#something something if his innate goodness was tied more often to himself than his position as an angel then maybe he’d be less insecure

[noughticalcrossings]

Out of Eden

Inktober day 16. Angel

And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying 'Where is the flaming sword that was given unto thee?'

[fuckyeahharryhart]

THE ART OF SEDUCTION Reader Insert

After working months at his side, whether it be in the field, during training, debriefing in his office, or simply occupying the same space in quieter moments- reading in the lounge with a cup of tea, enjoying a few precious moments of peace, you were no closer at deciphering the gorgeous mystery that was Harry Hart. Your time with him merely reinforced what you already knew. And what you knew had, much to your chagrin, become increasingly and disconcertingly distracting with every moment you shared space with him. Harry was beautiful, obviously. You determined that the moment you saw him. Even from a distance, he cut a striking figure. But it was the understated way he acknowledged his own appearance, knew that it was pleasing and accepted it with grace, dignity and a matter-of-factness, that only made him more attractive.

Harry Hart’s appeal wasn’t just based on his good looks. There were other men who had more classically balanced features. It was significantly more than good genes or the symmetry of bone structure. Not that his purely physical attributes were lacking in any regard. You had already committed to memory every aspect of his form and figure, from his hair, with a distinguished flurry of silver, all the way down to his feet in their gleaming oxfords. No doubt polished with every wearing; they carried him with purposeful movement and long measured strides.

Harry Hart was a tall man. Often folding his legs as gracefully as possible under tables and desks that were just a breath too short to accommodate a man of his stature. He carried himself differently. Always with a posture, walk, a gait, that had a purpose.  Never rushed unnecessarily, he possessed the ease of someone in full control of his physical body. His movements were light, sharp, and kinetic. When he was still, he held himself straight and tall, without strain. In more casual moments, his weight would shift to one side or the other, or he might lean against a support, breaking up the long, precise lines of his full height.

Mostly, this had to do with a hyper awareness of his environment and his place in it. If Harry needed to calm a new recruit, he might stand with authority, but tuck his hands in his pockets, conveying a sense of ease and familiarity. When confronting an adversary, his stature seemed to grow as he pulled himself to his full height.  In those rare moments where he was free from personal and professional obligations responsibilities, as much as he could ever be, his figure would take on smooth curves and relaxed angles. The space he occupied was his to claim, mould, and manipulate. And Harry Hart did so with his body, his voice, his gaze, his way of dress.

Surprisingly, you discovered that Harry was a man who often communicated through physical touch. As a man of few words, who often guarded his privacy and personal life, you expected him to be even more reserved with his body language, to be even more wary of close physical contact. Quite the contrary, he was often more generous with a hand on the shoulder or a gentle pat on the back as a form of approval or encouragement. Sometimes, he would place his hand over yours as gesture of support and understanding. Harry was more demonstrative with contact and touch than he was with using words of praise or comfort. Even his proximity, whether it be as a figure in the distance or his physical closeness, could affect the energy of the room.

Rolling it over in your mind, you realised that it made sense that Harry would be comfortable communicating through touch. In some regards, he was a very tactile man, a sensual man, if not overtly so. He was a man that celebrated the senses.

In his office, though minimalist by Kingsman standards, austere even, there were touches of extravagance not influenced by tradition. All the furniture, as well as being beautifully made, focused on designs that were hospitable as well as functional. The chairs were comfortable. The lounge was upholstered in a dark, rich leather, well oiled and worn smooth by years of use. It was masculine, but also soft and inviting, a piece that you could relax and sink into.  A sumptuous throw. Pillows covered in dark velvet that were actually soft, not just decorative.

The items that did adorn his office were obviously selected thoughtfully and with care. The enticingly smooth curves of a vase, seemingly out of place, brilliant jade against the subdued tones of hunter green, tartans and plaid and the deep tones of polished wood and leather. The delicate lines and breathtaking color of a framed butterfly.  A small, sterling silver paperweight in the shape of a terrier. A cut crystal decanter, with matching tumblers, no doubt holding an insanely old and very expensive scotch.

There was an emphasis, not on the prestige or price of an object, but on its, color, texture, lines that were pleasing or challenging to the eye. Not as a flaunting of wealth, but a source of pleasure. It wasn’t an ostentatious display of the rich, it was the luxury of selection and taste. Any piece of clothing or fabric that touched his body directly was often luxurious, as well, scarfs, gloves, fine cashmere or calfskin leather. Though you had no way of knowing, you assumed his sheets would be of the highest thread count.

Harry’s manner of dress was immaculate and as precise as the polished, clipped tones of his aristocratic accent. He presented himself as a man who was self-assured with his appearance. Whatever he wore, he wore with confidence. He wore it well, without vanity, pretension, ego or conceit. Not that he needed the help of his wardrobe to face the world. His manner of dress seemed to highlight, magnify his innate sense of self.  He was not a flashy man, but he appreciated the expert craftsmanship that went into a finely cut suit. That good clean lines, quality materials, understated but interesting details could be the final polish on an already finely honed presentation.   

His clothing was the other area where he allowed himself some extravagance. A firm believer in the principle that if one’s self and surroundings are not only presentable, but impeccable, then one will always be prepared for what surprises life may decide to throw in one’s direction. In his line of work, unpredictability was as predictable as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. His wardrobe countered the erratic nature of life as an agent.  Thus, his was a look of man who had his life in order.

Harry Hart was a man of consistency. His tie was an unfailing full Windsor, tucked under the spread collar of a pristine white shirt. An equally crisp pocket square, folded neatly, peeked from his breast pocket. French cuffs were secured with custom gold links, bearing the Kingsman insignia. His suits were mostly double breasted, in classic shades of black, charcoal, navy and grey and cut in a wool that was appropriate for the occasion, whether solid, pinstriped, or woven with a pattern such as herringbone, or houndstooth. After years as a Kingsman agent, he had amassed a considerable and varied wardrobe that consisted of classic suits, formal wear, overcoats, ties, scarves, for any occasion or any type of mission. Each Kingsman agent also wore a gold signet ring on the pinky of their dominant hand. Harry wore the ring on his right.

Kingsman suits were cut close to the body, but designed with allowances made to accommodate weapons, ensure maneuvrability and flexibility in all types of action. They were also bulletproof. It was a feature created after decades of experimenting with different textiles and weaves and exploring processes and techniques that would result in a material that could withstand the velocity and impact of of a bullet shot at close range. The lightweight, flexible lining was sewn into every Kingsman suit and many times proved to be a lifesaver.

Shoulder harnesses were used for carrying. Not belt clips. Belts constricted the body whereas a harness allowed freedom of movement. They were also easily and quickly detachable in case they needed to be removed. Belts, on the other hand, though they had their uses, could also cost valuable seconds when needed to be taken off. The carry position prevented printing and maintained the lines of Kingsman’s suits.

The fine, bespoke tailoring emphasized Harry’s height and build. Trousers were slim cut, long and hemmed with a perfect mid break. He preferred the simple Oxford rather than brogues. He styled his hair in a classic, handsome cut, and was always clean shaven, (unless in the field where there was no opportunity for a straight razor shave). His aftershave and cologne were unobtrusive but memorable. Rather than preceding him, the warm and masculine sent of woods and spices, with hints of cardamon, bergamot, the tactile sensuality of rich leather and suede, would linger after his departure, like a layer of warm dark velvet. Even his hands were beautiful. Beautiful but not delicate. Large wide palms, long elegant fingers, his nails were neat and clipped. They sometimes bore the marks of time spent in the field. They were strong and capable.

Overall, Harry Hart had the appearance of a man who embraced classics, honoured tradition, but defined his look with his own individual aesthetic personality and sense of style.

In quieter moments, when you had the opportunity to watch him without being too obvious or call attention to yourself, you allowed your curiosity to wonder over all the small details and mannerism that were unique to Harry. How his fingertips would gently find the arm of his glasses and rest lightly there, when he was thoughtful or pondering a question, as if it helped him focus or think.  The automatic gesture probably developed after years of transmitting information through the eyeglasses, which also functioned as communication devices.  Through your experience in human psychology, you recognised this as a self soothing gesture. Finding the comfort of something familiar. You were fairly sure that Harry was aware of this gesture and allowed himself some habits, that were, not particularly productive but, helpful nonetheless. Rubbing his thumb along the band of his signet ring. The way he would always shoot his cuffs when rising from his seat. Or run the palm of his hand along the back of his head, smoothing down the already polished hair.

Never had you met someone who had the ability to asses and evaluate any given situation as throughly and unerringly as Harry. Whether it entailed clearing a room, identifying a mark, or even just something as simple as slowing his pace when you walked along side him so you wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up. He was constantly aware of his surroundings and deconstructing what needed to happen to make the environment more pleasing, the conversation more engaging, the meeting more productive, the mission more likely to succeed. He was nothing if not thoughtful. Thus, when you walked with him, he always slowed and allowed you to maintain your own graceful stride.

His physical appearance, his exacting nature, his precise moments, his carefully maintained wardrobe, his formal patterns of speech, his refined accent, not to mention his good looks could intimidate even the most confident agent, let alone a green one.  That was until the person in question realised that this outward perfection was merely the layer that he presented to the world.

It would seem impossible for man to be blessed with so many gifts, but Harry Hart proved to be the exception to the rule, for he was as charming and gracious as he was handsome. His quick wit, his clever way with words, as well as his dry, incisive sense of humor could enthrall even the most unwilling participant.

He could placate the most difficult handler, assuage the most reluctant agent, enchant the most reserved target, or ingratiate himself into the most inhospitable of circumstances. When Harry turned on the full force of his charm, the people he met, let alone the men and women who worked with him, frequently found themselves elevated in his presence, their own experience heightened by his vitality and charisma. They left the experience a little breathless, a little awestruck, a little seduced by Harry Hart. You were no exception. And you had been spending a lot of time with him.

————

You found yourselves alone one evening at the manor. In the lounge, when you both happened to desire a drink at the same time. Most of the Kingsman had already departed for the shop if they were returning to the city. The rest had dispersed to their own private quarters, or were participating in whatever activity they had planned for the evening. The lounge was quiet. They way he liked it. Apparently, it was the way you preferred it as well.

Harry spotted you the same moment you lifted your gaze at the new arrival. Your eyes narrowed slightly in pleasure at the sight of him. You gave him a small, but welcoming smile. The musical clink of crystal against glass as he poured a scotch from the fully stocked bar was the only sound aside from the cracking logs in the grand fireplace.

The club was a vast space with a vaulted ceiling. The stately fireplace stood on the far wall. Like most of the manor, it was dressed in masculine shades of dark brown and hunter greens, tartan and plaids. Polished hardwood furniture, mostly antique, and historical paintings, displaying the rich history of Kingsman, whispered class and wealth. In the center was an arrangement to accommodate a more substantial group with larger sofas and chaises surrounding a massive polished low wooden table.

Around the room were smaller clusters of tables and leather club chairs tucked into alcoves for smaller gatherings or intimate conversations. 

It was at one these clusters that he found you, tucked in a quiet corner near the fireplace.

In the most relaxed arrangement Harry allowed himself while still on Kingsman property, he had his coat draped over his arm. Dressed in his shirtsleeves, tie and shoulder holster, tumbler in hand, he approached you, also with a pleasant but small smile. Pleased that you were the one that was sharing this space with him.

You were dressed quite differently from how Harry first remembered you. Well, your clothes hadn’t been memorable, but you had been. Since you were not a knighted agent, they weren’t quite sure how to classify you yet, you took the freedom to dress beyond the Kingsman uniform. Though always appropriate and surprisingly on brand, you were not quite regulation. If you were out in the field, you were in tactical, or the women’s version of the kingsman suits. You even had the shop tailor some custom pieces so you could have more diversity. When you were at Kingsman HQ or at the shop in support, you dressed appropriately, but in your own style. There were handfuls of fashionable men at Kingsman. You couldn’t turn around and not run into a gentleman turned out in Kingsman’s finest. But an attractive, stylish woman was a rarer sight. Even Harry noticed the heads that turned when you walked by.

Walking toward you, Harry took the time to observe your appearance, he told himself as spies always did out of habit. Today, you remained on the property. Without the need for being in the field, this would be your most proper look. You were dressed in a way that was very elegant, but sexy at the same time. Or, perhaps it wasn’t supposed to look sexy. Harry set that observation aside. Not the time nor the place, he thought to himself.

You were dressed in a slim, knee length pencil skirt in a very deep shade of oxblood red. It was velvet he noted when he saw the sheen of the fabric as you shifted your knees in his direction. A matching tailored jacket, that, like him, you had removed and draped over the back of your chair. Topped with a delicate, almost sheer silk blouse the color of sun bleached bone. It had tiny pearl buttons down the front, and lace detailing at the collar, cuffs and similar detailing along the button placket. A narrow dark brown leather belt circled your waist with a gold clasp rather than a prong buckle.  Dark brown suede court shoes with a tall, but reasonable heel. Your makeup was minimal and natural. You looked like you had just somehow heightened your features, but in no discernible way he could describe.

As Harry got closer, he was able to notice even smaller details. Your beautiful hair, was twisted up and away from your face and secured in some secret way women have where it would stay perfectly in place by means he could never quite see. Your accessories were feminine and understated. Small gold earrings in the shape of teardrops, a simple gold cuff around your wrist, a Kingsman issue watch on the other. A signet ring on your own pinkie. Your nails were trimmed short and clean, either no polish or something bare. A thin gold chain around your neck with a small solid gold version of the Kingsman pendant.

Harry didn’t know what he wanted a woman to look like until he first saw you. The first time, on that first chaotic night, he had the same thought. He could give you a basic description of what you were wearing, but he could describe every feature of your face. The way you looked when you were reflective. The line of your jaw when you were determined.

And then, for the very first time he saw you, dressed, properly, walking down the long marble corridor of the HQ manor, when you had the opportunity to present yourself on your own terms. Harry thought, this is what I want a woman to look like. It wasn’t that you were model beautiful, or that your features were perfect. In London, on the streets, you could see plenty of models. They were beautiful, no doubt, and pleasing to look at, but once you were done, you were able to go about your day without a second thought. 

Your beauty had substance. The fact that Harry knew what your skill set included, to know what you had overcome to be where you were, to be the person you were, made your beauty a real tangible thing, regardless of what you were wearing. Perhaps it was that, whatever you wore, you made it part of you. It wasn’t just a pretty skirt or a flattering blouse, it was the way you wore it that made him notice you. You could have looked completely different, with completely opposite features. Harry would have still have felt the same. And he would still say, this is what I want a woman to look like.

You posessed the capacity to stir his heart. Something that had been quiet and still for a very long time. Even something that Harry thought no longer had the desire to be moved. It was certainly not something he was seeking. He, long ago, had accepted the fact that the life of agent isn’t one that fosters lasting relationships. Relationships were based on communication and he had far too many secrets as a Kingsman.

Harry was beyond the time in his life for these kinds of thoughts. He knew he had been handsome in his youth. He had his fair share of relationships and much more than his fair share of sexual encounters. He was aware that his looks had carried him quite well as he got older and that if he wanted, there were women, very desirable ones, that would be more than willing to engage in a casual relationship. Harry was by no means vanilla. It wasn’t that he was prudish in the least, or one to deny himself physical pleasure. If you were not exactly who you were, then he would have most likely allowed himself to pursue you and enjoyed whatever that relationship had to offer. The crux of it was, that he would not be as attracted to you, or charmed by you if you weren’t exactly who you were. He would not want your as much as he did if you were any different. 

——

Harry set these thoughts aside as he approached you. Even though it was obvious you were alone, Kingsman manners never failed. Never ask a lady directly if she’d like your company. Give her a polite way to refuse without making her say no. She will indicate if your presence if desired.

“Excuse me, miss.” he opened. “Is this seat taken?”

You awarded him with an amused smile. You always enjoyed his little game of manners.

You nodded toward the chair. Please.

Draping his coat on the back of his chair, just as you did, He adjusted his slacks so he could sit down comfortably and gracefully. The club chairs were low and designed to sink back into. Harry took his seat, adjusted a little until he, too, was settled in.

Since both of you were now relatively stuck in your respective positions, where you couldn’t move without significant effort, Harry simply raised his glass in your direction. You followed suit.

You were pleased when he was comfortable enough to sit in silence with you. It was one of the first tells you would look for in asset or mark. Did they have enough self assurance to be silent? Were they uncomfortable, awkward, fidgety? Did they try to fill the silence? Most often, if they lacked confidence, you would notice these tells immediately. One of your favourite activities was to sit in silence.

It was also one of your favourite activities to look at Harry Hart. The fact that he was handsome was no surprise. When you initially started at Kingsman, this was simply an objective observation, like masterful way he handled weaponry. Or the fact that he was right handed.  The more you were partnered in the field, the closer you became, both in proximity and as colleagues, his physical attributes began to affect you in ways that continued to make you increasingly uncomfortable.

You were aware his body was that of a man that you admired and looked up to. Tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped. Strong, driven, powerful. You became aware of all the things that his body could do. You had the opportunity to observe him every time you were in the field, in combat, in action.

But you also began to discern a softness, a gentleness that he could convey when he gathered you up after a surprising blast had knocked you off your feet. Hands that smoothed back your hair from your forehead upon waking up in medical after a particularly dangerous mission. A warm hand on your shoulder as you successfully accomplished a challenging task. 

You were aware that as your mentor, Harry had a responsibility to maintain a professional relationship. But with escalating frequency, you imagined how it would feel to have him pressed up against you, to feel his body, purposeful and confident. 

————

The evening was relaxed. Both of you, without the urgency of an upcoming mission to prepare, took the opportunity to simply rest and unwind. A seldom occasion. Feeling more and more at ease when both of you were together, you allowed yourself a little space to test the waters. When engaging targets, if they seemed comfortable sitting in silence in your company, would they make direct eye contact? You took another small sip of your drink, savoured it for a moment, and swallowed.

Hmmm. You were very curious about HarryHart and you were feeling surprisingly playful. You wanted to try something. Let’s say an experiment in tradecraft. You waited until you caught his eye. Harry seemed amused and matched your eye contact with equal directness. You were pleased that he made eye contact and even more pleased when he maintained it. But he was a spy, after all. Making and maintaining eye contact would be elementary for him.

With a little cheekiness on your part, you raised your glass to your lips again and took a small sip. He did not waver. His eyes even took on a little bit of curious amusement. You held the scotch on your tongue, pulled it to the back of your mouth, rolled the scotch around a little bit longer than necessary, before you swallowed.

Neither of you would look away first. You gave him a half smile, half smirk, crinkled your eyes a bit in amusement. You seemed to be saying. Ok. Your turn.

Harry had never seen your in this kind of playful mood and he suddenly found himself enjoying this little match immensely.

He could more than participate in this game. He, literally, had decades more experience than you. An agent may be able to seduce. But a gentleman agent was a master at the art of seduction. And Harry Hart was the consummate gentleman agent. One did not get to where he was in life without knowing how to pleasure a woman. He was often told he had beautiful and talented hands. That may have been years ago, but those kinds of skills, they stayed with a man.

A quick raise of his brow. Darling, challenge accepted.

Holding your eyes with his, he lowered his glass just enough to where it was in your sight line, but slightly off to the side, at the edge of your peripheral vision. You would still be able to hold eye contact, but would have to make an effort not to glance down at his glass. Especially, when you saw what he was going to do with it.

Harry held your gaze suddenly with an intense focus you were unprepared for. Out of the corner of your eye you saw that he was holding his glass, cupping it in the palm of one hand. He began to simply roll it around gently, as one would while enjoying a proper scotch. He rolled it around harmlessly, in a slow, lazy, rhythmic pattern.

You had to concentrate a little harder not to look away, but you kept his gaze. If you were uncomfortable, you didn’t show it. You hoped your gaze held a similar intensity as Harry’s. His felt, well, piercing, for lack of a more appropriate word.

This was certainly turning out to be an interesting evening, Harry thought. You seemed determined to stick this through. He would be required to dial his technique up a notch. He nested the heavy base in the center of his palm and let it rest there for awhile without moving. Then, once again, he started rolling the glass in his hand, not to stir the liquid, but to feel the surface of glass itself. He bounced the glass, lightly, as if testing the weight and feeling the heaviness.

The movement was subtle, slow, and sensuous. He let his hand explore the texture of the smooth surface. The base of his thumb pressed against the glass in slow, languid circles, sometimes rolling on to the pad of his thumb, sometimes to his finger tip. But he did this as if he were doing it unconsciously, because he was staring at you with a focus and intensity that said you were the only woman on earth, and that he wanted you.

There was truth to the term, the male gaze. It was not looking at something through a man’s eyes, it was seeing into something as a man. There was a reason why they called this particular look penetrating. It was a gaze of desire, a singularly male want and need. If done properly, it was a way to make love to a woman without touching her. It was far beyond physical contact. It wasn’t hard for him to harness his essential masculine energy. Harry had done it for years on countless honey traps in his younger days with the agency.  He hadn’t thrown the full force of himself to seduce in quite awhile and found that he was enjoying a little flex of his muscle.  If desire had a name, at that moment, it would be called Harry Hart. He let his desire roll off of him in waves.

What you didn’t quite understand, was that the game you were playing with him, wasn’t about who could keep eye contact the longest. It was a question of who was going to be seduced and who was going to be the seducer. You were approaching what you thought was a staring contest as a battle of the wills, which was why you were going to fail. Making eye contact may be a test of power and confidence, but that was a quick, brief test. A simple meeting or a darting of the eyes. It was very easy to find out who was going to be able to make and hold contact. However, eye contact for a prolonged period of time, especially between a man and a woman? It became something quite different. It was a game of seduction. It wasn’t a test of power. It was a test of control. Control of two things in this case, the seducer’s own desire, and the desire of the other person. Could the seducer harness his own desire to control the seduced.

You had not faltered yet. He raised to single brow. Would you like me to keep going?

You narrowed your gaze. Please, do.

The expression on his face all but said out loud. “You asked for it.”

Harry saw the flush in your cheeks when you noticed what he was doing with his glass. Your breathing intensified. Your pupils dilated and there was nothing you could do to stop it. 

They were very small movements, but very deliberate movements. He cupped the bottom of the glass in one palm, fingers spread as if he were holding up a small tray. Using only his middle finger, the rest of his hand now cupping the base, he began to stroke the center of the glass. Like he was using his finger to say, come here. In very slow, very deliberate, beyond suggestive movements. His other hand simply rested on the top rim of the glass. Gently holding it in place while he moved his bottom hand. He did this without twitching another muscle in his body, as if nothing had changed.

Your eyes widened. Holy fuck, you thought. With very exact and explicit movements of his hands, Harry was not just implying, but overtly demonstrating how he used them to give pleasure to a woman. The shock of seeing him within the frame of something so blatantly sexual, all the while looking at you the entire time? It was intensely arousing.

Harry was not only looking at you, he was positively devouring you with his gaze. You could feel him, his energy in pulses of heat. This wasn’t merely eye contact. This was something unexpected and you were not prepared for it. Harry was suddenly changed, maybe not changed, but different. He was harder, stronger, more demanding. He was more of everything. The polite, honorable, considerate gentleman was still there,  but now he added an aspect of himself that you had never seen or experienced before. The man was still Harry Hart, but it was also as if a part of him had been unleashed, whatever primal energy that was held in check by the handsome suits and the manners and the chivalry, had been released.

You fought to maintain your composure. He knew exactly what he was doing. His hands moved expertly, and with ease. His gaze, became even more intense, if that was even possible.

Harry continued to play and to tease as he held the glass in his palm. You knew where he had his hand. You could feel the exact placement as if it were on your own body. The base of his palm would cup your center, with the rest of his fingers spreading between your legs. His middle finger was still moving in achingly slow circles, one direction, then slowly moving in the other direction. He curled his finger under, using his knuckle, rolling it in tiny circles. Not even really moving just shifting the pressure moving from one side to the other, from top to bottom.

You saw in his eyes, that he knew, that you were not only being affected by his movements, but you were feeling sensations as if he were touching you directly.

It was the most erotic experience of your life.

Here was this beautiful man, still dressed as properly as ever in his dress shirt and tie, his shoulder holster with his side arm. His perfect hair, his perfect face. With all his dignity and respect, relaxing comfortably back into his chair, his legs spread wide, an ankle crossed over his knee, one elbow resting casually on the arm of his leather chair. Radiating such a profound sexual energy, that without even touching you, had the ability to control your body with only his eyes and the the way he moved a glass in his hand. He was so confident in his movements. His expression said, however brief this moment, that he owned you, that you were his, and he knows that you wants it that way. He can see it all over your face. He can see it in your eyes.

——

Harry wasn’t even close to being done.

He took his other hand, laying his palm over the glass, as if it was resting there. On the other side of the glass, where his thumb fell, he began to roll it around in very explicit, very familiar circles.

He felt himself harden as his own arousal grew. He didn’t try to stop it. Instead of letting it distract him, he channeled that energy through him and into you. Allowing you to witness the physical evidence of his own desire would strengthen his hold. Never underestimate the power of the imagination. You would see it. Your mind would do the rest.

Harry saw your lips part, even the slightest bit. Your chest rising and falling under your ladylike blouse as your breath quickened. Your knees pressed tightly together. He watched your face very, very carefully and intently, watching the subtle changes in your expressions as he shifted the movements of his hands, knowing that you were feeling his movements in your body. Every time your brow would furrow, or you took a sharp intake of breath, or would clench your pretty hands, as he moved his own, he knew you were feeling pleasure. And that he was the source of that pleasure.

Harry knew that there were men who were turned on by violence. For him, however, there was nothing more erotic than the sight of a woman experiencing the pleasure that you were giving her. So, he was especially aroused when he was free to look at the nuances of your face and body freely and openly. Your pleasure had reached a constant as you moved almost imperceptibly to the consistent rhythm of his hand.

And you still did not drop your gaze. Harry knew, now that you were fully aroused, you would not break eye contact. You probably couldn’t at this point if you tried. For, half of your pleasure was a result of seeing the man who was controlling your pleasure. And seeing that you pleased him, that he was also sexually aroused, intensified your pleasure. And you wanted to offer that to him, very willingly. Harry was finding out much about you in these few moments. Things that he wasn’t even sure you knew about yourself. Very few women would have been comfortable enough with their sexuality to be purely on the receiving end of pleasure. In the intimacy of their own bedroom in a committed relationship. Let alone in an extremely public and therefore vulnerable way. With a man who may be, slightly off limits. Which, in fact, probably added to your pleasure.

To see just how much you were under his thumb, pun aside, Harry paused for a moment. He kept his hand, his fingers in the exact same place. He just stilled. And watched you. After a few moments he could see the tiniest furrow of your brow. When he continued to remain still, he saw the movement he waiting for. You probably didn’t even know you had made it. It was the slightest lifting and rolling of your hips. He didn’t realize he could be more turned on, but he felt himself grow harder. It was the motion every woman made, in his experience, when they wanted more, when they were asking for more, and when they were begging for more.  The ability to actively listen and comprehend another person was the most profound influencing tactic one could hone in communication, and therefore seduction.  Which is exactly what he was doing. In a very non verbal, very physical way.

