#the only difference being the space between rain and world is so real core

[tunanoodlesoup]

observe perfect slugloaf @celestial-bell-drop mm my proof of loaf LMAO

[wander-wren]

on fanfic, original fic, and living on the boundary

most of the time, you hear about fanfic authors who eventually “make it” writing Real Books. very rarely, you might hear it the other way around. once upon a time, not too long ago, it was common for fanfic authors to aspire to write fic that mimicked Real Books, and very likely some of them still do. i’ve thought about it and realized the two were not separate experiences for me—something i suspect is becoming more common as fandom becomes more mainstream.

pretty much all of my earliest stories (elementary-age) were derivative. i loved multiple series about horses, and especially black beauty; the cats vs dogs movies, underdog, racing in the rain, and the whole dog’s life series. and more! those are just the ones i can distinctly identify as being stories i pulled from when i wrote about horses and dogs escaping abusive humans to go be spies. or wander the wilderness and be rescued by nice humans. i was also a big fan of dramatic angst, so not much has really changed. perhaps you could call those things fanfiction at a stretch, but i really wouldn’t.

once i hit 12-14, i started making things that were more original—all work is derivative, but this wasn’t consciously inspired by media i’d seen. i was, however, really big into ya dystopia, so that genre came up a lot alongside fantasy. i also found my way to fandom spaces and real fic at the start of this period. at the time, though, i didn’t even clock it as something different. i was simply writing “my warrior cat stories” right alongside my stories about kids in magic school and teens living underground post-nuclear war.

when i was around 13 i discovered the terms and community around fandom, moved to wattpad, then ao3, and more firmly separated origfic and fanfic in my mind. posted some more of both. finished like six things ever, all of them pretty short.

at 15, i started to Take Writing Seriously. i finally finished my first (original) novel, then my first longfic. wrote a few more fics. started a few more novels that didnt quite get off the ground. took a year-ish break from fic to really focus on original fiction, then wrote both at once again, and then in the last year or so, mostly abandoned original fic (except for editing) in order to throw myself back into the fandom sphere.

what i’m saying, in this very long-winded way, is that there is no ascending the writing ladder from lowly fic to super professional original work, to me. do i spend more time and energy on original stuff? sure! that’s the harder sell, and the one that, in theory, will eventually make me money. is my style exactly the same? no! they’re different mediums and i’ve honed each separately to reflect different strengths.

but my original work is still fanfic-y, in the sense of being extremely character driven, slim on the worldbuilding that’s not directly relevant, and emotional.

i think writing a first draft of something my own is a nearly identical process to writing a longfic, if that longfic actually has a plot (mine don’t always) and i know my audience is going in fandom blind. i still have to explain things like character backstory and how the world works, but it’s hardly the priority and i only need the bare minimum to get what’s going on. everything is focused on the high-emotion moments, skipping past all the boring bits in between. things happen with very flimsy justification, characters are ooc to serve the plot, and somehow we went on several tangents on our way to the end that didn’t all get resolved.

that makes my fanfic sound bad! but those things in fic are features, not bugs.

the second draft and beyond, then, is an effort to turn the story into a source material, rather than a fic based off the source in my head. features in fanfic are, unfortunately, bugs in novels, and they must be squished. but the core of the story is always the emotions, the character arcs, the relationships. they’re what i build around and what i follow like a compass when i revise.

i’m a very fannish person, i suppose. my silly little hope is that approaching my original stuff this way might entice a small fandom of its own to form around it.

this is also here as yet another reminder that you don’t have to use fanfic as “practice” for future, more legitimate works. it does not have to be a training ground until you’re good enough to move to the big leagues and push it aside. that’s not how this works for me. i would not have any kind of writing career without my fanfic. i would be such a wildly different human it is painful to think about. fanfiction is my heart, and it informs everything.

[annmarcus63]

GIVE US TO HIM

Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Warning: this might hurt a little

on ao3 https://archiveofourown.org/works/34157128

Grandma said once that to give away your raw score is forbidden.

"Your heart in it's full rawness, chaos, is a precious and dangerous thing. Never you should do something as giving it to someone else."

"But our ancestors used to do it. Look ma ¡look!" said Jaskier holding his story book on the air for grandma's tired eyes to see. A handsome knight was lying on the dry grass, dying from a wound on his stomach. He started calling for his love, an ancient fae with blond hair and fair skin. She fell upon the prairie from the charged clouds, with something shiny between her hands. The fae feed the wound with her raw core, her heart. The knight lived along side her, flying amongst the starry night, happily ever after. "This are just stories, Julian" said Grandma with contened anger in her dry voice. She took the book and close it on her thighs "Things were rarely like that. Knights and kings are more inclined to use our cores against us and other people. We can't recover from that loss" Julian look at the drawing on the coverbook, the fae was kneeled by a pond and the knight stood glorious in practically all the cover, leaving a very small space for the real hero, the one who save the life of the protagonist.

"Never give your raw core away. Stop reading these, THEY wrote this, Julian, you must be clever than her" said Grandma pointing at the beautiful fae. Julian nod, undesrtanding much more that he wanted to, and so little, so so little. Maybe that was the reason his family were hiding, they never express it in a literal way, that was the point really, but Julian notice anyway. The way, for example, of how they said their names and the rust taste that was left on the air after. It was common to hide their real names for fae, but you'd give that name knowing it's false, on the opposite when you say the false name thinking is the real one then another fae would know. Losing the self was something of a disease between the fae. Jaskier later knew that his parents have not choice but to lose themselves to save the lineage. Most fae really. Humans did that. Like they did to the elfes. Julian promise to never forget about the fae from his last storybook. He'll never forget about her sacrifice and the sacrifice of his people. But come on, after some years it was just naturally that, despite the wound on the history, a selfish creature he was and he forgot. He was raised as human, and he wanted to be a bard oh how he want it. And he did accomplish that, and a bloody good one that's for sure. Fae were extinct for all the world and that wasn't a cover, they're doomed to extinction sooner or later. It has been years since the last time Jaskier felt another fae being born. He is Jaskier troubadour, master of the seven liberal arts a mastermind amongst the crowds, a legend…an idiot most of the time basically.

What grandma failed to mention is that for a fae to be able to give their core away the recipient must be worthy at the eyes of the fae. Once this worthiness makes evident, that person would plant roots in the core itself, whether the fae want it or not. It's inevitable. Grandma should have said "be aware of where you place your heart. Hold it until you're fully sure of them" But well, it wouldn't have matter in the end. Jaskier have never being someone who follows advice, much less from his dead relative. It happened naturally, like breathing, eating and shitting. One moment he was standing next to Geralt under a pouring rain, the witcher kept looking for a missing girl on the edges of the woods, her parents place a bounty on the towns board, they couldn't offer payment in form of crowns but they're willing to let them sleep on the girl’s room. Jaskier became indignant, how a witcher is supposed to take a payless bounty? No, that is unacceptable. But despite the protesting bard and zero reward whatsoever Geralt went anyway, he look for a girl who surelly was already dead.

"I found her body near the cave by the pond. You can go for her by morning when it's safe. I'm sorry" after a minute of silence the parents with equal expression of cold sorrow release a heavy sigh charged with so much grief.

"What did it?" asked the father

"Nekkers. I got rid of the pack living there"

"Thank you, witcher. You and your bard can come in, i'm sure you're exhausted” Said the mother with great effort, like someone who can't breathe quite well.

Geralt rapidly added "No, I'm sure you and your husband need time to resign and mourn alone. My bard and i already had another place to stay" Eh, no they didn't.

"But...we don't have any crowns"

"I didn't do this for payment" And while the parents thanked infinitely to Geralt, Jaskier felt something wild and untamed surging from his chest. Reaching unabashed for the witcher with a big golden heart standing next to him, explaining to a mourning parents that he went to search for their lost daughter because he wanted to help. This new awareness of chaos, he knew what it was.

