in between your pretty legs—" Dream just grinds against him with a wicked smile. "—Nnnghh—"

"That will not be necessary, lover. I am satisfied now—"

With one hand on his back and the other on Dream’s thigh, Hob rocks his hips upwards and groans, "Well that was fast."

"—that you will have to suffer for the rest of the way just as I do."

[chenswire]

overdue Episode 11 post

basically the chenswire part of my stupidly long twitter thread covering ep 11 with more delusional thoughts and I ended up TLing their last scene in CN I guess (scroll to bottom) i wish i had the energy to make 1morbillion gifs but i do not so.. Excerpts from my 200 image screenshot folder it is

So the ep starts off with a super pensive Swire which was very cute when will my wife return from the war energy

And then she breaks out into a super un-ladylike run whaddahell!!!! this sequence was sooo well drawn wtf. handsome

(Something here about how people were joking this part is summer chen because they call chummer 水陈 'water chen')

I like how relaxed the atmosphere was like this definitely isn't the first time something like this has happened, well I mean after all they are Professional Co-workers who do not fight 24/7 (they get into an argument immediately after)

When they break eye contact to turn towards Hoshiguma they basically don't meet each other's gazes again as they take turns to glare at each other its insane... Also Swire saying she should take over and Chen needs treatment... Chen you understand what that means right...

Another detail I love is how at the start they already show her battered jacket/clothes for us gamers to point at the screen and then later who those who don't know/didn't notice we have a whole close up of chen reacting to it...man.jpg And swire leaving right away once she knows chen is fine (and one of her good points. lol. lmao) you guys are sure so quick

Link to CN version of the PUUK GAI LUNG in Paci Plaza I love how she's like 'Chen you stay right there' at the end like she's going to idk fly over ASAP to whack her (as opposed to just 'hey, chen!')

Here's a clip of the last scene with CN dub because not only do we get 'ah chen' it just hits so different...

Hi~ Still there, Miss Ah Chen? Ah? What d'you mean by ah, huh? Aren't you a Dai Siu Ze too? Enough of that, don't you have something to tell me? What happened at Paci Plaza… I'll make sure to sort it all out and file for damages later.

Had a feeling they would go with the JP loc's 'aren't you an ojou too' since you know, anime, but keeping the 'ah chen' and that 阿什么阿 response the unparalleled casualness

You… Remember the Cha Chaan Teng at Sheung Wan? Trying to change the subject? The one near the LGD HQ, right? I used to stop by there on my patrols sometimes. Let me treat you to something there next time. Hmm~ If we go there… I want a steak tomato and egg burger! Wait, no! Like hell I'd want you to treat me to a meal!

the longer pause after 'you...' like she was considering something else before she decided to go with her 茶餐厅 MENTION!!!!! gives this a whole different flavour... chen outright offering the meal instead of swire guessing??? THE WARM SMILE CLOSE UP i feel like im intruding on something

Then send your bill to Chief Wei. I'm hanging up. Wait, don't hang up just yet! I heard you ran straight out of Rhodes Island in the end. What are you planning? Weren't you looking for their help? Ugh, stay down! Take a nap over there! You sure sound busy. Guess I should hang up. Tch… I'm not done speaking with you yet. Was leaving the little bunny (and the others) over there weighing on your mind? Well, whatever. (We'll just do this) Just let me help you clean up the mess over here.

It just sounds so much more casual in CN than the JP dub (which is excellent ofc) >let me do it for you instead of 'ill do it' (head in hands)

the opposite lighting and angle and chen looking away vs swire looking straight #KINO

Don't talk like you understand me very well, Miss S. Enough!!! How many times have I told you not to call me that!! Got it, got it.

You don't seem to get it, so I'll be nice today and explain it to you. Life is extremely precious. You're always risking your life chasing what's right in front of you. Stop doing that. Got that? Your advice… I'll take it.

That exasperated 'Enough!!!' i (turns into a plane and flies away) and the last line... it as 'thanks for the advice' which technically isn't wrong but you know the nuance of uh. kind of, almost, somewhat, accepting a... confession... (of her concern ofc) also CN chen lets swire finish speaking instead of interrupting which hehe... like i said..the flavour hits different. also that subtle movement as chen like eases in more and more between those lines aaaghhhhhhhhhh

their earlier argument was so explosive and quick, but now their banter is so tender and slow like bruh. what. even the act of chen putting down her sword to sit down in a comfortable position (loved that she sat like that One leg sitters rise up!!!) was so ??? the normally yolo speedrunner chen being so leisurely like damn. ok. ok. From 'you think you can order me around' to basically agreeing to an order (Londinium cannon vine boom) I thought Chen being this warm was more or less a delusion that I inferred through in game as subtext (since in game her expression then is usually like her default rbf face...) and seeing it here as 'text' in the show is like 🤯🤯🤯🤯🤯 holy shit can't believe i got FED after four years incidentally i've been obsessed with a certain CN writer's fics lately because the way they write chen like a sad wet dog while showing warmth is crazyyy maybe i will blog about it next time because i was legit taking notes lmao

[autumnwhistles]

Audition Masterpost and Song Info (2/2)

Part 1

Right at the end of the week, here's Part 2 of the information I promised. This talks about the styles of various songs of the roles, again to give more information before the audition form comes out.

Note: there's a chart I made of voice types I imagine different characters to have under a cut below. Please read the notes above it before looking at it, though!

General info:

More major (ie Wither), serious, or Watcher-centric events will be in a similar style to the first song, Middle of Nowhere (which is already on Youtube). A lot of the other songs focusing on delving into the lives of players will be in a more folky style.

Excerpts of people's songs, when necessary, will be posted in the coming days!

The deadline for the first round of auditions is 00:00 UTC on the 20th November. People who are in contention for parts will be notified about further processes after this date.

Part-specific info:

The three main parts are Martyn, Scott and Grian, in this order. Information about styles of their songs is listed below:

Martyn – you can actually hear an excerpt of his first song here – he'll sing in a similar style for more than just this. In general I've been inspired by a lot of Oh Hellos music (eg Where Is Your Rider). When focusing on the Shadow Alliance and Watcher lore side of things though, songs will be more in the style of Middle of Nowhere. I can post an excerpt of another of his songs if necessary (In Spring We Met).

Scott – his songs are generally quite regal and collected – though it doesn't necessarily embody the second aspect of it, you may find that Honour Bound from the Death Note musical has quite a similar atmosphere. I will be posting some excerpts from his songs played on the piano (not necessarily in the key they'll be in).

Grian – I haven’t found a specific song for him, but his style and songs are VERY clear, sharp, and punctuated – definitely more on the modern musical theatre end of things. A lot of the later ones are more angry (slightly unhinged, though not nearly as much as Joel, ie When Will You Learn. The others are quite charismatic (ie telling tales because he Watches things, acting as a leading figure to the Southlands, trying to get people to gather wither skulls eyc). If necessary, I can send recordings of me improvising/trying to figure out some of his songs. I'll also be posting a wordless excerpt with live singing of some of his part in the third song, which he shares with Bdubs, to get across some of the stylistic differences I have for them right now. Note that Watcher!Grian is canon to this, as we're following Martyn's lore.

Throughout the musical, we'll be dwelling on the Southlands and the Shadow Alliance quite a lot, and as such the information in this paragraph applies to BigB, Lizzie, Ren, Impulse, Mumbo and Jimmy. The songs of the Shadow Alliance are quite similar in style to Middle of Nowhere, whereas a lot of the Southlands songs are more similar to (though not exactly the same as) the excerpt of the Martyn song I linked and posted. I will be posting a piano excerpt of 'A(ha)lliances' as well.

(Note that with Ren in particular, I imagine the atmosphere of a lot of his lines to be similar to that of Hellfire from the Hunchback of Notre Dame (though obviously... without the same message).)

Other roles with either solo parts or large roles in duets consist of Pearl, Tango, Bdubs, Scar, Joel, Jimmy and Cleo. Song information for these roles is below:

Pearl – livelier and more chaotic than Scott, but they share quite a few of their songs together. However, her solo – as well as letting her be more unhinged – is somewhat dance-like (she’s killing people on a dance floor after all — it's more modern as opposed to things like waltzing, but it isn’t 'dance music’). Again, I'll send excerpts of me working things out in that style if necessary.

Tango – very showman-like, quite jazzy (think the music of his intro). An excerpt of You Bet Your Life, his solo, has been made and will be posted shortly.

Bdubs – similar to Tango, an excerpt of his song will be posted – it's in a similar style but not as jazzy. I imagine him to be quite loud and vocally powerful.

Scar – I imagine his parts as having an atmosphere quite similar to Jack’s Lament from The Nightmare before Christmas – and to a lot of Jack's songs, actually.

Joel – VERY unhinged. Though I don't imagine the voices being too similar, I imagine the atmosphere of his parts being quite similar to The World Has Gone Insane from the 1994 concept version of Jekyll and Hyde the musical.

Jimmy – this isn't set in stone, but I imagine his song (about being worried about dying first again) being quite similar to the atmosphere of the first 35 seconds of Waiting In The Wings (Reprise) from Tangled: The Series

Cleo – their solo is Die For Me, so you can rewatch the scene to get the atmosphere (her episode 5 – not sure about the exact timestamp). Again, I'll try to send excerpts of me working out things in that style, but note that I don’t have it pinned down as much the others.