Harry began his movements again, with more intensity and purpose. He let his finger, for the first time, slide all the way up the side of the glass, even letting it lift with the upward movement of his palm. He saw your body move as if you were receiving him.

He knew you were experiencing waves of intense pleasure. He could tell you wanted to close your eyes and tip your head back. As Harry witnessed your need, he went in for his last movements. His palm pressing up into the base of the glass, his thumb rolling in small firm circles and his entire middle finger along the entire length of the glass, the tip almost reaching the top of the rim.  As if his finger were deep inside you, he made deliberate strokes while pressing into the glass, slow, but then gradually increasing in speed and pressure.

Harry knew, that you knew, the exact two parts he was pleasuring.

You lips parted, your breathing grew heavier. You had no idea what was going to happen next, all you felt were waves of pleasure. The only thing you could concentrate on was not losing eye contact with the man in front of you.

Harry knew at this point, he had let what was a silly, flirtatious game, go too far. He also knew this began as a challenge, and Harry Hart was never one to back down from a challenge. He also knew that he never purposely lost a game. If it took climaxing for you to break eye contact, then so be it.

Harry also knew he was mesmerized by the sight of you. He didn’t know if he could stop. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t want to. This moment had to hit the list of the top most erotic experiences of his life. Both fully clothed, siting in separate chairs, more than six feet apart. With only eye contact between you. He didn’t know if he’d experienced something more intensely arousing, knowing that he was the one you were feeling when you made yourself come.

Harry began to see the tell tale tremors, the quickening breath, your lips parting with cries that you desperately wanted to make that you would not let yourself, and still, you were trying to hold on. Psychologically you were making it harder for yourself, denying your own release would only make it that much more physically intense when you had to give in.

It was at that moment, that a door banged within the manor and someone appeared at the large entrance of the club room.

“Harry. That you?”

Damn it. It was Eggsy.

“Just headin’ out.” Eggsy called over. “What’s up? Looks like you two’re having a staring contest. Whose winning?”

“It’s a tie” Harry replied.

Eggsy held up his hand in a quick wave and left.

Harry gave you a quick glance, where you were still trying to maintain eye contact, wait no, you were just staring into the space behind him, concentrating on something he could not see.

——

You knew you had to stop staring at Harry, so you looked past his shoulder into the empty space behind him. At this point, even the sight of him might set you off. You were still right at the cusp of your climax and your body was still so aroused you were afraid that any movement could push your over the edge. You wanted to tell Harry to leave, but you couldn’t think of a way without embarrassing or offending one or both of you. All you could do at the moment was sit quietly. So that’s what you did. You were waiting for your body to catch up with the rest of you and settle down. Harry was waiting patiently until you were ready to move or speak.

After a bit of time, you glanced over at him, made sure it was safe. It was, and you began to relax a little, though your body still felt like a flame that was ready to ignite with any hint of friction. You just needed to stay still for awhile.

You saw Harry watching you, his face both concerned and amused.

He broke the silence.

 “And that, my darling,” Harry said pointedly. “Is how one create’s an effective honey trap.”

In an attempt to further diffuse the situation, he wanted to be frank and direct with you and not to brush what just happened under the rug. That would be awkward for both of you.  He did not want you to feel embarrassed or ashamed or uncomfortable with him or what had happened. The best way was to be as blunt as possible. He pushed down on his palms and rose out of his chair with minimal effort.

“My dear, I’ve been in the spy business for over 30 years. One does not get this far without knowing how to pleasure a woman.”

He winked at you.

“Not to worry, you’ll get there.”

Harry reached behind him for his coat, draped it over his arm, but not before you clearly noticed his own erection. Which before had just been a suggestion in the shadows. He’s hard.

The thought made you flame all over again.

“I need to take my leave. Will you be alright, here?”

All you could do is nod. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

Always the gentleman, he leaned over and brushed his lips against the top of your hair.

“Thank you for the lovely evening.”

You still couldn’t look directly at him so you turned your head slightly to the side and gave him a small nod. With a quick squeeze of your arm, you heard his departing footsteps. He was heading to the tunnels. He was going back into the city, He wouldn’t be staying at he manor. You didn’t know if you were glad or disappointed.

You were grateful to him for providing at least a somewhat graceful way to exit the situation, referring to the seduction technique that ALL agents are trained in. Harry was letting you chalk it up to a learning experience.

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. You tried again.

“Fuck.”

It was the first word that you had said all evening.

——

“Fuck.”

Harry thought as he boarded the train back into the city. He had actually planned on staying at the manor, but with what just happened with you, he wasn’t sure if that would be the best course of action. It took all of his self control to remove himself from any temptation by leaving the place entirely. Making it impossible for him to act in a way that was inappropriate. Not that what had just happened would qualify as appropriate. At least it had the veil of a lesson on seduction. He wasn’t sure it would convince judges, but he found it a weak, but passable excuse.

No, the problem for the moment was that all Harry could see was your face as he pleasured you. How your lips parted, your breasts underneath your blouse, the flush of your cheeks. He wanted to hear what your cries would’ve sounded like. He wanted to be the one to make you cry out. His sex drive, always healthy, may have had a prolonged dormant period in recent times. But now it was raging like a fire that he unleashed and now he couldn’t put out. By letting the full force of it out this evening, it was fully awake and needed something to do. Harry had feared that if he had stayed at the manor even a moment longer, he wouldn’t have been able to help himself and would’ve taken you and had you right there.

If he could do that to you with his eyes and just the suggestion of his hands, he couldn’t imaging what it would be like pleasuring you with his entire body. Harry knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he took care of himself, and when he did, he would allow himself the sight of your trembling, responsive, body underneath his own as he gave you the pleasure he knew you so desperately wanted, joined together as he felt your body shudder around him when you climaxed, feeling his own release as he heard you cry out his name in pleasure.

[brittledame]

Characters: Ushijima Wakatoshi, Tendou Satori, Yamagata Hayato, Reon Oohira, Semi Eita, Shirabu Kenjirou, Kawanishi Taichi, Goshiki Tsutomu

Word Count: 5.7K

Tags: SFW, gender neutral reader, first date nerves, fluff, ages not specified

Notes: I did this instead of working on the other projects bc I wanted some fluff and here it is!

Ushijima:

On a visit with his grandmother is when he’s told about a local pottery masterclass happening the following weekend, piquing his interest

After some research, he comes to learnt that pottery is the perfect relaxing hobby with the added benefit of fine tuning his dexterity

It didn’t take much else to convince him to go

It was only after talking to a friend that he realises he should probably invite someone to tag along

After his grandmother politely declines, he follows her coy suggestion of inviting someone he likes

He invites you seemingly out of the blue

You’ve known him for a great deal of time and done some activities with him that could be construed as “romantic” and only started dating when Ushijima stated your relationship status to his team nearly a month ago

The look on your face when you found out at the exact moment as his team was priceless

After that, Ushijima left your relationship status on no uncertain terms and practically broadcasted it in his own unique way

This pottery class serves as another way to spend more time with you

After a few minutes of the pottery teacher painstakingly going through the motions to make a basic pot, a whirring noise followed by wet splattering steals your attention away from the clump of clay that is slowly taking form.

You glance over to find Ushijima looking at you, nonplussed at the mess of what was his pot now decorating his mock and forearms, his face is not left unmarked with the few splotches painting his cheek

You gape at him as he blinks as if coming out of a daze and looks down at the poor clump of clay and murmurs a small, “Oh.”

You didn’t mean to laugh, not really, but the utter surprise in his tone topped you over

After a mild scolding from the teacher and a new clump of clay, the two of you were good to go once again

The both of you took longer than most of the class, you with fussing about the tiny bumps you just couldn’t seem to smooth out and Ushijima with his second try

The class seemed to have unlocked his innate mastery of the ancient craft, as the pot looked near store-quality, you note with an ounce of envy

The group takes a break over some snacks and drinks as the pots are loaded into the kiln

Ushijima meticulously picks through the various glazes they had to offer, seeking your assistance after you picked your own out

You suggest the purple as homage to Shiratorizawa, where you two met, and the dark-rich brown, claiming it reminded you of his eyes

He considers you for a moment, a long enough pause for you to think over your words and begin to regret them before he nods decidedly and proudly presents the glazes he picked to the lady

With the class wrapping up, the lady running the class pops up as you two inspect your creations.

“Do you mind if I take a picture to post on our social media?”

Ushijima shakes his head as you answer, “We don’t mind.”

She flashes a wide smile and aims her phone in your direction. “Great! Say ‘pottery’.”

On cue you plaster on smile and brandish the clay creation as the camera clicks.

The lady, who is somehow even more dirtied than Ushijima, inspects the picture.

“You two are so cute together!” She fawns over the two of you. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your date together.”

She disappears before either of you can correct her.

You blurt out, "Is this a date?"

A pause. Then a hum, "I suppose it is."

A shared smile, you leave the studio with linked hands.

When you get home, you prowl through the studio’s page and find the picture and break out into gut-clutching laughter at the almost-pained looking smile Ushijima makes, tiny pot perched in his large hands adding a comedic effect.

After you recover, you end up saving it and making it your screen saver.

Tendou:

For all his casual confidence, you’re the one to ask him out and he’s the one to officially declare it the “big” first date

The plan was to go manga/book shopping and eat at the in-store cafe

It sounded like a pretty cut-and-dry standard date but with Tendou anything can turn into an adventure

Ecstatic is an understatement on how excited Tendou was for the weekend

He was nearly berated a dozen times for not paying enough attention to what he was doing and almost caused a small fire at one stage

You didn’t fare much better, either

The pair of you got a great deal of laughter from relaying it to one another in the late night hours before meeting up

Although underneath it all lurked the residual anxiety he tried to fight away, so he reminds you during the call, just to check that you didn’t regret inviting him out

As much as he despised the thought, the dark voice whispering at him that you would stand him up were quickly silenced when you show up with a bright smile and his name on your lips

Tendou reckons it’s the sweetest noise he’s ever heard, right after your laughter that he coaxes out with the little melodies he sings to himself as the two of you make way to the popular bookstore

After arriving, you wonder apart to check out separate sections and end up meeting at again the in-store café with books in hand

Over the chocolate cake slice Tendou brought to share, you take turns to gush over the selected choices spread across the tabletop

“I mean it isn’t that over done.” You argue, popping another forkful of the overly-sweet cake into your mouth.

Tendou throws his hands into the air. “Are you serious? Hero meets bad guy, then they fight a whole bunch, bad guy kills a bunch of people and the hero never kills the guy because he ‘doesn’t want to stoop to their level’,” You don’t mask your laughter at the overexaggerated deep voice Tendou imitates. “It’s not fair to the people that the bad guy goes to hurt later on.”

“Oh, I entirely agree with you there.” You take a moment to wonder how Tendou has eaten nearly half the thing to himself already, you’ve barely been seated for longer than a few minutes. “When done wrong, the whole ‘taking the high ground’ troupe is really tacky.”

Tendou blinks at you like he didn’t expect you to respond. You raise a brow at him as a toothy grin spreads over his face, a slight pink painted across his pale cheeks.

“What?”

“Nothing. I like talking to someone that knows their stuff, is all. Don’t get me wrong, miracle boy is great company, but I can only try to convince him to read more than the ads they run for so long before I go insane.” He chuckles under his breath, words heartfelt enough that a matching heat spreads across your cheeks.

“I enjoy this too.”

A wide grin overtakes his face at your admittance.

“Well then, let’s not stop!” He offers, stretching his hand towards yours. You clasp it, feeling delicate against his larger one. “I still have to tell you about the whole ‘boy is given power he doesn’t know how to control and needs to find a grumpy mentor’ troupe next!”

You squeeze his hand. “I’d love to hear your thoughts on that one.”

Tendou clicks his tongue and wags his finger at you. “It’s not necessarily about my thoughts, it’s the conspiracy I think the troupe ties into.”

The seriousness in his tone made you pause, looks like you were in for a long one.

Amongst him linking the heroes journey and the innate desire for power over others, you marvel at the way his whole body comes alive when talking about something he loves.

It’s much later on, when he’s introducing you to his friends at a reunion, that you notice the bubbly and animated way he presents you to his friends, love evident in each and every word.

Semi:

Now you would think he’d be the calm and collected one after knowing each other for half a decade and dating for a month

Nope.

He's the type to plan to ask you at the perfect time, and will be in a pissy mood if he misses the "perfect" opportunity to ask

When he does finally pose the question, you’ll say yes and he’s ecstatic

Though, he will play it cool and be like, "Ok I'll text you the details later." And flash you the biggest smile that has you melting inside just a little

When he's trying to sleep that night it finally hits him

Oh shit he has to plan a date with the girl he’s been hopelessly pining for

After one text from you confirming you don’t mind where he picks, he’s both relieved and more stressed because now he has to analyse every little thing he knows about you and eventually starts doubting himself

In the end, he decides to play it safe and go with the popular, family owned cafe that plays live music Saturday afternoons

It was perfect, the music act would be quiet enough to still talk if you two wanted or serve as a mediator to break any awkward silence should it pop up

It is honestly the perfect date, in his mind

Comes the day and he swings around your place after agreeing to walk to the café together

The walk is characterised with the brisk autumn wind and catching each other up on what’s been going on during the week

The conversation doesn’t stop from there – something Semi could cry happily over

After ordering and grabbing a seat close to a stage set-up to the side, you note how bright and talkative Semi is and vow to yourself to see this more often

As he takes a sip in the middle of explaining the difference pick positions affects plucking sounds, you comment on his excitement

Even with the flush on his cheeks, he holds a suave facade and merely says that it’s hard to unwind when his friends can be so chaotic when they get together

From there he starts opening up and imparting little facts about himself that you commit to memory

You come to learn that his favourite colour was corn-silk yellow before he went to Shiratorizawa, now it’s royal purple. He loves tekka maki and boasts his mum’s hand-made ones to be the best in the world and offers to share it with you next time she makes them

All of these things slot into what you know about Semi, filed alongside the nuance’s you’ve noticed yourself.

When he’s unsure or embarrassed, he tousles his hair. And when he talks about something he’s passionate with, his hands start gesturing all about the place

You could’ve spent the whole afternoon like that, in the intimately-lit café, hidden amongst the dull chatter of the surrounding patrons, just listening to Semi’s soothing timbre

But life had other plans

The lights on the stage brighten as someone wearing comfortable clothes strolls on and perches up on the stool set-up in front of a lone microphone. She didn’t give off any signs of discomfort at being stared at as she sets up her guitar, giving a few testing strums before introducing herself and launching into her music.

It was only then that conversation broke and ushered in a lilting voice floating on gentle notes.

“They’re amazing.” You breath, eyes not leaving the stage until the musician dismounts from the stage.

“That’s what I want to do one day.”

You turn to him. “Really?”

“Yeah.” The corner of Semi’s lips quirk up a bit, a secret shared unto himself.

“Why?”

Genuine curiosity spurs you to ask, to know. While you could picture Semi perched on the same stool with a guitar all too easy, you never really thought Semi would pursue a career in the industry.

Semi finally turns to you, a fire in his eyes that was normally caused by volleyball and a good challenge. “I want to make people happy and sad - all the emotions really. I want someone to look at me like you did to that girl.”

Tilting your head you say, “Looking at her like what?”

Semi audible swallows. “Like someone that loves the music I make.”

Reaching over the table, you run your thumb over the backs of his knuckles, a comforting gesture. “Semi, I already love talking to you and hanging out, so why wouldn’t I like the music you write?”

The resultant blush on Semi’s face was answer enough to that, even though he tries to hide it behind his cup.

After that, meeting up at the café ends up becoming a weekly occurrence, an oasis that you both look forward to in the midst of life’s chaos.

Yamagata:

Yamagata actually is the smoothest out of them all

After a two weeks of dating, he bounces up to you after a particularly hard day and offers to take you somewhere fun the next day

Your definition of ‘fun’ varies from his, as you soon find out

Where Yamagata believes the best way to get to know someone and have fun simultaneously is putting them through challenges, whereas you believe sitting down and chatting to be the most optimal method

Unfortunately for him and fortunately for you, the paint ball range is closed

Amusement park it is

He leaves it as a surprise and doesn’t tell you until you question the sign of the park he visited frequently as a kid

Overall, you have an absolute ball with him, never a dull moment

Especially after the ferris wheel when Hayato goes to reach for his phone to check the time and finds it missing

The only reason he had it out in the plastic swinging booth was to take a sneaky picture of you looking carefree and relaxed as you gazed down at the park – not that he admitted to that when you asked just how it escaped his pocket

Obviously, it was a very slippery phone since this was the third time this week alone he lost it

After tracking it down with the help of the kind but tired ride operator, the two of you were on your merry way to the next ride, but not without a few light-hearted digs at Yamagata’s forgetfulness

You get to learn a lot about each other personally while waiting in line and over lunch after recovering

At the end of the day, your cheeks ache from much smiled

“I don’t remember it being that crazy as a kid.” Yamagata says, looking pale and breathing shallowly, as if to keep himself from being sick.

You couldn’t blame him, the rollercoaster he convinced you to go on under the guise of “This was my favourite one as a kid! You wouldn’t deny a man from reliving his childhood, would you?”

And like a fool you caved under the pout like a badly cooked soufflé. Now you wished you put up a bit of a fight against going on it. The screams of the riders before you were not exaggerated in the slightest.

“I don’t know how they allow kids on that.” Is all you supply, feeling a little green as well.

Yamagata directs you to the nearest bench and you follow his lead and slump into the seat.

“I don’t know how I forgot how much that thing threw me around. I must’ve just about fell off as a tiny kid. Remind me to thank my dad for coming on with me.”

You try not to laugh at the image of a tiny Yamagata ecstatically cheering as the ride swings around corners at full speed as his dad frantically tries to keep his clueless son from getting tossed out of the cart.

“Your dad is a brave man to go on that thing wilfully.”

Yamagata grimaces. “Brave is a nice way of putting it. I’d call it being insane to put up with me wanting to ride it eight times over.”

This time you do laugh.

“It must be hard saying no to your own kid, though, so cut him some slack.” You joke, knocking your elbow against his side.

He playfully pushes you away, widely grinning once again. The heat from the sun blaring ahead suddenly floods into your cheeks. The sensation of your heart feeling too large for your ribcage seizes you.

And the feeling doesn’t leave, it sticks with you as he laughs, as he drops his ice cream and pouts like a child. It intensifies as a dreamy look enters his eyes as he recalls a fond memory associated with a ride.

You hope that one day that he makes the same expression when he recalls this day spent with you.

Reon:

For some reason, Reon seems like the kind of guy to be inherently talented with gardening

He’s the resident green thumb alongside Ushijima, people pass their dying plants into Reon’s hands for magical resurrection

So it was a no-brainer for him to take you to the local botanical gardens

Rife with both native and exotic flora, there were many scenic walks available, thus was the perfect place for a first date to Reon

Reon meets you at the gates with a soft greeting and an outstretched hand – you two walk through the park with your hand intertwined like that for the rest of the day

Throughout the walk, he points out flowers and gives you their common name and their meanings, along with the meanings he gave them as a kid

It was entirely too cute for your poor heart

“And those are yellow carnation.” He points to a patch of bright yellow flowers with soft-looking ruffled petals. “They represent dislike and disappointment towards the person you give them to, but as a kid I thought they meant that she was my sunshine because of the colour. My mum got quite the kick out of it when I gave them to her for her birthday.”

You burst into laughter, unable to smother it even with Reon’s apparent embarrassment at the event

If your allergies start to play up too badly, Reon will take you to his favourite part, a densely packed section of the gardens filled with trees, concealing a secluded tiny red bridge stretched across a large koi pond with the largest and most colourful koi you’ve seen

Everything within you wanted to stretch this moment out, you could easily live in this moment forever. The buzzing of cicadas in the distance, the grass blades tickling the palms of your hands from where you sat, the soothing rumble of Reon’s voice – this is your personal slice Elysian peace

You did not want to give this up

It’s there that he finally unlinks your hands and brings out the packed lunch he made.

“You made all this?” You gape, taking in the diverse range of food he brought out of his bag.

From seared fish placed neatly atop seasoned rice, to perfectly rounded onigiri. In the next box he opens sat seasoned chicken and beef slices that made your mouth water. Not to mention the salad of rich greens, reds, and yellows that called your name.

Reon chuckles at your awe. “Yeah, I did. I thought it would be nice to eat something home-made while out here, but if you wan to grab something else-“

You cut him off immediately. “Definitely not! This looks and smells amazing. It would be a crime not to eat it.”

The corners of Reon’s eyes crinkle as he smiles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I did try not to burn it, so I hope it tastes nice.”

“If it tastes even half as good as it smells, you’ll have to fight me to stop eating.” You reply, accepting the plate he holds out and give thanks as he starts loading your plate.

“I’d never stop you from eating,” he clicks his tongue in false sternness, to which you grin at. “If you’re hungry, I’ll feed you until your happy.”

“I’m happy right now, but I definitely still want the food.” You cheekily fire back.

Reon shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Well then, eat to your heart’s content.”

Taking a bite, you startle Reon with your enthusiastic reaction.

“This tastes better than I imagined.” You gush after swallowing, immediately scooping up another forkful and eating it.

Reon brushes off your compliment in favour for leaning forward and brushing some crumbs off your face. The proximity as your breath stalling in your throat as he lingers for a heartbeat longer, then withdraws.

“I hope we can do this more often. This is the most fun I’ve had in a while.” He quietly admits, the mood taking an intimate turn even with the shouts of kids playing in the distance.

“Me too. I don’t want this date to end.”

Shirabu:

This man prides himself on being observant and not oblivious like how his friends are

And yet, contrary to this, it takes him several trips to realise that he’s been on what would count as a date with you

You'll talk about needing a new jumper for winter and Shirabu will ask to tag along. You wanted to watch a movie? Shirabu is coming too. Like having someone besides you while studying? Shirabu was your go-to study buddy, whether in silence or as a conversation partner when your brain was overloaded

Out of the blue, he asks with no certain amount of panic, "Were those trips I went on with you dates?"

"I never really gave it much thought…” You match Shirabu’s expression as you consider his question. "I didn’t want to be presumptuous and assume that they were, and you never brought it up, so I left it be."

"Let me have a re-do." Determination flares in his usually guarded eyes and you couldn't refute.

“Gladly.”

Shirabu glances away from your face, unable to bear looking at the fond expression you wore for too long without his heart suffering. “I want to take you somewhere nice.”

“Everywhere I go with you is nice, Shirabu. It’s less about the place and more about the person.” You rebuke.

Shirabu looks away before you catch the full extent of his blush at your words. “No, I mean I want to take you somewhere that can become special for the both of us.”

You catch his hand in yours, tugging it for him to turn back towards you. Gone was the characteristic impassive façade, now replaced with a tenderness that makes you near melt.

Your first official date with him is a picnic in a park on top a hill to watch the sunset

Something he thinks is extremely cheesy and overdone but the look of excitement on your face immediately silenced his rebuttals

There was no way in hell that he was going to be the reason for your disappointment if he can help it

As such, he went all out

Hiring the gazebo and ordering food to be delivered from a restaurant he knows that you’ve wanted to try out for the longest time

Not that he actually tells you, but it wasn’t hard to deduce his excitement when he waits for you at the gazebo with a small smile, dressed nicely in pressed slacks and a dress shirt with a bundle of flowers

Upon the wide-eyed stare he receives from you, he spends the first minutes of the date describing what the florist thought best for him

A bunch of camellias ranging from a deep and vivid red to the first blush of love pink to the innocence of white gathered in a golden ribbon. He doesn’t exactly tell you their meanings other than a short, “Flowers are flowers, all I want them to show is that I love you.”

What he didn’t know was that the florist had the foresight to hide a card detailing the meaning of each flower amongst the paper holding them

White camellias meaning “You’re adorable” to red camellias meaning “You’re a flame in my heart” (something you blush at in the security of your own home) and the pink one representing longing

As the meal arrives and the two of you eat, the conversation drifts from current events to bits and pieces of everything and anything

The highlight of conversation was Kenjirou’s answer to the question “What do you think you’ll see first: a ghost or an alien?”

Apparently Kenjirou was secretly a space-lover

From the lecture he launched into about the statistics of it all and you come away from that conversation with more knowledge of possibility of E.T's versus spectres than you would’ve thought

The afternoon starts fading into dusk quicker than you realised, too wrapped up trading short anecdotes of your respective families

Shirabu only realises the fading light once the fairy lights decorating the space become brighter, and it is only then that Shirabu like a gentleman, brings out a blanket and escorts you to the grassy knoll besides the gazebo

Laying out the blanket, you notice it’s the perfect position to watch the sun set and you can’t help but give him a quick hug in gratitude before you sit down and make yourself comfortable

It floored you how much effort and consideration he put into this one afternoon amongst all his classes and assignments – it made you feel incredibly warm against the cool night air creeping in

As you shift to get comfortable, your hand lands on top of his. You’re just about to whisk it away, but he shoots you a soft smile and twists his hand in your grasp and gives it a squeeze

Your hands stayed intertwined as the blues faded into pinks and oranges, then into purples and the deep satiny blue of the night sky

The sunny photos with matching smiles from that afternoon soon decorate your wall

Kawanishi:

Unlike the others, Taichi really doesn’t care about being seen as “basic” for taking you out to watch a movie and grab dinner afterwards

He asked you out so casually, you agreed without it even hitting you that it was a date until he grinned at you and cheekily replied, “Great, it’s a date then.”

The movie in question was one you’ve been waiting forward for its release and Taichi was interested in it as well, so really it was an excuse for the both of you to watch the movie together instead of alone.

It went great, asides from the old couple staring the two of you in line, not so quietly reminiscing their first date

Embarrassment aside, Taichi was sweet throughout the entirety of it

Arguing to pay until reluctantly splitting the bill when you argued that it wasn’t fair

Waiting outside for it to start, Taichi and yourself bide the time by guessing what the other movies were about by their posters and making each other laugh

Once the movie starts, the chatter between you two dies down, yet the casual intimacy doesn’t fade in the slightest

Sharing an arm rest, the both of you exchange glances at one another throughout the movie, and bump elbows when something interesting or funny happens

It was a far-cry from the intimacy of the other’s dates, but it was perfect for the two of you

By now, the two of you have been friends much longer than you have been dating

Neither of you wanted to rush things, happy to take it as it comes and retain that familiarity from years of friendship stay untainted from the innate awkwardness of new love

Coming out of the theatre, Taichi is the most talkative you’ve seen him yet as he offers his opinion on the film

You avidly listen without a word of complaint

It was nice to hear what went through Taichi’s mind when he always kept his emotions close to his heart, you felt damn-near jubilant over him coming out of his shell – even after all the years of friendship

He offers to grab dinner and after a mild debate over which place is better, you end up flipping a coin and grabbing some fast food and eating it at a near-by park

Eating the meal in relative silence, it was only broken to point out the ducks and giving them names. It was laid-back and you were enjoying yourself, yet Taichi remained stiff by your side.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry if this isn’t exactly the most romantic date.” Taichi rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes.

You quirk a brow at him. “How isn’t this a romantic date?”

Taichi finally looks at you, although in confusion. “Because I should’ve taken you to a nice, fancy restaurant for our first date.”

“I work on the belief that anywhere is romantic if you make it so. It depends on the company.” You shrug.