Chaos, core, raw.

And it had marked Geralt as his. We want him.

Give us to him. He's worthy.

He was doomed, so doomed from the very beginning since they encounter each other on Posada. Grandma tried to warn him of this. Oh grandma, you and i both know that I was never obedient or wise. So Jaskier let it happen, four years after knowing the witcher and his raw core already belong to him. But he didn't do it. He hold back despite the urgency on his chest because he wasn't sure it'll be welcome. Geralt was still trying to get rid of him in every town, sometimes Jaskier felt like a pet you don't want but you can't abandon it either. Surely there'd be a time in the future. And Jaskier wait and fell in love deeply with each passing year. And Geralt...well he was the same and also different in his own way, more at ease around him, softer maybe. Jaskier didn't need to be call a friend to felt like one to Geralt. They're friends, even if one part has being in denial for the past decade.

And then the djinn happened follow by the complicated affair with one Yennefer of Vandenberg. The curse caused the core to retreat afraid and wounded. He hurt us, he wished to hurt us. Jaskier argued with the voice that it wasn't his intention, he didn't even know he was the one with the wishes. In truth his heart shattered not for the wish but for the easiness in which the sorceress become someone important to Geralt, something to hold on to even if drowning. One decade and still Jaskier thinks he haven't reached that relationship level with his friend.

He doesn't want us

No.

"Uhmm?"

"What?"

"You said no"

"Oh, it's nothing" Geralt didn't ask again

But weak and in love he was, the raw core and him reached out again, with fully open arms for Geralt to pull. Jaskier long to belong to him, oh how he did.

Yennefer and her shining imbecile knight join the hunt and he was jealous because as soon as she appear the witcher was drooling as if she was all he needed to shut down the darkness inside.

Don't you know? inside me there's a full light waiting for you to hold

At the softness of the afternoon Jaskier found Geralt sitting on a rock lost, as usual, in though. But this time were different, he had failed three people, Borch's dead has left a wound that surely would scar badly. And the bard felt a deep sadness for his golden heart witcher. He's definitely blaming himself for the fall, for that narrow and insecure path alongside the mountain as if he was the one to build it.

Jaskier asked him to come with him to his home, to the coast, he yearn to be there with him and feel the sea wind on their faces while walking by a cliff near a quiet village that Geralt wouldn't mind to visit.

We want to be his.

Give us to him.

We can love him better.

But Geralt didn't want him, he wanted Yennefer.

He give himself to him anyway.

"Here" said Jaskier putting a hand on Geralt's thigh, surprise, instead of flinching away Geralt held Jaskier's hand and with most carefulness took what was inside the palm. A small glass vial, similar to the ones where he pours his potions. He held it on his gloved open hand. There was something inside, warm and inviting. White, almost yellow that make Geralt felt calm and safe.

"What's this?"

"A gift. It'd take care of you" Geralt frown at him, confused and uncertain of what it meant, but he took it with a barely there smile only for Jaskier to see.

He's a coward, he couldn't confessed him the reality of what it meant because he was terrified of being rejected, grandma said that a rejection is so devastating that it might kill him. And even at this point in their friendship Jaskier couldn't know for sure.

It's me. Take me, i'll protect and save you if needed to. Have me, please have me.

Geralt went that night at Yennefer's tent and Jaskier felt glad for not having told him the truth

"If life could give me a blessing it would be to take you off my hands"

No, no, not now.

They're doing fine.

And then very fast very suddenly Geralt reached for his breast pocket to held the vial of raw core on his fist and toss it unceremoniously to the hard soild.

The noise of shattered glass invaded Jaskier's ears before the heavy blankness surged from his chest to every corner of him.

“No, no, no” said he, giving a fumbling step towards the vial but deciding to turn around instead.

Away away away away.

He can't see me like this.

Something was tearing in fine lines caused by the trembling, an earthquake from his very bones that were fighting on maintaining their solid formation. Something inside was bawling with such and intensity that make his ears bleed.

Was this dying? let it be death for he can no longer take it. Does breathing always hurt this much? like if his lungs were filled with wool and the air only add heaviness on them. What was this? a beating heart, so afraid so betrayed, like a laugh from his ancestors. He wanted to throw up his intestines, they're on fire, but when he tried only saliva flood. He was not himself anymore, and to become whole was an impossibility that the pain was making sure off. Dirt get inside his mouth, his cheek on the ground was getting cut by rocks. A voice calling for him to react, to say something. But he no longer have a voice, he was death itself preparing for a long dream.

I’m sorry grandma.

I'm sorry, said to himself

and he remembered the blond fae on the cover book between grandma's hands, of how she give her life to save her love one, but who'd give their life for her?

who'd give their life for him?

He needed to sleep, right here on the mountain ground, to become whole again or at least half whole.

He begged for death instead.

[octania]

Nicolas Brown x Reader (NSFW, 18+)

Word count: 1.8 k

Warnings: smut, nsfw, public sex, dirty talk, creampie.

Short description: Nicolas is a man whose patience goes forever for you, but teasing him in a valley in the rain, crosses the limits and he chooses to unleash the beast your insides desire so much.

________________________________________________________

You never would have thought that the place you wanted to be in with all of your heart, would be a twisted and vulgar place like Ergastulum. Gangs, murders, drugs, prostitution, and much more were the heavy crosses that this place carried, making people turn their backs to the cold walls of this town, leaving it in the dust of their memory forever, and never coming back...that is, if they managed to leave in the first place. But you would not be anywhere else, all the relaxing horizons with blasting colors, deep raging seas and beautiful landscapes of the world could not fill the place of the most beautiful sight you found here. And here he was, standing in front of you, the one filling your eyes with perfection and the one who is to blame for you not caring for the truth about the bones of this city, its fitly dark corners and deadly streets. In fact, the bare red bricks on the walls where plaster has fall off, the soaked empty wooden boxes which were home for guns not so long ago, the raging sounds of cars driving fast in narrow streets, were forgotten by your senses and intoxicated with the heat radiating from the strong black haired man towering over you, giving his best not to rip off that cocktail dress you have been wearing. But you did not give him much choice. Arching your back on the wall, pushing your hips on his groin, making your weight sank on the bugle on his washed up jeans, grinding on it. You held your balance by sinking your sharp nails into his soaked black shirt, feeling the muscles answering your sneaky moves by getting more intense.

You are not making this easy for me babe.

A thought crossed Nicolas’s mind when he saw the raindrops glide over your body. How your needy tongue collects the rain on your rosy lips. He sank his thick long fingers deeper in your waist, leaning over you, locking you between the wall of his firm chest muscles and the uncovered bricks on the wall. Black marbles in his eyes warned you for the last time. His patience with you was enormous, but you have been provoking him all afternoon. Slipping your hand under his t-shirt, playing with your nails over his strong forearms, nibbling on his neck when he hugged you, breathing on his ears and playfully licking the earlobe, kissing him with such passion he barely managed to pull you off, and the last thing, pulling him in the dark valley just so you two can “find shelter” from the rain. There was no roof to cover you, and no eyes that followed you. Hiding you beneath his chin and wrapping his steel biceps around you resulted in you being playful again, wiggling and brushing your body on his, stimulating his clothed cock with your ass, acting all innocent until he pinned you on the wall, lifting you up and crashing his hungry lips on yours, growling on your mouth while your legs wrapped around him like a snake wraps around its prey. The rain danced around you, following the rhythm of you moving bodies, disguising your juices that are the real reason your panties were soaked. The proof of your arousal from rubbing your thin thong on his zipper. You knew him well, he was too good for this stuff, too respectful towards you. Fucking you blindly in the corner of the street was never his prime choice, but not because he lacked interest in perverse ways and places to devour your body, no, it was because he treated you like a gentleman. But even the most patient and polite man has his limits. And his was crossed when his hawk scanned every filthy word your mouth have shaped.