Voice chart

Notes about the chart before you see it:

THIS IS NOT SET IN STONE. This is what the characters sound like in my head right now, with no reference points. Though it may stay like this, it can and probably will change based on who I hear – this has already happened with one character! So don't be afraid

Range-wise – I did put higher and lower there. HOWEVER, I can adjust the range as needed for each part. This is more to do with your voice sounding deeper or higher as opposed to actually being lower or higher – I can demonstrate this in a recording if necessary.

These are rough placements! Even if things do stay like this, there's a range of values each voice could be placed at – imagine a wide circle around every name.

In general, remember that though I have some ideas, I have not written most of it – I'm continuously working on it. There's always a possibility that things will change (although if you get a part

[blondiest]

you have got to be fucking kidding me.

alright. i wasn't going to say anything at first, because initially i thought it was just a few eerie similarities, but this is egregious:

this story, posted today, is a very clear ripoff of what doesn't kill me makes me want you more, which i posted an excerpt from two days ago and linked to in the ship tag.

in this copycat fic, there are two really key differences. a) near is three years younger, and b) it's explicit smut. i personally am not interested in policing what other people write as long as it's tagged, but it is very, very upsetting and frustrating to me to have an idea of mine taken and used like this in particular. it's like this person wrote a porno parody of my story.

i am angry! it's actually hard for me to express how upsetting this is to me! what doesn't kill me is one of my dearest ideas. it's one i'm really attached to and proud of. i don't know how this person thought it would go unnoticed in such a small ship, honestly. maybe they just didn't think i would say anything. maybe they're just deeply unfamiliar with basic fucking etiquette and online behavior.

this isn't going to be super eloquent or coherent on my part because of how upset i am, but i think if you look at the examples below, it'll be pretty fucking clear why. there is a distinct difference between writing something inspired by someone else's work -- in which case it's polite to credit them -- and wholesale ripping it off.

let's get to it, i guess. i'll put this below the cut in order to not be deeply annoying and take up a bunch of space on your dashboard.

if you feel so inclined. feel free to go ahead and report the fic for plagiarism.

for starters, here is the opening of what doesn't kill me:

and here is the opening of Broken Glass-Shield:

here is a passage from later in chapter 1 of what doesn't kill me:

and here is a passage from Broken-Glass Shield:

again. a passage from what doesn't kill me:

and from Broken-Glass Shield:

an excerpt of what doesn't kill me that i posted two days ago in the ship tag:

an excerpt from Broken-Glass Shield:

from what doesn't kill me chapter 1:

and from Broken-Glass Shield:

AND I'M NOT DONE. SOMEHOW.

from what doesn't kill me:

from Broken-Glass Shield:

[bhaalbabebardlock]

~ Nature's Gifts ~

Masterpost | All works | AO3 Link

Chapter 6- The Weave

Important tags: Dom!Gale, soft Dom gale, uhh weird astral sex? Idk okay, m/f, please check out other tags on AO3!

Summary:

This chapter is a retelling of Gale's Act 2 romance scene.

“I want to… begin our story. Write our own thousand nights that we turn into a masterpiece. To be with you, in the most intimate way possible, expose myself to you and you to me. To know all of you. What do you say?” She leaned her head back against his chest, tapping her fingers on the cover of the book.

Masterpost | All Works | AO3 Link

Excerpt is below the cut, full chapter is posted on AO3!

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

Chewing on her lip, she bumped his shoulder with hers, her voice soft. He'd been so quiet the last few days, since Elminster had found them. So pensive. He seemed to have pulled into himself, just when she thought they were starting to get closer. Any conversation about the necrotic magic in his chest ended with his silence. She wasn't sure this discussion would go any differently.

“Is it really just the stars that's got you out here looking so mopey all by yourself, Gale?” He sighed, pulling his hands into his lap.

“No, I suppose not.” She studied him while she waited for him to continue. She wasn't one to push, and she knew he would continue when he wanted to. So she took in all the tiny details.

He was beautiful really, in all the painfully human ways Astarion wasn't. All of the little imperfections in his face where there was only smooth marble in Astarion's was one of the things she, possibly, loved the most about him. The reminder of the life he had lived so far. The looming darkness of the humanity they shared between them. She thought about it often. Druids lived long lives. But not forever. Not like Astarion would. And Gale? Even less time.

She swallowed around the pain of that for a moment before returning her gaze to Gale's face.

NSFW Below the Cut!!!

She moved her hands up, threading his dark hair around her fingers to pull his mouth closer to hers, awash with the complex simplicity of the intimacy and magic burning between them. His tongue sliding against hers, the taste of spearmint and parchment filling her mouth. Sparks of sheer pleasure, living electricity, broke out across her flesh as his fingers slid between her legs.

“Ah, you're already so-” he dragged a finger over her lips, grazing it teasingly over her entrance, making slow circles around her clit but not touching it.

“So ready for me. I do enjoy how eager you always are.” Her breath caught, a moan tumbling out of her throat as ran his finger over her clit with just enough pressure to drive her mad, but not enough for her to find any relief. She pressed down against his hand, seeking more contact, only to let out a frustrated groan as he pulled his hand away.

“You know Tav, I do think you could ask for what you want. If you're polite enough, I'll consider giving it to you.” She whined once more, biting her lip as she stared back at him.

“Please?” She pouted, sticking her lip out. He chuckled, grazing a knuckle over her folds again, making her shiver.

“Something tells me you can do better than that. Come on, Octavia. Beg me.”

“Gale, please, I-”

“Ah. Right now, I think it would be more fitting if you called me ‘sir’, don't you? We can take that further… later.” Heat coiled and clenched inside her stomach, between her thighs, her breath catching in her throat. Oh.

“Please, sir, I need you to touch me. I need your fingers in me, on me. I need your cock. Please, please Ga-, sir. Please.” His smile was almost better than everything around them. Adoration and lust and something in his eyes that was just a little darker, a smidge of something deeper shining through as fingers not quite as gentle as usual pressed into her hip, his other hand thrusting a finger up into her unexpectedly.

She cried out from the sudden pressure, the feeling of his fingers curling inside of her as he added another one. She felt everything, the ecstasy of it in every molecule of her being, experiencing pleasure in a way that she had never been able to before.

“Gods, you are so gorgeous like this, when you're coming apart for me.” She whimpered, pressing kisses to his throat as she bucked against his fingers, unable to think outside of the hazy cloud of all consuming heat spiraling through her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling his hard length settle against her stomach, his thumb brushing over her clit again making stars burst behind her eyelids instead of just in the air. She felt herself clenching around his fingers, burying her face against his neck as she moaned and writhed, riding out wave after wave of ecstatic pleasure.

The Rest of This Chapter on AO3!

Masterpost | All Works

[bethel-rath]

Did Poppy always act so controlling and sex pesty behind the scenes?

During my research in Poppy’s back catalog I noticed a really sad pattern. In her early videos, she had a great rapport with her chat and was really strict with boundaries. She wasn’t afraid to talk about topics around sex, but she didn’t overshare. Even her clothing was different. She dressed exactly how you would imagine a middle aged therapist with a kid would dress.

As time went on, I noticed her getting more and more snappy and micromanaging chat. She would repeat boundaries, but not enforce them. Then the oversharing about herself started, and then after that the overhearing about other people started. Then the succubus arc started and her fashion sense went down the tubes.

Sorry for the novel, but the point of my question is this. Did something happen to Poppy that made her this way, or was the Poppy we see in earlier videos just a mask?

Short answer to the top question: from my perspective, no.

That said, Poppy did overshare sexually provocative artwork in spaces of the discord that were accessible to members under the age of 18. These were sometimes properly labeled as NSFW and used spoiler tags and sometimes they did not. I do not recall when this started to occur, but I know this did occur semi-regularly in both the Announcements and Safe-Artwork channels during 2023. This was not a regular occurrence when I first joined the discord; instead it happened later on. If I recall correctly, Poppy was called out for this behavior in the past by @transpersian.

[Edit/Update: The original version of Poppyamory 3 was only a small excerpt of Abusive Hypocrites 2. Since original publication, it has been expanded to include two prior posts about Poppy's para(social) media behavior, including what I was thinking about here. The one in question was the Tumblr post dated 12/3/2023. For that reason, I'll link to the doc here:]

Poppyamory 3: Poppy's (Para)Social Media Presence

I will admit I was lax in criticizing Poppy's sharing of sexually-provocative artwork in spaces of the discord where minors were present. I am closer to Poppy's age than many others involved in this and share many of her opinions when it comes to public perceptions about sex and sexuality, double standards when it comes to sex/violence, etc. The problem comes when requests are made by people who feel uncomfortable being presented sexually provocative material and those voices go ignored or dismissed.

Okay, the second part: Did something happen to Poppy that made her this way?

This will be my personal opinion on the matter, so please take it with a grain of salt. A number of events occurred during 2022 that might not have been obvious from a public perspective. I do not think it is my place to share all of that, but the things that are traceable publicly are: Poppy and Zena getting into polyamory and making online Twitter discourse/drama a larger component of their channel.

There was also a time where Poppy and Zena were comfortable streaming without each other, or at least doing separate stream segments without each other. That completely stopped in early/mid 2022 (the last edited segment that is an individual Poppy/Zena segment was uploaded May 29, 2022). Even before that the number of times they would stream individually had dropped precipitously.

And while I've noted this in private and above, I will mention it again here: I do think that starting to practice polyamory was a turning point for Poppy and Zena. I suspect I'm not the only one who has noticed this. Was that the only thing that caused changes over time? Absolutely not.