Taichi’s mouth curves into a smirk. “Oh? So you wouldn’t mind having our next one at a cemetery?”

You dig an elbow into his side and roll your eyes at the performance he puts on.

“That’s not what I meant, smartass.”

Taichi stops the pouting and slumps into the seat. Hating the sombre mood he’s in, you curl your arm through his and tuck into his side.

“Besides, you can always make it up to me in the future. I want the place to be so expensive that the proportions are baby-sized.”

Taichi’s rich laugh rumbles through you. It was a losing battle against the rapid thrum of your heart and the thoughts of warmth that consume you with his proximity.

You also didn’t try to fight the urge to cuddle further into his side, something he gladly accepted as he wraps his arm even tighter around you.

“I promise.” He sighs, a happy noise as he rests his head against yours, two bodies becoming one whole on that one spring afternoon.

Goshiki:

Not everything in life is a competition, yet Goshiki couldn’t thrive without it

Besides, if he thought too long and hard about it (which he did) an arcade date was the best option

It presented the perfect chance to show off his skills and impress you

When he finally works up the courage to ask you, it had been a while since you’ve been, so you were more than happy to accept

Goshiki deflated with relief because a back-up option didn’t exist

Even after dating for over a month by this point, this would be the first official date he’s taken you out on

After worrying that it was too childish or not at all romantic for a first date, you spent the better half of the afternoon before it convincing him otherwise

At the arcade, Goshiki takes your hand and guides you around the place, pointing out games he bested as a teenager before finally settling on war-cross-zombie two player shooting game

With the growing win streak, the two of you continue playing the game until Goshiki accidentally gets his player killed

Pouting, he suggests a different game to soothe his bruised ego

The pout disappears as he finds a different game he’s decent at, tickets flying out as the points rack up

He glows as you praise his skill

It was too easy to bait him into playing hoop games, which he surprisingly sucked at

You discovered him to be especially gifted at reflex games, where the both of you won the most tickets

With each claw game he stubbornly refuses to “eat his hard-earned money”, he proudly passes off each plushie to you

Goshiki wins whatever prize your eyes linger over, no matter how frustrated it makes him

With each one, you promise to keep and inwardly muse that you’ll have to install a new shelf for them

A few hours deep, you had managed to win him an eagle. It’s the only prize you had won big enough to portray the amount of affection you held towards the bowl-cut male.

It was a bit mishappen and looked more fit to be the mascot for a horror game than a children’s show, however you still offered it to him.

His eyes grow wide. “Really?”

“I mean, I can get you something better if you give me a few minutes…” You frown at the plushie as Goshiki holds it up. It’s even uglier in the light. Why the hell would they have this as a prize?

You reach out to grab it from him and Goshiki snatches it away from your grasp, pressing it into his chest and curling around it protectively. “No!”

You stand there, stunned, as Goshiki flushes at the looks he got from the shout and starts stumbling over his words.

“I mean, it’s fine and not creepy at all – No, I mean it’s cute,” he unconvincingly amends at your wince. “It’s something that you worked hard to get. I’ll treasure it forever, I swear.”

The conviction in his voice was enough to ease your concern.

“I could get you a better one, though. One that’s less creepy.” You offer, gesturing towards the wide array of claw machines boasting figurines and cuter plushies.

“No thank you. I like this one.” Goshiki is stubborn and you should’ve expected that.

You sigh, lips unsurely pulling upwards. “If you’re sure?”

Goshiki gives a sharp nod, and you know that that’s the end of that. He would not budge.

Yet you couldn’t find it within yourself to be exasperated at the awe-filled look he gives the plushie as you two leave the arcade, holding it like it was made of expensive finery instead of cheap thread and fabric.

Months later you got to see the monstrosity again, tucked up on the shelf above his bed, proudly sitting between medals he’s won through the years.

[lovebecomeshim]

hello! your zutara posting today has finally motivated me to ask this question because I came to atla very late(last year, to be specific) and I Love It Very Much but am 1000% out of the loop as far as why what remains of fandom (at least that I've seen among my friends) is so very strongly zutara. I'm not opposed to it per se I just don't really know what has driven it to apparently be such a popular ship? can you help me understand and maybe convert me a little bit?

Hey!! Your ICON! :D I can try but I’m not sure how coherent I’ll be; however I AM sure someone a lot more competent will be willing to add to this. Either way, I’m glad you asked because my plan was to drag down as many people as possible with me.

*smacks the hood of zutara* this baby can fit so much mutual love and support!

This got so long, I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to put it under a cut on mobile and it already got deleted once so I’m scared to mess with it lol. Moving on.

I’m gonna start this with a disclaimer that im on mobile so formatting is tricky and I’m also really new to atla in that I only completed my first watch through in like 2019??? So some of my info is all just based on what I’ve picked up from Discourse 👀 so anyway the sparknotes version: zutara was wildly popular from the beginning. To the point where the atla crew internally disagreed on which ship should be endgame. (Ex. Bryke [showrunners] asked the writers to rewrite The Southern Raiders to make Zuko seem less ideal for Katara than Aang [which failed, depending on who you ask]; the animation team purposefully created a visual parrallel between Oma and Shu in the Cave of Two Lovers and Zuko and Katara in the catacombs under Ba Sing Se in the Crossroads of Destiny; etc.)

The ship was popular enough that Bryke actually chose to display zk fanart at a con for the sole purpose of mocking the fans, but that’s neither here nor there. The entire episode Ember Island Players, while a love letter to/parody of the whole show, was an opportunity to address zutara’s viability as a canon pairing (while, again, mocking zutaras for romanticizing that catacombs scene). Point is! It’s always been popular but with it not being endgame, there’s got to be something that’s given it staying power.

And that’s honestly got to do with three things: their dynamic, thematic cohesion, and potential.

(You know what... you know what, it’s four things. The fourth is they’re so aesthetically pleasing together and individually. Like, they’re just good looking people [specifically when they’re grown but they’re also cute kids] and that absolutely doesn’t hurt) (but it’s not the Point, it’s just nice to point out sometimes)

The dynamic is hard to get into without also looking at the canon pairings, but I think I can do that without unnecessary bashing. It’s just that part of the magic of zutara is really highlighted by what they give to each other that their other relationships don’t.

First off, it’s classic enemies to (would be) lovers. The absolute truest form of it. It’s not too different from how CS started out: a rogue antagonist with a job to do—but no personal vendetta against the future love interest—who is deeply and emotionally invested in his personal storyline (revenge/redemption) with little regard for how it effects other people after his entire life and genuine good nature are marred by suffering, and a fierce warrior girl with a strong moral compass and her own personal investment in stopping him (protect her family and save the world doing it). Obviously frustration and animosity grew between them by the nature of them being on opposing sides, but that just lends itself to the sweetness of their later reconciliation.

The thing is that while they’re wildly different on the surface (he’s a hot-headed prince of a fascist regime who is trying to capture the Avatar to please his father; she’s a nurturing daughter of the chief who is trying to protect and train the Avatar in order to topple his father’s throne) they find out that they have so much more in common both in their experiences and their personalities.

(What follows is an excessive use of the word “both” and I’m sorry about that)(I can edit it. I can do that. That IS an option............)

They both have an innate sense of justice that they are determined to see done (zuko, at the war meeting, sticking up for the Earth Kingdom kid when the guards torment his family, choosing not to steal from the pregnant couple despite his circumstances, abiding by his word to leave the SWT should Aang come willingly, etc.; katara, literally.... at any point). They both have pretty one-track minds at accomplishing certain goals once they’ve put their mind to it, regardless of a lack of support in that endeavor (it goes without saying I guess, but zuko’s entire hunt; katara’s determination to get the earth benders to fight back, her determination to absolutely destroy Pakku until he agrees to teach her, etc.). They both lost their mothers at young ages. Their worlds are war-torn and traumatizing to them both, if in different ways, but that ultimately forces them to grow up too quickly to be wholly independent individuals. They both have issues with their fathers (for WILDLY different reasons, but). They both hold extreme prejudices that they need to learn to overcome (which ties into thematic cohesion)(bit like Lizzie and Darcy in that way but magnified by a million). They’re both extremely emotional and empathetic—which can and often does result in loud outbursts. Katara’s a bit better adjusted and can temper her anger for longer than S1 Zuko can, but they both feel that anger deeply and have no compunctions expressing it (Katara is, usually, more justified, particularly in S1. Again, S1 Zuko is severely maladjusted but at the point when they could’ve feasibly become a couple, he’s so much better off with the way he carries himself). They both struggle with feelings of inferiority in their bending abilities when confronted with prodigal benders like Aang and Azula, but have the work ethic required to double down and become two of the most powerful benders in the three remaining nations. This is a little more minor but it is a parrallel that appeals to some shippers that they both have these alter egos in the Painted Lady (notably fire nation coded) and the Blue Spirit (water tribe coded) that are pretty different from who they are day-to-day and are useful in accomplishing a purpose that they as themselves cannot.

(I’m.... I just realized that this could potentially get very long. Should I have made a slide show with bullet points??????)

Anyway, similar. I know there’s more but there’s literally so much to love about zutara that I’ll drive myself a little crazy trying to compile all the ways they’re similar. (Just gonna say that at this exact moment I went back to add more similarities.... so okay then)

Once they’ve reconciled, we see how all of these things only lend themselves to a deeper intimacy together than they share with literally anyone else. There’s a steady partnership that positions them as the mom/dad of the gaang, while also providing the support necessary to allow the other to not have to carry so much responsibility. A lot of zutaras will point out how zuko is actually depicted doing the more domestic chores that are normally relegated to Katara once he joins the gaang, since the others in the group are two 12-year-olds and sokka. The one that sticks out the most is how he makes tea for the group and then serves them, while Katara is able to just relax with her friends around the fire. Fanon expands upon this a lot to Zuko helping with the laundry or the cooking or whatever else needs doing since he, as a once-refugee, is used to doing his own domestic tasks. Before Zuko joined, Katara was the one mothering everyone, sewing for them, cooking for them, etc. She’s always tending to the needs of the group, and that includes emotionally. She does the emotional labor for the gaang 99% of the time, but when she’s the one falling apart, she’s usually doing it alone and without the comfort that she normally provides for others. Until Zuko. And that’s before they’re even friends.

Which is WHY people romanticize the catacombs of Ba Sing Se so much. Katara is verbally attacking Zuko out of her own righteous anger but also her own prejudice when Zuko, surprisingly, chooses to be vulnerable with her. He’s been on a journey that’s opened his eyes a bit, but he’s never actively chosen to expose the rawest parts of his past to anyone. But for some reason he chooses to do that with Katara of all people. While she’s yelling at him. He sees her humanity, and for once can look past his prejudice and empathize with her. And this time, when she breaks down, she gets to be comforted. Katara normally talks about her mother when she’s trying to explain to someone else that she sees and understands they’re pain, as a form of comfort to them. Here, Zuko uses the exact same tactic. He sees her and he understands. And for zuko? He’s not being shut down. He’s allowed to articulate his pain regarding his mother without being ignored and made to internalize it, and he’s allowed to process how he feels about his scar out loud without being told that he deserved it. And then he lets her touch his scar, something we’ve seen him actively avoid before. He’s completely open to her and she’s completely open to him and all it took was one five minute conversation. She was about to use the little bit of Spirit water that she had, that she was saving for something Important, to heal the scar that still daily causes him pain just because they had, somehow, connected.

Plus there’s the whole parallel to the star-crossed lovers forbidden from one another, a war divides their people—

And then zuko messes up, he regresses, he gets what he wants and he HATES it. And the sense of justice he had as a child has been restored to him against his will and he can’t think of anything he wants to do more than the Right Thing, so he joins team avatar. Before he does that though, we get to see his relationship with Mai, which is where comparison really comes in. And what we see is Zuko, fresh off of his encounter with Katara in the catacombs, trying to be emotionally honest with Mai... and getting shut down and dismissed. Which is just how Mai is and it’s fine, but not for Zuko. Still, he keeps trying, and he keeps getting ignored or scoffed at or yelled at. Which is really a larger symbol for how he doesn’t fit in his old life anymore, but again that’s about thematic cohesion. He tries to articulate his anxieties about returning home, he tries to make romantic gestures, he tries to explain how morally conflicted he’s feeling—and Mai diverts to some kind of physical affection to shut him up and a parting comment that is pretty much always, in essence, “I don’t wanna talk about this.” So they don’t. On the other hand, once zuko and Katara are friends, we see him again emotionally distraught and caught up in his anxieties about facing Iroh, and it’s Katara who comes to him and listens to him and comforts and encourages him.

Similarly, we have Aang clamming up and getting uncomfortable whenever Katara shows any negative emotion, usually resulting in him making excuses or running away. Or, in the case of the Southern Raiders, lecturing her on how she needs to just let go of her anger about her mother’s murder. People have talked this episode to death and usually better than I ever could, so imma... keep it brief. There’s a serious disconnect between Aang and Katara in his ability to empathize with Katara and her needs that has her tamping down her vulnerability and amping up her anger. He tells her that he was able to forgive his people’s genocide and appa’s kidnapping (petnapping? Theft??), which is blatantly not true but also not an entirely equal parrallel to Katara’s situation, and continues making these little remarks throughout the episode. But it’s Zuko that Katara opens up to. It’s with him that she’s able to talk about the most traumatic day of her life, and it’s with him that she’s able to get the closure she needs, cementing their bond as friends and partners. This disagreement between Aang and Katara is then... never resolved. They just never bring it up and hear what the other is saying.

There’s a fic called The Portraits of Ember Island that has a line that so completely sums up the heart of the matter for why people love their dynamic. For context, zuko has woken up early to help Katara with the cooking and they spend the whole time just letting one another talk, and zuko stops to ask why she always just lets him talk. And so she stops to ask why he’s always helping, and it goes as follows:

There’s just... so much mutual support! Trust! Intimacy!! And it just continues like that from the Southern Raiders on, listening to each other, advising each other, watching each other’s backs! And then! Literally saving each other’s lives!! I will never be over the last Agni kai. Not ever. Zuko may have been willing to jump in front of lightning for anyone, but he actually did it for Katara. And in a show, that’s the thing that really matters. It’s a fulfilled trope usually exclusively applied to romantic pairings, and it ended up applying to Zuko and Katara. And then she ran out into the middle of a fight with tunnel vision just to get to him.

Also!! Also Zuko pushing Katara out of the way of the falling rocks at the Western Air Temple!! And Katara catching him as he fell from the war balloon that he fought Azula on!! Before they’re even getting along, they’re the ones reaching for each other. They come to this place of equal ground, as partners, who watch each other’s backs, call each other out but still listen attentively and understand, and provide the support that the other has been sorely lacking up until they knew each other (whether that be from lack of effort or lack of understanding from others, or an unwillingness to accept it for themselves).

Then, trailing along under the surface of this, we see the themes of the show totally embodied by Zuko and Katara as individuals and in their relationship to one another. There’s a YouTuber, sneezyreviews, who has a, like, 2-hour explanation on why she not only loves zutara but also believes that their endgame would’ve actually elevated the writing of atla to new levels particularly because of thematic cohesion and resolved character arcs. It’s the zutara dissertation I never knew I needed, and it’s funny and eloquent and effective, so I’m just going to sum up her section on thematic cohesion to the best of my abilities and then link it for whenever you have the time. And I HIGHLY recommend it, especially if you want a full understanding of what makes zutara so great and gives it such longevity.

Guru pathik has a line that goes something like this: separation is an illusion; things that seem different are just two parts of the same whole. Iroh also tells Zuko something similar: balance and strength are achieved when the different nations come together and influence one another and celebrate what makes them each unique. And this lesson is a massive central arc that both Zuko and Katara go through, moving past a black-and-white, good guys-vs-bad guys, us-vs-them mentality and into a greyer, more nuanced view of the world. Zuko sees the fire nation from an entirely new perspective and while he still loves and hopes for his nations future, he surrenders his blind loyalty to them in exchange for an unflinching loyalty to peace and love. Katara too had to come to terms with the fact that cruel people exist in the earth kingdom and water tribes, while some fire nation citizens are just regular, kind people who also need and deserve to have someone speak on their behalf. And this is honed in directly on how they view each other. They grow in their individual journeys to be open to the humanity in the other and then, once they’ve found that, they’re able to grow more in compassion for others in a beautiful feedback loop. And this is all matched in the symbolism repeatedly and intentionally associated with them in canon: sun and moon, fire and water, yin and yang, Oma and Shu who found love despite their warring nations. Their individual arcs are completed in each other and complement the themes of atla beautifully.

The canon pairs... just don’t. Which, again, is fine. But the very things that give atla longevity and popularity are anchored in zutara. Kat@ang doesn’t accomplish this. They’re... nice. Sweet. Especially when you erase a good portion of their interactions in S3. It could’ve been just a sweet love story. (Personally, the dynamic between toph and aang accomplish the same thing that zutara does, with complementary personalities that fulfill the theme of opposites blending in harmony) M@iko, on the other hand, is less sweet but I think wasn’t even supposed to last. Zuko’s relationship with Mai seems to represent his relationship with his old life as a whole. He can’t be emotionally vulnerable, he’s goaded into abusing his privileges, his agency and opinions aren’t respected. They just don’t have common ground with which to discuss anything that matters, so they don’t. As far as themes, the relationship doesn’t fit with atla. It’s zuko returning to and sticking with what is (on the surface) like him, what’s expected. Fire nation with fire nation. Fluid water bender with the flexible air bender. Like with like, separated from what is different and challenging and complementary.

And all of these things combined of course lead to the potential for the ship. I don’t know how familiar you are with the post-atla canon but... well, miss “I will never turn my back on people who need me”, miss “I don’t want to heal! I want to fight!” ends up living quietly in the SWT as a designated healer who turns a blind eye to the water tribe civil war happening right outside her front door. Which can be fine! People change! Some people just wanna stay inside. I just wanna stay inside! But the potential future for zutara is so much more satisfying, with Katara becoming the most unconventional Fire Lady the uppity old cads who are stuck on the old ways have ever seen. Fanon has her serving as a voice for the other nations within a kingdom at the point of its biggest political upheaval, as a confidante to Zuko who can actually help him while he’s trying to figure out how to move forward and make reparations. They have the opportunity, together, to accomplish what they both have set on their hearts to fight for: positive change that lends itself to harmony and balance. And the steambabies! A popular headcanon is that their firstborn daughter, the crown princess, is actually a waterbender, which causes such an uproar among the people who are adamantly clinging to the old ways. It’s just a future full of potential to be forces for good together, full of trust, intimacy, joy. The exact era of peace and love and balance that zuko announces that he intends to ring in with the start of his reign as Fire Lord is, again, magnified by the very personal zutara relationship. And we love to see it.

tl;dr zutara isn’t for everyone. Some people just don’t vibe with it. Some are nostalgic. Some love the canon they grew up with. Some have been disappointed for years. Some just see themselves in other characters and want their happiness instead. Whatever the reason, that’s fine. But for me, I love the way these two, from the moment they give each other a fair chance, are able to lower their walls and prejudices to see the other for the kindred spirits they are. They see each other’s humanity, and their response is to pour out love and support and compassion. I love that they’re a power couple in battle. I love the symbolism and, honestly, soulmatism that colors their every interaction. I love that they embody the whole storyline of atla in their relationship and how it develops, which is notably why their seasonal arcs always culminate in each finale with how they relate to one another. I love that zuko adopting a waterbending move is what actually saves his life and then katara’s. I love the chemistry! And I love the future they could’ve had, instead of the ones they were given.

So, in conclusion: I just think they’re neat and I hope you do too, at least a little bit. Even if it’s just respectfully from a disinterested distance cause you do you. And now here is the video I mentioned. I’m sorry this post got so long and then I gave you an even longer homework assignment, but I can’t recommend it enough. She says it all better than I can.

[bb8sworld]

— litoreus, part i

pairing: god of the sea!obi-wan kenobi x reader

word count: 7k (*sweats nervously*)

a/n: greetings, and welcome to the first part of my new series! i don’t know how better to summarize this story than by saying that kara (@karasong) said “neptune is a dilf” then val (@milleniumvalcon) said a statue of poseidon looked like obi-wan, and it spiraled from there. so many thanks to the discord for the idea of this poseidon!obi au.

-- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ -- ☆ -- 

Destiny. Fate. Will. Luck. Fortune. Chance. Predestination.

Words Obi-Wan Kenobi was intimately familiar with in a multitude of different tongues, languages, dialects, and scripts. Words that have altered in connotation throughout history but have remained steadfast in their use. Words that he didn’t believe in but knew nonetheless. As someone who has been around as long as he has, and as someone who knows the inner workings of the universe and was created shortly after it’s conception, he’s aware that the ideas of Fate and Destiny were innately… human. Something clung onto by ordinary people who dwelled on the Earth and needed reassurance for an occurrence in their lives or ideas blamed for any wrongdoing that came their way.

No, Obi-Wan Kenobi didn’t believe in Fate, Destiny, Fortune, or whatever other terms may be used to describe these phenomena. Everything had an order, everything had a purpose, and things didn’t happen “by chance” or “just because.” They happened because they were supposed to, not because some outside force separate from the godly beings decided to intervene. As a godly being himself, he thinks he would know if there were outside forces beyond him and his fellow gods having any say in the universe.

One of the many perks of being a god, he supposed.

Being a god was tricky business, and it was a job that often didn’t pay in kind. From his very creation, Obi-Wan had struggled with this role of his, from who he was, who he was meant to be, and how he was supposed to act.

Despite being named Obi-Wan Kenobi upon “birth,” he has gone by a plethora of different names throughout his immortal life thus far—such as Olokun, Lir, Hapi, Poseidon, Neptune, Enbilulu, and Njord, just to name a few. So many names to describe one being who ruled, guarded, and protected the seas and oceans. Each one attuned to the civilization in which the name originated from, but all converging together to describe the same god. And from it came an outpouring of love and awe. It was flattering, to say the least, that humans at one point cared so much about him that they would craft pieces of artwork dedicated to him. Or how they would construct temples of worship for him so that they might have a place to pray for safe voyages, either for themselves or loved ones. It made him feel good and loved and appreciated and a whole litany of positive affirmations that humans use to describe this gooey feeling nestled within him.

Obi-Wan loved to help humanity and had always been infatuated with them—their cultures, lifestyles, relationships, emotions, everything. And any time he helped, he got to learn a little bit more about what made humans so human. Sometimes when he did intervene in their matters and was praised for it, he couldn’t help but wonder if that was what it felt like to be human. To be loved, appreciated, adored, wanted.

But being a god wasn’t always so pleasant and flattering.

Sometimes, if a storm churned in the ocean and caused a shipwreck, his name would be cursed at in such hatred and despair as grief overtook the humans. It stung and was incredibly painful to hear, but unfortunately, he didn’t always have control over those situations. Whenever this happened, he would wonder if the feelings he felt were the same ones humans did in response to these occurrences—unloved, hated, disgusted, guilty, remorseful.

Obi-Wan really, truly wanted to take suffering away from the very humans who had fascinated him for centuries, but that’s not the way the universe works. Matters of life and death were not his jurisdiction, even if either of these happened in the blue waves below. It fell to the god of the underworld who was the overseer of death, so therefore Obi-Wan’s hands were tied. He only had control over the voyage's journey, not the destination of the passengers, meaning he was often forced to watch as lives were taken at sea and his name was sworn against in wrath.

But like with all things brought to the attention of humanity, people move on. And unfortunately for Obi-Wan, as times changed and new beliefs gained traction, that meant humans moved on from their old ways and religions—from the other gods and from him.

Despite his presence once being well-known and called upon in times of need and worship and gratitude, his importance dwindled in the eyes of the humans until he was all but nonexistent. His very being and all his life’s work were boiled down to a name that was somehow both him yet not him, written offhandedly in a history textbook for children to be aware of for a test but to forget immediately afterward. His life became a story sometimes told in a mythology book or two, often censored and abridged for audiences to “understand better.” He became a name people were familiar with but knew little about.

And so humanity had moved on from him, but he hadn’t moved on from humanity.

He was still endlessly intrigued by everything they were about and everything they had to offer, but because of his godly status, he never dared to go down and explore for himself, despite other gods having done so for one reason or another. And every day he was a little more tempted to go down and see what was new and exciting. Every time he saw another god leave to head down, he got a little bit closer to asking if he could join.

That being said, he did stay connected where he could. Throughout all of human history, art had been made in his name, and sometimes he would clear his mind and connect to those works as he did back in the ancient days and listen in on what was being said. Sometimes he caught snippets of stories from those who stood nearby. Sometimes he heard tales of his own life being taught to a younger generation in museums. But it had been a long time since he heard anyone talk to him. And despite his lack of belief in Fate or Destiny or whatever you wanted to call it, he couldn’t help but wish for the times to change and for one person to talk to him instead of about him. He wished that someone would answer his pathetic call and just talk to him.

So imagine his surprise when one day someone picked up.

At first, he thought it to be an accident. No way had someone genuinely believed he was real and manifested the powers to protect them when they traveled at sea, nor had someone directly contacted him in years for any reason. With all the new methods of transportation and exploration in the seas and oceans, most people went on those devices willingly without saying a quick prayer to him for the waters to be safe. Which was fine, really. He knew his place. Doesn’t mean he didn’t feel a little pang of hurt every time he saw a cruise ship head out or people go boating or children learn how to canoe.

But no… this call was different. It wasn’t a history lesson, or someone singing to themselves near a statue of him, or just some background clutter. No, this one felt different. And so, Obi-Wan sat on the floor of his room, closed his eyes, and began to slip into a meditative state in order to hear the call better.

“—maybe… we hang the light a foot more to the right? And tilt it just a tiny bit backward… there. Perfect! Look at you, Poseidon—or do you prefer Neptune—whatever, it doesn’t matter. But look at you, all cleaned up, restored, illuminated, and ready to go on display when the exhibit opens tomorrow. Let’s hope the visitors appreciate you in your polished state. Are you ready?”

Ah, so a new exhibit was going up featuring, presumably, a statue of him made by one of the ancient Greeks or Romans he oversaw so many centuries ago. He was about to tune out the voice and slip out of his meditative state when the voice picked up again.

“—god I must sound crazy. Just look at me, talking to a statue of a god who doesn’t even exist.” A beat. “I wish you did though, you seem like you’d be better company than some of the other people around here. Wishful thinking, eh, Neptune? Or… Poseidon… ugh, this is what happens when it’s an ancient Greek and Roman exhibit, there are too many double names—”

And off the voice went on a tangent about finishing up illuminating each of the iconic pieces of artwork and organizing pamphlets about the new exhibit in the information stands. From the sounds of it, the person behind the voice presumably worked at some museum where a new exhibit of him and the other gods in his life was being put together.

Maybe… maybe he could go down and visit it sometime. At least to see the art he hadn’t seen in many years. And if he happened to stumble across the worker with the voice he just tuned into, then he’d consider that a happy accident despite that very claim going against his beliefs about Fate. But how could he head down from his home in the clouds without raising suspicion among the other gods? He was notorious for keeping his distance once humanity forgot him, instead preferring to observe from afar and rejecting any offers to head down to the land.