“I need your cock inside me Nicky. Please.”- begging like a real shameless whore, you licked your way to his neck, catching his warm skin between your teeth. It tasted sweet, like the summer rain dripping from it. Biting it slightly while licking it and sucking it in the same time, you pushed your hand on his broad back, pulling over it with your nails. You knew his tattoo was right underneath it, like a X on a treasure map, there was one of his sensitive sports. His roars like a wild animal confirmed your right move, as you did it again, sealing the deal when a refreshing feeling of water falling on your naked skin hit you. A sound of fabric being ripped apart was there only for a moment, you barely noticed it from Nicolas’s growls in your ear, but you could feel you are naked. Almost completely, only your red thong was a surviving thing. But not for long.  Shifting his hands from your waist, one hand was now cupping your ass, while the other appeared between your legs. Biting your lip in the same time, he pushed two of his fingers violently on your covered entrance, making the thin lace break under his digits, letting them dive inside your heated hole. The feeling of his knuckles pushing against your twitching walls just extended his now raging need to spread you open with the main thing, wanting those slippery juices all over his length. He let his wide firm chest to squeeze your on the wall, holding you up like that while his other hand unzipped his pants, pushing down the grey boxers, and letting out his throbbing dick. The veins on it were pumping, meaty tip swollen as a pearl of cum was washed off quickly by the rain. He rubbed his hardened member along your slit a couple of times, before he rocked his hips forward, burying his heavy meat inside you. He could feel the vibration of a scream on your throat, catching your gaze. No matter how many times he fucked you, his cock always got you light headed when he drilled his way in. It was thick and long, forcing your velvety walls to stretch to the fullest. Seeing your lips shiver, he slowed down, but not stopped, pushing the last few inches carefully.

“Are you a-alright?”- his broken voice filled your ears as his concerned eyes explored the expression on your face. But you were more than alright, and you decided to show him just how much. You grabbed his shoulders, lifting yourself up a bit, then dropping yourself down fast, nailing yourself on his giant dick. He groaned, heavily gasping, as his fingers squeezing your ass cheeks. He was done being polite and gentile, your actions drove him mad, unleashing the animal he had locked inside. He crashed your bodies back on the brick wall, starting smashing between your legs with his rough thrusts. His white teeth showing under his grin, when he pulled your hair to make you tilt your head back and look at him.

“You wanted this?”- you loved how he sounded, to you it was something adorable but insanely arousing in the same time. Even more when he spoke when fucking you. His voice deep, combined with his deeps gasps while he pumped his length into you, making you only to nod and scream “Yes, Nicolas!”. This time was no different, he knew exactly what you like, what places on your body needed stimulating, what nasty words you needed to hear, what parts of his body excited you the most. He grabbed the end of his shirt , pulling it over his body that looked like a perfectly carved stone statue, smashing into you with a quicker pace, making the hits more shallow and deep, kissing your cervix with every slam. You watched as the rain danced on his body , making it glossy and almost unreal. Every muscle on his body was visible when made even a slightest movement, his chest lowering and rising with every deep breath he took. His wide palm found its way back to your neck, locking the fingers and losing the space between your delicate jaw and his palm. You know why he was doing this, he almost always did it when he knew you are going to cum. He wanted to feel all the waves of your voice through his arms, smashing into his core like waves. He managed to come even closer on you, moving his hips in a half circular motions for a moment, to make your folds open up more, exposing your nerve pearl to him. Not caring for the rain, he chuckled , lowering his head and spitting right on the pulsating clit. The thicker liquid covered it completely, as he pressed his groin on it, making sure that the stimulation of it now is unbearable. He did not need to hear it, he felt it, as your orgasm started to kick in from his rough thrusts and his skin grinding on your sensitive bud. Your fingers intertwined with his raven hair , while the other hand grasped on his ribs, nails once again marking his soft skin. Your insides sucked him in when your orgasm kicked in, walls clenching on his throbbing cock like they don’t want to let him go. He was barely pulling out, just pushing in mercilessly, concurring every remaining space in you.

“Don’t pull out Nicolas! “- Then you felt it. The warm sensation of his thick cum filling your womb to the brim, giving you exactly what you wanted. Your head fell on his collarbone, breathing heavily. You felt a tender thing pressing against your scalp. His lips. He kissed your head then gently letting you down to stand. The dark mirrors of his soul gazed at you filled with love, as he touched your cheek lightly, like he thinks you would break. Seriously? After fucking you like this, he thinks you will break from a simple touch? You giggled on your own thought, when something dark covered your eyes. It quickly disappeared, once again letting you gaze upon the most handsome man alive. He put his t-shirt on you, that looked like over sized dress on your small frame.

Perfect. No one will notice.- he signed to you proudly and gave you a thumbs up, smiling with his perfect smile that contains both sugar and darkness. You could not resist the sight and his adorable gesture, starting to laugh and then jumping on him, wrapping your hands around his neck.

You are perfect.- you signed to him, shyly looking down, but not for long. His big hands pushed your chin back up. His gaze said a thousand words, words you know he struggled to express otherwise, but he was trying, just like he did this time by replaying.

Only when I am with you.- he signed, then kissed you, letting the rain wash away everything around you but this moment. 

[lexosaurus]

Everything Was White: Part 12

[see all chapters]

Read on: [ffn] / [ao3]

---

The alarm was blaring.

Danny recognized the noise immediately. But his eyes were still slow to open, his arms were slow to turn off the offending sound, and his brain was slow to recognize that the white ceiling above him was just his bedroom ceiling.

His body was numb. Nothing felt real.

He grabbed his phone off his nightstand and unlocked it. The screen was too bright, but he didn’t care. He’d been through worse. What was a little eye strain to him, really?

There were text messages, but Danny ignored them. The government likely already read them first, so if they were important, Danny would probably have woken up back in his cell rather than his cozy bed.

Ghosts like Danny didn’t get to have comfort. He was unpredictable. Dangerous.

“You’re a feral beast.” Operative O’s deep voice rained down on him. “You need to be trained.”

Danny opened the Twitter app only to be faced with a crushing amount of notifications and his name on the top of the trending list.

He should have felt nervous. Anxiety should have gripped his stomach. But...it didn’t.

He felt nothing.

Numb.

He clicked on his name and scrolled through the tweets. As he suspected, that damn video of him at the PHP littered his screen.

Protests have begun to break out near the health clinic Phantom is attending. [image]

I don’t understand, why doesn’t he just fly into the building or something? Can he not fly?

Is phantom over?

It’s so gross how people feel the need to harass a teenager trying to recover from trauma.

imagine being a teen trying to get emergency mental help and then THAT walks into ur class 

What the fuck did the government do to him? 

He was numb.

Nobody knew what really happened in there, and Danny wanted so badly to keep it that way. And the worst part was, he thought that if he just forgot about it, tried to move past it, then it would all go away. And no one would ever know.

Except Vlad did find out. Somehow, Vlad had managed to get a hold of classified government files about Danny, and if what he had implied was true, then he had learned everything. 

And if Vlad knew, then…

No. He wasn’t going to think about it. 

Danny knew from the moment he’d stupidly revealed himself that his life was not his own anymore. He knew that he was going to be nothing but a government possession from that moment till the day he died.

He didn’t deserve to get upset over this.

He pulled up a blank tweet and started typing. His movements were robotic. Stilted. But one slip-up, just one reason for the public to get suspicious, and Danny knew that some seedy corner of the internet would pounce on the opportunity to dig deeper into Danny’s life than he was comfortable with.

Danny Phantom @dannyphantom Thank you everyone for the support. I’m back home with my family and am healing.

Before he could question what he was doing, his finger was already pressing send on the tweet. He watched as almost immediately, notifications popped up in his inbox. 

But he didn’t open his notifications, he didn’t look at the replies. Instead, he closed the app and shut his phone off.

He didn’t care anymore.