But I know that there were issues with relationships before the ones that have become public knowledge. It's just not my place to share.

[fragmentsofsorrow]

2, 4, and 9 for the fanfic asks?

2. What fanfic do you wish you got more response on?

I'm gonna have to go with (Nothing Is) Whole; not that it's been ignored or anything—it's honestly been pretty well received—but I have to pick something. I've put a lot of work into both this fic and the much larger AU it belongs to over the last four years and it's definitely the favorite child, so I'm always going to want to share it with more people

and yeah, when all there is so far is a single introductory chapter posted just shy of a year and a half ago, it's understandably not gaining much new attention, but also consider: I love that AU so much

4. Do you prefer writing multi-chapter or oneshot fanfictions?

in general, I prefer writing multichapters. I like to write scenes and even lines out of order for my multichapters, and I really enjoy the whole planning process for my larger AUs

but it also depends on what works best for any particular story. if I have a fic idea and it works best as a oneshot, trying to write it as a multichapter regardless is not going to go well for me

9. What’s your favorite line(s) or scene(s) that you have written?

okay, look. I'll be honest, the entire 2000 word Memory's Skyscraper scene in the first chapter of Not Your Sacrifice is my favorite thing I've written. there's a lot of different things I love about it and I'm not about to quote the whole scene to talk about all of them

but that's a short and boring answer, so I'll talk about one of them!

there are two parts of that scene that involve Xion summoning a keyblade; one with Oblivion, and then another one later on with Oathkeeper. taken individually each one is some of the best writing I've ever done, and I'm really proud of having written them

but they're also intentionally very structurally similar to each other and are meant to mirror each other in a few ways. I'm really happy with how well it turned out

I'll throw the two excerpts under the cut because they about double the length of this answer and it's long enough already (plus, y'know, the fic link is right there anyway)

the Oblivion part:

There was a flash as Xion summoned their keyblade, and moments later one of the heartless exploded into darkness as the black blade cut an arc through them. Oh. That was new. Xion looked down at their keyblade, taking in its unfamiliar new form. Instead of the silver coloring they were used to, this one was mostly black, though some silver remained in the handle and at the tip of the keyblade. Two bat wings served as the guard, with a purple gem inlaid where they met at the base of the blade. A chain ran the full length of the blade, which ended with ornate teeth more detailed than the ones on their Kingdom Key. Somehow, they knew this keyblade was called Oblivion. A fitting name for a keyblade wielded by someone who wasn’t supposed to still exist.

the Oathkeeper part:

A flash of light accompanied Xion's last few words as they readied Oblivion, and when it faded, Xion held another keyblade in their hand. In their left hand. It wasn’t Xion’s keyblade. That was still in their right hand and once again pointed at Riku. In several ways it was the complement of Xion’s keyblade. While Oblivion had a pair of bat wings, the wings that made up this keyblade’s handguard were feathered. While Oblivion was primarily black, this one was mostly colored a silvery white. And while Oblivion had a single blade, the blade of this new keyblade was split into two. The name Oathkeeper came to their mind, but Xion barely registered it over the realization that this was Roxas’s keyblade. It was all they had left of him; a reflection of who he was, one last echo of his— They let out a pained scream, both keyblades falling to the ground and dematerializing, as the realization from earlier that day finally caught up with them. Roxas had a heart.

[banishmentplanet]

The Empire never cared about Earth.

But they found one use for it- a dumping ground. A place to send their very own that they didn't kill but simultaneously never wanted to see again. To be sent to Earth was to be abandoned, discarded. An Irken exiled to Earth would never be heard from again.

They were far from dead, though.

⭒ Welcome to Banishment Planet! ⭒

This is my big headcanon heavy Invader Zim AU. It is a two parter technically, which I'll explain below! For easy access, here are the main tags of this blog:

#alaart : For all art, including things not related to any story.

#artist support : For reblogged IZ art.

#banplanau : For all posts regarding the main AU, not necessarily specific to either half of the timeline.

#tow : For the Zim and Dib focus precursor story, 'Treading Open Water'.

#banishmentplanet : For the second part of the timeline and the story involving my original characters, Navic and Itsuki.

#ao3 : To easily find AO3 links and excerpts I post here.

#scpiz : My side AU for funsies, explorations of various SCPs with these two nerds as the leads.

#boarderiz : Another side AU, focusing on deep space adventures between a Zim and Dib who meet for the first time as adults in space.

What is Banishment Planet?

Banishment Planet is both the name of the AU and, depending on the context, a specific part of the overall timeline. It is preceded by 'Treading Open Water', the story arc focusing on Zim and Dib's own character growth. 'Banishment Planet' takes place a few years later, featuring both them and original characters. Namely, an exile by the name of Navic and a home-planet Irken named Itsuki.

Headcanons? What are those?

By the nature of the IZ universe (cough cough, Jhonen has given us so little), headcanons are a huge thing for us. It's my favourite part of this fandom, seeing how differently these same characters and setting can be expanded upon and interpreted. And because of that there will always be headcanons you don't like as much as others. If my angsty mushy interpretation of these idiots isn't your flavour, just trot off and leave me to it :]

That being said, this fandom, for twenty years, has been rife with some of the stupidest discourse surrounding the vagueness of the canon. Here are my hard rules:

1: Don't even start- Zim and Dib are the same age. Show material calls them both children multiple times and any comment on age by creators is inconsistent. So over two actual decades the lot of us have just decided on what we like better. I think it's funnier if they're the same age. Here’s a great post about it too.

2: Here, they are queerplatonic. In short, this refers to people who are close and affectionate in ways western culture wouldn't consider just friends, so hush.

What about the cool stuff?

In terms of the world, I wanna keep that up to natural reveal! To lay it all out in a text post most people won't read is boring and doesn't exercise media analysis and creative thinking skills. Read the stuff, look at the art, find things out for yourself!

[maudus1]

Two things: 1. Can you share some of the wips and fic ideas you’ve got squirreled away on your laptop with us? 🥺 2. I wish you loved your writing as much as I love your writing and self doubt or overthinking stuff didn’t hold you back from posting. You are so talented!! Don’t let your brain tell you otherwise!!!

Thank you sm 😭🥺

Sure, I can share some stuff! I have a doc I fling ideas into whenever they hit me, no matter how detailed or small or stupid. PWPs, crack, AUs, slow burns, fix-its, etc. They're usually little more than stream of consciousness rambling, and sometimes just a link, or song lyrics, a reddit thread, meme, or fanart - whatever inspired me in the moment and made me think, "I should revisit this later."

To give you an idea what the former looks like (though I'll be honest, this is tidier than most lol):

Psychologist/Client Modern AU

Premise: Obi-Wan realizes he’s becoming attracted to his beautiful young client and tries to refer him to another doctor. Little does he know, Anakin has been harboring a crush for years.

Anakin comes in one day for a session and Obi-Wan seems off somehow, nervous almost. It's unlike him. Immediately, Anakin is wary. Before he has a chance to say anything, Obi-Wan gets right to the point and tells him he's referring him to another doctor. Anakin demands to know why and he won't give him a straight answer, or at least not one Anakin believes. He's heartbroken, but the more Obi-Wan dodges his questions, the more frustrated he becomes. Obi-Wan opens the door and tells him he should probably go.

As Anakin is passing by, he gets a little too close, and that's when he notices it. A hitch in Obi-Wan's breath, dilated pupils. And he knows. There's no way he's letting it go now. So he tests his theory. Boxes Obi-Wan in. Obi-Wan is becoming increasingly agitated, holy shit he's actually stammering - that never happens - not to him, the man who's always so smooth and professional and careful with his words.

“If you're referring me,” Anakin says, leaning closer, “I guess I'm not your patient anymore then, am I?" 

Obi-Wan blinks, eyes falling briefly to Anakin’s lips. “No,” he breathes, “I suppose you aren't.”

Anakin grins. "Good.”

And then they kiss! Blah blah blah cue the hot desk sex.

Okay, the rest of this got pretty long so I'm dropping the WIPs under the cut.

First, there's Troubled Water. I have bits of multiple chapters written already but most of my focus is of course on chapter 4. Idk why but I've been struggling with it. 😅 It takes place on a different point in the timeline than originally intended (it was actually ch3 but what was supposed to be a flashback ended up turning into an entire scene of its own and thus the whole club disaster lol). It's, again, so long that it will probably end up split into two chapters but as of right now I'm kinda wingin' it.

And am I being entirely self-indulgent by using my own OCs (and some friends')? Yes.

I'm a writer, I can do anything.

Also I just thought it'd be cool to introduce a new species or two lol. The GFFA is vast okay, there's always room for more. Anyway, here's an excerpt:

“Please, allow me to introduce myself. I am Da’riel of Clan Sarel. You have already met my Captain. The big guy behind you is my personal bodyguard. Don’t mind him, he only looks terrifying.” His grin takes on a mischievous edge as Bull huffs what might be a grunt or a laugh and he gestures toward the room he just emerged from. “And last but certainly not least—”

Another Dua’vian materializes in the doorway as though summoned, leaning her shoulder against the architrave. Her hair catches Anakin’s attention first; red as Queen’s Heart blossoms, it cascades in thick waves around shoulders draped in the black silk of a shirt several times too large to be hers, its hem halting mid-thigh. Her legs are bare beneath it.

Cheeks flaming, Anakin turns his gaze resolutely away.

“—this absolute vision is Liv Viventoly. If Preia is my right hand, Liv is my left.”