The answer came in the form of Anakin Skywalker—also known as Camulus, Svetovid, Teutates, Ares, Mars, Odin, and Montu, to name a few—the god of war and the manifestation of the spirit of battle. He was a frequent visitor of the land and was undoubtedly Obi-Wan’s best friend. Not to mention, he regularly asked Obi-Wan to join him in hopes of getting him “out of his hermit lifestyle and back to the land of the living,” to quote Anakin, but Obi-Wan had either made excuses or flat out rejected his offer. But maybe it was high time he said yes.

With his plan in mind, now all he had to do was wait for Anakin to approach him and ask. And sure enough, just a few earth days later, Anakin showed up outside of Obi-Wan’s room with a cheeky smile on his face and a “ready to be done with being a recluse?” comment as expected. And though Anakin wouldn’t ever admit it to Obi-Wan’s face, Obi-Wan could see the true concern reflecting in his eyes alongside the expectation of getting rejected. Typically, there would be a pain in his eyes following each rejection, likely stemming from the wedge that sat between them because, for all that they were best friends—brothers even—they didn’t always see eye-to-eye on godly matters. From this came the worry that always sat at the corner of every conversation because Obi-Wan (admittedly so) had been self-isolating from humanity and became a stickler for following the rules of the gods. Contrast that to Anakin who was laxer in his ways and open to embracing his feelings and attachments.

But that concern and pain would end today. Obi-Wan was tired of feeling sorry for himself and hiding away up here and being lonely despite never actually being alone.

He was ready for adventure again.

And so, it was with a resounding sigh and faked exasperation that he said, “Oh, alright.”

If he took a little pleasure in being able to cause such a shocked facial expression on Anakin’s face, then that was for him to know. Though, it was a moment later when Anakin’s face split into a wide grin that he felt any lingering doubts about going down to earth dissipate. Yes, this was the right choice. If not for himself, then for his relationship with Anakin.

The act of getting down to earth was a rather easy task consisting of exiting through a golden archway that teleported them to a location of their choosing. Obi-Wan hopped on Anakin’s coordinates and the two reappeared in a forest Obi-Wan was unfamiliar with, the lights and sounds of a nearby town being their guide on the trek.

Before stepping into the hustle and bustle of the town, Anakin and Obi-Wan had “normalized” themselves from their usual glowing, almost angelic appearance into something more humane and easily looked over, particularly nondescript and unassuming, using the powers they possessed. The less attention they brought to themselves, the better. It was safer not to risk the chance of revealing themselves. Back in historic and ancient times, it was more common for them to fall into crowds of people undercover and interact, getting to know and understand the circumstances humanity faced up close and personal instead of from a distance. But that had all changed once Obi-Wan, Anakin, and the fellow gods above all became characters in a history book.

Nonetheless, Obi-Wan treasured this one act of using his powers for fun instead of remaining dormant and simply controlling the seas in the same patterns and cycles. He looked over at Anakin, wanting to see if he was ready to head into the streets, when he was surprised to see Anakin’s eyes already looking his way, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighed, exasperation smothering the very word, “What is it?”

“Finally decided on getting a haircut?” Anakin replied, laughter playing on the edge of the question. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes at the question. Yes, usually when he came down to earth he sported a longer hairstyle—a godly mullet, as Anakin oh so lovingly called it, business in the front and the only fun you know how to have in the back—but times had changed, and Obi-Wan had figured it was time for him to as well, at least a little bit. So he did. It was less of a haircut and more of the decision to manifest with shorter hair, unlike a certain someone standing next to him who had apparently decided the opposite.

“Strong words coming from someone who’s sporting a mullet themselves,” he quipped back, turning his attention forward and beginning the trek to the town. Affronted was the only word to describe how Anakin reacted, cemented in his shock, before he shook out of his state and rushed to catch up with his friend, secretly happy to see Obi-Wan engaging in their familiar back-and-forth.

“It is not a mullet, Obi-Wan,” Anakin refuted. “It’s stylish and helps me blend in.”

Obi-Wan gives a quiet hmm in acknowledgment before replying, “Whatever you say, Anakin.”

And so the trek continued until they found themselves in a bustling town with car horns honking, people shoving themselves through crowds, and bright lights illuminating around them. It was both entirely overwhelming yet hauntingly intriguing. For as much as he wanted to look away from the circus before him, Obi-Wan couldn’t stop admiring and absorbing all the information thrown at him. Of course he was aware of how the earth and humanity had progressed from his perch in the clouds, but while it’s one thing to hear and know of something, it’s another thing to witness and experience that which you had heard so much about.

Through his daze, he’s just barely able to keep up with Anakin as they take to the sidewalks, Anakin walking in an apparent familiar cadence as if he already knows where he’s heading and knows the trek well. Perhaps there’s a destination Anakin frequents on his jaunts down to earth? Maybe Obi-Wan should’ve asked what Anakin had in mind before he agreed to this excursion, but it’s too little too late for that now. But still, asking the destination of their slightly fast walking couldn’t hurt, right?

“You know, Anakin,” he starts, “You never told me where you were intending for us to go today.”

“Oh,” Anakin flounders for a moment, as if not expecting the question. Curious. “I, uh, well I figured we’d go to the local art museum.”

“Really?” Obi-Wan is unconvinced, but plays along anyway, only the slightest bit of suspicion seeping into his tone.

“Well… I know you love learning and appreciating the more—how do you phrase it?—refined and civilized things in life,” Anakin jokes, “So I figured we could go to an art museum together.”

Well wasn’t that just the shock of the century. Art museums were far from Anakin’s usual environment. Why? Anakin was loud, brash, and impulsive, constantly itching to go out and meet action head-on, act now think later, a complete contrast to the usually quiet, serene, and contemplative nature that art museums held dear. And for all that Obi-Wan loved Anakin, there were certain environments he would never dare to be with him, art museums being one of them. But, considering Obi-Wan had agreed to join and Anakin actually seemed somewhat eager to go, he figured he could indulge Anakin just this once.

Besides, Obi-Wan figured there must’ve been some ulterior motive at play here, and if he played his cards right, he could figure it out.

“An art museum?” he asks casually, hoping maybe he’ll get a hint of this mysterious motive.

But Anakin immediately picks up on the slight curiosity in his words. “Yeah, why? You don’t want to go?”

“No, I wouldn’t mind going, I just didn’t know you’d be interested in that.”

“Well, people change, Obi-Wan. Maybe I’ve taken a page from your book and learned how to be stuffy and grandfatherly.”

Rude, Obi-Wan muses, but an unlikely story. He leaves it at that and instead asks Anakin what else he had on the itinerary for the day as they walk toward the museum. Apparently, the art museum is the highlight of the day, though Anakin does promise that if Obi-Wan would be open to indulging in human food—something that honestly means nothing to them because they can’t be satisfied on non-godly food—there’s a cafe not too far from the museum that they can hang out and people watch at. All-in-all, not a bad day. Could’ve been way worse given how differently he and Anakin define “a fun day out.”

Eventually, they do make it to the art museum in one piece, and Obi-Wan immediately takes note of how quaint it looks against the glamour of the surrounding town. Less bright colors and flashes of light on the exterior but still a commanding presence with its masonry that almost demands you to look at it and compels you to go inside.

They stand in the queue to get tickets and go inside, but once they do, Anakin starts walking off before Obi-Wan can even grab a map of the museum. He manages to snag one and just barely finds Anakin in the crowd of the entry foyer, leaving Obi-Wan to trail behind a couple of feet once he catches up as Anakin guides him to the Medieval and Renaissance art exhibit. They’re only a few feet inside the exhibit when someone calls out “Ani!” and the two whip their heads around in-sync to the sound of the voice, a chorus of shushing surrounding them.

It’s a short woman who approaches the pair, a charming smile on her lips and a glint in her eyes. She immediately goes to embrace Anakin and Obi-Wan thinks: ah, ulterior motive discovered. He looks at her professional attire, the low but elegant bun her brown hair is in, and the name tag he just barely caught a glimpse of and easily deduces that she must be a staff member here. Maybe once the two finally release each other Obi-Wan can say his greetings and find out more.

Luckily, she seems to be the sensible one between the two and releases Anakin after making eye contact with Obi-Wan, as if just now realizing that Anakin came with company. She tries to be blasé about the overly friendly interaction with Anakin by plowing forward in her introduction, holding her hand out for a handshake. Very interesting, indeed.

“I’m Padmé Amidala, one of the curators for this exhibit in the museum. You must be one of Anakin’s friends,” she greets. Obi-Wan takes her hand and gives it a slight shake. Her grip is firm but not tight, giving just enough of her away for him to understand that she is a person to be respected and in awe of but not feared. It’s easy to begin understanding how her dynamic with Anakin works.

“Pleasure to meet you. I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Oh, so you’re the famous Obi-Wan. Anakin has told me so much about you.” Obi-Wan gives a side-eyed glance to Anakin, noting the innocent expression he wears and wondering just how much he’s revealed to Padmé.

“Interesting, he hasn’t mentioned you at all,” Obi-Wan responds, giving them both a teasing smile in some semblance of reassurance that he isn’t offended by this fact.

However, Obi-Wan can feel the lingering hesitation and slight nerves radiating off of Anakin, which is an unsurprising development. Gods aren’t meant to have deep bonds with humans. Loose friendships are typically accepted with only slight frowns, but once it strays into a tight-knit bond and attachments form, especially romantic ones, they’re frowned upon greatly. And between the two of them, Anakin is less of a stickler for the rules, instead preferring to live by his own interpretations and caveats to the rules—which means Obi-Wan knows that Anakin fears this friendship of his with Padmé will be scrutinized and berated.

Which… okay, is a valid concern considering Obi-Wan’s devotion to the rules, but Obi-Wan hates to be a snitch on his best friend. And as long as he doesn’t witness any actions that would confirm a more serious relationship, particularly romantic, Obi-Wan is willing to turn his eye to the obvious heart eyes and lingering touches the two share. Can’t tattle if there’s room for doubt and question.

He just hopes Anakin knows this himself. And he especially hopes that Anakin hasn’t told Padmé that he’s a god.

He decides to shake off these thoughts and turn the conversation to safer territory to try and ease Anakin some. “So, Padmé, I take it you work here. What is it that you do?”

Immense relief hits him like a tidal wave from Anakin with happiness trailing behind like seafoam as the wave recedes. Not wanting to make any open comments about Anakin’s feelings and potentially clue Padmé into their more than human nature, he settles for a quick moment of eye contact before focusing back on Padmé.

“I’m one of the museum curators here,” she confirms, “I mainly specialize with art in the Medieval and Renaissance exhibit as well as our Impressionist pieces.” She pauses to size him up, silently scrutinizing him and his reactions. Whatever it is she finds must satisfy her, because she continues as if nothing happened, “Have you been here before, Obi-Wan? We recently got some new pieces on loan from some collectors and other museums that are worth checking out.”

“This is my first time, actually,” Obi-Wan starts before Anakin jumps in, quick on his verbal heels, “Right! And I was going to show him around. Make sure he visits the highlights at least.”

Instantly Padmé’s face drops ever so slightly at the idea of this conversation ending and her parting from Anakin, but she composes herself well. But Obi-Wan would be blind not to notice Anakin’s disappointment too, so he decides to take matters into his own hands and says, “Though I’m more than capable of wandering on my own if you’d rather stay and chat with Padmé, Anakin.”

“Are you sure, Obi-Wan? I was the one who invited you out after all—”

“Nonsense, I’ll be more than fine on my own. Maybe then I’ll actually get to appreciate the art and read the descriptions like the grandfather you think I am,” he jokes. “I’ll meet you back by the entrance in a couple hours. Pleasure meeting you, Padmé, I hope we meet again soon.”

And just like that, Obi-Wan is off and he no longer has to be surrounded by the obvious desire for something more between the two that was only stifled from being acted on by his presence. When he’s a good distance away, he decides to stop for a moment and actually look at the map in his hand, and he’s pleasantly surprised by just how many exhibits, art movements, and cultural regions are housed in this art museum. With the knowledge that he may not be able to knock out every exhibit in one visit, he decides to make his rounds to the ones that intrigue him the most. 

He starts in the African Art section, admiring the ceramics and textiles created in various regions of Africa, before moving onto the Chinese bronzes, ceramics, and jades exhibition and it’s next-door Japanese screens and paintings exhibit. He’s thinking of swinging to modern and contemporary works when he looks at the map in his hands and eyes the Ancient Greek and Roman Art exhibit, reluctance setting in. Obi-Wan always feels a bit of hesitancy whenever admiring ancient creations because he remembers who the artists were and that fact makes him feel old and worn down in ways he never expected gods to feel like. Besides, wouldn’t it be narcissistic of himself to go and admire the times of old and perhaps even stumble upon a work of him?

Caution thrown to the wind, Obi-Wan decides to make his way to the Ancient Greek and Roman Art exhibit. With his head held high, he spots the tall glass doors to the exhibit and opens them slowly before stepping inside and almost immediately being hit by a whirlpool of nostalgia. Just seeing the vases, plates, coins, cups, relics, and statues on display make him nearly stumble on his feet. The faces staring back at him on the head busts by the entrance are so eerily similar to those of his friends that he feels his breathing stutter for a moment. It’s true that back in those times the gods were more… open to visiting earth. Back then they were more willing and able to interact with humanity and be treated kindly in return. Though, the stories of their escapades and interactions always seemed to be skewed and embellished among all civilizations.

But one thing that transpires over almost every civilization who ever believed in the gods and goddess that Obi-Wan is connected to is that they managed to nail one key feature of the gods in their stories: their extremities. Because at the end of the day, that’s what the gods all were—the best and worst of humanity, but maximized.

Obi-Wan prefers not to think about that fact and how, subsequently, he feels more than humans do and also has an awareness for the feelings of the other gods.

No, best not to dwell on that.

He decides that perhaps it’s best to move beyond the entryway and stop clogging up the doorway with his presence, so he begins to move through the exhibit, stopping every now and then to admire a certain work of art. By the time he’s gone through about half the exhibit, the sting of seeing those he knows etched onto bronze or marble is hurting less; he’s thinking he can finally start to appreciate the art more when he hears a voice.

But it’s not just any voice, it’s a voice he recognizes. And it’s not Anakin, nor is it Padmé. It’s a voice he’s heard before but he doesn’t know the person it belongs to. It’s familiar enough that he clings to it, scrambling through past and recent memories until finally it clicks:

The voice he’s hearing is the voice that recently talked to him via one of the statues commemorated in his honor.

And just like that, he turns his head around and begins to look around for the source. It’s like he’s a ship lost at sea and this voice is his guiding light home, if only he could find it. It takes a couple more seconds before finally his gaze settles on you, and it’s as if sunlight just burst into the room. He notices your eyes first and the way they shimmer with happiness as you wander through the exhibit, admiring the artworks yourself. But then he catches your smile as you turn to talk to one of the nearby patrons and the very sight of it makes him feel as if the world has just opened wide, opportunities he’s never considered laying out on many paths before him.

He takes a moment to shake himself out of his daze to properly take in your appearance. Judging on your outfit and the name tag that he just barely can’t make out and read, you are obviously a worker here, perhaps a curator like Padmé. You’re wandering the exhibit with an air of pride surrounding you, as if you’re happy that so many people are taking the time to come and appreciate the art before them. Everything about you is intriguing and he wants to introduce himself to you before this high feeling surrounding him comes crashing down and he goes back up to the clouds to spend out his immortal days alone and separated again from humanity.

Just as he’s about to take a few steps in your direction, he feels a harsh force of another body hit him in the side, nearly sending him toppling over onto a head bust next to him. He’s bracing for impact, praying that this piece of art somehow is a counterfeit and doesn’t cost more than he can even fathom (seriously, exactly how bad is inflation right now?) when he feels hands on his shoulders that push him back onto his feet. His hands immediately latch onto the ones grabbing him as he steadies himself. One he’s back on solid ground, he looks up to go thank whoever caught him when his heart leaps to his throat and he momentarily stops breathing because who else would be his savior than his guiding light?

He barely has time to even admire your speed and strength before you’re talking to him.

“Are you okay?” you ask and oh how he wants to hear more and more and more of your angelic voice. It’s as if you’re a siren, tempting him closer and closer to you until finally he is caught in your eyes and dancing among the many stars that twinkle in them. But suddenly he flushes with the realization that he’s been staring way too long and oh dear this is quite a messy first impression he really needs to redeem himself with something coherent and get this boat sailing back on course—

“Uh, y-yeah. Yeah. Fine. I’m fine. Never better, truly.” Shipwreck. What an utter shipwreck this is for him. Maker, he’s making a fool of himself. Amid his internal despair, he hears you giggle at his fumbling and his heart starts beating faster.

“Poseidon right?”

And suddenly his heart stops, his mouth drops every so slightly, and his face whitens. How have you possibly figured him out so quickly?

“What?” Is about all he can muster in response.

“Or Neptune, I guess, depending on which you prefer.” He’s silent. Awestruck. But you must pick up on the confusion and awe on his face because you elaborate, “You know… the sculpture right over there? The big marble one with a man holding a trident? The one you were staring at before you nearly crashed into this poor head bust of Zeus and broke this priceless piece of historic artwork? Really, what did the poor guy ever do to you? Surely he doesn’t deserve his head getting cracked open a second time.”

Oh thank the Maker, you were just referring to the art in the room. Which perhaps he should’ve accounted for instead of internally freaking out because he did willingly enter the Ancient Greek and Roman Art exhibit of the museum.

But you take his silent relief as continued confusion because you are suddenly rambling, “You know, because Zeus already had his head cracked open once by Hephaestus after Zeus swallowed a pregnant Metis and gave birth to Athena through his forehead?” You laugh awkwardly before plowing on, “Maybe I should stop talking now, sorry, sometimes I just go off about all these old myths, I just think they’re fascinating and—sorry, I’m doing it again aren’t I?”

He laughs in response to your weak joke and hearty explanation, and he starts to feel a little less wound up and nervous when he notices that you’re feeling the same way.

“No, no, it’s alright! It was very clever. Funny too,” he comments. The two of you share a smile and simply stare into each others’ eyes for a couple moments. But then he begins to worry that he’s making you uncomfortable by maintaining eye contact for longer than normal—except what is “normal”? How much has human etiquette changed since he’d last been on earth? Is this conversation already doomed? He decides to take the gamble anyway and clears his throat as his eyes flicker around the exhibit, trying to think of what else to say to you, before he lands on your name tag (what a pretty name you have) and he says the first thought that comes to mind.

“So, you work here then?” Not the best conversation starter, but it’s something, he supposes. Maker, what is wrong with him? He’s never been so nervous in his entire immortal life, but one conversation with you and suddenly he’s falling victim to all the nerves and anxieties of humans, but dialed up beyond a 10. Gods really are the maximization of humanity’s best and worst. What an awful time to be living this fact. Thankfully, you respond and break him out of his spiraling worries.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been working here for the past couple of years as one of the curators. I actually worked on this exhibit. I helped organize and select all the pieces in the exhibit, arrange restorations and displays, and record all the art you see here. I’ll admit it’s rather hard selecting which art pieces would fit best with the message we’re trying to convey, not to mention the availability of many pieces of art also plays a difficult role, but I like to think it paid off in the end. There’s something special about all the pieces of art here,” you suddenly pause in your speech before walking over to the very Poseidon statue you thought Obi-Wan had been looking at earlier, and he follows, quick on your heels.

You continue, “Like, this statue of Poseidon, for example. It traveled through an ocean of time, across several continents, through several restorations, all to be right here, right now, in this very moment for you and I to admire.” You let out a sigh that Obi-Wan can only describe as wistful. “I can only wonder how it looked when the artist was creating it and when it was first unveiled.”

He wishes how he could tell you about when he first laid eyes on this statue of himself he had nearly burst into tears, sending a light rain over the agora from the intensity of his emotions. But he suppresses the urge. He wasn’t supposed to reveal himself to humanity, and even if he did let something slip, what are the odds that you’d ever believe him? The two of you are not close, and you never will be. His livelihood as a god forbids it.

Still…

There’s something about the sparkle in your eye as you wistfully look at the art, as if looking at it for the first time despite having seen it countless times before, and your passion for the ancient classics that he finds compelling. Initial literal-sweeping-off-his-feet encounter aside, there’s something about you that draws him to you.

You’re entirely intriguing to him, and he can’t quite pinpoint why. Not entirely, at least. It doesn’t hurt that he finds your ramblings of history and art to be adorable. Not that he’s admitting to anything more than simple infatuation at first sight. He wishes he had the chance to get to know you better beyond the confines of this Ancient Greek and Roman exhibit. But the two of you lead entirely different lives and he has to let this go.

But, he can allow himself this one instance of normal human interaction.

“I’m sure it must have been a sight to behold given how important the gods were to the Ancient Greeks and Romans,” he comments.

“Exactly!” Despite being a curator here and knowing the rules of the exhibits like the back of your hand, you are shushed by a nearby patron at your happy exclamation. Obi-Wan laughs softly at the embarrassed look on your face.

“Guess that’s my cue to switch topics,” you joke. Obi-Wan smiles kindly at you before you continue, “Basics then. I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t throw it,” he winks at your unimpressed look. Luckily for him though, it cracks and transforms into a brilliant smile as the two of you share a laugh. No harm done.

“Okay, smartass, I’ll rephrase: what’s your name?” you ask. “Not all of us are lucky enough to talk with people who wear name tags.”

“Alright then, since you asked so nicely, I’m Obi-Wan. And it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He holds out a hand for you, which you easily take and give a shake. A slight zing runs through his body at the slight contact, his hand still buzzing even after you two let go.

“Pleasure to meet you as well. Is this your first time here?” you inquire.

“Ah, yes, my friend decided to take me,” Obi-Wan starts, but he can’t help but grumble out, “I think he’s a frequent visitor.”

You let out a giggle at his grumpy tone. “You make it seem as if that’s a bad thing. Surely it’s not that god-awful here?”

“The company sure makes it better,” slips out before he can catch the words, but he’s not blind to the pleased look on your face. Huh. Interesting. “I never thought he was interested in art museums but—”

“Obi-Wan!” Cuts through the air, loud and brash and diluted with the slightest hint of concern, immediately followed by shushing by other patrons. Obi-Wan sighs as he recognizes the voice of Anakin.

“—it would appear that he still hasn’t picked up on museum etiquette despite all those visits.”

You rub his arm gently, a look of playful sympathy on your face as you tell him, “How awful it must be to have a friend that cares about your whereabouts.”

But he’s suddenly finding it very hard to even pretend to be annoyed when you’re touching him with such care. All too soon, your hand is off his arm as Anakin makes himself known, sidling up right to Obi-Wan and immediately grasping his elbow.

“Where on earth were you? We were supposed to meet half an hour ago. I waited for you! And here I was thinking you were the responsible one—” Anakin is cut off by you attempting to diffuse the situation.

“I believe that’s my fault. I kept him here talking to me and I held him up,” you turn back to Obi-Wan, a bright smile on your lips and the stars twinkling once more in your eyes. Maker, if he didn’t know any better he really would think he was looking at the sun, his beacon of light. “It was lovely talking to you, Obi-Wan. Maybe you could come again soon and we can continue this conversation?”

“Of course.” It’s his automatic response, no thoughts, questions, or worries in mind. You just look so hopeful and he’s once again a ship in the night, setting out to sail the high seas but hoping to return to again safely, guided by your light. He can only hope Anakin doesn’t pick up on his infatuation with you.

“Great! I’ll let you two go then. Nice meeting you!” And just like the wind, you’re gone, moving on to other patrons and other works of art, sharing your knowledge and stories and passion with other lucky souls. Maybe he will come back.

“They seemed nice,” Anakin remarks with absolutely no subtly.

“I’m not sure what you think happened between us, but whatever it is, you’re wrong,” and with that Obi-Wan turns and begins walking out of the exhibit before Anakin can refute or comment on Obi-Wan’s building anxiety, giving him no choice but to follow.

The walk out of the museum, their time sitting and people watching at a nearby cafe, and the walk back to the forested area follow a similar pattern: Anakin trying to do some digging with heavy insinuations, Obi-Wan denying vehemently any theories and offering scant details, and neither one willing to back down from their stance. It’s an old familiar rhythm, and despite it being grating at times, it’s nice to feel a sense of normalcy with Anakin once more.

Eventually, they make it back up to their hidden sanctuary in the sky and part ways for the day. Once back in his dwelling, Obi-Wan sits down on a cushioned chair and mulls over his day. While going to the museum was fun and enlightening, his mind wanders back to a certain museum curator. The dark horse of the day. The unexpected detail. His beacon of light.

There’s something more to you, something he wants so desperately to know. He practically itches to go back to the museum and keep talking with you. You’re intelligent, beautiful, and humorous. You’re the sun, moon, and stars. He knows he can’t pursue a romantic relationship with you, and he knows friendships with humans are frowned upon if they get too close, but he reasons to himself that one more visit down to earth to speak with you wouldn’t hurt anyone. With this in mind, he closes his eyes and begins to reach out to see if he can hear you once again, but as he’s doing so, a realization dawns on him.

Meeting you is the closest he’s come to believing in Fate, and despite this going against his beliefs, he’s ready to set sail on this unknown voyage and see where your next meeting takes him.

[vicecityhq]

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WITNESS(ES) SAY HE REMINDS THEM OF: the last plump dumpling on the plate that you and your friend fight over, the betrayal you feel when you drink a milkshake that’s too cold and get a brain freeze but it’s too good to stop, and the buzzing of a bumble bee flitting from flower to flower. With a slight resemblance to LEE JOOHEON  (JOOHONEY) of/the MONSTA X.

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FULL FILE:

Last Name, First Name: Kkul Beol (actually his full name. He doesn’t have a surname) ALIAS: Yellowjacket Realm of birth(if earth, nationality): Divine Realm Age: Unknown, but has lived 26 years in Earth realm Date of Birth: May 20th (aka World Bee Day) Gender: Male Preferred Pronouns: he/him or they/them Species: Spiritual Fairy Occupation: The Howlers, Dealer Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

VISUAL FILE:

Skin Color: Milky, pale Eye color: Varies Scars: None Piercings: Ears, Dimple piercings Tattoos:When he doesn’t have his wings out, they manifest as bold linework that follows along his shoulder blades and down his back. He has a colorful fairy pinup girl on his right inner forearm. A bumble bee design on his left upper arm that blends into a fairy circle tattoo on that inner forearm. Various weeds and flowers on his legs. Hair color: Varies Abnormalities: Since Beol can reinvent his physical form to his liking, his features may change on a whim. However, he does tend to stick to the same form, with only his hair and eye color varying. Transformed form:As a spiritual fairy, Beol’s physical form is only a formality that allows him to better experience the world. His spiritual presence is formless and genderless. It is almost like looking at dust when it catches the light.