Maddie knocked on the door and asked him a question, and he responded with the right answer for her to leave. He got up and started his new morning routine of sitting in the shower for ten minutes, getting dressed, brushing his teeth, and heading downstairs for breakfast before leaving for six hours of mandatory therapy.

He stared out the window, watching the morning traffic pass by him. He couldn’t remember if he shampooed his hair or if he just sat under the scalding water. But it was fine. He was just a government-issued robot now. Whatever.

There were people lining the highway when Danny pulled into the PHP center. They were shouting different things, holding different signs, their cameras armed and ready as soon as the GAV came into view. The police were there, making sure no one escaped into the parking lot, and there were therapists waiting outside.

They didn’t know. They had no idea what Danny had gone through, why he was there.

And it didn’t matter. Not to them, not to Danny, not to the police or the news stations filming the scene or to the government or Vlad or anyone else. 

Danny wasn’t in charge of his life anymore. 

He was only here because the government had decided he could stay free. 

For now.

The therapists escorted him into the building. Danny felt hollow. Sick.

No, he was fine.

Maddie hugged him, told him to have a good day, that she’d be back to bring him to more therapy after, and Danny nodded. At least, he thought he remembered to nod. He might not have, though.

There was a window in the lobby. A white van was parked along the street.

The APC news van.

Jazz was right. Danny was just being paranoid about the white van outside of their house before. He was so stupid. 

Even if it wasn’t a news van, what would it matter? He didn’t control his life, what would he care if they finished him off in some back alley? What would it matter if they snuck him into their van and held him captive for the rest of his life in some damp containment cell?

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Danny spaced out for the morning meeting. He couldn’t remember if he managed to read off his paper for the other teens. His voice wasn’t working today. His head hurt. His chest hurt. Everything was numb.

They had art therapy today, run by a tall, lanky man with sandy hair and a clean-shaven face. He told the group to paint what they were feeling today, to channel their emotions onto their blank sheets of paper.

But Danny felt nothing. He had nothing to give.

He must have stared at his paper for too long, because the therapist tried to talk to him, ask him if he was alright, if he was having trouble with the exercise.

Danny didn’t respond, instead choosing to pick up the green paint and squeeze some of it directly onto his paper, rules be damned. It was too dark, so he grabbed the white paint and smeared it into the green. The color still wasn’t right, but Danny didn’t know enough about art to make it right, so he just kept spreading green across his paper. A dash of yellow, then some white, more green.

Time was up. His paper was green. 

“Good job, Danny. What do you think?” the therapist asked.

Danny stared at the paper, studying the streaks of yellow within the brush strokes. “It’s not the right shade of ectoplasm.”

The day continued with more emotion-managing lessons and group activities but Danny didn’t care and nobody could understand that. He was done with this, he was tired, it didn’t matter.

It was lunchtime, and Danny had no appetite. It felt like he had just eaten breakfast. His stomach was still full, but he had a sandwich sitting in front of him that he needed to eat or else they would tell his parents.

Danny held the sandwich between his fingers. It looked like sandpaper.

He didn’t want to eat it.

The therapist was looking at him. She was probably talking to him too, asking him questions about his day. But Danny ignored her. After all, didn’t he need to eat this lunch? How could he possibly eat and talk at the same time?

The teens were talking around him, but Danny blocked them all out too.

They were noisy.

It was like they weren’t even there.

Danny wasn’t human. He didn’t care. 

But you do care. 

He didn’t.

He was numb. 

Eat up like a good little dog. 

I’m not a dog.

Something inside him snapped, and he yanked on his cold core, channeling all his energy to his fingertips. His fingers tingled out of the tangible field, and the sandwich fell to the table.

“Whoa!” The blonde girl jumped, her eyes trained on Danny’s transparent skin.

“Danny?” 

There was an audience. Danny had forgotten about them. His core faltered, and the power faded from his fingertips. 

He should have felt embarrassed by this emotional display. He should have felt horrified that he’d allowed himself to act so inhuman and disgusting in front of these innocent bystanders.

But he was still numb.

“Sorry,” he said. “I was bored.”

“That was sick!” the brunette boy chimed in. “You can do that on command?”

“Usually.” Danny’s gaze flickered over to the therapist, who was giving him a strange look. He turned his attention back to the fallen sandwich. 

Maybe he would get kicked out of the program for this. For being too dangerous. That would probably be for the better. Then he could go free into the world. No more schedule, no more therapy, no more dissecting his emotions or talking about his trauma. 

Who cared about his trauma, anyway? Certainly not him.

“So you still have your ghost powers, then?” the blonde girl asked. “People were saying online that you lost them. The government took them or whatever.”

Danny brought his hand up to his face, willing his fingers to fade to invisibility. “They’re locked. But...I...they’re there. I’ll get them back.”

He would get them back. He needed them. 

Especially now.

Which was how he found himself sitting quietly outside his mother’s door. Waiting. He should have knocked probably, but he didn’t. Couldn’t. He didn’t know why, he knew he should just go back to his room, go to sleep, stop bothering his parents about this, but he needed his core back.

His mom would understand. She was a ghost biology expert, right? She would get why he needed his core back now.

He raised his fist to knock, but he must have already knocked before because the door opened, revealing his mother dressed in teal pajamas on the other side. 

“Danny?” She frowned, her brows pulling cautiously above her eyes. “What are you doing up, sweetie? Everything alright?”

“I, uh—” His voice was scratchy. He broke eye contact, staring down at his lap. “My—my core.”

“Something wrong?”

He licked his lips, his mouth dry. “I need it back.”

“Sweetheart,” she said in a patient tone. “We talked about this.”

“No. you talked.”

She sighed. “Danny, it’s nearly eleven. Can’t this wait till morning?”

“No. No. I need it.”

“I told you, hun, your core and body need time to heal properly first before we make any drastic changes to your physiology. Just give it a few more weeks, alright?”

“Weeks?” Danny’s voice rose in alarm. 

“I promise it’ll be all worth it.”

Static rang in his ears, and a steel claw clutched at his stomach.

His mom didn’t understand. Why would she? She was human. Humans would never get it. She didn’t understand. 

“No, I can’t…”

“Danny, you need to trust me. Your body needs to rest.”

“You don’t understand.”

She regarded him for a moment before opening her door fully. “Why don’t you come in and we can talk, then. You can tell me why this is so important to you.”

Danny peered inside the door, at the surprisingly average-looking bedroom before him. He could go in, tell his mother just how wrong he felt cut off from his core, how he was being blackmailed by Vlad, how there was a distinct record of every detail of what the Guys in White had done to him, how he had never felt so defenseless, so vulnerable in his life.

But he wouldn’t, and he knew he couldn’t. There was no way he could put it all into words. He was a ghost, she was a human. He couldn’t explain this to her.

Skulker and Vlad may have forced his revelation, but they gave him more secrets than he could ever have dreamt of handling.

Danny turned away. “It’s fine. Good night.”

“Hun…”

“Night, Mom.”

There was a tense silence before Maddie finally relented. “I love you, Danny.”

“You too,” he said reflexively. The words tasted sour on his tongue.

She didn’t understand. If she truly loved him, she would give him his core back right now, but she didn’t.

No, he was just being paranoid. This was just his Obsession talking. He didn’t need his core, he was just as much human as he was ghost. So what if he had to be a little more human for the next few weeks? Isn’t that what he’d always wanted?

To just be a regular human?

Maybe that was what his mother wanted. Maybe that was why she was postponing removing the chip. Maybe she was too afraid to see her son as a monster. A ghost. 

But that was crazy. She loved him.

She was telling the truth. 

His parents accepted him.

---

“You seem quiet today.”

Danny leaned back against the sofa, his arms crossed and his eyes looking anywhere but at the blonde figure sitting before him. The stress ball sat untouched on the table next to him.

He didn’t feel like doing therapy today. He didn’t want to talk. 