“What does that mean,” Anakin blurts, and everyone looks at him. Though Obi-Wan never rolls his eyes, the expression on his face is about as close as he gets to it. It’s a very particular brand of fatigue and mild annoyance entirely unique to his master, translated via a blank stare and slightly raised brows. He doesn’t even have to hear the “Honestly, Anakin,” aloud to know that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

“It means”—Liv straightens, smirking—“that I work in the shadows.” Anakin flinches back as she saunters past him and slides smoothly onto one of the tall stools at the well-stocked bar.

Like that answers anything. Why is everyone so cryptic all the time?

“What’s important is that while you’re here, know that you can trust them as I do,” Dua’primia Sarel says.

Obi-Wan nods, though Anakin senses apprehension through their bond. “We appreciate your hospitality, Dua’primia. I am Obi-Wan Kenobi, and this is—”

Anakin jolts forward. “Anakin Skywalker. We are at your service, my Lord.”

Sarel looks at his proffered hand with something like amusement and glides past Obi-Wan to clasp it with his. This close, he realizes the Dua’vian is an inch or two taller than himself—being somewhat tall for a human, it’s not an experience Anakin has often—and his eyes are a vibrant peridot green, accentuated by the black markings curving elegantly around the angles of his face that remind Anakin a bit of a Zabrak’s. A vicious scar bisects one eye from brow to cheek, long healed but still pink against his fair complexion, and Anakin spares a second to wonder if he got it during the war.

“Please,” he says, and is it just Anakin’s imagination, or did his voice lower in timbre? “Let us do away with such formalities. Call me Da’riel.” 

Anakin swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. “Oh—okay. Da’riel,” he repeats stiffly, hoping he isn’t completely butchering the pronunciation. By the way the man beams, he thinks he did alright. Da’riel releases his hand slowly, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of his inner wrist before Anakin withdraws it behind his poncho. He glances sidelong at Obi-Wan, but his master’s expression is as inscrutable as ever.

“Well then,” Da’riel declares with a brisk clap, making his way to the bar, “drinks?”

“Can we get down to business, please?” Preia says, rolling her eyes. 

“Such a spoilsport. Would it surprise you to know she isn’t always this uptight?” Chuckling, Da’riel uncaps a sapphire-blue crystal decanter and waves it beneath his nose. “Normally my dear Captain is the one pouring the liquor.”

“And I’ll drink you under the table like always once this threat is dealt with.”

“I shall hold you to that, my friend. And you, Jedi?”

“No,” Obi-Wan replies, a little too quick to be casual. “Thank you.” Anakin shoots him an inquisitive glance. 

“Ah.” Da’riel nods sagely. “So the rumors are true.”

“Da’riel—” Preia hisses.

“What?” Da’riel looks around at everyone, not contrite in the least. 

And his master was concerned that Anakin would be the one to say or do something culturally insensitive. He hides a quiet snicker behind his hand, pretending to rub his nose, and Obi-Wan gives him an unamused look before schooling his expression back to its artificial serenity. 

“Please excuse him,” Preia says, hip cocked, a finger rubbing against her temple. “He’s very—”

Liv butts in, “Reckless, blunt, uncouth?” 

Da’riel merely laughs, and Anakin can feel that it’s genuine. This is not at all the fearsome war General, leader of a revolution, and ruler of an entire planet that Anakin imagined. He seems close to these people, treats them more as equals and friends than subordinates or subjects, yet there’s still an aura about him that commands attention and respect as power or royalty would. 

Preia smirks. “Too honest for his own good.”

Whatever it is, Anakin doesn’t sense cruel intent coming from the Dua’primia, just honest curiosity. Despite the glare his master is drilling into the side of his head like he knows what Anakin is going to do, he can’t help asking, “What rumors?” 

“That you’re, er, monks,” Preia says, chuckling to mask embarrassment on behalf of her comrade and her own curiosity. 

“You know.” Liv sips at the drink Da’riel just poured her, not looking at them as she speaks, and Anakin leaks a pulse of unease into the Force. There’s something about her he simply can’t put his finger on. “No drinking, no fu—”

“Fun!” Preia hastily interjects, staring daggers at the other redhead. 

The corners of Anakin’s mouth twitch into a partial frown. They aren’t entirely wrong. He has his own�� issues with the Order, with following rules that often either don’t make sense to him or directly conflict with his own ingrained beliefs. But it rankles for some reason, like he’s being judged, like they’re being judged. Mocked, even, though he doesn’t quite discern their meaning. Jedi are guardians of peace and justice within the galaxy. Maybe he doesn’t agree with the way the Order does things sometimes, but without them, without Anakin and Obi-Wan, the world would fall to disorder. To the dark side. People should be grateful—

“We are simply tired from our journey,” Obi-Wan interrupts his thoughts, sidling close enough that their shoulders graze, and Anakin exhales.

“My apologies, Jedi,” Da’riel says sincerely. “I am merely intrigued by your culture, as I’m sure you are of ours.” Obi-Wan bows his head in acceptance. “The hour is late. Preia?”

She hands Obi-Wan a datapad. “This contains an updated blueprint of the palace and map of the city, including the hidden exits and underground tunnels. I’ve marked the positions of my officers for each shift rotation as well as their schedules.”

Obi-Wan hums, stroking his beard as his eyes flit over the information on the screen. “And the evening of the festival?” 

“We’re tripling security, pulling from both the palace guard and local law enforcement.”

“How many of them know we’re here?” Anakin says.

There’s a knock at the door before she can answer, and Bull moves to open it, standing back to allow someone entry. It's a man Anakin recognizes. Tall and broad, with neatly-combed dark hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a kind yet serious face. His attire perfectly matches the regal demeanor flowing off him in waves, fine tailored robes of pewter-blue that swish around matching trousers as he walks. When his eyes land on Obi-Wan, a fond grin meets Obi-Wan’s public, Jedi-persona equivalent; a small, polite smile, though his eyes twinkle with equally affectionate mirth as Senator Bail Organa bends to his height to trade light kisses upon each cheek. 

Anakin knows from experience that it’s just a traditional Alderaanian greeting; it doesn’t mean anything. The Senator is a happily married man. And he’s pretty sure Obi-Wan hasn’t been involved with anyone in years, if ever. Whatever illicit affair he’d thought his master had with Vos was obviously just fueled by his own overactive imagination. He knows this because Obi-Wan never did meet the Kiffar before he shipped out for his next mission, and he hasn’t been alone with Vos since. Obi-Wan even stopped going to bars and clubs; stopped going out much at all, in fact, aside from diplomatic dinners and stuff they do on missions. Otherwise, he mostly stays with Anakin, and that’s exactly how Anakin likes it. 

None of that prevents the irritation boiling within his veins or the tormenting memory of a kiss that’s burrowed its way into his very soul, a kiss that should have never been, and the hollow, bitter pang that always follows in its wake.

Goosebumps prickling the flesh at his nape, he glances around and finds Da’riel leaning back lazily against the front of the bar on one elbow, sipping his drink and watching Anakin intently. Face flushing with heat, he plops into one of the plush chairs and out of the Dua’primia's view.

“Obi-Wan. As always, it is a pleasure to see you.”

“And you as well, Bail.”

“Now that everyone is here,” Preia says, “shall we get started?”

This is Da'riel btw:

"But there are no elves in Star Wars," one might say. Well guess what: there are now. 😌

Preia and Liv belong to @jacklyn-flynn & @charlatron respectively.

As for other WIPs; there's one I started before Troubled Water, though my focus was drawn to TW instead so it's been put on the backburner for now. The original idea was some kind of canon-divergent time-travel fix-it, but in the sense that Vaderkin's consciousness from the end of RoTJ returns to his body around the end of the Mortis arc in The Clone Wars. Can't say why that inspired me but it did lol, it felt like a pivotal moment (one of the shatterpoints I like to theorize about, change one thing and they're all altered via butterfly effect etc).

Like, what if he lived the future shown to him in that vision that the Father erased, and how would he react differently afterward, how would he talk to Obi-Wan and Ahsoka about what they went through on Mortis and the implications if he actually, finally understood and believed that he was indeed the Chosen One, how would they approach the Sith situation and the war from that point on... yeah I just have a lot of thoughts idk. I know that arc isn't a fan favorite but I personally loved the metaphor and the entire Prophetic Greek Tragedy vibe.

Excerpt:

“General Skywalker, come in.”

He feels… strange. Heavy yet impossibly lighter. Awareness presses down around him, suffocating, and a sharp pain lances through his skull as he draws the first shuddering breath in what feels simultaneously like mere minutes and several millennia. His mouth is dry, his throat sore, and his eyes burn as he slowly blinks into wakefulness. The crust of sleep clings to his long lashes, the salt-stained skin upon his cheeks pulling uncomfortably as he moves. He rubs them with a gloved hand and groans at the bright flashing lights of a console as they sharpen into focus. 

Wait—

He has a body. 

Moments ago he was formless and adrift, yet he is once again whole. And before that, he was… he was…

Kriff, he has hands. Hands he sees unfiltered, rather than through a tinted transparisteel visor protecting damaged retinas. And he’s breathing. Unassisted by a mechanical apparatus, by endless tubes and wires, no longer submerged under the ceaselessly distracting harsh rasp of a ventilator. Fingers flexing inches before his face, he blinks again, stunned. Not only does he have a body, but it’s his body. His limbs—well, with the exception of one. His gaze drifts slowly down to his long legs, toes curling experimentally in his boots. The sheer relief of it sends him reeling. 