PERSONAL FILE:

RELIGIOUS BELIEF:  N/A SINS:  greed  /  gluttony  /  sloth  / lust  /  pride  /  envy  /  wrath VIRTUES: chastity  /  charity  /  diligence  /  humility /  kindness /  patience /  justice KNOWN LANGUAGES: Korean, English, Gaelic SECRETS: Beol manages to get out of being prosecuted for his crimes by charming the officers who try to arrest him with his fairy dust or using illusions to escape. SAVVIES: drawing, getting tattooed, playing pranks. Powers & Abilities: fairy dust manipulation, healing, wish granting (but it usually has a hidden caveat), semi-immortality, empathy, energy manipulation and absorption, energy barriers, energy blasts, malleable anatomy/shapeshifting, spirit physiology, illusions, intangibility, possession, telekinesis (via fairy dust manipulation), teleportation.  Traits: (positive) chipper, animated, fun-loving and playful. (negative) fickle, impatient, gets petulant when things don’t go his way, doesn’t realize his pranks can be harmful or perhaps he feigns ignorance. Aesthetics: the last plump dumpling on the plate that you and your friend fight over, the betrayal you feel when you drink a milkshake that’s too cold and get a brain freeze but it’s too good to stop, and the buzzing of a bumble bee flitting from flower to flower.

BACKGROUND CHECK:

Date of Birth: May 20th, year unknown Date of Death: N/A Crime Record: Beol knows that he should avoid getting entangled with the authorities at all costs, but his innately mischievous nature contradicts rationality. He rather enjoys skating on thin ice when it comes to getting caught. When he was a “teen,” he often got in trouble for truancy, vandalism, and theft. Now, as an “adult,” he has to be far more conscious about getting caught. He has been charged with possession and possession with the intent to distribute, but - miraculously - has not served any jail time.

Background/Biography:

In a time long ago, Celts used to believe that when a person slept or entered a hypnotic state that their soul left the body in the form of a bee. Sometimes those souls got lost on the way back (or perhaps were detained) and found their way to the divine realm of the fae, where they would become what is known as spiritual fairies. Or at least that was the story Beol’s mother told them, but the reality was that there was no living fae who remembered exactly where they originated. Their mother would affectionately call them their ‘wandering little bee’ because Beol was an adventurous child who could never be tied down in one place. It came as no surprise to them when Beol decided to leave the realm they’d always known and venture out into the human world.

When Beol crossed over to the mortal plane, they embraced the incredibly different way of life with childish wonder and enthusiasm. At first they explored in their spiritual form and enjoyed playing all sorts of pranks on unsuspecting humans, but - as is typical of the fickle nature of fairies - that grew boring quickly. Beol eventually constructed a physical form so they could better interact with others around them. Being a young and playful soul, Beol chose the façade of a school-aged child since their fun-loving antics were very similar to his own. What he didn’t take into account, though, was that a parentless, vagrant child stood out and it wasn’t long before his friend’s parents became concerned for his well-being.

In his naivety, Beol didn’t think much of it when they’d asked where he lived and who looked after him, telling them that he took care of himself and stayed wherever he wanted. That naturally led to the police being contacted and Beol was placed in an orphanage until they could find a family for him. Truthfully, he could have simply flitted off and ventured someplace new, but the idea of living with other kids sounded like an eternal sleepover to him and how could that be bad? Of course, it wasn’t all rainbows and butterflies in the system. Many of the orphans came from broken homes and were passed around to fosters that were no better. They’d come back with new scars and bereft of their smiles, their innocence gobbled up by the darkness within others.

Beol couldn’t stand seeing them hurt. He could vividly imagine how they’d gotten each bruise like he’d experienced it himself and felt their anguish like a bottomless pit in the center of his chest. Yet he wasn’t powerless to fight against it like they were and Beol quickly went from using his abilities for harmless fun to avenging his friends. He would go out of his way to be assigned to their previous foster parents and would make sure to traumatize them so much with his illusion magicks that they never dared to take in another child again. While it did make him feel better, his habit of terrorizing parents tarnished his record and made him increasingly difficult to adopt out. Not that that bothered Beol. Sure, it was hard watching his friends eventually leave to go with loving parents, but protecting those that remained had become his responsibility and he knew he wouldn’t be able to do that if he left. Besides, he had parents and didn’t need new ones, even if his counselors never believed him when he told them.

As he “aged” into teenage years, Beol’s outer image evolved to suit his interests and style. He became close with the more rebellious crowd, other lost boys and girls like himself who couldn’t care less about authority or conforming to what society wanted. They spent more time in seedy pc bangs and back alleys sharing a pack of smokes than they did in school or hoping for families that would never accept them. It was around this time that he actually came out about what he really was and where he’d come from, though that identity seemed like a far off memory now. He was no longer a shade wearing the suit of a man and could freely embrace his quirkier side without worrying about anyone disapproving.

INTERVIEW QUESTION (para sample): “Just run us through what happened that night”. - Officer

This charade always amused Beol. Every time he found himself in this position, with an officer staring him down on the other side of the table in the cramped interrogation room, he wondered why their initial play was to put on this veil of ignorance. As if they didn’t already know what he did or have evidence against him. Did it actually work on suspects? He assumed that most people dug themselves into a hole trying to weave a pitiful fallacy with the same gusto as a scared child blaming the broken vase on the cat in the hopes that it would exonerate them. Beol, on the other hand, was a sophisticated liar and not burdened with the pressing need to evade something. He could phase out of the room right before their very eyes, after all. So the only reason he had to deceive them was simply because it was fun.

“Well, I can’t just start with last night, officer. That’s not how good storytelling works.” He countered coyly and rocked the chair back onto the two rear legs so he could kick his clunky boots up onto the table. Dirt and grime broke loose from the deep grooves in the sole and fell onto the open file set out before the policeman who was trying his best to see unperturbed, but Beol relished in the neigh imperceptible way his jawline tensed in annoyance. “It all began when my parents died in a tragic car accident and I was adopted by my rotten aunt and uncle. You know, they always told me my father was a drunk and that the apple wouldn’t fall far from the tree. So at least I’m exceeding someone’s expectations. Anyway, this one day, we went to the zoo for my cousin’s birthday and there was this enormous python-”

[keelywolfe]

FIC: A Judicious Amount of Effort (SpicyHoneyMustard, lemon)

Summary: After a Judgement, Rus needs his lovers and protectors more than ever. Is there anything they won't do for him?

Tags: SpicyHoneyMustard, Fontcest, Fellcest, Sibling Incest, Threesome, Established Relationship, Possessive Behavior, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, LEMONY GOODNESS!!

Sequel to:

Showtime

Secret Garden

~~*~~

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was a simple truth that patience was a learned skill. Some were born with it, the same that they were born with their magical traits or the ability to recall a song only heard once. Red could be endlessly patient when circumstances called for it, outwardly placid and if there was anything roiling within him beneath the surface, none of it ever emerged in the light of day.

Patience did not come to Edge as easily. For him it was a learned behavior and joining the guard was a good training in the art of how to wait. It would never be innate to him, but these days Edge managed well enough.

Except on Judgment days.

In the Underground, the Judgement Hall in New Home had been elegant, golden and ethereal, worthy of an avatar of the Angel. Though he’d only seen it once Edge remembered it with perfect clarity, and no wonder; that was the day he took his vows, kneeling before the previous Judge and swearing his fealty to the Angel as his brother had done only a couple years before him. That was before Rus, before he and Red were Chosen, and there were times his dreams altered the memory, set him kneeling before Rus as he looked down at him with the terrible, empty sockets of Judge to deem whether he was worthy.

On the Surface, things were markedly different. For one, rather than a Judgement Hall, it was more of a corner office in the Embassy and while Edge, having never been inside, didn’t know anything about the décor, it hardly seemed elegant for a Judging to take place around the corner from the copy machine.

Outside was a sitting area with several comfortable chairs, large enough even for the Queen, and Edge wondered sourly what the rest of the Monster community would think if they knew that those awaiting the results of a Judgement sat around in a waiting room reminiscent of a Human dentist office.

This was where Edge was currently standing, moving restlessly from one end of the room to the other, his hard-won patience strained as he waited for Rus to reemerge.

Queen Toriel was flipping through a magazine and did not look up as she said, "He may well be a while, Edge, you can sit down."

It was difficult not to pull himself to attention at a mere word from the Queen, though her standards were far more lax than the Guards. Edge did incline his head to her and said politely, "Thank you, your majesty, but if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer to stand."

The Queen did look up from her magazine then. Her eyes were a deeper shade of red than his own eye lights and though she seemed ageless to most, it was the depths of her eyes that gave her away. "It is not all the same to me," she said mildly. "You hovering about is making me nervous. Now, make an old woman happy and sit. We both know it takes some time to act as Judge, Jury, and Executioner."

"He's not an executioner," Edge said shortly. Inwardly, he cringed at defying the Queen’s word, but he could not bear remaining silent. "He takes them to one HP. If that's enough for them to dust, then it's the weight of their sins that kill them, not him."

It was something he told Rus often after a Judgement, late at night in the darkness of their rooms when he woke screaming, clutching at him and Red, sobbing from the terrible memories haunting him that were not his own.

The corner of the Queen’s mouth quirked up and she nodded in acknowledgement, “You’re right, of course. I stand corrected.” She sighed heavily then and set the magazine aside, glossy paper slapping against the tabletop. “No matter how the Judgement ends, it’s difficult for him to manage after, isn’t it.”

It was not a question and Edge did not answer.

“When we were still Underground there would have been a score of Monsters in your position,” she said, sadly. "Tasked with protecting and caring for our Judge, giving him whatever he requires."

Edge stiffened, said nothing, but Toriel would not have been the leader that she was if not for her shrewdness. She chuckled a bit, retrieving her magazine and opening it to an article about easy dinner recipes as she told him, "Have no fear, I'm not considering anything that might change your arrangement and Rus certainly has no complaints. You were both Chosen and that’s the end of it. I daresay no Judge could ask for better Companions. You and your brother are very dedicated to him."

Edge only offered a curt nod. He had little interest in discussing his relationship with Rus with anyone, even or perhaps especially to the Queen.

When the previous Judge passed and Rus was Chosen, what remained of the guard were lined up for a Choosing of their own. They’d all known what the job entailed and while Edge never expected to be Chosen, he’d been ready to service the Judge as required.

He hadn’t been prepared for Rus. Couldn’t have guessed that he’d grow love him as deeply and desperately as he did, soundly rejected the idea of anyone other than himself and Red touching him. The Judge might belong to all Monsters, to the Angel and the Maker, to everyone, but Rus was theirs alone.

The door opening made them both look up as Rus stepped out. No, Edge realized, he was mistaken, it was the Judge who stood before them in incongruous mysticism next to the floral prints on the neutrally painted walls. Utterly emotionless, their voice held none of the vibrancy of Rus, the laughter that was always only a pun away. It was only the Judge who said in low monotone. "It Is Finished."

The Queen stood, but before she could speak, those empty sockets swung to Edge. If they chose, they could see into the very corners of his soul, send every sin he’d ever committed crawling up his spine, pushed him to the very edge of his sanity.

But their face only softened at the sight of him, moving over him without the weight of Judgement.

“Why are you staring at me?” Edge asked boldly. Some would say suicidally, teetering on the line of horrific disrespect.

If anything, that look only softened further, “Because We Love You.”

Then his sockets flickered, pale eye lights reforming to meet Edge's gaze. Only to immediately roll heavenward and Edge lunged forward to catch him as Rus silently folded to the ground.

The queen took a half-step forward with a sound of concern, reaching out.

"I have him," Edge said, hoisting Rus into his arms where he hung limply, his skull lolling against Edge’s shoulder.

“Take him back to his rooms,” Toriel said heavily, and ageless was not how anyone would describe her now. In this moment it seemed as if every one of her years was pressing down upon her. “I’ll handle the rest.”

Edge nodded, turning on his heel to carry Rus away. He was always so terribly light; his low HP was one of the marks of his status as Judge, as did the massive amounts of his available magic, a delicate contrast in power and frailness.

Now he felt almost weightless in Edge's arms, the only heaviness about him were the shadows beneath his sockets. The lone possible saving grace was the lack of dust on the hem of his robes. It could be the one he Judged was still alive, curled up on the floor as they wept beneath the weight of punishment, clinging to the shred of Mercy that allowed them a chance to do better.

The path to their quarters was a direct one with no access for any others. Edge followed it swiftly and the door swung open as he approached, his watchful brother waiting. The moment he walked through, it was closed again, locked and secured; the Judge was never more vulnerable than right after a Judgement.

Edge kept walking to their bedroom which also served as a saferoom. No one would be getting inside and even if they did, the Angel asked for no punishment for what Edge and Red might do in the name of the Judge.

Gently, Edge settled Rus on the bed while Red secured the last door, locks and spells settling into place as he asked, "how’s he doin’?"

"It was a bad one," Edge said gruffly. His unconsciousness was proof of that much. As carefully as he could, Edge began to strip away Rus’s robes. They were easy enough to open despite Rus’s constant complaints about getting tangled up in them. A few simple ties here and there that needed tugged and everything fell open to the bare bones beneath.

Rus shivered and Edge hastened to pull up the blankets, heavy layers of soft coziness, chosen for precisely this. Behind him, he could hear the clink of cups and water pouring, the clatter of the spoon as Red stirred in a healthy dollop of honey with the ease of long-time experience.

Rus’s sockets were fluttering as Red brought the cup over, pale eye lights pausing briefly on Edge, then searching out the one he couldn’t see as Rus tried to roll over, slurring out, “red?”

Steaming cup in hand, Red sat on the edge of the mattress, "right here, honey bear."

Rus grimaced a little, “don' like that one.”

“sorry, sweetheart,” Red smoothed a gentle hand down Rus’s skull, his cracked fingers a stark contrast to smooth, untouched bone. “i’ll hafta make a list of pet names for ya to pick through.”

“you only want to know the ones i hate so you can use them the most,” Rus accused. He almost sounded like his normal teasing self.

“you know me so well,” Red murmured, then louder. “come on, honey, sit up, you need to get somethin’ in you.”

Obediently, Rus did, sipping the tea. As he drank, the blanket slowly slipped down to pool at his pelvis, the tease of it made blatant as he asked, “what if i want something better in me?”

“oh, you are feeling better,” Red chuckled. The two of them moved closer, kneeling on either side of him as Red crooned out, “what do you need, baby?”

"make me feel good." Rus swallowed, a golden flush rising his cheek bones, but he still said, boldly, "both of you. i want both of you. inside me." The delightful mental picture of that made the unsatisfied desire still lingering in Edge’s soul from that afternoon flare hotly, eagerly.

“Whatever you say,” Edge murmured to him, low and throaty, and when the empty cup slipped from Rus’s limp hold, he caught it and set it aside.

Rus was still wobbly-weak, an easily maneuverable rag doll that Edge moved and coaxed into sitting on his lap, facing away from him with Rus straddling his femurs. Before he did anything else, Edge settled one hand to rest somewhat chastely on Rus’s iliac crests, away from the honeyed magic beginning to settle into his pelvis. With the other, he took hold of Rus’s chin, turning his head to take a sweetly charged kiss, exploring the plush magic of his mouth with a gentle tongue.

Their moans were muffled, Rus’s sudden cry caught against Edge’s teeth. Whatever his brother was doing to make the bedsprings creak and Rus squirm must be particularly effective.

An odd number of hands scrabbled for Edge’s fly in unsteady coordination as they loosened his belt, lowered his zipper. The hand that circled his cock trembled, cool, slim fingers drawing him out, guiding him to where Rus is already wet and waiting, his entrance clenching emptily as Edge nudged his way inside.

Tight, wet heat surrounded him and Edge fought for control, resisting the urge to pull Rus fiercely down on his cock, to force his hips to move, riding him relentlessly until Rus cried out, begging and pleading for more as the garbled mess of his words dissolved into incoherent cries. He’d asked for both of them and Edge would give him what he asked for, whatever Rus asked of them.

Halfway inside, Edge paused, licking his teeth and tasting his own sweat as Rus tightened briefly around him, as if his pussy was asking for more without consulting Rus about it. Instead of obliging, Edge reached between Rus’s legs to trace where they were joined. Slickness was trickling down and Edge wetted his fingers, carefully pressing one alongside his cock. The increasing tightness made him groan aloud and even though he knew very intimately otherwise, for a moment it seemed as though even his slender finger won’t fit, much less another cock. He traced the slippery lips coaxingly, persuading them to relax enough for him to push in.

In his lap, Rus sighed and squirmed, his pussy tightening and loosening infinitesimally as Edge inched his finger inside.

Only for his brother to interrupt. His varied skills at patience didn’t tend to extend to Rus and he interjected lazily, “let me, bro.”

Another finger joined his own with far less care, pushing almost roughly inside and Rus cried out, hands scrambling to clutch at Edge’s knees and Edge would have glared at Red for it if he wasn’t abruptly struggling for his own control, trying desperately not to come as Rus panted and whimpered, his pelvis moving helplessly between Edge’s cock and their moving fingers.

It was a difficult stretch, working up a bit more space inside the achingly tight passage. Honey-gold ectoflesh slowly yielding until both their fingers glided with ease.

“think that’s enough, sweetheart.” Red was panting heavily, and Edge wasn’t sure if he truly thought Rus was opened enough to take them both or if he simply couldn’t wait any longer, but Edge didn’t ask, his own limit fast approaching. He pulled out his finger with a slick, obscene sound as Red arranged himself, his bare legs settling overtop of Edge’s as he lined up and began to push in.

The sudden increase of pressure around him made Edge grit his teeth, focusing on holding Rus upright as he whimpered. Rus spread his femurs wider as if he could make more space inside himself that way while Red struggled to force his shaft inside.

There was a round of gasps as the head of his cock pried its way in, the rest of the shaft following abruptly as Red thrust in deeply, then stilled. The three of them sat together, Edge and Red petting Rus’s sweat-slick bones, struggling out soothing words as Rus trembled between them, his face screwed up in a twisted rictus of pain and pleasure. It was difficult to think with the incredible tightness squeezing his cock, the first warnings of orgasm tingling at the base of is spine, and yet, Edge tried, focusing on anything else, on the scraping pressure of his brother’s legs over his own, the prickle of sweat trailing like sins down his spine, fuck, he’d be willing to think of Toriel and her endless teasing of Rus if it helped him keep control.

His patience was well-learned, but it was straining at the end of its leash, even as the pressure surrounding him slowly eased.

“i think…i think i’m okay,” Rus finally whispered. He squirmed a bit, testing, then with almost desperate deliberateness, his pelvis rocking between them as he groaned out, “oh! oh, fuck, yes, please!”

Edge’s position was a difficult one, with Rus and Red’s weight both pinning them down. He was forced to depend on his brother moving, drawing slowly out then back in, finding a rhythm that left Rus quickly trembling on the crest of orgasm, frantic cries spilling into the air around them.

Edge was no better off. The friction of his brother's cock moving against his own was exquisite, unbearable, dragging along the length of his shaft, ridged heads briefly rubbing even as Red thrust back into Rus’s wet, clenching heat. The raggedness of his breathing was loud inside his skull and Edge could only hold on to them both, dimly unaware of whose bones he was gripping painfully as Rus’s cunt went tight around him, rippling and throbbing excruciatingly as he peaked.

He wasn’t going to last, Edge realized abruptly, it was too much, his control was slippery and lost, and he could only groan plaintively, breath hissing between his teeth as he screwed his sockets closed and came into the gloriously hot, wet grip of Rus’s pussy. Bones clattered as he was wracked with a shock of purest bliss, trying to thrust up, to get even deeper despite the weight pinning him.

“oh, fuck,” Red gasped out and even caught up as he was in overwhelming sensation, Edge dimly understood. The heat of his come filling Rus’s pussy was another layer of sensation, leaving him drenched and loosened as Edge’s shaft softened inside him even as Red moved brutally faster.

Barely, he had enough coherence left to fumble a hand between Rus’s spread femurs, feeling down between his legs for the swollen nub of his clit to circle with his thumb. Rus quivered in his arms and he felt back further, careless fingers exploring where Red was still frantically thrusting. A mischievous urge struck him, and Edge circled the base of the shaft with his thumb and forefinger, gripping hard. Immediately, his brother cursed explosively, and Edge felt it both from the inside and out as Red pushed in deeply and held, the blossoming heat of his come spurting thickly against Edge’s shaft making him hiss.

Between them, Rus was sobbing, pleading as he struggled to reach another crest. Red reached for his clit even as Edge guiltily redoubled his efforts, their slippery fingers moving in tandem, exhausted and knowing. It was enough. Rus’s fingers dug into Edge’s femurs painfully, scraping bone even through trousers as his pussy throbbed, tightening almost painfully around overstimulated ectoflesh as he tipped over in a last orgasm.

He slumped almost immediately, held up only by Edge and Red’s arms, barely sighing as they both carefully withdrew and settled him to lay back on the sheets. There were soft cloths on the side table and a bowl of water set into a warmer. Between them, they cleaned the mess from Rus’s bones, tenderly wiping away sweat and the kaleidoscope spatter of their mingled fluids.

Edge thought he was already asleep, any lingering sign of the Judge clinging to him fucked away, and it was only when Rus spoke that he realized otherwise, his voice small and uncertain.

“if i asked you two to kiss, would you?”

The question made Edge still, setting the damp cloth aside as he looked into Rus’s blushing face. His sockets were scrunched deliberately closed, refusing to open even as Edge gently stroked his brow and cheek bones.

He looked at his brother instead, sitting on Rus’s other side. His expression was cool and unreadable, offering him nothing.

“Is that what you want?” Edge asked neutrally. He would, if Rus wished it. He had no particular objection to it; they’d known from the start what this involved. The awkwardness surrounding it had long since faded and truth be told, he loved to watch Red with Rus as he pleasured him with tongue and cock, and knew the sentiment was one Red returned. Sharing Rus was a unique delight, in every form of the word. But while touching each other was perfectly acceptable, neither was it something they usually sought without Rus between them.

“no,” Rus said hurriedly, though it was still too small, too soft. “i only wondered—"

“honey love,” Red interrupted, “i love my bro, but it ain’t the same way as you. i wanna see him fucking you, don’t really want that so much for myself.” Confirming Red felt as he did. Then he surprised Edge by saying. “but i think we can manage a kiss if you want that for your spank bank.”

Rus swallowed audibly, his sockets creeping open. He was obviously wavering between his hopeful wants and his fears that he was asking for something that they didn’t truly want to give. They’d given vows to provide him with whatever he wished, to meet all of his desires, and that was exactly what Rus did not want from them. That truth was only one of many that left Edge helpless against loving him.

He threaded his fingers through Rus’s, bringing their entwined hands up to his mouth to gently kiss his knuckles reassuringly, trying without words to tell him that this wasn’t too much to ask.

Rus still wavered, blinking too hard and too often, before finally giving in, whispering out, “please?”

Anything for you, Edge did not say. He turned to his brother, who was kneeling bare bones on Rus’s other side, his compact frame deliberately relaxed and revealing nothing of the coiled strength held within it. His razor-toothed mouth was quirked in a knowing smile, sockets hooded, and he didn’t move a single inch, forcing Edge to lean in and duck his head to kiss him.

Navigating both their sharp teeth was something of a challenge, but one easily managed, tongues gliding cautiously against each other. His brother tasted of Rus, cloyingly sweet, and beneath it, the earthier spice of his own magic surfaced like a taunt. Almost, Edge wanted to chase that taste, to delve into his brother’s mouth and find more, untainted by Rus’s sweetness.

He resisted the urge. This was for Rus, their Rus, he was watching, and Edge only lingered briefly, boldly sweeping his tongue over Red’s to steal a last discreet taste before drawing away. Their eye lights met in a brief glance before hurrying back to Rus.

Edge cleared his throat, “Was that what you wanted?”

“yeah,” Rus breathed, staring with greedily wide sockets. He blinked, sheepishness flitting across his face, “and if i wasn’t so tired, i’d ask for a kiss of my own.”

Red chuckled and leaned in, brushing his mouth over Rus’s and lingering when his teeth parted. Edge did not wonder if his brother tasted of him, only watched until they reluctantly parted, Red murmuring, “take a nap, butter bear, and when ya wake up, we’ll kiss ya wherever ya want.”

“what does butter bear even mean?” Rus mumbled, but the words were split by an enormous yawn. He reached out for them, hands limply hopeful and they both settled on either side of him, arms settling in a loose tangle as they held him close.

Soon, he slept, his breathing slow and even. Edge lay next to him, awake, and knew his brother was as well, curled up against Rus’s other side. They’d sleep later, when Rus was rested and less vulnerable. He could only hope that there would be no nightmares this time, a tenuous wish for peaceful sleep for his love.

But as he lay there in the dark, Edge couldn’t help wondering what other things Rus might like to see, if he were bold enough to ask.

-fin

Read the next chapter

[peepingtoad]

Anonymous said: What is Jiraiya's stance on the Will of Fire? Before and after the war? Does he still abide by it, or come to abandon it? | headcanon/development asks | always accepting! |

To begin talking about the Will of Fire, one really must talk about where it begins to be part of shinobi life--that being, from the very beginning. Children with the talent to become shinobi, who are trained from as early on in their lives as their superiors will dare to train them, are spoken to about the Will of Fire—the vague premise that all shinobi of the Leaf are born with this indomitable will and strength of character that sets them apart, no matter who they are.

To be told one has the Will of Fire as a child not even in his double digits, a child with no heritage nor even a consistent guardian to speak of, a child with seemingly little talent compared to his peers... is a great source of pride and motivation. It makes him feel like part of the village in which he often inexplicably felt like something slightly ‘other’, like he is one of the special ones with this gift to protect, to preserve, to forge new paths, to change the world.

It’s his Will of Fire that enables him to get up in the morning bright and early, to feed himself as best as he can and be ready to put in back-breaking effort, to become better than the lazy and unambitious boy that first got tied to the stump. It’s his Will of Fire that gives him greater drive to do more than just attract the attention of girls, to become stronger and overcome his difficulties focusing and learning. It’s his Will of Fire that makes him so protective of his friends, so empathetic of their feelings, that makes him desire nothing more than to lift them up.

When he made his first kill, he was told his survival and victory was down to the Will of Fire he possessed. He, however, didn’t feel it. He felt sick. It felt nothing like the Will of Fire he’d formed in himself, in his heart, and yet now he was being told that that—what he did to that shinobi—was exhibiting the Will of Fire.

He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. This was how he learned, the hard way, that the Will of Fire was not truly intended to be something innate, at least, not a driving force unique to each individual... but was simply the Will that had been imposed by their rulers, that they possessed merely by being Konoha shinobi. And the Will imposed on him that day was to kill a man.

This was learned before he ever fought any world wars, although the flames of the First still raged on in numerous areas, animosity that had never been fully resolved waxing and waning, but never truly dying down until tensions mounted and reached boiling point once again. 

At some point growing up, Jiraiya decided that despite the situations they were forced into, his Will of Fire truly was his own. It would never stop being sold to them as an ideal focused on the village and its ambitions, and he would see his closest friend come to revile the concept, but for Jiraiya who had his own very personal idea and sense of what that was? Who wasn’t completely shaken by it like Orochimaru was through the death of parents? Who had also been given a Prophecy that he really was destined for another path? The WIll of Fire became a term that, for him, perfectly described what he saw as his purpose—to drive onward, perhaps a little recklessly but always with passion, to be a force of change. A force of positivity and life and good.

Not to say it isn’t something he battles with, particularly throughout those two wars. The term really does become a buzz-phrase for unquestioning patriotism, the embodiment of ‘this is our will, and therefore yours’. It takes a lot for Jiraiya to keep in mind what his Will of Fire means to him to help drag him through those years, to hang on to what it and Konoha means to him, that it is more than just the current system in place, that it can be more... be bettter...