His mom was human, his therapist was human. No one was going to get it.

“What’s on your mind, Danny?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He was fine. There was nothing to talk about. Even if there were things to talk about—and there weren’t, this was all just his Obsession going haywire—it wouldn’t matter anyway because he was defenseless and the government was going to kidnap him again. It was only a matter of time.

“You finished your first week with the PHP group today, right? How has that been going?”

“Fine.”

“Can you tell me about some of the activities you’ve been doing?”

“I don’t know.”

She sat there for a moment, as if giving him time to elaborate. But Danny wasn’t going to elaborate. He didn’t feel like talking today. 

He looked out the window. The leaves had changed color, the ripe greens fading to yellows, oranges, and reds. In another few weeks, the ground would be littered with fallen leaves.

Summer had barely just begun when he was dragged from his house, drugged, and locked away. And yet, even though his entire world had come to a halt, time still moved on.

The clatter of the therapist’s clipboard falling on a side table jolted Danny out of his musing. He flinched, his eyes snapping over to see the therapist rising from her chair. 

She stretched her arms behind her back and walked over to the closet. “You know what? It’s been a long day. Wanna play a game?”

“Um...are we allowed to do that?”

“I don’t see why not.” She grabbed a box out of the closet and placed it down in the center of the room.

Danny peered at it in confusion. “Jenga? Of—of all the games out there, you’re really gonna make me...make me get on the floor for Jenga?” 

“Oh, come on, it’s fun.”

“You must throw some wild parties,” he remarked, rolling his eyes. Nonetheless, he slid off the couch and slowly scooched himself towards the middle of the room. As long as he didn’t have to explain why he was two seconds away from ripping his own core out of his chest, he would go along with whatever game she threw at him.

The therapist carefully tipped the box upside down, sliding the lid up to reveal a tower of multi-colored wooden tiles jigsawed together.

“So here’s our marvelous tower,” she said. “You can reach that alright?”

“Yeah.”

“So normal Jenga rules. We switch off trying to remove a piece without causing the tower to collapse. Except, for this game, after you remove a piece, you’re going to pick a card from this stack—” She pointed to a deck of large cards set up next to the Jenga tower. “—and then answer the question on the card that’s the same color. So if I take a purple tile out, I’ll answer the purple question on the card. Got it?”

Danny glanced between the cards and his therapist’s eager face. He was fairly certain Jenga never involved a set of cards before.

Maybe he’d forgotten the rules. It wouldn’t have been the first time his brain had betrayed him. “Am I being quizzed?”

“Don’t worry.” She pushed up the sleeves of her blue cardigan. “They’re just basic therapy questions. Nothing too bad.”

No. This was a trick, wasn’t it? To get him to talk?

He wasn’t going to fall for it. “I thought we weren’t—weren’t doing that...today.” 

“The questions aren’t too deep. Honestly, I mostly just use this game as an icebreaker for new clients. But Jenga’s pretty fun all the same.”

He must have still looked too suspicious, because she threw him an easy smile and went, “Here, I’ll go first.” She carefully nudged a green tile out of the stack and drew a card. “Okay, so the green question on here says, ‘Describe yourself in three words.’ Well, I’d say I’m kind, I think I’m rather nerdy, and I’m a bit of a cat lady.”

That...wasn’t so bad. Maybe this would be an easy game. 

He doubted any of the questions asked him about his core. Maybe he could loosen up a bit, go along with this icebreaker game, if only for an hour before sinking back into his internal panic. 

“Cat lady?” he tried.

She chuckled. “I’m surprised that’s never come up! I have two at home.”

Right, his therapist had a life outside of therapy. Outside of his problems.

But it wasn’t like he knew her name. At this point, it was just too embarrassing to ask. Maybe she had told him that she had cats, and he just couldn’t remember. Maybe he would forget it again tomorrow.

Whatever. It was fine. He couldn’t care about things he didn’t remember. “Uh…” Danny pushed a purple tile out of the tower. “So I just pick up a—um, a card?”

“Yup, and read the purple question.”

Danny looked down at his card and rolled his eyes. “Oh, figures. ‘If you had superpowers, what would they be?’ Well, I’m dead. Does being dead count?”

She laughed, her voice light and airy. “Of all the questions, huh? Okay, let’s modify this a bit. If you could only keep one of your powers, which would you take?”

“Probably intangibility,” Danny said, his lack of hesitation surprising him.

“Oh? Why?��

“Well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. Where the chip was. “It’s the most useful, isn’t it? I can just...you know...I have no physical stuff in my way. I can just phase through any—anything I need. Or—no. Almost anything.”

Not shields. Those could still trap him.

Thankfully, she didn’t try to pry further, just offering him a kind nod and a “that makes sense” before pushing out another Jenga tile. “Blue! Alright, my question is, ‘What is your favorite feature about yourself?’ Hmm...that’s a bit tough, isn’t it? But I think my favorite thing about myself is my hair. When I was a teen, I used to straighten my hair, but then when I got to college, I stopped doing that and just let it be. Now I quite like my curly hair. Okay, your turn!”

“Okay.” Danny leaned over and pushed a red tile out of the tower. “Okay...my quest—question is…‘What is your biggest hope for your future?’ Oh...”

He did want to be an astronaut. But that was before, when he was still human. And then he was caught between thousands of volts of ecto-electricity and that future vanished right before his eyes.

What did he want to do with his life? What did he hope would happen?

He wanted his core back. He couldn’t let himself be so vulnerable for much longer. His chest felt like it was tearing itself apart, he needed to—

Breathe. And answer the question.

What did he hope for his future?

“I don’t know. My future’s kinda...ruined, isn’t it?”

“Try to think on a smaller scale.”

“I…” Danny ran a hand through his hair. He wanted his core back, he wanted to be Phantom, he wanted to protect Amity Park. But he couldn’t say that. It made him sound too ghostly. Too inhuman.

Humans didn’t have these kinds of otherworldly desires. She would think he was a freak if he told her. She wouldn’t know how to react.

“I want to finish PT.”

“That’s a good goal to have.”

“Your turn.”

Humming, she nudged a tile out of the Jenga tower and flipped over a card. “Okay, my question is, ‘What is something you were worried about when you were younger?’ Let me think…oh, here’s one. When I was young, my older sister moved out to live with her boyfriend. It was really scary because I had never lived without her, but we kept in touch and everything turned out okay.”

“I haven’t either. Lived away from Jazz I mean. Like—like for real. But she’s going to college next—next semester. I think she, uh...deferred a semester.”

“And you know, it’s common to feel worried about a sibling moving out. Periods of transition in life can be the most stressful for us, but it’s important to recognize that things will be okay.”

Danny looked down at the carpet. “I guess.”

Some days it felt like Jazz was the only one truly on his side. He was a lab rat, too well known and too hated to ever have a future, forever condemned to a vicious cycle of evading people like the Guys in White and Vlad for the rest of his life. Jazz was leaving him in a few months, his friends would follow in a few years, and in the end, Danny would be alone.

But he was fine with that. He’d accepted it. It was just his life now, there was nothing to say about it.

“It’s my turn, isn’t it?”

“Yup! Go right ahead.”

Danny removed another tile. “‘How do you think others view you and why?’” He paused, throwing the therapist a bitter look. “This is rigged.”

“Not rigged, that’s just a very lucky pick.”

“Lucky to who?” Danny groaned. 

What was with the universe finding new ways to torment him?

“Humor me,” the therapist said patiently.

Danny glared at his card, tapping his fingers against the edge. It wasn’t like the public opinion of him was exactly a secret, but it still hurt. Constantly. Like some scab he kept telling himself to ignore, but ignoring it was impossible because the public would never leave him alone.

“Not good,” Danny muttered. “People hate me.”

“Being in the public eye is very stressful for anyone, but to be unique in your way adds on an entirely different layer. People are afraid of the things they don’t understand, and that makes them forget that at the end of the day, you’re still a person.”