Red light glints off his leather tabards and he looks up, expecting that any moment now, this will all prove another dream, a nightmare; a life free of that shell dangled temptingly before him only to be snatched away again. But the scene does not change. Dazed, he assesses his surroundings. A ship. He's on a ship? Familiar, Republic make. And there is a presence in the Force, a presence he has not felt in—

Hours. Years. An eternity.

Breath held, he turns. Only his head; as though any attempt to move this foreign yet thrillingly familiar youthful body will snap him out of this vision, send him back to that… that hell. And as he does, he sees him, a shining beacon of pure light, warm and bright and soothing. A man in beige robes, slumped in the co-pilot’s chair beside him, just beyond arm’s reach. Legs akimbo, elbows perched upon the armrests, hands dangling limply over his lap. His bearded chin is tucked to his chest which rises and falls in the slow, steady rhythm of unconsciousness. Auburn hair spills across his forehead, obscuring his eyes. But he would know this man anywhere.

Obi-Wan.

The desperate beat of his heart and rough, relieved exhale that escapes his lips seems thunderously loud in the otherwise silent cockpit. Fresh tears springing to his eyes, he attempts to stand—to go to him, to sweep Obi-Wan into his arms and feel his warmth, to surround himself with his scent and know for certain that he’s here, he's real, he’s alive—only to wobble and collapse back into the seat like a fawn testing new legs for the first time. 

How is this happening?

He feels himself, and not himself. As though he took a nap and awoke with another lifetime sliced into his brain, a vision he can't shake, an overwrite of his programming, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish between it and the reality he's presented with the more he struggles to process it—

A flicker of blue dances in his periphery, repeating a question, and it is only with great reluctance that he tears his eyes away from his former Master. The holo-projection of another man stands at attention in the center console, brow furrowed with worry. Fondness and guilt and confusion flood him with equal measure as he takes in his Captain’s, his friend’s, appearance. 

“General Skywalker, do you read me?”

Skywalker.

The voice of the last person to call him by that name, in that other life, echoes in his mind. It is the name of your true self, you have only forgotten. The son he tried to kill, to corrupt, to save. The son who saved him, and in the end, returned him to the light. Luke.

Clearing his parched throat, he responds, “I—we read you, Rex,” and marvels at the sound of his own voice, so crisp and clear and young, without the distortion of that burdensome helmet. “You—you’re a sight for sore eyes. Can you hear me?”

Fabric rustles behind him and he instinctively reaches for the lightsaber at his hip before the sleepy, curious brush of another Force signature meets his own. Gasping, he whips around in the flight chair.

“Ahsoka!”

She winces, rubbing her tired eyes. “Not so loud, Skyguy,” she says on the back end of a yawn, glancing around the cockpit. “What happened? We were—-mmphh!” Her surprised grunt is muffled against his shoulder as he all but falls out of his seat to the floor at her feet and drags her into his arms, then his lap, cradling her like a child. 

Face buried in her soft lekku, he squeezes her close to his chest, body wracked with silent sobs. All he’d wanted was to protect Ahsoka. To mentor her, as his master before him, and give her the tools she needed to protect herself and innocents across the galaxy. Brilliant, kind, stubborn and strong, and so, so wise beyond her time, she became one of the most talented Jedi he had ever met. Though they’d gotten off to a rocky start, she made him proud, made him feel honored to be her master. Watching her leave the Order tore his heart in two. Watching her leave him destroyed him. Already he’d been questioning the Council, questioning the Order as a whole and their damn inflexible code. But more than that, he questioned himself. He’d failed as her master, failed as a Jedi. 

The memories haunt him. For months he examined the shatterpoints of their lives together, in hindsight—every lesson taught, every battle fought, wondering where he went wrong, what he could have done differently, how he could have fixed things, helped her, kept her close—spiraling down, down into the depths of his own torment and self-loathing. Without Ahsoka, Obi-Wan had been his only remaining tether to the Jedi. To the light. A tether broken, in the end, by his selfishness. By jealousy and hatred and greed, by the fear of abandonment, loss, and… deep, shameful, unrequited feelings. 

But here she is, right here in the secure circle of his arms. His beloved young padawan, the girl he’s come to cherish like a friend, a sister, who he’d met lightsaber for lightsaber in that dark future but even then, corrupted as he was, could not bring himself to kill because he loved her so. Loves her still.

“Master?” Ahsoka murmurs, hands hanging limp at her sides for several seconds before hesitantly returning his embrace with equal strength. Too often preoccupied with and separated by the war, the opportunities to shown her such open affection were far and few between, usually coming after particularly difficult missions, brief brushes with death, and how kriffed up is that? Filled with regret, he promises himself here and now that will change. 

“Are you…” Trailing off, she reaches up to slowly pet his hair and he releases a quiet sigh, finally pulling back to look at her. Her eyes are wide and worried and so very, terrifically, blue. “Master, what’s wrong?”

Letting out a soft chuckle, he shakes his head. “Nothing, Snips.” The old nickname rolls off his tongue without even thinking and his heart clenches, this time with both pain and joy. “Nothing at all. Everything is perfect.”

There’s a crackle of static behind them, then, “Ah, General Kenobi. It’s good to see you, sir. Are you three alright? General Skywalker seems—”

He lifts his gaze to the co-pilot’s chair. Obi-Wan is awake and perched upright in front of the holo, staring silently at them with a frown so achingly familiar a tangled web of affection, longing, pain, betrayal swells within his chest. It hurts, it hurts so much to look at Obi-Wan like this, yet now that those eyes are open and trained so intently on him, he can’t tear his own away. And Obi-Wan’s just as beautiful as ever, just as heart-wrenchingly perfect and good. 

Too late, he remembers that their bond, while not as strong as it had once been, remains. Unlike most master and padawan pairs after the apprentice reaches knighthood, neither he nor Obi-Wan could bring themselves to sever it. They were at war, their connection was vital. It made them a better team. Until— 

His mental shields slam into place but not before Obi-Wan arches a single brow, lips parting as if to repeat Rex’s inquiry. 

“I’m fine,” he rushes to cut Obi-Wan off, “we’re all fine. Just, uh—where are you?” 

He can only beg the Force that his former master and current padawan did not feel too much, did not see the torment buried within him. By the way they appear to be communicating with one another like whispers behind closed doors, however, he’s sure they will have questions. Questions he doesn’t know how to answer. Letting go of Ahsoka, he clambers to his feet, limbs still trembling, and drops heavily back into the pilot’s chair.

“Standing by, sir. We were worried. You were,” Rex hesitates, “off the scopes there for a moment.”

Memories hit him in a rush. Chaotic, lacking order. He's in a dark room with his dead mother whispering poison in his ear. On a balcony overlooking a pristine lake, flowers scenting the air, one hand rising to touch soft skin. In a junkyard, fingers covered in mech oil, the ever-present grit of sand between his molars. At an opera listening to the viper beside him spit lies, lies, lies. The sky above shifts rapidly from day to night, and he's lost in a spinning whirlpool of stars and the obscene rush of power he feels as he brings gods to their knees. Then he's watching the silhouette of a robed man against the backdrop of sunset thinking look at me, look at me, please look at me, I need you—

Sifting through them is a struggle. Everything blurs together, and he can't control what comes or when, skull throbbing from the effort. His thoughts, his feelings, are an amalgamation of eras he can't quite reconcile; the slave boy, the padawan learner, the Jedi Knight, the General, the Sith Lord. It's too much, it's too much and he doesn't know who or what he is anymore and the panic is rising— 

A comforting hand settles upon his shoulder and he opens his eyes. Ahsoka.

“A moment?” Obi-Wan says, still staring at him. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under that all-too perceptive gaze. At length, his master turns to the holo. “We’ve been gone far longer than a moment.”

Rex’s eyes flit between them. “Sir, I don’t understand. You’ll need to explain.”

Ahsoka snorts. “You wouldn’t believe us if we told you.”

Still have a lot of mental fleshing out to do before it goes anywhere but there ya have it.

May the Force be with you, always!

As for the first part of your comment, really, thank you. It's not that I don't love my writing so much as the process can be difficult at times. 😅 I'm a perfectionist, and not by choice so much as my brain simply won't let things go until they feel right. Even after publishing something I have a very bad habit of going back in and editing it a dozen more times. It's very annoying! 😂

Sometimes that single-minded focus gets me stuck in a huge rut because I'm too zoned in on trivialities to navigate back to the big picture. Basically writer's block is the worst feeling ever and sometimes I get down about not being as productive as I should be. But I do love writing, and making people happy with my work gives me a lot of joy and motivation to keep at it. Well, I should probably get back to work on TW but I hope you enjoyed the excerpts! All your kind words made me smile and I'm gonna try to carry that positivity with me. 🥰

[malienessan]

A different kind of Christmas

A while back I posted what I fondly call my death fic, The Lives and Deaths of Rhett McLaughlin. Some of you have read it, some of you might be saving it for later, and a whole bunch of you don't want to read it, due to the fact that it's pretty sad.

However, in one of the chapters, Rhett and Link celebrate Christmas together, in a place you might not have thought Christmas was celebrated at all.

I'm putting it all below the cut, in case you're not interested at all. This part of the chapter contains no spoilers for the fic itself, it's not particularly sad, except for the theme it's dealing with, but I'll write more about that if you click through.

If this is where you stop, I perfectly understand. I'll see you in another post.