And in the end, yes, he does believe in the Will of Fire, but not as it’s taught. He believes everyone in Konoha possesses it—and that it embodies the collective drive to be what they want to see in the world, whether that means trying to change how people view their fellow man, changing themselves to become their very best, helping their friends to be their best, protecting one and one’s own, serving their village in complete faith... or changing their village itself.

[digitaldreams0801]

Tecna Profile

Name: Titania “Tecna” Petra Aster 

Age: 16

Gender: Nonbinary (she/her, they/them)

Birthday: December 16

Sexuality: Pansexual Polyamorous 

Magic: Technology

Astrological Sign: Triton 

Status: Commoner 

Occupation: Student 

Affiliation: Alfea College for Fairies 

Planet of Origin: Zenith 

Hobbies: Upgrading electronics, building technology, playing video games, coding, reading

Family: Medea Edith Aster (Mother), Preston William Aster (Father)

Position in Team: Tactician 

Pixie: Digit, Pixie of Data

Likes: Technology, being alone, cold weather, strategizing, inventing 

Dislikes: Crowds, her father, heat, being awkward, meeting new people

Appearance: Tecna is the tallest out of the Winx girls, standing at an impressive 6’4”. This also has her being taller than the Specialists due to her large quantities of Zenithian blood. She has pink hair, another trait from Zenith, cut in a pixie hairstyle close to her face with her hair covering one of her eyes. She has turquoise eyes leaning on the blue side of the spectrum. Tecna is lanky and skinny, appearing to be mostly skin and bones at a first glance. She lacks physical attacking strength due to her minimal amounts of muscle. Her posture is nearly perfect, but since she is so tall, she rarely makes eye contact with anyone. Tecna tends to wear more modest clothing due to growing up on one of the coldest planets in the Magical Dimension, hiding most of her skin under loose t-shirts and hoodies with long pants. Her skin is incredibly pale since she grew up without much sunshine and rarely went outside when it was light out. Her favorite colors to wear are on the cooler spectrum such as green, blue, purple, and turquoise. Tecna has pointed ears and a lower body temperature than usual, making her feel like ice to the touch.

Personality: Tecna is emotionally distant, to say the least. She doesn’t talk much with other people on matters of the heart, making her struggle to portray how she is feeling. When it comes to technological data, on the other hand, Tecna is natural at communicating. She seems to show off how smart she is without even intending to, seamlessly portraying all that she knows. She can figure most things out at a first glance, and if they do challenge her, it won’t take long for her to find the truth. Tecna doesn’t talk to many people unless they approach her first, having been taught as a child not to speak unless someone speaks to her first. She doesn’t know what emotions are meant to feel like after not being shown much affection growing up. When people show love towards her, she tends to respond with confusion and numbness, unsure of how to respond to such. Tecna holds confidence in herself simply because it hasn’t ever been challenged. Growing up, Tecna was told more of how to be rather than being allowed to develop on her own, making her come off as a robotic conglomerate of everything an upper-class family would want an heir to be like. However, she does want to connect with others after years of being alone without any children her own age to be friends with. Upon getting closer to other people who treat her with kindness, she tends to throw herself in danger if need be to ensure that they are protected. She loves her friends immensely, even if she isn’t sure how to display it. She’s an introvert by nature, preferring her time alone to being with many other people. She loves to learn more and researches new subjects often. Tecna is patient, calm, and smart while also being unsure of how to interact with others. 

Background: Tecna was born to Medea Edith Aster and Preston William Aster, an upper-class couple on Zenith. Preston led an important company producing technology with heavy ties to the leaders of the planet, making him partially a politician and partially a businessman. Medea was born to another important family in the business world and was pushed to marry Preston for the sake of increasing the power of her bloodline. Together, the two had a single child, who they named Titania. Preston had been looking forward to a son to pass the business onto, so when he wound up having a daughter, he grew angry. Medea was found to be infertile soon after giving birth to Titania, and Preston started to ignore them both to focus on his business. Titania attempted to reach out to him to the best of her ability, but he ignored all of her attempts to reach out due to his anger and disappointment, claiming he wasn’t able to reach out due to his focus on the business. Medea did her best to raise Titania, but she was often arguing with Preston while he was home and grew numb to the world, meaning she was a lackluster mother at best, even if she wasn’t openly horrible to her daughter. Medea did care, but she struggled showing it due to years of being manipulated causing her to grow distant from her emotions. Upon realizing Preston wanted a son instead of Titania, she attempted to adapt into a more masculine young girl with hopes of gaining his approval. Even so, Preston continued to ignore her, and the lack of care started to have a negative impact on her. Now, Titania was roughly ten. Throughout her childhood, she was tutored by many specialized teachers before going to a private school paid for by Preston, seemingly to get her to stop pestering him. Once she started going to school, Titania began to go by Tecna as a way of distancing herself from her father. Regardless of who was teaching her, Tecna excelled, showing herself to be a prodigy in her own right. Even with her success, Preston didn’t support her at all, leaving Medea as Tecna’s only supporter. Tecna started inventing things at around this time, finding a particular interest in technology. She also found herself to be a fairy, something surprising given that Preston and Medea both had minimal magic and couldn’t fight at all. After doing some research, Tecna decided that she wanted to go to Alfea, and she wound up getting a scholarship there based on academics alone since her father refused to support paying her way there despite having more than enough money to pay for Tecna’s tuition. Just before setting off, Tecna bid Medea goodbye, meeting with Preston one last time before leaving for Alfea. The two got into an argument about Preston’s lack of involvement in the sixteen years of his daughter’s life with Tecna saying that she never had his support growing up while countless others her age did have a father to lean on. Preston shrugged her off saying that he was too busy to involve himself in such trivial matters. Tecna snapped at him that he was selfish and would have been in her life if she had been born in a way that would have been optimal for him. She called him neglectful for ignoring her nearly all her life and manipulative for the way he treats Medea. Preston told her that she would never be able to understand his place in the world and the pressure that it brought, and Tecna vowed that she comprehended a lot more than he knew, not that he would realize it due to his absence. She internally decided to make a good life for herself as a way of getting back at his neglectful behavior before leaving for Alfea. Tecna held no guilt over the argument with her father since he never cared for her to begin with, allowing her to set out with a clear conscience and a wish to make a better future. 

Other: Tecna enjoys writing in her free time. After reading for many years as a child to escape her real life, she grew to hold a deep fondness for fiction regardless of the genre. She started writing when she turned roughly thirteen and has been ever since, but she doesn’t share her stories with anyone. There are some theories that she publishes her works online under an alias, but no evidence has ever been found of such due to her innate ability to hide things easily. Tecna has a fear of emotion, burying her thoughts in logic to keep from being swept up by feelings. As a child, she didn’t see much out of her mother, and she was only the subject of two primary emotions: disappointment from her father and pride from unnamed people who only wanted her for her prodigious mind. Since the disappointment was negative and the pride was empty, Tecna grew to be partially afraid of how people would feel towards her since it wasn’t ever genuine and positive. She doesn’t like to be excessively praised at first since it comes off as empty and manipulative since so many people only wanted her for her mind in the past. After a while, she learns about sarcasm and humor, and she takes full advantage of it at all times.

Position in Team:

Tecna is an impeccable tactician, enjoying playing strategy-based video games in her free time. She can use logic to find her way out of most situations, and her mind works quickly enough for her to find solutions in a timely manner. Tecna excels at using the environment to her advantage and can devise a strategy using the area around her quickly. She often gives the group orders in battle due to her position as the strategist even if she doesn’t hold an optimal demeanor to be a leader.

Dynamics:

Bloom: Bloom is a naturally patient person, and the two are polar opposites in the matter of emotional versus logical. The two are learning from one another slowly, with Bloom showing Tecna that emotion isn’t something to be feared and Tecna teaching Bloom how to think with her head in crucial moments. Even if they’re opposites, they value one another’s opinions greatly and listen to what the other has to say both in and out of battle, helping each other to expand their world views. 

Stella: Stella and Tecna spend a lot more time together than one would expect. They enjoy guilty pleasures together such as watching cartoons and reading mangas, discussing such often. Stella is happy to help Tecna with opening up to people more due to her extroverted nature, allowing them to mesh easily in an odd way. Stella gladly drags Tecna into talking with people, though Stella is careful about making Tecna overly uncomfortable while still taking her out of her comfort zone slowly.

Flora: Flora and Tecna are the two quietest girls in the group, and they enjoy quiet time together often. Flora approached Tecna first with hopes of pulling her out of her shell to talk with people a bit more often. Tecna was unsure of how to respond at first, but she slowly started to open up to Flora, realizing that perhaps emotion isn’t quite as bad as she was led to believe. Flora is the best at guiding Tecna through her steadily-developing emotions and is constantly patient with her.

Musa: Musa and Tecna are roommates at Alfea, and they get along perfectly. They understand the need to be quiet and are comfortable with enjoying silence around one another. Both of them have issues with their fathers and get along because of this. They never get into arguments either, understanding one another without even needing to speak. While both are quiet, they communicate well through body language, picking up on the other’s odd habits near instantly.

Aisha: Since Aisha was so physically apt and put a lot of focus on self-expression, Tecna didn’t know how to respond to Aisha’s joining the group, being the complete opposite. After a while though, the two did try to spend more time together, learning about different ways of expressing themselves (through actions from Aisha and words from Tecna) in the process. Aisha and Tecna are slowly working their way to showing their feelings openly after years of repression as well, being similar and treating each other with immense respect in that regard.

Roxy: Tecna invited Roxy to the party as soon as she joined the group, helping her into the ins and outs of being magical quickly. Tecna has grown to be much more open and emotional by the time Roxy joins the group, and she helps Roxy as a mentor figure, showing her pride openly and without hesitation. Tecna does a great job at teaching Roxy at a solid pace she can understand. Roxy, in turn, introduces Tecna to Earth media, which they enjoy together often.

Diaspro: Tecna and Diaspro are both emotionally distant from their parents and hid their feelings for many years. While Diaspro showed how she felt as an act of rebellion and a wish to take over her own fate, Tecna never had the drive to do so. Diaspro is the one to encourage Tecna to take charge of her life and to not let her father define her. Despite being radically different, they have a surprisingly strong relationship and enjoy talking a lot about what they’re going to do with their futures.

Sky: Tecna and Sky don’t have the chance to talk to each other much. Their relationship is based strictly on business, and they fight together well. They share a similar relationship to Tecna and Diaspro’s, but they don’t reach out to one another as often. They both long to take control of their own lives after years of being manipulated and pressed into a fate they didn’t wish for, making them both quiet rebels, though they don’t talk about such nearly as often as Tecna and Diaspro. 

Brandon: Brandon is surprisingly one of the more tactical members of the Specialist team, even if he’s not the designated strategist (that person being Timmy). He and Tecna get together every once in a while to test their mettle on strategy games, though Tecna beats him every time. Even so, they can learn from one another and devise new plans each time they meet up, allowing each other to see what the other would do in the same situation, improving their futual plots in battle.

Riven: Riven and Tecna can get the most sarcastic out of their respective groups and are similarly the most emotionally distant. Riven has a much greater temper than Tecna, easily growing angry and violent where Tecna is calm and patient. They don’t get along all that well due to their large differences in personality, but they don’t hate one another either. They rarely get into fights since Tecna refuses to respond when Riven gets too hostile, as in particularly bad moments, it can remind her of her father.

Timmy: Timmy and Tecna connected the fastest out of any Winx and Specialist combination. They’re both awkward, patient, love technology, and are distant from how they feel about other people. They’re best friends through and through, easily understanding each other without the need for words. Slowly but surely, they’re working on communicating how much they care about both each other and other people. They care greatly for each other and use one another as emotional rocks in a way.

Helia: Helia and Tecna don’t talk to one another very often but still get along well. They’re both quiet and are working on opening up to other people regarding their emotions. They express themselves differently but hold a strong relationship regardless. Helia found out where Tecna posts her writing online and figured out it was her after seeing into a notebook she dropped. He began to read her stories and found himself in love with them, but he doesn’t tell anyone the truth about her online identity as per Tecna’s wishes.

Nabu: By the time Nabu finds his way into the party, Tecna is much more open with herself. As such, she uses sarcasm often, and the two of them have snarky competitions from time to time, and it’s hard to find a winner. It’s all in good fun at the end of the day. Nabu finds himself indebted to Tecna due to her closing the Omega Portal before they met, and he’s incredibly grateful to her for saving his planet, causing him to go out of his way to ensure she’s safe and alive after meeting her, not that he would openly admit such.

Preston: Tecna holds a quiet enmity towards her father, even if she refuses to admit it to others. His lack of affectionate behavior towards her caused her to shut down emotionally as a child, leading to her immense struggles later in life. Preston’s open neglect and refusal to give her attention strained their relationship. Preston holds disappointment towards Tecna for not being the son he always wanted, and Tecna hates him for not accepting her as she was, instead being more in love with the image of a nonexistent child than her.

Medea: While Tecna does love Medea, the latter isn’t a good mother. Medea grew emotionally stunted after years of living with Preston, who openly manipulated and blamed her for his issues. She struggled to show her love for Tecna while the latter was little, and she wasn’t able to support her child due to her disconnection with reality. When Tecna grows up, Medea tries to better herself to improve her relationship with her daughter, and after a while, they connect in an attempt to make up for lost time.

Digit: Digit is similar to Tecna in their love of technology, but they are much more open with how they feel. Digit is outgoing and leads the pixies fearlessly, the complete opposite of quiet, reserved Tecna. Digit is happy to try and get Tecna to open up to others, believing that if she can build stronger relationships, it will help her greatly in the long run. Digit is Tecna’s biggest fan, encouraging her always. The two play video games together often, and Digit is the sole person Tecna has told about her secret online writings.

[amwritingmeta]

14x14: Noah as Representative of Suppression/Repression

Dean, Sam, Cas and Jack are all at a crossroads. How huge that crossroads is and how long they’ll be stood at it, weighing their options, remains to be seen, but Yockey firmly placed them there in this episode and he did it, to my mind, through using Noah as the needed tool to up the stakes, as it were.

I wrote in an ask response about one side to Noah’s representative qualities in the narrative, where I can see his boredom with the same old routine (his fate, as he calls it) to be a reflection of Dean’s boredom with casual sex and subtle exposition of exactly why Dean hasn’t been engaging with it for so long: he craves something more satisfying. (because he’s in love) 

And though Noah is violent, he’s not violent for the sake of violence, the way Michael is shown to be at the end of this very same episode, and as such Noah isn’t, for me, a representative of toxic masculinity. Mostly because Michael so firmly holds onto that title, but also because of Noah’s distaste for having to cook humans for supper. He’d rather not, but nature left him the choice of this or death. And he’s not going to sacrifice himself, which, as far as the natural order goes, is fairly understandable.

(he’s not a human eating other humans) (he’s a demigod requiring humans for sustenance) (there’s a crude but real difference to the two concepts)

The fact that Noah isn’t a toxic masculinity representative, though, is extremely significant to me.

So, in this post I’d like to outline my thoughts on the second side to Noah’s representative qualities, as I see them, and talk a bit about the deeply ingrained patterns of suppression/repression that exists in each of our main characters.

Definitions -->

Suppression is a psychological term for when we consciously push down unwanted thoughts or urges. Used healthily this is where self-control lies, but when an unwanted emotion or urge is ignored out of fear, this suppression tactic can turn into a pattern of behaviour that may lead to unhealthy coping mechanisms (like drinking, casual sex, violent outbursts, addiction to danger etc) *side eye Dean Winchester* and irrational behaviour and lack of self-control due to lack of self-awareness.

Repression is a psychological term for when we push down unwanted thoughts, urges or very often memories into our unconscious, where our conscious mind is protected from having to deal with these particulars, because our conscious mind is kept wholly unaware that these particulars are a part of us. However, these repressed thoughts, urges or memories will push to be recognised, because anything we try to simply forget, that is deeply affecting, will never stay forgotten, and being unable to confront these buried thoughts, urges or memories may result in unhealthy outlets, such as the coping mechanisms and irrational behaviour mentioned above.

Noah

Though what exactly the gorgon represents truly is up for interpretation, the simple facts are:

Noah the gorgon in and of himself is a snake symbol, and per the ouroboros of the title, the snake symbolism in 14x14 might be leaning towards renewal, rebirth and a conjoining of opposites rather than, you know, the snake that brought knowledge to mankind and helped us rebel........ Yeah, kinda good either way you look at it, no?

Noah also Biblically brought the flood, which is a mighty symbol of rebirth, so he’s this double-edged sword where both edges spell renewal

Noah looks at you, assesses you and sees the truth of you, established with the truck driver, his note to Dean and with Jack - a bit of a narrative tie to Michael in 14x01, who blasted onto the scene reading the truth of people’s motivations left and right, and subtle foreshadowing of how Michael will shed Dean, and go looking for a new skin *shudder’

Noah enjoys both men and women (yes indeed bisexual symbol and nope I am not the first to point this out of course)

That’s the basic makeup of Noah’s demigod character, yeah?

Now, there’s a lot of moments in this episode that, to me, highlight the suppression/repression tendencies in TFW 2.0 and push for the much needed confrontation these moments lead into with Noah, as well as the repercussions that follow this very confrontation, culminating in the deaths at the bunker and Jack’s standoff with Michael.

Self-deception, thy collective face is Three Men and I’m Not a Baby -->

Sam

Darling Sam. He is so deep in his suppression of his superficial fear of how everything is not at all fine or okay, as well as in his deeply repressed fears that go back years and are a part of his identity makeup, that he can’t even stand a fair questioning from someone who knows a great deal about exactly the situation he’s putting himself in, as she later even points out in dialogue.

Sam leans heavily on the belief that everything will work out in the end, as long as they think it will, and his behaviour is, to me, a very sharp critique of the blinding power of the codependency, because the innate fears (repressed fear of failure and loss of identity) that has kept the codependency at the heart of how Sam and Dean relate themselves to each other is what is making Sam incapable of taking a step back and assessing their situation with any clarity. 

Instead, he recites the age old belief system and shuts himself off from questioning it in any way:

Dean will be okay, because Dean has to be okay. 

Jack is fine, because Jack has to be fine.

Sam’s loyalty to Dean is what makes Sam insist on Dean coming home after Sam talks Dean out of getting in that box, and then that same loyalty makes Sam insist on them acting as though everything is normal, thinking this is the only way he can support Dean, because this is how Dean has always handled every situation. 

But Sam in a leader position should think of the safety of those following him, he should see the very real threat of Michael getting free, and should take steps to protect the innocent people who end up dying at the hands of Michael.

I’m not saying their deaths are Sam’s fault, because Sam didn’t tell Michael to kill them, but their deaths are a narrative punishment for Sam’s inability to see past old patterns and learn from old mistakes.

Sam takes a huge risk bringing Dean back to the bunker, especially after he’s knocked out cold in this episode and even Cas can’t see what the hell is going on in his head, and if Sam wasn’t blinded by the patterns of the codependency, he might not have made that executive decision to begin with.

Btw, I’m also not prescribing the brothers shouldn’t have each other’s backs or should look at every dangerous situation with cold calculation, but when the lives of a group of innocent people are at stake, taking that step back and seeing the bigger picture might be preferable for everyone involved. 

Sam’s suppression/repression of his fears, and his inability to confront the fact that his fear of failure is keeping him tethered to his brother (because he’s using Dean’s presence as a security blanket, even when Sam’s the one in the leader position) is manifested through the fact that Sam can’t stop Noah, representative of suppression/repression.

Noah tosses Sam across the room like he’s made out of tissue paper because Noah represents all those things that are continually kicking Sam’s ass and making him run from taking real responsibility. 

And the way for Sam to shoulder individual responsibility and move towards his true identity, an identity that in no way is defined by his relationship to Dean? 

Well, to my mind, Sam needs to dare to believe that he’s a good and strong leader in his own right.

Sam has a default attitude of We Can Fix This Together, which is good, but that attitude without sound leadership and realistic risk assessment is bad. 

He’s the born leader. Once he’s balanced and begins to realise that teamwork still requires a strong team leader, he’ll be fucking golden.

*so Sam stating in 14x15 that he has to stop running made my heart sing* *hoping it sticks*

Dean

Dean, Dean, Dean. This episode made it very clear that he’s still very much not believing at all that there’s any way Sam and Cas can find a way to defeat Michael. He says to Cas that he promised to give them time, meaning Dean’s not part of this taking time deal. This is weighty af, because of course he’s the only one who can actually find another way, if he only dared try.

But he doesn’t dare to, because he’s completely ruled by his fear of failure, just like Sam is, only for Dean, it’s always all on him. 

If Michael gets free on his watch, it’s his fault, and he’d rather just go drop himself in the ocean than work as a team with people who might, and to his mind most likely will, get hurt in the process.

Dean’s risk assessment is always on red alert and there’s rarely any hope or trust in him - at least not on an unconscious, deeper level - that the outcome won’t be the worst case scenario, especially not now, with Michael pounding against his frontal lobe. 

Dean walks around not with a death wish, but with an acknowledgement that he’ll die on the job and with the conviction that what he wants is to go down swinging, and this conscious, defeatist attitude goes against his unconscious, true wish: to live a long and happy life.

His suppressed/repressed fears make even the thought of an actual future impossible.

His suppressed/repressed fears that are tied to his toxic masculinity armour and manifested in the toxic masculinity representative of Michael, ie Dean’s shadow-self.

And in this episode we have Dean incapable of facing his shadow-self for fear of what facing his shadow-self will mean for his ego, ie his conscious view of himself and his understanding of his own identity. 

So instead of facing his shadow-self and engaging in what Carl Jung calls shadow work, Dean has locked his shadow-self away and is, basically, holding onto Plan B, which is the equivalent of him running from the need to own up to fears that have been informing his way of relating himself to the world for far too long, and they’ve done so because rather than risk his long-held idea of who he is and who he’s been taught he needs to be (in order to keep Sam and the world safe), he’s going to put himself in a (societal) box and symbolically drown even the hope of finding internal balance.

This absolute and continued refusal to commit to change, to let go of his suppression as well as his repression of fears that have ruled him from much too young an age, lands him in a moment when facing off with the representative for that suppression/repression - Noah - brings about the narrative punishment of Dean’s worst fears coming to pass: losing his control and Michael breaking free because of it.

This punishment comes about because of the fact that Dean hasn’t been able to internally engage in shadow work, and the suppression/repression he’s engaged with instead now doing what it’s always done, which is take away Dean’s control and allow for his shadow-self to not only break free, but to actually manifest externally and wreak havoc.

But that’s not all. Oh, no.

I’ll talk about Jack a little further down.

Cas

Oh, Cas. At this point his identity confusion reaches a never before seen peak.

I mean, holy fuck, this moment is the moment when his rejection of his angel heritage is put in proper dialogue, but this rejection combined with the impossibility for him to explore what would make him truly happy means that he is stuck in identity limbo.

Not angel, not man, but a thing.

*it’s heartbreaking and stupidly exciting*

Cas is suppressing his longing for more because of his repressed fear of failure (among other fears), and this because his fear of failure is what’s crept up on him over the course of his individual arc, where he’s kept trying to help, and at every turn has faced a bigger and bigger failure, until it became impossible for him to see himself having any other use than to act the sacrificial lamb and constantly throw himself in the path of danger, without even thinking to ask himself if it was what he truly wanted for himself. 

In S4 Cas stated to Dean that he wasn’t just a hammer, but over the course of his individual arc, Cas has slowly made himself into the weapon, this when deep down he’s always been the shield, and he is innately the protector. 

Moving away from Heaven’s doctrine is essential for Cas’ character progression, and the slow nudging over the course of the last two seasons has been rather fantastic to behold, but for all his progress, Cas is now giving into his repressed fear of failure and allowing it to rule him.

Cas is choosing to maintain the status quo, and it’s gloriously frustrating to watch him simply accept the fact that he can’t ever be happy, when what he should be doing is engage in shadow work and question the validity of his shadow-self running the show.

Questioning his shadow-self and facing all those suppressed and deeply repressed fears, though, means the same as it does for Dean: answering the questions Who am I? and Who do I want to be? honestly, and for himself, and the prospect of his idea of himself having to evolve is a scary one, so no wonder he allows his shadow-self to dictate the terms.

Cas comes face to face with Noah and lo and behold, what happens is quite intriguing as Noah slaps Cas twice on each cheek, almost as if to chastise him for sleepwalking through his life, and then Noah kisses Cas on the cheek, effectively paralysing him.

It comes across as a rather marvellous visual manifestation of how Cas’ suppression/repression of his own true wants and needs is paralysing him, leaving him complacent to a fate that he believes is inevitable.

But...

Jack

So then. Jack. This formidable knitting point. This gorgeous narrative tool. This amazing mirror for all of TFW, full of expositional prowess and symbolic value.

Aw Jack.

His fear has always been reflective of Sam, Dean and Cas, because even though he’s his own brand of innocent, he is meant to be a combination of the character traits of TFW, allowing him that expositional prowess, because his character evolution sheds light on the needed evolution of TFW.

*mh mh good*

Jack’s greatest fear is to bring suffering, but in this fear is the fear of failure, yes, that old fear, that’s so overwhelming in all of TFW. Jack wants to do good, and he tries so hard that we’ve seen how it’s sometimes difficult for him to separate good choices from bad ones.

In 12x19 he rejected Dagon and he rejected his father, choosing Cas as his protector and doing everything in his baby Nephi powers to protect his mother. Kelly’s motherly love shaped Jack into the caring and innocent being that he came into the world as, where that moment of his father reaching out to him, at the beginning of S13, frightened him, and where he continuously rejected Lucifer’s influence. 

What 14x14 so gorgeously sets up for us is underlining what Jack’s weakness at this point in his individual arc is: his refusal to acknowledge how he doesn’t know who he is yet. 

I’m not a child. I’m the son of Lucifer. I’m a hunter. I’m a Winchester.

The identity confusion in this statement is pretty amazing, to my mind, because where he’s spent so much time rejecting his father and the heritage of Lucifer, he’s now suddenly embracing it in dialogue and, even more than that, he’s using it as his first identity marker. Clearly he’s seeing himself moving into adulthood, his identity statement after all beginning with him telling us how he considers his childhood over.

And let’s note that his last identity marker is that he’s a Winchester.

Yeah, as 14x15 is already telling us, this probably doesn’t bode well, but I also believe it doesn’t bode well for now. 

The fact that he claims the Winchester name for his is also a very good thing for later, obviously, and one that will most likely be crucial when it comes to the resolution of what is most likely going to be his dark arc. It may last a few episodes or it may build to the end of the season, we shall see, but it seems fairly evident that it’s rapidly approaching.

In a sense, him taking Michael’s grace into himself is him moving from child to teenager, in another sense Jack declaring that he’s not a child is ironic, seeing how he truly needs guidance, now more than ever before.

I mean, he’s literally swallowed down the essence of the thing that’s tripped Dean up his whole life and, by proxy, Sam and ultimately Cas as well: toxic masculinity. 

This is no way to grow up, Jack.