“Yeah.” Danny’s eyes were trained on the colorful tower before him, which was starting to blur as the prickling behind his eyes increased. He ducked his head and blinked, hoping to save face before it was too late. 

“That doesn’t mean everyone feels this way, though. But sometimes it can feel that way to you because the ones who are the most afraid, the most hateful, are the loudest voices in the crowd. But remember, Danny, you won that court case for a reason. You have more people on your side than you think.”

“I won it for now, you mean. I don’t...I don’t think…” His voice failed, and he pressed his fingernails into his palms. He took a few shaky breaths. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, Danny. Why don’t we talk about the case for a minute?”

Tucker’s words echoed in his head, how it was televised. How millions of people all around the globe probably tuned in for it, or watched streams online, each person with their own opinion of him.

But he didn’t want to think about that right now. 

“No,” he said. “Can we—can we just continue the game?”

“If you’re not ready to talk about it, then that’s okay. Thank you for letting me know.”

“It’s your turn.”

“Alright.” She pushed a block out of the tower. “So...alright, my question is, ‘What memory do you treasure the most?’ To that, I think fishing with my dad as a child. He was a big support for me when I was growing up, and I really valued our times fishing together as important bonding moments for us.”

Danny nodded politely, trying his best to not appear like he was counting down the seconds until therapy was over.

He could feel his emotions building inside him, threatening to topple the carefully constructed dam guarding his secrets. This was such a simple game, these were such simple questions, so why did he feel like he was failing?

He pushed out a Jenga tile—a red tile—from the tower and grabbed a card, scanning the questions until he found the red one.

What are you afraid of?

The words echoed back to him, and he pushed the card away. He didn’t want to look at it, he didn’t want to read those words or hear her voice because saying the question would mean he would have to talk and he only agreed to this stupid game to get out of talking.

There was so much he was afraid of that he had no right to be afraid of. Because he deserved this. Getting revealed was his fault, he was being reckless. He deserved all of it.

The experiments with the Guys in White. The pain, the way his skin was torn apart. How they threw him in a vat of ectoplasm the next day to heal, and how the ectoplasm entering his lungs made him feel like he was drowning because even though ghosts didn’t need to breathe, he still used those organs reflexively as Phantom. But he was in too much pain and his brain was too hazy to fight back. He could only sink into the darkness.

The red bag. The way it tasted, smelled, how it haunted him every day and how he revisited those moments every night in his dreams. How he would wake up each day and the drawer on his nightstand would be shimmering in the morning sun, as if tempting him to open it up, grab the bottle inside, let it help just for one day. It can take the edge off, he can be functional. Who cares if he’s cheating? It’s just for a day...

The public. The people. Their judgments, their words. How he was, on a molecular level, so vastly different from them. How he could never be the same. He would never have a normal life, he could never have a normal job, a normal family, normal friendships, ever again. There would always be something there, something alien between them.

Even between him and his best friends. There was just something... different ever since the portal accident. It had brought them closer together, sure, but in other ways it had also driven an invisible wedge between them. Because Danny would always have his powers, he would always be a half ghost, and there would always be things now that Sam and Tucker would never understand. 

How much would change now? Now that he was in the public eye, now that he’d gone through government torture? Now that his brain didn’t work the same?

And his core. His humanity. Why were his parents so apprehensive about it?

What are you afraid of?

Why wouldn’t his parents let him down into the lab? What were they hiding? They said his core was damaged, but it had been months since he was ripped open. His surgical damage had healed, his broken bones were back to normal, and even though his nerve endings in his chest and spine were still fried, they had been slowly mending themselves too.

Ectoplasm healed faster than human physiology. His core should have been fine by now.

What was the truth?

“They accept me,” Danny said automatically.

“Who does?”

Who accepted him?

Sam and Tucker did. 

His family…

Did they?

“I don’t know.”

“You have people in your corner, Danny. Your parents, your sister, your close friends. They all care about you. We’re all here for you, even if those loud voices in the public tell you otherwise.”

But if they cared...

“Then why won’t they let me have my core back?”

“Your core?”

“My powers. My ghostliness. Ectoplasm.” Danny let his eyes flair to emphasize his point.

If his therapist was scared of his otherworldly display, she didn’t show it. Instead, she continued to look at him with her neutral expression, free of the judgment he’d come to expect from people since the accident.

And for some reason he couldn’t explain, that irritated him. 

“You mean the inhibitor chip?” she asked.

“Yes. They told me it was because my core...it was damaged but—but it doesn’t make sense! It doesn’t...”

“Have you talked to them about this?”

Of course he had. They kept repeating that his core was damaged. And they were probably right—for a time, at the very least. But that was months ago. 

Why hadn’t they scanned his core recently? Shouldn’t they be happy to learn it was healed? Shouldn’t that make them relieved?

What were they afraid of?

What are you afraid of?

“Do you think it would be helpful if I talked to your mother about this?” asked the therapist. “As a way to introduce the topic? She likely doesn’t know how much it’s bothering you.”

But that didn’t make sense either because Danny brought his core up every day. His parents knew how much it was bothering him. They had to have known, right?

So why were they doing this to him?

What were they hiding?

What are you afraid of?

---

Danny tried to remember a time where walking from his living room to his kitchen didn’t require a list of steps to be taken beforehand—a time where he could just get up and walk. But those memories were far too distant now.

And besides, this was his reality now. A reality where something as simple as walking made his head spin.

He shouldn’t dwell on the memories of how easy it used to be for him, he shouldn’t have snapped at Jazz for getting a cup of water for him because he knew the glasses were too high to reach from his wheelchair, he shouldn’t allow this irrational anger to overtake him every time the creeping anxiety of his future as Amity Park’s ghost hero came into question.

He just needed to focus on where he was now. Curled up on his couch avoiding his parents.

Everything felt wrong this morning when he woke up. For a moment, he had managed to convince himself that he was just being paranoid. That it was just his damaged nerve endings freaking out as normal. That once he took his medication, his problems would go away. 

But they didn’t. He still felt wrong. His chest still felt wrong.

It was manifesting in other ways too. He couldn’t walk as long today at PT. His physical therapist told him it was just a bad day and that his body was probably just tired from his busy week. But Danny knew that wasn’t right.

It had nothing to do with him being tired. He wasn’t sick. He wasn’t anxious.

His core was the problem. His parents were the problem.

He tried asking about his core again on the way home from PT, using conversation techniques he went over with his therapist at the end of their last appointment, but Maddie just brushed him off. Said they would talk about it later.

But then later came and...she didn’t.

Danny tried asking his father, but he brushed Danny off too. Said Danny needed to focus on healing first.

But how was he supposed to heal when he was missing half of himself?

He felt wrong. So wrong. His body was too bound by gravity, it was too empty, it wasn’t listening to him.

He pressed his palms into his forehead. His hands were clammy. Shaking. Speckles of cold touched them—or was that his tears? Was he crying? 

No.

He pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. What was wrong with him? Why was he acting this way?

The government had him in a cage. They tormented him in ways he would rather die than live through again. But then it ended, and he was freed. He was allowed to go home, he could live his life as a legal person again. 

Except, he wasn’t free. Not at all. He was still trapped here in Amity, in his house, in his body. He had no control. Not over what he ate, when he slept, where he went, what he could say, what he could think. 

Half of him was still locked up tight with no hope of escape.

His water glass was empty. It would have been too embarrassing to ask someone to help him, but he was so thirsty and dehydrated and he just really needed this to work. He needed his body to respond to him. For one moment, please, just let his body respond.

Gripping the water cup in one hand and his walker in the other, he tried to stand, to walk over to the kitchen sink. But balancing everything was so difficult, his body was still fatigued from PT, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to do it but he just needed to try.

But he couldn’t do it in the end. The cup slipped out of his hand and tumbled onto the carpet, thankfully saved from shattering on impact by some last shred of luck the universe decided to pity him with.