Hello again and welcome to join me, Rhett and Link in a different sort of Christmas celebration, in the trenches of WWI. I'm not claiming this to be historically correct, but it's not entirely incorrect either. If you read up on the matter, you'll see that I've tried to get the facts straight.

The only thing you need to know to understand what's going on, is the premise of the death fic. It's an AU, never met, taking place roughly in 2050. Thanks to advanced technology, Rhett is able to remember past lives, and we find him just as he's 'waking up' in his remembered life.

If this excerpt makes you want to read more of this fic, please mind the tags and warnings. This part you'll read isn't particularly sad, except for the fact that they are at war, and the lingering anxiety that comes with that. But there is also happiness in the midst of it all, and it shows that sometimes you can find something good in a place you'd least expect it.

(Sorry, also got to mention, there is mentions of guns firing, of Rhett shooting someone, but there aren't any details about it. Got any questions, come to me. Want me to tag differently, tell me.)

Alright, here goes:

I wake up sitting in mud. My bum is wet, my feet are wet, there’s water dripping from the helmet on my head. I’m clutching a pack of cigarettes, which is, amazingly enough, dry. There’s a half-smoked cigarette butt in my mouth, I probably fell asleep as I was smoking. I start feeling my pockets for a lighter, but don’t have time to find one.

“McLaughlin! Stand-to!”

I get up, shaking exhaustion and confusion from my brain. The sun is getting low in the sky, and I can see that all my comrades are climbing up the fire step. We are all tired and exhausted, but it needs to be done. I chat a little with Abrams and Thompson, they’re on either side of me. I wouldn’t call us friends, but we’re acquainted at least.

“Heads up, men! Prepare to fire!”

I have caught up with my memory now. I am in Belgium, fighting with my fellow Brits side by side with the French and the Belgians, against the Germans. It was supposed to be over in a matter of weeks, but we have been here for almost three months now.

I aim my rifle at the enemy’s line. In daylight I can clearly see the enemy, we’re no more than 60 yards apart. We’re a little bit familiar with each other by now and since this war has dragged on far longer than anyone would have thought, we’re all tired of shooting at each other. We do it anyway because that’s how it works.

As the sun finally sets, we’re starting to fire at random. I aim at the enemy’s trench, firing a couple of bullets. Our commander barks at us to fire more, so I do, maybe a dozen bullets altogether. I don’t much feel like killing anyone, to be honest.

I have before, though. When I had been here about two weeks, I was on the fire step at night, keeping watch. I saw something move and then a small flash of light, like a cigarette lighter. It was too far away to be one of ours, so I fired. There was a scream, just one short yell, full of anguish. Then silence. Nothing else happened during my watch, but the next morning, after stand-to, I could see a german soldier on the ground right about where I shot someone. I did not feel proud about it, it was more a feeling of doing my duty.

When it’s full dark, we climb down from the fire step and those on supply duty get started with that. I will be back up there in a couple of hours, until then I can rest a little. I sit back down in the mud and light a cigarette. There isn’t much else to do when it’s dark, we rest and we smoke. Someone is supposed to patrol No Man’s Land, the open field between our and the German trench, but we have made an unofficial sort of truce, agreeing to not attack or kill at night.

That sounds strange, right? Well, let me tell you something even more strange. A couple of weeks ago, a German sergeant waved a white flag from his trench, and then casually strolled over to us, to ask how we were doing. He asked about what was happening in the English football league, apparently some of his men live in England and wanted to know how it was going for their teams.

On our stretch of the trench, we haven’t had any casualties since that happened, us Brits don’t have too much quarrel with the Germans. The French and the Belgians more so. We have heard that there is somewhere, where the French and Germans have a truce daily to collect the dead for burial. Nothing about this war makes sense, neither the animosity nor the friendliness.

While I’m waiting for fire step-duty, I roam through my memories a little. I’m from Britain, south of the country. My brother is in the war, too, but he’s a little to the north of where I am posted. We send each other letters every now and then. He writes a lot about how he misses his girl and that he’s worried about mother and father. I mostly write him about how boring it gets for long stretches at a time. He probably thinks I’m a stupid child, and he’s not necessarily wrong.

I’ve just turned 20. I don’t have a girl to miss, but my brother’s girl’s little sister would gladly greet me with a kiss when I come back as a War Hero. She is pretty, but when I decided to join the war, I told her to find someone else, someone who would stay at home with her, not leave with risk of being killed. I don’t know. If I ever get home from this filthy place, I might marry her.

I am dirty. It’s bloody impossible to stay clean here, but I make an effort, at least, I scrub parts of my body with wet paper once a day, to not feel like a complete savage. My feet are still alright, but several of my comrades have gotten infections in the skin and boy, do that stink.

I light another cigarette and enjoy the smoke burning my lungs for a few minutes before I get on the fire step. I keep my fingers crossed for a quiet night and I get my wish fulfilled. Soon it is dawn and time for another stand-to, until the sun has come up properly. I have breakfast with Abrams and Hammond, Thompson is on the fire step.

Together, we take care of our chores. It’s our turn to empty the latrines and to secure the walls of the trench. It’s dirty, but we get it done in decent time. We chat while we’re working. Abrams has a wife at home, she’s expecting their first child a couple of months from now. Hammond is as young as me, but he has a fiancé who is waiting for him. She sends him erotic stories to read when he misses her too much. He blushes when he tells us, but we can see that he likes that we get a little envious. Abrams’ wife is too pregnant to consider erotic stories, I guess, and I don’t even have a girl.

When chores are done, I wash off and get a clean uniform. It’s time to shave, and I have a special place I do it. I stand facing the German trench, shaving together with a guy on the other side. We’ve been keeping this routine up for almost a month. I shave, he shaves, we don’t talk, but we communicate with nods, smiles and gestures.

He’s young, I would think that he’s younger than me. I don’t know if he’s short or tall, I think shorter than me, based on the assumption that they have the same depth in their trenches. His hair is dark, almost black, and his beard grows a lot faster than mine. I have considered walking over there, like that German sergeant did, but my commander would probably not like it. I just would like to say hello, before either one of us gets killed. I can’t tell what color eyes he’s got, but I think they’re brown, considering his black hair. He’s got a nice smile.

When we’re done grooming, I light a cigarette. He’s patting his jacket, and then drops out of my vision for a minute, coming back with a lit cigarette in his mouth. We smoke, and then he starts singing. It’s faint, but I immediately recognize it as Silent night, and he’s singing in English. He’s got a bit of an accent, but his voice is nice. I join him and soon several of my comrades join, as well as more of the Germans.

Our commanding officers frown a little at us, but we are already in an unofficial truce, so they let us be. And it’s only ten days until Christmas, we’re all feeling a little sentimental, I guess.

As Christmas comes closer, it happens more and more often, that one side starts singing and the other sides join. We don’t fire at each other at stand-to to any greater degree, even though we have got word of the French general trying to order his troops to be more aggressive. Our commanders tell us that what the people in charge don’t know, won’t bother them.

With two days left for Christmas, I get a package from my mother. She wishes me a happy holiday and have packed home-knitted woolen socks, candy and a few packs of cigarettes. She doesn’t approve of me smoking, but she knows that most of us here use it for keeping our morals up. We have little to look forward to, but having a smoke is one thing.

Our days in the trench look the same, week after week, after week. Stand-to in the morning, then we clean our equipment, and the officers make an inspection. We eat breakfast, do our daily chores and in between we are on the fire step. When we have a little time off, I usually play cards with Abrams, Hammond and Thompson or I try to get some sleep. At sundown there is another stand-to and after that we get supplies and take turns on the fire step, again.

It’s dreary.

When it’s light out, I almost always smoke with my German friend. One morning I yelled at him “What’s your name?”. The air was completely still and my voice carried without trouble. It’s not uncommon for both sides to communicate like this now, even if it felt a little weird to reach out to him like that. It felt a lot more intimate than shaving or sharing a smoke, or singing, even.

“Link!” He shouted back, pointing at himself. I mirrored his gesture, shouting “Rhett!”. He smiled again, and I swear that the sun came out at that exact moment, shining straight at him. Made me almost lose my breath.

The day after, it’s Christmas eve. A german soldier is holding up a piece of paper, with the words “You no shoot, we no shoot” on it. Everyone on our side is looking at it in confusion. We don’t shoot that much these days, but he wants something more, apparently. Someone on our side, I think it’s Abrams, pull out a white handkerchief, waving it about and the next we see are two Germans getting out of the trench, walking towards us.

I stay put, I’m cleaning my rifle and I’m not really sure what’s happening anyway. It’s a long step from shouting and singing, to actually meeting in No Man’s Land. But Thompson is on the move, meeting the two Germans, together with three other fellows.

They come back after half an hour. I have been watching them, while more and more have joined the group in No Man’s Land, from both sides. They were talking and laughing. I look for my pal, Link, but I can’t see him. I think he might be sleeping. I sleep whenever I get the chance, I bet he does too.

When our guys come back, they are almost giddy. The German’s have offered them small gifts, a little booze, a cigar, some candy. Thompson gave someone a couple of his cigars and a piece of chocolate he’d been saving for Christmas. They say that we’re having a proper truce, from today until sunrise on Boxing day. No fighting, no shooting. We will have a day of silence. It’s almost  unreal, every day here is filled with the sound of grenades hissing, gun shots fired and people screaming.

There is no stand-to that evening. It’s Christmas Eve and we get proper Christmas food. It’s delicious. I save some of the fruit cake we get for dessert. If Link shows up tomorrow, I want to give him a piece. I don’t know if he’s had fruit cake before. I think I might give him a pair of my new socks as well, it would be nice to know that his feet are warm and dry, at least until the trench is flooded the next time. Maybe he’ll get a couple of cigarettes, too.