And, of course -->

Jack losing his soul - even though it’s not all of it yet - is a callback to Sam being soulless in S6, where Sam had to confront the side to him that is able to distance itself and look at a situation through a wholly mercenary perspective, fuelling his sense of dependency as he suddenly had to question his own judgement, something that hampers him as a leader as well, hollowing out his sense of self-worth, making it wholly easier to follow than to lead

the possible setting up for Jack trying to help and managing to do the opposite, his growing powers possible sending him off the beaten track, might prove a strong callback to Cas for most of his arc, where his first mistake of becoming Godstiel paved the way for choices that led hollowed out Cas sense of self-worth, leading him into depression

the possible setting up for Jack’s shadow-self to rule him because of Jack swallowing down toxic masculinity is a callback to the MoC arc for Dean, where his lack of self-worth led him to become a demon, the scenario being his shadow-self manifesting his worst nightmare as Dean lost himself in careless, selfish, mindless coping behaviours, dominated by violence

As ever, we shall see how the writers choose to go, but I’m damned stoked.

This whole season has been saturated with the MoC arc of S10 and the MoC arc was all about pushing Dean to change and to evolve out of old, worn patterns. It was all about forcing a new perspective of himself on him, and a new understanding of what he wants for himself. (a long and happy life with the man he loves) And here we now are, with all of these characters facing their suppression/repression as well as the narrative consequences for none of them having properly grown up and grown into their true identities. 

The fact that they can still deceive themselves like this is shown to not be okay, as they’re all hit with equal punishment, all of which now rather neatly knots itself into the fate of Jack.

My hope?

That Jack’s choice to burn off his soul to protect the people he loves and swallowing Michael’s grace and beginning to feel different and possibly starting to go off the rails is the awaited push necessary for Sam, Dean and Cas to reach the point in their progression that it’s necessary they reach if they’re going to be able to get through to Jack, and ultimately guide him or, at the very least, be the role models he truly needs.

Because right now, not a single one of them is anywhere near that point. Well, possibly Sam, as per 14x15, if he’s the first one of them to stop running.

Let’s remember that Jack was the one to chop off Noah’s head as well as put an end to Michael’s new world order: symbolically pretty heavy duty on the probable importance to the actual internal balance being reached for our three main characters, right?

Jack cut the head off two symbolical snakes in one episode.

Both of which were tied to the unhealthy habits of Sam, Dean and Cas.

It’s beautifully setup, whatever happens, and I can’t wait to see what we get!

[bigskydreaming]

dick's backstory gets so frequently gets brushed under the rug and sterilized into "parents died, adopted by a rich dude" and subsequently ignored because then it's assumed his life is then perfect. this is a boy who watched his family die gruesomely. who was then removed from the only home he'd ever known and put in juvenile detention. who then became a vigilante before he ever turned 10. who was never adopted. who was fired and kicked out and hurt by bruce. no trauma there! perfectly happy!

Preaching to the choir my friend!

One of my greatest frustrations in DC comics fandom for yeeeeears was always how often Dick and Jason get pitted against each other in trauma olympics, and other assorted wtf-ery. Because just like Bruce ended up pitting them against each other like I described in that post, the comics did too, at least in the beginning. Not AS much since Jason came back with his own clearly defined niche, more…holdovers from that original time. And so there’s this tendency with a lot of Dick fans and a lot of Jason fans to act like its gotta be one or the other, that its impossible to stan for both. And I’m just sitting over here like NOPE, I stan them both and always will, every single one of their problems and any and all canon shitty things they’ve done to each other were really the result of dumbass writers and dumbass characters forcing them into situations where like….they did what they did. I very much reject the idea that they HAVE to always be at odds, and that one HAS to be better than the other (Dick) or have had it harder than the other (Jason). Its just like…..why tho?

So for me, that tends to manifest a lot as in, when focusing on Dick, I really push back against the myth of him as the ‘pure/too light/too good to kill’ golden boy of the Batfamily, because….no. He’s not. He is who he is because of circumstance and as a result of growing up in an emotional minefield of a house where he felt pushed to perfection. With perfection having clearly defined parameters, as established by Bruce and his expectations. Not because he’s innately incapable of killing or just on some core level ‘too good to lower himself to that’, which is unfortunately something that’s also put forth a lot. But the thing is, putting Dick on that kind of pedestal unintentionally says some pretty shitty things about Jason, as well as Damian and even Cass, and I don’t think people fully realize they’re doing that when they talk about Dick “Too Good to Kill” Grayson. Implying that he is such a thing, that there IS such a thing, at the same time implicitly states that his brothers and sister who HAVE killed, even when they were children and it wasn’t their fault, they were coerced…..this basically suggests that there HAS to be something innately….’worse’ about Jason, and Damian, and Cass, or else they never would’ve been able to do that at all.

Like, I read a fic awhile back where a big theme was the rest of the family talking about this idea that like….Dick couldn’t handle it if he did end up killing someone, that it would break him, tarnish him in some irrevocable way. Like they were saying it in a way meant to be complimentary to Dick and his character, even as Jason and the others were the ones putting forth this idea, the impression was meant to be they wanted to protect Dick from this, preserve that ‘goodness’ about him, but I was just like….No. God no. Hard pass. Because the idea that Dick would lose something fundamental to him, like he’d be forever lessened as a character and a person if for whatever reason he ended up killing…..like, there’s really no way to look at that without reading into it the implication that Jason and the others are damaged goods, forever tainted. And like…no thank you. I really really have issues with that line of thought, especially when it includes Cass and Damian who were forced into being child assassins. Like, whether you mean to or not, when you apply that logic you end up writing them off before they were even like, ten. Beyond saving, even then. I find that very troubling and insidious, even. And thus I push back heavily against this take on Dick, but really, its more in defense of Jason, Damian and Cass.

Like, of course he’d be forever affected by something that huge, just like they are and always will be, but to clarify I mean - its this idea that Dick could never be HAPPY again, even if he was forced to kill someone, or put in a position where he made that choice…that’s what I really objected to. Because that’s the part that suggests that Damian and Cass will never TRULY know happiness as a result of their childhoods, and that’s very destructive thinking, to my mind. The reality of someone forced to grow up too fast, having their innocence stolen, being pushed into doing something no one should have to live with….these are harsh, stark realities, they have merit, they have weight - but they do not mean, and should never be assumed to mean, that a child, or even that a character, who fits these circumstances is somehow beyond repair, or salvaging, or just being happy someday.

And then the flipside of that is I equally push back on takes that crown Jason the King of Trauma, not because he hasn’t endured a ridiculous amount, but because in defense of Dick, Tim and the others, I object to playing into the idea of ranking the Batkids’ traumas at all. The stuff Jason’s been through is horrific, but its not negated, or watered down or lessened by acknowledging that Dick and the others have been through extremely fucked up stuff too. And similarly, I’m very bothered by pointing to how much rougher and more aggressive and ‘darker’ Jason is as a character than Dick, as a way to kinda backdoor prove that Jason’s been through more shit than him, because that again leads to a very troubling implicit line of thought that like, there’s only ONE right way to respond to trauma. That if you aren’t visibly hardened by it, darkened by it, the way Jason has been by his, then whatever you’ve been through obviously couldn’t have been THAT bad, or as bad as someone like Jason has had it. And again, I gotta just give a big HARD PASS to that, because that’s just not how it works.

The fact that Dick is for the most part a far more light-hearted character than Jason isn’t proof he’s had it easier or hasn’t been through as much or seen as much bad stuff - that last bit is especially laughable. You can’t entertain the idea of a guy who’s been fighting the worst kinds of criminals since he was ten, in the most notoriously corrupt and crime-ridden city in the DC universe, and honestly believe that there’s anything he hasn’t seen or been exposed to. It just doesn’t track. BUT, that kind of awareness of the darkness Gotham is mired in isn’t as easily reconciled with the bright, cheerful personality Dick usually sports…unless you acknowledge that Dick WORKS at being that person. This is his reaction to the trauma he’s lived and been surrounded by, not because its just innately who he is, but its because its who he CHOOSES to be, its the response he’s DECIDED on. 

Jason copes with stuff with anger and outbursts. Dick copes with stuff with laughter and mockery. Neither is better or worse, more right or wrong than the other, they’re just DIFFERENT. Different coping mechanisms, trauma responses, for different people. Like I’ve always said, I see Dick and Jason as very similar people at their core. Their differences are largely superficial. But both of them respond to trauma with defiance. By refusing to be beaten down by it. The only difference, is with Jason, that defiance looks like swearing and spitting and cursing, even when faced with an opponent much bigger or tougher than him, a situation that should be too much to survive. Whereas with Dick, that defiance looks like laughing and smiling and joking, even when faced with an opponent or a situation about which there’s nothing actually funny, nothing naturally bright or cheerful. Dick has to conjure that appearance of brightness as an act of defiance, just like Jason has to conjure that appearance of strength.

And once you stop trying to compare Jason and Dick’s traumas, stop trying to rank one as more or less than the others, and just acknowledge and accept hey, they’ve both been through fucked up shit, they’ve both been traumatized - then you can look just at the stuff Dick’s been through, isolated and independent from everything else, and then you can see just how shitty it actually is, and thus what an act of defiance, what a testament of strength it is, that he is able to go through life acting as cheerfully and bubbly as he often does. And yeah, like you said, its his parents being murdered when he was eight, its being thrown in juvie because of a corrupt system when he’d done nothing wrong, its being beaten nearly to death and shot by Two-Face and Joker and dozens of other villains throughout Dick’s childhood, its the time he was tortured by Brother Blood trying to break him in every way possible and its the shit with Mirage and with Tarantula….and a ton of other stuff that never really gets acknowledged for how bad it actually was, because comics are notoriously bad at actually LOOKING at the trauma they heap on superheroes, and what it actually MEANS and what the realistic fallout would be from it, the emotional toll actually taken.

One of the biggest instances of this IMO is with Blockbuster. Like lots of people know the basics about Blockbuster’s death in the comics, and how it ties into what happened with Tarantula….and because that’s so ‘visibly’ traumatic, because that’s an event that’s easy to associate with a trauma that most people have a ready made image and RANKING in mind already when they think of it - like they think of what happened with Tarantula and they’re like oh yeah, okay, that’s a type of trauma I recognize as TRAUMA, thus I get just from the mention of it that was definitely bad and traumatic and had an impact on Dick….so that becomes the go-to when people talk about the stuff with Blockbuster. That’s what people hone in on….so focused on what pings their radar as Obviously Traumatic, they forget to look around at everything else involved and look at the possible impact and potential fallout.

And thus people forget that what happened with Tarantula happened when Dick was ALREADY at the lowest point in his life, and WHY that was so. Like, they acknowledge it, but in a cursory way, like okay yeah, that’s the buildup, now let’s get to the actual trauma and talk about that. Which ignores like….the trauma that was the REASON he was already in such a state to begin with. Like, Blockbuster systematically hunted down every connection he could find to Dick Grayson’s civilian life, and murdered them and burned all traces of them to the ground…JUST because they knew him. Just as a way to hurt HIM, Dick Grayson.

And because that doesn’t ping on our Preconceived Trauma Scales as immediately as something like Jason’s death or Dick’s parents’ murder or similar iconic traumas….we tend to gloss over that, but like….think about it. Think about what something like that would mean for a character that’s known for both his sense of responsibility, and for being one of the most openly empathetic superheroes out there, an emotional caretaker whose entire reputation is built on how much he FEELS for other people and how deeply.

Imagine the kid who was orphaned at age eight, watching his parents fall to their deaths and in the immediate aftermath taken away from everything else he’d ever known or found comfort in - the circus…..and now imagine that same kid fifteen years later watching that same circus burn to the ground, the last memory of his treasured childhood, when things were GOOD, when he was unconditionally happy, the last connection he had to his parents and all the extended circus family he’d grown up happy among…..all of them now dead too, all of those memories physically burned to the ground until nothing was left. All of it gone, for good. And with this villain saying - that happened because of you. I didn’t care about them, I only killed them, only did all of that, because I KNEW how much it would hurt you. And then that same guy did it AGAIN - blowing up Dick’s apartment building and everyone in it….just because he lived there. Having a sniper kill a reporter he was talking to, while he was sitting across the table from her…JUST because she was talking to him.

Like, that’s trauma on top of trauma, that’s trauma on an unimaginable scale. There’s a reason in that infamous scene with Tarantula, Dick was mumbling about being poison….because he honestly, truly believed it at that point, because it was TRUE. Because Blockbuster had made it his personal mission to make that true, to make it a reality that anyone close to Dick Grayson would die. Because of him. Dick was entirely right in feeling that way, he was simply acknowledging what Blockbuster had very deliberately set out to do..it wasn’t Dick’s FAULT that everyone around him was dying, because of their connection to him….but that didn’t mean it wasn’t TRUE.

And that’s just….mind boggling to contemplate, to picture the toll that has to take, but the thing is - it barely ever gets contemplated! Purely because there’s not a simple, neat, easy way to sum it up and label what Trauma specifically it is. The way we can with his parents’ murder, or his rape, or various things that have happened to Jason or their other brothers and sister. And so it gets swept under the rug because we’re in a hurry to get back to the traumas we DO have an easy vocabulary for, with ready-made pictures all queued up in our heads. And then on top of all these traumas (because there’s more too, like think about the impact of realizing that the circus owner you regarded as a grandfather was someday planning on handing you over to people who were going to turn you into an assassin, make you everything you hate, like imagine the BETRAYAL of that discovery and how it would shake your entire view of reality and everything you knew and believed in about your childhood and the time you spent around that man). But yeah, like, on top of these traumas that don’t have a neat and easy logline to describe them, or that don’t quite look like we expect a REALLY traumatic trauma to look like….then add on top of that a trauma response that doesn’t look like our preconceived notions of what trauma response looks like, a guy laughing and joking and SMILING in the aftermath, rather than growling and shooting and drinking.

And you wind up with the idea that nothing THAT bad has ever happened to this character, not like the stuff that’s happened to this other character who ACTS the way we expect someone to act after they’ve been Through Some Real Shit. Even though nothing could be further than the truth. But that’s what happens when we try and boil things down to easy and simple and quick ways of thinking and processing stories and events and traumas. We end up skipping right over the evidence of trauma that falls outside our initial assumptions, and drawing the conclusion that means no trauma was actually ever there…..instead of the proper conclusion which is just we weren’t looking in the right places. Or were just in too much of a rush or too busy looking elsewhere or for something more obvious, and thus missed acknowledging what was actually there.

Anyway, lol. Lots to unpack there, obviously, but yeah, my point being, this tendency we all tend to have in society, this need to artificially impose ranks and hierarchies and award gold, silver and bronze medals even to something as arbitrary as the kinds of traumas we’ve endured - its fucked up, and self-defeating, and does nobody any good. Because its like trying to fit square pegs into round holes. Trying to FORCE comparisons that aren’t possible, because no two traumas are alike, no two traumas are interchangeable, and thus they inherently CAN’T be measured against each other, ranked, because….there’s no actual measurement system for trauma! There’s no way to actually JUDGE ‘this event was worse, this had more of an impact’, and yet we always try anyway, instead of just accepting….an impact was had. Instead of just worrying about the RESULT, focusing on THAT - which in this case is the person left behind in the aftermath of the trauma, the one actually traumatized….instead of spending so much time and energy focusing on the TRAUMA itself, as though that’s what matters and is important.

[bellringermal]

I have a low key headcanon that gherman used to craft things like dolls in his spare time before the hunters workshop perhaps as a means to make extra money, albeit smaller ones for children, which explains why he made such a lifelike doll so easily and maybe even why he's good at making clothes and weapons for hunters

Daisy and I have a pretty similar headcanon :)

Gehrman was always fascinated by small, pretty things since childhood. He used to cut figurines from newspapers and make little toys out of straw and scraps of clothing that he then had to keep hidden in a box under the floorboards because his father would’ve considered them girly and infantile.

[Pic from “Andersen. Zhizn bezlyubvi” because obscure period dramas are my jam. And if you read some of my posts before, you probably know that my fan fiction, from which 90% of my lore theories stemmed from, is a massive mixture of period dramas/gothic novels/historical figures’ biographies and even fucking Tchaikovsky ballets that I like very very VERY much.)

He hadn’t the worst childhood ever, but it was tough for a scrawny, quiet boy like him to be forced into combat training at such a young age. When he got hired at Byrgenwerth (and escaped his father’s clutches, so to speak) he could finally do whatever the heck he wanted in his free time and Dores and Edmund, being respectively a scholar and a handyman, encouraged his love for books and for tinkering with anything within range.

In our story, Master Willem selects his students and assistants because of their special talents and is (to an almost unbelievable level :P) able to ‘see greatness’ in them even before said greatness manifests. Willem is, to put it simply, a talent scout :P That is why he often recruits extremely young people like Caryll (9) and Micolash (14) only to then groom them into loyal students while enhancing their innate abilities.

With Gehrman, it was no different. And when many of his ‘hobbies’ became an integral part of his job, he began to take them really seriously and actually devoted entire years of work and research to the development of the spring mechanisms that made trick weapons possible and basic hunting gear, reason why all future hunter uniforms are based on that first model that he made out his own everyday clothes. When asked about his profession, he doesn’t see himself as a ‘weaponsmith’ but as ‘something more akin to a clockmaker’.

He obviously has his own (quite creepy) collection of little dolls and carillons but he keeps it in his room reason why not many of his students are aware of it, just like they don’t know about his secret stash of cheap romance novels :P. The rough instruments of death that he crafts at the workshop with Archibald’s assistance are in stark contrast with the delicate clockwork toys that are found on his desk next to the tiny tools and watchmaker magnifying glasses.

[Pics from “Nutcracker the motion picture” 1986]

Lil extract from my fanfic below the cut because I think I’m getting decent at translating this crap XD

[Picture from ‘Crimson Peak’. Thomas Sharpe lil workshop in the attic. It’s a trope and I love it.]

As she looked around, Maria could see that that wasn’t the workplace of an amateur. Screwdrivers, pincers and labeled boxes brimming with bolts and stain springs of any size filled the dustless shelves of cedar wood as two big oil lamps lit the quiet, humble room of the First Hunter uniformly projecting their glow on the desk. The floral wallpaper was almost completely hidden by three huge cork boards covered in blueprints and heavy metal chains ran down from the ceiling just like they did in the actual Workshop. But instead of dangling siderite blades, what floated over the noblewoman’s head were cogs as big as those she has seen on the pedestal of the Lunarium’s telescope.

It was then that she remembered that Gehrman was also asked to keep the elevator at the edge of the woods in working order so that students could get from Yharnam’s outskirts straight to the college without venturing too far into the forest.

How many tasks was that man assigned to, again? Hunter Chief, groundskeeper, weaponsmith, handyman… Master Willem better be paying him generously, she thought as she wondered if her teacher’s room was always that organized and clean or if he had tidied it up for the occasion.

No matter the answer, it felt like something WAS out of place. Actually, it felt like something was missing. As she scanned the shelves, one in particular caught her eye. Like the others, it was perfectly clean but instead of harboring meticulously organized tools and parts it was empty except for one small, bizarre shiny thing that Maria mistook for a golden egg at first glance. She took the weird object in her hands only to discover a small key inserted in its round side. A wind-up toy? She herself owned a few of those when she was little, one had the shape of a carousel and its curtains lifted once the key was turned, revealing a row of tiny running horses. What was hidden inside that golden egg? A mechanical goose, perhaps? She knew the fairytale by heart.

Won by her own curiosity and without even asking herself why stern old Gehrman would even possess such a thing, she turned the key three times, balancing the egg on the palm of her gloved hand. When the mechanism clicked, she realized that something was not working as intended since the petals in which the golden-finished surface was split into could barely move. Perhaps it was broken, or some parts were missing. Still, the tiny clockwork prisoner trapped inside the shell kept bouncing and clicking inside the egg, almost begging to be freed. She gently pressed upon the tip, parting the petals with her thumbs as a twinkling sound filled the silent room with a familiar tune. It was the central portion of a folk song often sang during weddings and Spring celebrations. Finally free from its golden shell, a graceful female figure now danced on the huntress palm. The little automata was unpainted and naked, clearly unfinished, with only a ribbon tied around her metal torso, probably marking her waist point before a dress could be made for her. Her hair was cast in copper, each lock finely chiseled.

Gehrman snatched the toy from her fingers before she could even realize he had entered the room. How did she remain oblivious to his presence for so long, she didn’t know, but the entrancing dance of the little figure was most likely to be blamed.

“I-it’s not finished! Don’t look at it!”

“Have you made it?” She asked with a smile, seeing how he cradled the little thing in the cup of his large, bony hands. “It’s lovely. I am no expert, but it looks really well made.”

He nervously brushed the back of his head “Well… thanks.”

“I didn’t know you were into such cute little things. It… suits you. Somehow.” The ballerina was still spinning on her pointy feet when the First Hunter placed the carillon on the shelf and turned to the desk.

“Have you brought your gun, Maria? Let me see what’s wrong with it.”

She blinked. She had almost forgotten why she came to the hunter’s room in the first place. “Oh, yes I believe the flintlock is broken. Or at least parts of it.“

“Let me see it.” She handed the Evelyn to her teacher, but her attention was still on the little doll. “Have you made more of these?” She asked as the mechanism came to a stop and the ballerina froze in place, her body tilted in a slightly unnatural position.

“Of what?”

Maria raised an eyebrow, unamused. “Wind-up toys, Gehrman.”

The silver screwdriver he was using to remove the flintlock from the beautiful wooden frame of the Cainhurst gun shook between his fingers, but a warm smile appeared on his lips. “It’s a guilty pleasure of mine.”

Maria rested her back against one of the shelves “Why ‘guilty’? I know people that would pay a fortune for stuff like this.”

“I guess I could devote myself to it once I retire. If I don’t get killed first.” “Gehrman’s toyshop, mh? Doesn’t sound bad. You could make tiny stain hunters and beasts that open their jaws and roar. I used to steal my cousin’s stain soldiers and wooden swords. Why do boys always get the better toys?“

“Not fond of your dolls, I presume.”

“I had so many, but truly cherished only one of them, Janice, a brunette. She was engaged to one of Ghislain’s stain officers even if she was almost three times his size. Perhaps he went to war because he was afraid of her.”

Gehrman chuckled, as his capable hands carefully replaced the gun’s splinter “I’m not sure about that, as our dear Konrad proves, some men really like their women tall.”

Maria sat down on the desk next to him to watch him work, oblivious to the sudden blushing of his cheeks now that her well-toned thighs were so close to his elbow.

“Janice really looked a bit like Gratia now that I think about it. Now… why don’t you tell me where you hid all your other creations? That empty shelf is really suspicious, you know?” She teased him, crossing her legs.

It was in moments like that that Gehrman questioned his own judgemental skills. Was she truly flirting with him or was it all just wishful thinking?

He snapped out of confusion bringing back his attention to the Evelyn “You have a good eye.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“I stored them all in the drawer right under the shelf. Not so imaginative. Nor that far from their original placement.”

She didn’t move, her eyes wandering on the First Hunter’s angular face. “Why have you hid them?”

“At times I just feel more comfortable around machines than people.” he admitted, letting out a long sigh. “At times I even prefer beasts to people.”

Maria threw her head back, dangling her legs like a child on a swing. “Don’t we all?”

He moved the gun closer to the oil lamp “…it should work now. But let’s wait till it’s morning to try it. We don’t want to scare everyone to death by firing a few shots so late at night.”

“Definitely not. Thank you so much, Gehrman.” She took the short musket from the man’s hand and placed it back in her holster. “So, about that drawer…” “FINE! I’ll show you.” He blurted and Maria returned his slightly annoyed glance with a smile.

Gehrman rose from his chair, suddenly reminding the young woman of his impressive height. Considering his quiet and reserved behavior, it was easy to imagine him as one of those small fellows who always get trampled upon in boisterous crowds, but his appearance didn’t fit such a mental image at all.

He crossed the room and pull out a key from the pocket of his sage green vest to open the mysterious drawer. “Promise me you won’t laugh.”

Maria tilted her head “I can’t promise such a thing. Your expression is already pretty hilarious to look at.”

He sighed again, slowly opening the drawer.  It was well worth the risk. After all, Maria looked even prettier when she smiled.

[initiala]

Ooh, if you ever feel like it (I'm sure you have a lot of prompts since your writing is amazing) something like the Emma/Killian/Hook fic, but with Emma taking the serum? (One of them could peg Killian, just sayin)

I have been thinking about this one for literally months, it’s just a bit of a logistical nightmare. also @phiralovesloki and @lifeinahole27 want smut rewards for getting their grading done. A week or so late.

thanks a million to @bookstoreromantic for giving this a critical once-over!!

There was a mouth on his cock.

He should have been more focused on the weight straddled across his chest, but Killian was only a man and when someone was lovingly sucking and licking the length of his cock, well. A man has his priorities.

Only when he tried to move did he realize his arms were tied.

His eyes opened.

“Good,” Emma said, a smirk on her lips – her very red lips. She was the weight on his chest, her very nude form straddling him and leaving all of herself on glorious display. “He’s finally awake.”

Killian took in her white-gold hair and the predatory look in her eyes as alarm bells went off in his brain, but a second voice brought his attention back towards his groin. “Do you like your surprise?”

The reason for his mental alarm bells clicked when he saw Emma – another Emma, his Emma – look around the hips of her doppelganger and smiled sweetly at him. Her hair was golden, her eyes serene and a little mischievous, her lips glossed pink and he’d no doubt his cock proudly bore remnants of the gloss. “You took the serum,” he said.

Swan – for she resembled the Dark Swan, Emma’s worst self, all cold beauty and selfish desire – lightly scratched her nails through his chest hair. “Of course I did. You were so good to me – us – and I felt that such good behavior should be rewarded.”

Her lust-laced tone reminded him of that afternoon a few weeks before, when he’d taken the serum at her behest and she’d been ravished within an inch of her life. They’d discussed it a few times after, reminiscing mostly, but once he’d ventured the suggestion of being on the receiving end the next time. She’d seemed unsure, though, and he’d let the matter drop. He’d thought he’d be content with fantasies alone if it caused her discomfort. Emma’s hand on his thigh brought him back to the present. “I thought you’d enjoy it as a surprise,” she said simply.

“I thought you’d enjoy this,” Swan said, fingering the ropes that bound his wrist and hand to the headboard. He’d no idea how she bound his bare wrist, but he expected something magical had been involved. “I seem to find you tied up often enough. But I have to say, you do look so pretty this way.”

Emma’s worst self, it seemed, was comprised of selfishness and the harsh words she never allowed herself to say, the anger and hurt built up over years unhampered by her innate goodness. But Swan’s gentle touches on his arms and chest told him that – as Hook had been with Emma so many weeks before – under the cold exterior she still loved him above all else.

A light grip on his cock brought him back to the matter at hand. “What are you going to do with me?” Killian asked, the words rasping as he glanced down and saw how wet Swan was for him; her essence glistened on her exposed skin, her soft curls damp with desire.

Swan leaned down, biting hard and then gently on his ear before whispering, “Whatever we want.”

Emma’s mouth returned to his cock and Killian groaned deep in his throat, pulling against the enchanted ropes and straining against Swan’s weight on his chest. She lapped at the tip, her teasing tongue swirling and probing and pushing him closer and closer to the brink.