And now Danny too was on the floor because he couldn’t bend down to pick the cup back up like a normal person, and he didn’t want to call for help, and he couldn’t use any of his powers, and he felt so trapped. So helpless. So vulnerable.

He tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it was too stubborn and he was too useless.

A tear splattered against his hand, and he gripped the floor, his body trembling.

“Stop crying. Stop it.” he hissed. 

He was weak. 

Plasmius, once nearly his equal, had so severely overpowered him the other night. It was embarrassing. On the hierarchy of ghosts, where was he now? At the bottom with the blob ghosts?

But those ghosts could still fly. They could still turn intangible. Things that Danny couldn’t even do.

Hell, he was so weak that even the Box Ghost could defeat him now.

“Stop crying.”

He crawled back to the couch, the thought of getting water abandoned on the floor along with the last semblance of his dignity. Another tear fell from his cheek, and he desperately tried to ignore it, ignore his dry throat, ignore the pain in his chest, ignore his core and the Y-scar on his body and his new place in the ghost hierarchy as lower than dirt, ignore everything. Just focus on getting back to the couch. Shut down, go numb.

He was fine, he was okay.

He just needed to push through this. Just toughen up, quit whining. Life wasn’t fair. So what if he was now just a regular human? Hadn’t he been human for the first fourteen years of his life? He needed to suck it up.

Dragging himself back onto the safety of the couch cushions, he pulled one of Jazz’s throw blankets around his body and pressed a pillow into his face.

Never in his life had he been so tempted to scream, to curse, to finally let the last brick fall and allow hell to break loose. But his parents were in the basement, Jazz was upstairs, and he was fine. 

He was fine.

---

Huge thank you to tumblr user and writer @imekitty for proofreading this chapter. She’s amazing and I owe her my life.

And as always, thanks for reading!

---

<previous chapter / next chapter>

[fanfoolishness]

The Invitation (The Mandalorian)

Spoilers for the entirety of The Mandalorian S1 and S2.  Din Djarin finds himself in dreams that seem realer than real, reminding him of his loss, but he begins to find a sense of hope again.  A promise is kept.  Bittersweet but hopeful, 2600 words. ***

He did not remember when he stopped dreaming of life before his armor.  He was still so young when his dreams first began to show themselves through the filter of a beskar helmet, when he grew used to the sound of his voice slightly muffled and mechanized.  

This dream seemed no different than his usual, at least at first.  Sometimes they were soaring, vivid things; his parents’ faces that final day, memories of battles etched into his body and bones, lessons in his youth with the Covert.  Other times they were merely soft, confused impressions he barely remembered upon waking.  But always there was the familiar sense and weight of beskar.

Din sat now in the Razor Crest, hands resting on the controls.  Something tickled at the back of his mind, a sense that this wasn’t right, but he ignored it.  He checked the navicomputer, setting a course to a planet he didn’t know in a language he couldn’t read, and the starfield stretched before him.

A small noise beside him caught his attention.  He turned to see Grogu there, poking flashing buttons, a mischievous look on his face.  

“Hey now,” he said, with a sternness he didn’t really feel.  “You know better.”  It’s so good to see you, buddy.  He smiled beneath the helmet.

The child’s ears lowered, the tips brushing his sturdy robes.  He slowly raised his eyes to Din, and something about the way they gleamed, so bright, so present, cut Din to the core.  For a moment, he wondered --

The dream shifted, beginning to buckle under the weight of the knowledge that he was dreaming.  The Crest darkened and drifted around them, and he began to forget, began to lose himself.  No!  I want to stay with him -- please --

He reached out a hand, blurry in the faltering dream, to try and touch the child’s face one more time --

He awoke with a start, breathing hard, tears on his cheeks.  He sat bolt upright in his narrow bunk, trying to remember just one more glimpse of the child.  He closed his eyes, fixing the memory as closely as he could.  There were not enough of them.  There would never be enough.

He bowed his head.  He’s safe.  You did the right thing.  The Jedi will protect him.

But the words felt just as hollow now as they did yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that.  The wound was still so fresh; it had only been a few short weeks since the rescue.  He lay awake long into the night, the tears drying on his naked face.

***

Life continued as ever it did. He’d seen it many times before.  One day your world shattered, the next, you kept going anyway.  He told himself he’d do it again, and again, because what else was there to do but fight forward?  

He knew what he had done on the bridge for the Child.  Knew what the Armorer would declare, knew that the Children of the Watch would have rejected him utterly.  Clan Mudhorn would be stricken from the records, the title Mandalorian stripped from his soul.

But he traveled not with the Children of the Watch now.  He traveled with an heir to the Mandalorian throne, who wore her bare face as proudly as her armor, and when he slowly, cautiously, placed his helmet on once more, beskar still felt like home.  

Each morning he tended to his armor: cleaned and polished the beskar with reverence, checked the clothing and leathers for tears, made repairs as needed with a miniature arc torch, with needle and thread.  

Each morning he tended to his weapons: performed maintenance on his blaster, topped off fuel levels for the Dragon Flame, carefully adjusted the Whistling Birds, calibrated the Rising Phoenix, gingerly examined the unwanted Darksaber.  

Each morning he held a little silver ball, brushing his thumb over its smooth surface, praying his promise had not been a lie.

He kept going.

This was the Way.

***

The sands of Tatooine.  A faint desert smell even through his helmet’s filter, boots sinking into the dunes, Peli Motto’s droids chittering away to themselves.  Din and Grogu sat against the landing gear of the Crest, Grogu leaning against Din’s hip.

“Hey there, kid,” Din said softly.  He reached down and stroked the tip of one of Grogu’s long ears.  “You having a good time?”

Grogu turned his head and looked steadily at him, face and ears spreading into a small smile. 

Din reached into his bag, pulling out cookies for the child.  Perhaps they weren’t the most nutritious food, but Grogu ate plenty of protein, and Din had the extra coin for a treat today.  He handed a cookie to Grogu, a little blue stack of sugar, and the child bit into it, watching him expectedly.

“Oh, you want --”  Din looked around, searching for shadows, figures.  The droids and the mechanics had melted away.  “You want me to try one?”

Grogu’s shoulders jumped up in excitement as he finished his cookie.  Din handed him another, then held one between his gloved fingers, considering.

He lifted his helmet slightly, just enough to expose his mouth, and took a bite.  Grogu let out a sweet little sound, almost like a giggle.

Happy, Din thought.  Or felt.  He wasn’t certain how he knew it, but he did.  Was he happy?  Was Grogu?  It was difficult to tell where he ended, where the child began, here in the gritty sand beneath the cloudless skies, here in the dream --  

He woke up reaching for the little silver ball, and clasped it to his chest, remembering.

***

The dreams, though rare, stayed with him: a humming presence in the back of his mind even as he traveled between far-flung stars, speaking words of war and battle with the other Mandalorians, fighting for a forgotten world.  Things were in motion now that he had never meant, had never dreamed when he was a foundling boy first given his helmet. The Darksaber hung heavy at his hip, a reluctant weight.  

He trained with the others in the ways of the Rising Phoenix, in the wielding of the Darksaber, in the history of Mandalore.  It was difficult, sometimes, being around so many after long years spent mostly alone.  But in quiet times, the empty spaces of new journeys, Din studied.  Ways of ancient Mandalore, Ways of different clans whose names he had never heard spoken, new understandings of what the Creed meant.  

He found a comfort there: he found a path his own. 

He stood on the soil of a dozen different moons and planets.  The mossy loam of Endor, springy beneath each footstep.  The white salt fields of Crait, red sand clinging to his boots.  The rain-worn rocks of Eadu.  The desert sands of Savareen, caressed by ocean waves. 

He stood beneath a dozen suns and moons, his helmet cradled beneath his arm.  The wind tossed his hair; the rain lashed his face; the sunlight warmed his cheeks.  He breathed deep of each world, of the scents of fern and tree, wind and water, and he was not ashamed.