I don’t know why I want to give him gifts, I really don’t. I think maybe it’s been so long since I’ve felt like a normal boy, I just want to give a friend some presents. Even if that friend potentially will try to kill me two days later.

When Christmas morning comes, I’m awoken before dawn. It’s Abrams, telling me in a quiet voice to come immediately. I get up on the fire step. We can see lots and lots of small lights along the German trench. No one understands, until it dawns on me. It’s candles. They are lighting candles. Suddenly I can hear a voice I recognize. It’s Link’s voice, carrying over the dark and cold plains.

“Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht! Alles schläft, einsam wacht Nur das traute hochheilige Paar Holder Knabe im lockigen Haar Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh! Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!”

I don’t understand the words, but I know the song. He’s singing Silent Night in German. Soon, more Germans join him and it’s beautiful. When they start the second verse, I start singing too, but in English. My comrades start singing as well, and as the sun rise, we and our enemies share a wondrous moment.

When the song ends, I can hear Link, shouting with his stupid and cute accent “hey, Rhett, do you know Lo, how a rose e’er blooming?”

It takes me a few seconds to get that he’s calling to me and I shout back “yes! Shall we sing that?”

“You start!”

And I do.

“Lo, how a rose e’er blooming, From tender stem hath sprung. Of Jesse’s lineage coming, As men of old has sung; It came, a flow’ret bright, Amid the cold of winter, When half spent was the night.”

My comrades sing with me and this time, the Germans sing with us from the beginning. It’s strange, hearing our version at the same time as theirs, but it feels right, too. When we have sung it, two verses, a quiet settle over us. The sky is white and grey, it might snow. It’s cold and we can see our breaths. But our hearts are warm for a little while and as I look to the other trench, I can see that Link is on his way towards us.

I scramble up the fire step and we meet halfway. He is taller than I had thought, but still almost a head shorter than me. And he doesn’t have brown eyes, they are blue as the sky. I think I’m staring at him because he smiles at me. It’s an even nicer smile up close. He offers me a cigarette and helps me light it before we even say a word.

“Hello Rhett. It’s good to meet you.”

His accent is obvious, but he speaks a lot better English than I would have guessed. I tell him so and he tells me about his English father.

“I was ten when he died, and mother wanted to move home to Germany. I can speak English well enough, but I sound like a German, right?” He grins, knowing he’s right.

“Yes, eh, I mean… yes.” I grin back. By now, a lot of other people have joined us. There is merriment all around and talks about having breakfast together in No Man’s Land. Me and Link raise our voices, we’d very much like to keep talking. We’re basically the same age, Link turned 19 this summer, so we feel a little bit connected.

The few hours between breakfast and lunch, we and our “enemies” walk back and forth between the two trenches. It feels amazing. At some point, there is a Christmas Tree presented from the German side. We place it in the middle, and those of us who wants to, meet at the tree and exchange gifts. I ask Link if it’s okay that I give him something.

“You have gift for me?” He raises his eyebrows. We had breakfast together, then I followed him to their trench to see what it was like. It was pretty much like ours, muddy and wet. It feels like having a best friend again, I haven’t had that since I was ten, I think. I’m a bit of a loner, I get by on my own. But this is nice.

“Yes, I have gift for you. Is it alright?”

He’s smiling even bigger, how that’s even possible, and nod eagerly. But he stops me and says he needs to run to his trench first. I think he might have something for me, too.

He’s back in a few minutes, a little out of breath after running. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are red, it’s cold. His cap is a little askew and he’s smiling, big. He’s looking at me with those blue eyes, so intently that I can barely stand it. I avert my eyes and start pulling his gifts from my pockets. I don’t have any wrapping paper, naturally, but Link doesn’t seem to mind, as I hand him a pack of cigarettes, one of the boxes of hard candy that my mother sent, and a pair of woolen socks.

“Rhett? Is this all for me?” He’s looking at me with big eyes, like he’s not used to getting gifts. Then he smiles and I can’t breathe properly. “I want to put on the socks. Can you help me?

I nod and he leans at me when he unties his boots. and exchanges his thin, slightly dirty socks for the ones my mother has made. He sighs, heavily, when he pushes his feet back in the boots.

“Thank you. They are very comfortable. It’s like a fluffy cloud in my shoes.” He puts his hand on my arm, squeezing it. I think he would want to hug me, but that would be overstepping our boundaries.

Then he opens the bag he’s got slung over his shoulder. He gives me a razor with a mother-of-pearl handle, a box of cookies and a small bottle with a brown liquid.

“It’s rum. It’s good, makes you feel warm inside.” He makes a gesture as to take a sip, and I do. It burns all the way down to my stomach. I hand the bottle to him, and he sips as well. When I get the bottle back, I take another sip, just to be able to put my lips where Link had his a moment ago.

“It’s nice, Link, thank you.” We stand there, looking at each other awkwardly. I stuff my gifts in my bag, but I keep the bottle out. I don't bother with the fruitcake I saved, I don't have it on me and I don't want to leave Link's side. He offers me a cigarette from the pack he got, and we smoke and drink together. Then someone shouts “football!”.

Someone on our side, I think it might be Hammond, have a football. It comes flying into the middle of No Man’s Land and someone on the German side give it a kick, screaming “goooooaaaal!”. There are objections from the English side, and soon we’re playing against each other. The sun is starting to set, but we don’t care.

The game is not as heated as you would think. We play for fun, war is serious enough. I try to keep up, but football has never been my game, I’m too tall, can’t keep track of my limbs. Besides, I’m more of a cricket guy. I stand to the side and look at the rest of the men, feeling more joy than you would think possible on the Western front.

Then Link rushes by, intercepting a long shot from an Englishman. He stops a second, laughing at me.

“You will let us win, right? The Germans are superior, always.” He winks at me and with a grin I accept the challenge. I start running after him. He’s fast and he’s good with the ball, but I have long legs and I’ve soon caught up to him. I have no chance at actually getting the ball from him, and soon he passes it to someone else. At that moment I’m right along side of him and I shove him with my shoulder.

Poor Link is in the middle of a running step and my tackle sends him flying sideways and he lands in the mud with a loud “plop”. I start laughing, I just can’t help it. When he pushes away from the mud and I see that he’s covered in mud, from nose to knees, I laugh even harder. He glares at me but not for long, soon we’re laughing together.

“Come on, I’ll help you clean up.”

I gesture at our trench. Most of the men are playing football by now and we’re only about 10 yards from where we keep our supplies. I’m thinking I can give Link something to wipe his face with.

Carefully, we climb down the fire step, and he follows me a bit further north. I find a rag and some clean water, and I hand it to him. He wipes at his cheeks and around his mouth, but he misses a lot.

“You got something there, and there.” I point at his face, but he misses it again. I sigh, taking the rag from him and with a hand on his shoulder, I carefully get all the dirt of his face. He’s very still, a little pale. I notice how muddy and damp his coat is and shrug mine off.

“Here, Link, wear this. I can get another tomorrow.” I help him put it on. It’s a little big on him, the sleeves cover his whole hands and I almost think he looks like a child, playing dress up. I don’t know how I feel about that, but there’s something stirring in my belly.

“Rhett. Thank you. You are a true friend.”

I can’t talk at the moment so I just nod. Then he comes close, too close. He gets up on his toes and plants a kiss on my lips. In surprise, I push him off me, glaring at him. Something warm is spreading through my guts. Link stares back, defiantly, his chin tilted up. I can almost see the challenge in his eyes. I accept it, grab him by the lapels and kiss him back, hard.

The world stops when we kiss. The stars come down from the sky and circles around us and when I feel his tongue enter my mouth, I pull him closer than possible. He tastes of the booze we shared, of cigarettes, a little bit of mud and something sweet that I think is him. His stubbled jaw feels rough against my chin, and I shiver from head to toe.

“Are you cold, Rhett? Do you need your coat back?” He stops kissing me to worry about me and I only shake my head and close the distance between us again. I know that there is no one nearby, but I still want to go somewhere else. With my lips moist and a little swollen from kissing, I grab Link’s hand and pull him a little further north. That’s the spot where I go to shave, it’s like a nook and we have a corner we can huddle in.

“Rhett, can I touch you?” We are in the corner, Link has got his back against the wall and I’m in front of him. I don’t know what we are doing, and I don’t know what we can do, but I nod eagerly at his question. He fiddles with my buttons and it doesn’t take him long to work his hand into my underwear, where he gently wraps his long fingers around my cock. I kiss him again, to try to hide my moan. I have had a girl’s hand around me, but this is different.

“Link. Why… Oh, Link…” I thrust against his hand. I want to come, so bad but I want to touch him, too. I can’t get to his buttons, his jacket is in the way. I start pulling at whatever buttons I can reach and eventually I’m at his pants. He’s laughing a little, whispering in my ear how glad he is that I am with him now. I get my hand in his underwear and I feel how hard he is.

I don’t know if it’s the booze or if it’s the weird situation or if I would have reacted like this no matter where I would have met Link. But at this point I’m not questioning it, I want to be here, with him, I don’t care that he is my enemy or that he, too, is a boy.

“Rhett, oh, just like that… I little harder, please.” I do what he tells me, and I try to keep the same rhythm as he has on my cock. I know that I could get on my knees and suck him off, but I want to feel his tongue in my mouth when I come.