Swan plundered his mouth. Killian trembled from the multitude of sensations assaulting him: the rough kisses, the way she sucked on his tongue, Emma’s light touches on his cock and balls, four sets of nails raking and dragging and teasing their way along his skin – he’d be left with red crisscrossing lines on almost every inch of his body, as if he’d gotten into a fight with an animal and lost, and by all the gods he was loving every second of it.

“Let’s put that tongue to better use,” Swan murmured, her nose brushing against his and her lips teasing him in the most delightful way. She moved before he could think what that meant, and he found her straddling his head. He looked up past her dripping core, up the flat expanse of pale skin and past her pert breasts to find her staring down at him, a sultry smirk on her lips. “I believe you know what to do, Captain.”

He went to work, delving between her folds. At the same time, he felt one of Emma’s hands move, slipping past his balls and teasing the sensitive spot just behind. “Is this okay?” he heard her ask.

Killian paused for a breath, earning a slight smack on the chest from Swan. “Keep going,” he urged, then followed his own advice.

Swan rode his face, her head thrown back as she writhed and undulated, her moans filling their bedroom. He wished for the use of his hand, to pull her down so as to fuck her dripping cunt with his tongue, to tease and fill her even a little with his fingers. He froze, though, when he felt Emma’s hand move further back, her nimble fingers teasing his ass. Swan smacked him again and he groaned. “Get back to work,” she ordered. “I get to come before you get anything else, understood? And you,” she told Emma, “get him ready. I want him nice and wide for me.”

The fire in his belly roared higher at the implication of those words. He started to lick her again but she grabbed his hair and pulled him back. Killian’s groin tightened – they rarely played so rough in the bedroom, but even this little tease was heavenly. “I asked,” Swan whispered, her voice like steel, “is that understood?”

“A-aye, ma’am,” Killian croaked, every bit of him wound tighter than a spring. Gods, but she’d be the end of him.

Her smile was sweet, but the look in her eyes was everything but. “Good boy,” she all but purred, releasing her tight grip and gently smoothing his hair back.

He was absolutely fucked.

Emma had completely abandoned his cock at this point in favor of fucking his ass with her fingers; at some point she’d coated her fingers with lube to ease her passage – and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was the warming sensation kind she liked. His cock ached for any sort of touch, bobbing back against his stomach every time she found that sensitive place inside him. He tried not to whine, tried to focus on making Swan come, but it was hard. He was hard.

Why on earth had he ever thought fucking Emma and her double would be simple? That it would merely leave him satisfied? This wouldn’t come close to leaving him satisfied – it’d leave him ruined, wrecked for anyone else but her. He’d be left in pieces in the palm of her hand, the same hand that held his heart and kept it safe and well and loved.

Swan cried out as her orgasm swiftly overtook her. He lapped at her essence, cleaning her as her core rippled and shuddered above him. Killian felt Emma pause as Swan caught her breath, as if waiting for instructions on how to proceed next. “Is he ready?” Swan asked once she’d caught her breath.

“Almost,” Emma replied. “Tell me if it’s okay, Killian.”

He pushed against her hand and winced slightly. “Not yet, love.”

Swan huffed, moving away. “Put the cock ring on him and clean up,” she ordered Emma. “I’ll finish this while you get your turn.”

Emma pulled away and Killian whimpered at the loss. She went to wash her hands and Swan smiled, a bit more self-satisfied than before. “Here’s how this is going to work,” she said as she grabbed the lube and started prepping her fingers. “I’m going to let you go. Princess Sunshine Goody-Two-Shoes over there is going to put a cock ring on you, because you’re not allowed to come until I say so. But you’re going to fuck her. And I mean fuck her, pirate. You’re going to give her your best alpha-male act while she’s all tied up, and all the while I’m going to be fucking you.”

Perhaps he was still dreaming. They’d woken him, but perhaps this was one of those dreams where one only thought they woke up. Killian swallowed hard, trying to control the burning need to bury himself in her and then in Emma, fucking them both senseless. After all, only in his most private fantasies could a scenario such as this come to fruition.

Emma returned and in one hand she held the promised cock ring. Killian tried not to squirm in anticipation as she rolled it over his throbbing cock, a sigh escaping him as she settled it firmly around the base. Swan snapped her fingers and the rope freed itself from Killian’s wrists, slithering down the bed and looping itself snugly around Emma’s wrists. Her eyes were wide with shock and Killian wondered if they’d discussed this at all, or if Emma had even talked this scenario over in her head before taking the serum.

It took most of his willpower to tamp down his usual urges when it came to Emma: wooing and praising her, treating her well and ensuring she was well satisfied and eager for him before they arrived at the main event. Rarely had she asked for Captain Hook in her bed, and rarer did he want those traits to emerge, but it was what she’d asked for and he was ever her servant. Killian rolled and lunged, pinning her underneath him. He shifted her arms above her head, taking brief note that the enchanted rope chose to attach itself to the headboard before focusing on Emma again. “You’ve been quite wicked today,” he growled. He felt Swan’s eyes on them, felt her moving into position behind him. “Waking me with those lips wrapped around my cock, demanding I please half of you while the other watches. Such a wicked lass as yourself deserves punishment, no?”

Emma’s cheeks were flushed as she shook her head. “No, I just thought–”

“You thought denying me release would be amusing?” Killian asked. His hips were nestled firmly between her legs, her sex pressed hot against his aching cock. He wanted nothing more than to drive into her, make her scream for him so Swan would get on with it and let him come. “Does the thought of me bound and begging gratify you?”

She bit her lip, her wide eyes blinking up at him in an innocent way that drove him mad. “It does,” she whispered, just as her double teased his ass and slid her slick fingers inside him. “I like it,” Emma continued, her voice still soft. “I like seeing you like that, it – it makes me feel more in control, more powerful.”

And here was the antithetical: Emma as a whole struggled with her doubts and her fears. He knew that and made himself available to lean on when she found herself wallowing. But where Swan knew what she wanted and went for it, Emma now held herself in check, or allowed herself to believe that Swan might have taken all of the strength that she possessed before their separation, brief though it was.

Killian kissed her softly, acknowledging the light slap of admonition on his arse from Swan with a groan; he wasn’t obeying orders, but at this particular juncture he didn’t care. “D’you know what I like, love?” he murmured. She shook her head, though he caught the corner of her mouth twitching as she hid a smile. “I think you do,” he said, shifting his hips; it was a double-edged sword, giving him easier access to slide into Emma but also pushing Swan’s fingers deeper inside of him. “I think that wicked little brain of yours knows that I like to hear you scream.”

He plunged in and Emma gasped, her body tightening under and around his. She quivered, her arms straining as she fought the rope to try and hold him. Her legs wrapped around his hips and she ignored the indignant “hey!” from Swan. Killian paused just long enough to let her relax, letting him know she was okay to go, then started to move.

He nibbled her ears, the side of her neck, sucking little marks here and there and marring that perfect skin. He’d calmed some since her torment of him earlier, but being inside of her just brought him right back to the edge. Though he could feel just how wet she was for him, he wanted to bring her to completion quickly – he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last, cock ring or no.

He lifted himself up on his blunted arm, changing the angle to drive deeper into her core. “No coming,” Swan’s voice said in his ear, but a quick glance over his shoulder showed her sitting on her haunches, still fingering him and intensely – longingly? – watching him fuck her double. Her eyes snapped to his and he felt teeth gently biting on the lobe of his ear. Magic, he realized. Emma occasionally brought magic into what she called their “play time”, and this particular trick wasn’t new to him. There had been one memorable morning where she had been the early riser for once and decided to torment him with teasing touches into wakefulness, all the while making breakfast and coffee in the kitchen.

Gooseflesh rippled across his skin as the invisible, magic lips kissed their way down his shoulder and paid special attention to each of the scars that littered his back. Emma moaned below him. “There,” she gasped. “Oh, do that again.”

He repeated the thrust, reveling in the deep moan that tore from her throat. “There’s a girl, almost got you, haven’t I? Remember, darling, nice and loud, want to hear you–”

She whined, her hands twisting uselessly as she once again tried to free herself. Killian hitched one of her legs up higher over his hip. A flush began to creep down her chest; he watched with interest as the rosy tint met her breasts and blended with her nipples. Leaning down, Killian took one rosy peak into his mouth and sucked hard, just as he felt Swan’s fingers twist inside him and phantom teeth sink into his backside. So overwhelmed with sensation was he that Killian almost missed Emma’s climax, the warmth of her core gripping and rippling around him like a vice. Her cries filled his ears and he slowed, not wanting to push himself over that edge just yet: he desperately wanted what Swan offered him in exchange for being good.

When Emma stilled below him, Killian leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “Very good, lass,” he murmured, his breath hitching when Swan pulled away from him.

“And you’ve been a very good boy,” Swan said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Emma nodded, watching him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “He’s always good,” she said, making Killian blush faintly.

Swan hummed, a disbelieving note in her tone. “Perhaps not always. Sometimes the captain is a little bit naughty. Sometimes I think the captain wants to be punished.”

Emma twisted her hands and the rope fell away; Killian wondered about that, which of them was in control of it. She reached up to trace a line along his jaw and he leaned into her touch. “Is it a punishment if he wants it?” she asked, scratching her nails lightly through his scruff. “Seems to me like it’s a reward for being such a good boy.”

Something smooth and hard prodded his arse. Killian twisted and saw the Swan wearing the harness with the false cock. “That one’s new,” he commented, not recognizing it as one of their regular toys.

She smiled, a more gentle one than he’d seen on this incarnation before. “You didn’t think I’d fuck you without getting something in return, did you?”

He wondered at that before Emma whispered an explanation, something about it being able to be inside both of them at once, the Swan ordered him into position. Emma soothed him with kisses and feather light touches across his arms and chest as Swan entered him slowly. Even still, Killian had to breathe deeply so as not to come undone in mere seconds: every inch of him felt aflame, a burning need to move and mark both of them as his.

An impossible desire, even if there was only one Emma. She could bear the marks of his teeth and nails and beard, but such marks would fade. He wished he could brand himself on her heart, but even knowing their love was true, she could never be possessed by him.

No, he was the one wrapped up in her spell, bound only to her, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I’m going to move,” he said through grit teeth.

Somehow.

It took some fumbling to get a rhythm, let alone one that made everyone feel good. Though he was half-wild from the need to come, Killian was rather determined to make sure both Emmas came at least once more before he allowed himself to. No matter how many lips, magical or otherwise, caressed and bit his skin; how many sets of nails gripped his arms or his hips; how many times Swan deemed it necessary to spank him, he wanted them to come first.

Her. One and the same.

When Swan turned on the vibrations in their shared false cock, he almost lost it. “Bloody fuck,” he gasped, faltering.

Emma reached between them to pleasure herself. “Come on, babe,” she said. He could feel her fingers circling her clit, and a little something extra –

“Magic?” Killian managed to ask, just as another wave of pleasure crashed over him. Not enough to come, but close.

She grinned cheekily as Swan raked her nails down his back. Killian’s toes curled as he felt his orgasm building at the base of his spine. Swan spanked him hard and that was the final straw. He fell to his elbows, dimly aware of other cries of pleasure outside his own, as he spent himself into Emma’s body. Even that proved too much, though he did his best not to crush her as he gave in to the boneless feeling of post-coital bliss.

His body was too numbed from over-stimulation to feel either woman remove herself from him, though he noticed the flash of blue-white light that signaled Emma becoming whole once more. He felt the bed dip and move as she got up, purportedly to clean herself, and then only became aware of feeling when she returned and soothed his skin with a damp washcloth.

Lips met his brow. “You still with me?” Emma asked softly.

He mumbled something, even he wasn’t sure what, and reached for her. She giggled, a musical sound he never tired of, as his hand found purchase and pulled her in snug. “Captain Hook the cuddler,” she mused, wriggling one arm free to play with his hair. “Who knew?”

“Don’t go spreading it around,” Killian mumbled, tucking himself in against her chest, weary and satiated. “Have a reputation to uphold.”

Emma hummed, amused, and pressed another kiss to his head as he fell back asleep.

[jasonfrompriceville-blog]

Position Breakdown - OL

I wanted the Offensive Line preview completed several days ago, but there’s something about me you must understand. I hate being wrong. A lot about me has changed over the years - marriage and fatherhood, I see you - but this innate desire to escape incorrectness remains. Given the position battles and temporary transitions we’ve seen throughout Fall Camp, I couldn’t allow myself to write about this position group until I felt confident about the unit as a whole and individually. Honestly, how ridiculous would I look if I included the wrong player or spoke harshly about a player only to have them start and perform well in the season? Oh, not ridiculous at all because these are harmless projections that I jot down while my daughter is napping? I guess you’re right.

STARTING 5

After 2 intense scrimmages and 2 weeks of practice, the dust has finally settled and many believe the first team has been decided. 3 positions along the line feature incumbent part-time starters, but only 40 starts are had among the entire unit. Compare that to last year’s 106 and you’ll see there’s quite an experience gap. The group won’t feature any underclassmen from my understanding, so at least we’re not throwing inexperience AND youth into the fray. All 5 linemen are Juniors, with 3 years spent in the weight rooms and practice fields. The return of J.B. Grimes as OL Coach is a big deal as well, seeing that he recruited many of these players in his previous stint at Auburn. His expertise lies in meticulous teaching and getting everything he can out of his players. It sounds redundant to say, “he’s a coach that’s good at coaching”, but there are a good portion of coaches across the country whose specialty is recruiting, and they leave the player development to chance. Not Coach Grimes. Having said that, here’s his starting group.

LEFT TACKLE, Prince Tega Wanogho / 6’7 310 / RS Junior / 7 Starts

Tega came to us from little ol’ Elmore, AL, by way of Nigeria. He had 1 year of football experience before arriving to the Plains in 2015, but his talent was evident. So much so, he was listed by recruiting services as the 4th best player in the state of Alabama coming out of high school, and several respected schools in the SEC and around the country (LSU, Clemson, Ohio State, Notre Dame) offered him scholarships. He’s seen action in over 20 games since redshirting, with 7 starts coming last season. He has been labeled an NFL talent and physical freak thanks to his quickness, mobility and sub-20% body fat. As you can expect, he’s shown flashes of All-SEC ability as often as he’s shown what-were-you-thinking ability. But Coach Grimes loves him and believes that he‘s improved over the Spring and Fall Camps, and expects him to finish this season with a difficult decision on his hands: stay for a 5th year or leave for the bright lights of the NFL.

LEFT GUARD, Marquel Harrell / 6’3 310 / Junior / 6 Starts

Marquel broke into the starting lineup last season after injuries and shakeups to the starting 5 occurred mid-season, and played well in the process. He’s a strong run-blocker that moves well in space. If some technique issues are shored up by Coach Grimes he could find himself on a 2nd or 3rd team All-SEC list come season’s end. As it stands, he’s an adequate SEC starter that will hold his own. He needs to find his next level to take Auburn to Atlanta again.

CENTER, Kaleb Kim / 6’4 300 / RS Junior / 0 Starts

Kaleb came into Auburn as the 5th best Center prospect in the country, and has had the opportunity to marinate behind the great Swiss Army knife Austin Golson (started at 4 positions on the OL in his career). Kaleb is in his same mold: a mentally strong player that won’t beat himself or miss many assignments. He’s someone that physically isn’t overwhelming, but his size won’t allow him to be a pushover. He’s also one of J.B. Grimes’ recruits, so there’s an added level of trust that should be a benefit.

RIGHT GUARD, Mike Horton / 6’4 320 / RS Junior / 7 Starts

If not for injuries last year, Mike would have seen far more than 7 starts at Left Guard. He’s someone that outperformed his recruit rankings very quickly at Auburn, but had to wait his time behind All-SEC and All-American Braden Smith. In my opinion, Mike Horton is the best offensive lineman we have currently. He’s very strong, very agile and rarely loses a play. He may have already reached his ceiling, but if he continues his level of play from last season, he should garner some NFL Draft consideration.

RIGHT TACKLE, Jack Driscoll / 6’5 310 / Grad Transfer Junior / 20 Starts

The biggest and most talked-about battle of Fall Camp has been won by Jack Driscoll, from all reports. He started 20 games for the UMass Minutemen in his 2 years of playing time, and comes to Auburn having 2 more years of eligibility. While UMass plays outside the Power 5 conferences, they squared-off Mississippi State and Florida in his time there, and he showed himself well. As a matter of fact, he was graded by Pro Football Focus at an 85.1 in 2017, the 2nd highest rating for an Offensive Tackle in the Group of 5 level. For perspective, PFF considers a grade of 85 or higher to be “NFL ready.” Also of note, the Auburn and UMass offenses are very similar - which led to his decision to finish his career at AU. I’ll suffice it to say that Driscoll is an SEC-ready player that will help the 2018 Auburn campaign. In his short time on the roster he’s earned the respect of his teammates and more than proven he belongs in the starting 5.

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Injuries are a part of the game, especially along the line of scrimmage. There are believed to be 4 more players who will not only see playing time this season, but will be called on first should their position suffer an injury. Most notable among them is the lone 5-star recruit in the entire position group, redshirt freshman Calvin Ashley. Ashley came into the program needing to lose weight and develop a measure of “grit”, and only his weight has seen a change to this point. Ashley could see time at Guard or Tackle on the right side. Nick Brahms, a highly-touted recruit from Florida, was expected to seriously contend for the starting Center role, but a broken leg in Spring Camp cut that bid short. He’s still looking for 100% health and 100% contact in practice at this point, but he’s highly thought of among the staff. One of the strongest players and best names on the team, Brodarius Hamm, will get some playing time at Guard as well. He’s 6’5 and all of 340lbs, so don’t be shocked if he shows up in some special packages in short yardage situations. Lastly, Austin Troxell is a name to watch at Right Tackle. He’s a redshirt freshman as well, and has overcome a number of injuries to play himself into a role on this team. He has a bright future, along with Calvin Ashley, but has to refine the technical side of his game after coming from a smaller high school in North Alabama.

SUMMARY

As a unit, Auburn will hold its own against nearly every opponent. This is not a dominating group, and likely falls somewhere around 5th to 7th-best in the conference. There will be games that are spectacular and there will be struggles. Any group with this much youth and inexperience would see those results. I believe that this line will fare no worse than last season’s overall, but we won’t likely see dominating performances like in the Miss. State or ‘Bama matchups. This unit won’t be called on to win games, but could be directly tied to losses if they don’t play to their best. To put it bluntly, this group’s performance will determine if we’re playing for another SEC title with a shot at the College Football Playoff, or we’re spending the month of December preparing for another trip to the meaningless Outback Bowl. I believe it will be the former.

[meagerquest-blog]

Stop Procrastination – Reprogramming Your Mind

The human mind is such a bizarre thing. It’s what allows us to think deeply about things, to make sense of the world around us, and to create. It’s pretty amazing for basically a hunk of fat. Without it we wouldn’t have any of the awesome works of art, stories, or products we enjoy. Without it we wouldn’t be able to enjoy or comprehend them at all even if we did have them somehow. Speaking of which, sometimes my dog will sit and stare at the TV, and I often wonder how he makes sense of it. Based on the way he tilts his head back and forth, I have to imagine he has no idea in the world what’s going on. He certainly has never created anything himself besides a huge mess of shredded tissues, so there’s my case-in-point for the human brain being so great, I suppose.

The greatest saboteur

For all its intricacy and splendor, the brain sure has this unparalleled knack for sabotaging us and holding us back. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. We’ve all struggled with procrastination, self-doubt, lack of drive or inspiration, and just the mental wrestle of trying to get ourselves to make something great. The mind, the very thing that allows us to create, is also the thing that causes us to NOT create. It’s almost like it’s the result of some kind of cosmic or divine prank.

Our own psychology can be empowering or it can be limiting, it all just ties back to how our inner thought processes have been trained. For example, when we procrastinate, we essentially avoid things that are even a little difficult or uncomfortable and purposefully seek out suitable distractions, even if the thing we’re putting off ought to be highly important to us. We often take the path of least resistance, whether that’s working on little things that take less effort but leave us less fulfilled or whether it’s shrugging off our creative work entirely and binge-watching Netflix instead. With ice cream. Don’t forget the ice cream. And so, great pieces are left sadly unpainted. Beautiful poetry is left unwritten. Life-changing ideas remain locked away in our minds, gathering mental cobwebs and dust. We throw up our hands in dismay; Surely there must be something deeply wrong with us. All those other people followed their dreams and achieved success, so why not us?

Can you relate to that? I sure can. This was a big part of my struggle for years. Before I started working on Meager Quest, I had a plethora of other ideas I thought were awesome but never followed through on. The remnants of their beginnings still languish, untouched, in forgotten regions of my computer’s hard drive. I know how frustrating this can be. But what if I told you that you can alter your mental processes to make the struggle less of an uphill one? You can! When the mind talks us out of things, it’s coming from a bit of a dark, yet wholly reasonable place. If we can learn through practice and gentle self-correction to see things accurately and with clarity, the brain becomes more the amazing tool it’s meant to be and less of a hinderance.

Benefit vs. Cost

Our repeated decisions to procrastinate and put off our own creativity for later are actually pretty rational if you think about it. When making even small decisions, we weigh the benefits of certain actions against their cost. Choosing whether or not to sit down and work can be a lot like trying to decide whether to buy one product or another. Sure, one of them (chasing our dreams and hustling hard) will fit our needs better but look at that price! It’s easily more than 10 times the cost of this cheaper one. And, we reason with ourselves, all those other features might not be so great anyway. So, between waging the (sometimes actual) war of creativity and vegging out watching Netflix while wiping orange Cheetos dust on the couch, we often settle on the less taxing of the two. The brain may not deal in actual legal tender, but it does have its own currency that is every bit as real and that can be depleted just like money can be.

The currency of the mind

Just as the bank account can run dry of its funds if we’re not careful, so can the brain. The brain, however, deals in the currency of energy; certain kinds of mental work tend to burn up more of it than others. To better understand whether this is truly the case, three researchers (Todd A. Hare, Colin F. Camerer, and Antonio Rangel) gathered together a group of dieters for a study. They laid out before them a variety of foods, all ranging in both nutritional value and deliciousness. They then monitored their brains as the group went about making their decisions as to what types of food they would eat. When the participants made decisions in keeping with the diet they’d personally committed to, a very specific part of the brain lit up on the monitor, showing that energy was being used by the brain to make that decision. There was real work being done and energy, our biological currency, was being used at a faster rate. They noted that this activity happening in the same part of the brain was reduced when participants basically said “screw it, I’m eating the chocolate cake.” By scrapping their diet for a moment, they were quite literally making the less costly decision. Of course, it’s not like one small decision depletes all our mental reserves and leaves us drained. But throughout any given day we make hundreds if not thousands of little decisions. That can quickly become exhausting and the brain attempts to reserve energy wherever it can.

Without even resorting to scientific studies, I think we know all this at an innate, subconscious level. We know that doing actual work that we’ve promised ourselves we would do takes more effort and energy than just going with the flow of what we “feel like doing.” This innate knowledge is why we as humans are what psychology calls “cognitive misers.” This means that subconsciously we value our mental energy very highly and by instinct we try to hoard and cling to it. We’re like Ebenezer Scrooge when it comes to this stuff. We’re only going to expend our finite mental resources on things that are actually compelling to us. The rest is just “humbug.” Bah!

Sometimes we choose the easy way out because we genuinely don’t care much about that thing we’re “supposed” to be doing. In those cases, obviously the energy cost is not worth spending for a result that’s essentially hot garbage. If you’ve found yourself in a rut though where you’re tired of procrastination keeping you away from the awesome things you want to bring to life, it’s probably not the case that you don’t care. You likely do care very much, but something is going on behind the scenes to downplay the benefits while making the costs seem much more astronomical than they really are.

Mental Programming

Each of us has gone through a variety of experiences. We’ve had happy experiences and we’ve also harbored sadness and pain. We’ve all dealt with failures and criticism, some of it harsh and unwarranted. We also internalize lessons learned from watching the failings of those around us. As a result, each of us believes things about ourselves, about our abilities, and about our work that shapes our actions. These beliefs are fed into our minds like an automated computer program. They execute on their own and run through our minds when certain trigger events happen.

If one sits down to edit a video, a “program” may run that says “Nobody is going to watch this. It’ll only get like 10 views like the last one.” If one gets out their paints and brushes a a “program” may run that says “I always mess up my paintings.” Sometimes when I sit facing a blank document to write articles like these I have a thought pop in: “I’m not credible, who would want to read what I think?” Other self limiting mental programs include “No one is going to care,” “It’s too ambitious; I’ll NEVER finish something like this,” “People are going to thing this is really dumb,” “I wish I had time to do this but I’m way too busy,” and “I never finish anything, so why even start?” I’ve personally really struggled with some variation of every one of these, and they are all unequivocally terrible.

WOW. No matter how much we personally care about our own work, is it really so surprising that we find it hard to be motivated to expend effort on it with garbage programming like this? Why would any sane person spend their time, energy, and effort if they deeply believed that they were destined to fail? These programs take something that is incredibly valuable to us and cheapen them. We look at the end result of our hard work through the urine-colored lens of past pains. Suddenly the tremendous benefits of completing our projects start to look like nothing compared to the amount of effort it will take to get there.

If you’ve struggled with this, you’re not at all alone. Blocks like these are just about as common as creativity itself. One of my goals, in addition to finishing Meager Quest, is to help you begin to reprogram your mind to make your creativity flow more easily as I have. My own programming isn’t free of bugs or glitches just yet, but it’s making progress and even that has worked wonders for me already.

The truth will set you free

You can begin changing your psychology right this very minute. Begin elevating the benefits of your creativity so that the energy costs don’t seem like such a bad investment. The end goal is to end up with some new mental programs that are good and positive, but also believable. We need to retrain the mind to see things clearly— to see the costs and benefits of creating art as as they really, truly are. Empty optimism won’t carry you too far, since lies you tell yourself will eventually break down in the more rational regions of your brain. Base your positive thinking on good, solid truths, though, and you’ve got yourself a winning formula. There are plenty of truths about your creativity to go on.

The truth is, working hard to extract the unique material out of your head is part of what you, as a human being, were born to do. We humans are the only species that can truly do this.

The truth is that creating is the ONLY way to become a master of the craft you love. You may feel like you’re not very good yet but if you will create consistently you will look back a year from now and see progress.

The truth is that creating is the only way to become the master of your own course in life.

The truth is that nobody will have the opportunity to fall in love with your work and vision if you don’t bring it forward. You may struggle to find an audience and it may not be a smash hit overnight, but having even one person deeply admire your work is infinitely more fulfilling than zero.

The truth is that a finished project with flaws is of more value than the theoretical “perfect” one that never gets off the ground.

The truth is that you can do it, and that if you don’t know how yet you can learn.

The truth is that even if you only have 15 minutes a day to work, if you use those 15 minutes every day there WILL eventually come a day when the work is done.

As creative people, we have got to replace our negative mental programming with programming that nourishes us with these truths every day as we sit down to create. In the next article, I’ll share with you a specific process I’ve used to do just this. Keep an eye out for that and until next time, stay creative!

Chey

References:

https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-motivated-brain/201510/why-wait-the-psychological-origins-procrastination

http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0072626