I can feel him groaning deep in his throat. His cock is wet now, I think he’s getting close. I am, too. I thrust into his hand and I have my tongue in his mouth. With my free hand I pull him as close as possible as I desperately roam his mouth with my tongue and make him come in my hand. When he moans into my mouth and I can feel the stickiness from his cock, I come as well, trying to keep quiet, almost succeeding.

We stay close for a few minutes, I won’t stop clutching him to me. My beating heart is slowing down, and I feel a heavy weight on my shoulders, in my soul. My right hand is around his cock, but I want to let go and grab my left arm. Not yet, though. Not yet.

Eventually, we must let go. I find a rag we can wipe ourselves with, I try to get most of the come out of my pants. We stay in the corner for a little while, but soon he must go.

“Rhett, thank you. I will never forget this.” His words echo through my brain. I kiss him again, I can’t speak. When we stop, he’s looking at me and then he leaves. I stay behind, I don’t know what to feel anymore.

Night comes, but I don’t sleep. There is no one on the fire step tonight. The next morning is Boxing day and at sunrise, everything is back to normal. The Christmas tree still stands in the middle of No Man’s Land. My comrades wonder where I went to, but I said I got a little drunk and wanted to sleep it off.

When the sun is fully up, I shave with my new razor. Link is in his trench, shaving too, and when he sees that I’m using his gift, he gets the biggest grin on his face. The “look, the sun is coming out”-grin only he knows how to make. When we’re done shaving, we smoke together, he’s smoking from the cigarettes he got and before we wave goodbye, he calls out to me “thank you, Rhett, I will never forget it!”. I know what he means and simply yells back “neither will I!”.

[a-womans-rhetoric]

Natalie Wynn's "J.K. Rowling" and Disruptive use of Women's Rhetorical Tropes: A Defiant Reply to Transmisogyny

ContraPoints, surrounded by an opulent, candle-lit set and adorned in witch's garb, leisurely pours champagne into her glass — she's ready to breach the internet's hottest topic of January, 2021: her childhood idol being outed as a transphobe (link here). The video itself being over an hour and a half long, I would be hard-pressed to claim that I could ever hope to cover its entirety, comprehensively, in a single post. So to save-face, I'll be dedicating this space only to breaking down her most frequently used rhetorical tropes, one by one.

Irreverence

"Joanne, I wanna talk to you, Joanne! [Fans herself with a rainbow paper fan with the word "BIOLOGICAL" written across it] What is it about Joannes? I can't catch a break from these people" (00:23-00:29, emphasis added).

Wynn's introductory lines immediately open a dialogue with J.K. Rowling — however, this invitation of discourse is defiantly "irreverent" (reminiscent of Nomy Lamm's punk-feminist style in "It’s a Big Fat Revolution” (1995)). Contrapoints, herself a transgender woman, is aware that her very existence is considered in opposition to the TERF-ideology that Rowling subscribes to. Thus, she's rather playful — even openly disrespectful — with her diction: calling the British author by her first name in a mocking-tone and flaunting her own trans identity to the camera (in a way that would likely offend the fragile sensibilities of a transphobe). Her personal tone (with ample use of the pronoun "I") servers a duplicitous purpose: a simultaneous message of "sit down and listen" and a fair degree of "I don't care if you can't accept me."

"So, now that 2020 is finally over, I think we can let the record conclusively show that it was a year whomst is bad. And on top of everything else going on, truly the last thing we needed was the author of Harry Potter coming forward to announce there's two things she can't stand: bigotry, and the transgenders. (00:31 - 00:50, emphasis added).

Finally broaching the subject at hand directly, Wynn employs kairos alongside her irreverence. Kairos, or the rhetorical use of an "opportune moment," holds incredible weight in the first month after 2020: the year in which the whole world fell into a stasis. Characterizing Rowling's transphobia as a collective "the last thing we needed," is also rather dismissive — she unites herself with her audience with the pronoun "we" and invites us all to groan at the exasperating nature of Rowling's bigotry.

Claiming the Right to Speak / Personal Experience

"This is a painful topic for me all around because, as a transgender woman, I am honestly really hurt by a lot of the things Joanne has said in the last year. But I also know what it's like to be the target of a Twitter mob" (01:36-01:47).

As she begins to touch on the topic, Natalie Wynn claims the right to speak on the issue of Rowling's transphobia — a type of bigotry that directly effects her. However, Wynn also situates herself partially with Rowling in her acknowledgement that receiving Twitter backlash is a terrifying experience (an experience, she argues, that the human brain is not prepared to handle the scale of, 01:49-02:39). In treating her subject with such dignity — and adding her own deeply personal account— ContraPoints creates a credible ethos in the beginning of her video essay. The audience is inclined to listen to someone who has been directly effected by the subject of Rowling's controversy (transphobia) and someone who is, rather compassionately, willing to empathize with those who would wish her harm. Although the generally sassy, glamorous, and irreverent tone of the video still appears soon after (see: the above image), her opening up for this somber moment garners a fair degree pathos in the viewer — we, as human beings, are inclined to sympathize with people who are open about being hurt.

Metis (Embodied Rhetoric)

[The following ContraPoints quote is addressing the above J.K. Rowling tweet, content warning for transmisogyny] "Transphobes love to play this game where they pretend that trans people just don't understand basic biology, that's our problem! As if I didn't start taking female hormones because I'm acutely aware that my body is not the same as a cis woman's body, that sex is real. "[Fictional TERF character] You will never be a woman, Nathan. Every cell in your body is male and has a Y chromosome." Really? That's crazy. How you'd you learn so much about science? You know I don't really feel the need to have a second X chromosome, I get by with only one, I make it work. I actually like the Y chromosome, I think it's a little more dainty, you know, it's little softer, a little more petite. The X chromosome has a lot of extra appendages, and don't you think? I don't need anymore of those, thanks. No trans person thinks it's possible to change chromosomal sex and to pretend otherwise is to argue in bad faith" (08:47-09:34).

If you can excuse my gargantuan quote, I hope you'll agree that the dialogue ContraPoints builds here was just too good to cut short. Within this excerpt, we see Wynn's use of irreverance and personal experience blended seamlessly together. For this YouTuber, the personal is perpetually political — especially when her own identity is constantly taken as an ideological stance. She uses her own expertise in trans issues to pick apart just how disingenuous Rowling's assertions are — even accusing her of "argue[ing] in bad faith" with her reductive claims (later, taking specific issue with how Rowling treats trans-ness as a costume). But, here, she also directly invokes another rhetorical trope: that of metis, or embodied rhetoric. Natalie Wynn specifically references her transgender body as a sort of counterpoint to the condescending "sex is real" claims by TERFs. She cites her intrinsic desire to pursue hormonal therapy as evidence that she — and other trans people like her — are all "acutely aware" that there are chromosomal differences between themselves and cis women. With this salient statement, she then follows with some humor: which, again, utilizes her trans body in her rhetoric. Her characterization of the Y chromosome as "more petite" and playful declaration of not needing "extra appendages" lightens up the often dark tone that arguing for trans rights and liberation can take. The clever points she makes are by no means weakened by her humor — if anything, the audience is more willing to listen to someone who can "joke about themselves" (so to speak) while still arguing an incredibly important message.

Naming and Defining Issues

"When I see Joanne tweeting about how trans people think sex isn't real and they're erasing same-sex attraction and they're silencing women, alarm bells are ringing because I recognize these as familiar transphobic talking points, specifically TERF talking points. "TERF" means trans exclusionary radical feminism. God are we still talking about this? I promise this is the last time. So TERFism is a hate movement that disguises transphobia as feminism. ... The fundamental problem with TERFs is not that they're mean. It's that they're politically reactionary, they want to reverse the progress of trans liberation." (14:05-16:02)

In her definition of TERF rhetoric, Natalie Wynn outlines some dog-whistles that are obvious to her, as a trans woman. She calmly explains to the viewer that, oftentimes in the present-day, rhetorics of exclusion are thoroughly disguised; TERFs, specifically, hide their rampant transphobia as a form of feminism. However, she further clarifies that the specific "danger" that TERFs pose is not from their cruelty — it's from their fervent dedication to strip away trans rights through political means. By specifying this danger, Natalie Wynn shifts the conversation away from empty discussion of offensiveness/terminology, to issues which directly affect the lives of trans people every day.

[This portion addresses the picture above] Also an act of naming and defining, ContraPoints makes a distinction between "Direct" and "Indirect Bigotry." She argues that many people envision bigotry as a festering, public, frothing-at-the-mouth hatred — a phenomenon she dubs "the Westboro Baptist Church theory of bigotry" (20:06). In bringing attention to the human tendency to think of people as exclusively practicing "direct bigotry" — envisioning them as a sort of delusional "other" — she then forces the audience to contemplate the relative omni-presence of the more covert (and possibly alluring) "indirect bigotry." This definition, crucially, requires introspection. By allowing ourselves to think of bigots not exclusively as "Westboros," we're made to adopt a much more nuanced view of subjects (most) generally prefer to keep black-and-white. Natalie Wynn uses her J.K. Rowling case study to complicate this 2D view of "The Bigot," inviting others to more carefully examine how politically reactionary views develop.

Phew, this was probably the longest post I've ever typed up on tumblr! Hopefully, I succeeded in demystifying (or at least adding clarity to) some of the specific tropes ContraPoints uses (that are common to women's rhetorics as a whole). Thanks for reading if you stuck around this long, and my ask box is always open!