He was a Mandalorian.

***

Din looked around.  The Razor Crest again, each inch of it his well-remembered home.  But his view was not quite the same as he best recalled it.  He reached up.  He felt skin beneath his gloved fingertips, not beskar.

Grogu burbled on his lap, little green hands resting on the instrument bank.  Din bowed over him, his face working into a smile.  He was still learning the different ways his expressions could be used, a skill he had never learned as an adult.  The smile felt clumsy, but Grogu’s delighted coo let him know he had gotten it right.

“Grogu,” he said, and the little one leaned against him, safe in his arms.

“You like it here, huh?” Din asked quietly.  Memory flickered, filtering in through the comforting warmth of -- was this a dream again?  He faltered.  “I’m afraid I don’t have the Crest anymore.”

Grogu gazed up at him, clearly puzzled.  Din closed his eyes.  “They destroyed it.  When they took you away.”  His throat burned, eyes stinging.  How did this feel so real?  So clear?

Grogu’s ears dropped, his little face falling.  Din took both of the child’s small hands in his, holding them gently.

“I’m sorry, Grogu,” he murmured.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop them from taking you.”

Little hands gripped his own.  A thought, a feeling, a knowing.  

I...  did everything I could.  He understands.

He held his child until the dream dissolved, and he woke up in the dark, his face damp again.

***

Weeks drifted into months.  Months threatened years.  He earned new scars, new weapons, a new ship.  The Darksaber still felt foreign, but it was a weight that he could bear, at least for a little while.

The dreams continued, always sporadic, but growing a little clearer, a little longer every time. Sometimes they were on Sorgan, sometimes Nevarro.  More recently, they were starting to be places Din had traveled but Grogu had never seen; and he had not dreamed of the Razor Crest since he’d admitted to Grogu that it was gone.

He wasn’t sure what meaning to ascribe to this.  They were merely dreams, after all, visions crafted by heart and mind and memory. The only strange thing about them was that feeling, that sense of realer than real that left him grieving and grateful both every time he awoke.

No matter.  He only knew that the dreams comforted him, reminded him of what he still fought for every day. That was enough, wasn’t it?

***

He stood on Mandalor, the ruined skies above him, the blasted earth at his feet.  It tore at him.  Bones of the mythosaur had been ground into the dust long ago, and his people’s sorrow was heavy all around him.  He had never been here before.  Had he?

He turned to Grogu, clinging to his shin, and picked the child up.  In his other arm he held his helmet.  “We don’t fly the Crest anymore, when I meet you here,” he said suddenly.  It hung between them, a query, an accusation.

Grogu gazed at him, Mandalor’s sun glimmering in his eyes.  

“... ever since I told you the Crest was gone,” he murmured.

Realization.  Understanding.  He knew what I said.  And the dreams changed.  Din froze, his heart pounding.  Could it --

“Grogu,” he said carefully.  “Are… are you here?”

Grogu clapped his hands together in delight, then reached up, his fingertips brushing against Din’s cheek.  He cooed with contentment.

“How?” Din whispered.

Flashes, fierce and vivid.  Tython.  The seeing stone.  Grogu seeking, seeking --

“I’m not a Jedi,” Din said mulishly.  “How could you --”

Grogu leaned against him, tucking his head under Din’s chin.

Grogu meditating, face calm and concentrating, the Jedi seated beside him --

A heavy stillness in the air, the indefinable sense of something greater; visions of certain places where power flourished, places where the child could reach beyond --

The bond between them, a force its own -- his own face shining in the child’s eyes --

“I don’t understand, kid,” said Din desperately, fighting a rising sense of hope, confusion, wonder.  Sunlight slanted through the skies above them, banishing the ruined clouds.  Grogu was content in his arms, curled up, fighting sleep --

And Mandalor shimmered around them, whole and beautiful once more, falling away into the stars.

***

Din jerked awake, breathing hard.  He fumbled for the little silver ball, holding it so tightly his fingers throbbed with the beat of his heart.  

“It’s him,” he whispered, his voice a faint, shocked murmur sinking into the ship’s stillness.  “Dank farrik, kid!”  

He laughed so hard he nearly choked, tears streaming down his face.

***

The days arced away, seasons changing between the stars, and he pressed onward.  Beskar was home, foundation, protector, salvation.  He carried it into the greater galaxy with honor.  It gleamed to all, a symbol of Mandalore and the Way.

But he wore new armor beneath his beskar, secret, sustaining, a burning hope.  Strange he had once forgotten how it felt.  He carried with him a certain knowledge, a joy that bettered the long days beyond measure.  

He knew the dreams were real.

He knew, truly, that Grogu had not forgotten him.

***

There was a final dream.

Din sat in the grass, gray-streaked hair lifted by the soft breeze beneath a yellow sun.  Birdsong chimed in trees tall and elegant and beautiful.  He scented rich flowers on the air.  In the distance, a temple rose from beyond the trees, its form as natural to the landscape as the hills themselves.

Grogu sat beside him, only a little bigger than Din remembered.  He looked peaceful, calm, assured.  He smiled, ears tipping upward.

“I miss you, kid,” said Din simply.

Grogu dipped his head in something like a nod, then leaned against him, sighing.  Din rested his hand on the child’s shoulder, where it belonged.

A sudden sensation at his side.  Din reached for the silver ball, but it wasn’t there.

It hung before them, gleaming, rotating in the bright sunlight.  It looked just as it did in the waking world, with one side worn smooth and dull from long handling.

Grogu gazed up at him.  The ball spun.

“Go on, take it,” said Din.  

The ball sank into Grogu’s outstretched hand.  His small face creased into a silent laugh, and he rested his other hand on Din’s leg, a look of focus settling into his expression.

Din closed his eyes.  And he saw --

He saw a name, clear as day, Aurebesh letters searing into his mind’s eye.

Saw coordinates, precisely laid out, leading to a system, a planet, a temple.

He saw an invitation.

“I’ll be there,” breathed Din. He gathered Grogu into his arms.  “As soon as I can.”  They held each other as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, as he slipped back into waking once again.

***

The ship soared through the air, seeking a point of touchdown.  Din checked the coordinates again, his heart racing.  What if he’d been wrong?  What if all of this was some kind of madness, some trick of the imagination?  

The temple crested the horizon, ringed with those tall, beautiful trees, rising against the sun-soaked hills.  He let out a shaky breath.

He landed near the temple in a flat clearing.  He checked his belt, touched the silver ball once more, and made his way out onto the grass.

Motes danced on the air in the golden sunlight streaming through the trees.  The evening light was warm on his beskar.  Birds in the canopy sang with familiar voices, calling him onward, and he held no weapon in his hands.

There was a small sound, the tiniest sensation at his hip.  He brushed his hand against his belt.  Where did it --

The silver ball hung in the air before him, gleaming in the golden light.

Din stared at it.  His chest rose, then fell, his shoulders heaving.  His vision blurred as he reached for his helmet, as he wiped at his eyes with an unsteady hand.

The ball drifted forward, spinning a perfect orbit along a controlled and steady path.  Din Djarin followed. 

He knew his child waited.

***

The Jedi stood peacefully near the seeing stones, his faithful droid beside him. Far beyond him, two figures approached each other, one small and clad in simple brown, the other tall in shining silver.  For a moment they stopped, frozen, the distance between them miniscule and yet immense. 

The Mandalorian sank to his knees, helmet forgotten beside him, arms opened.  The Child stepped forward into the waiting embrace, something silver flashing in his small hand.  And on the gentle breeze, the Jedi heard the sounds of laughter.

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

(Author’s note: We know that canonically, seeing stones or other places of great Force power can magnify a Force user’s powers, including telepathy.  Din is not Force-sensitive, but Force users with powerful bonds can reach those people more easily.  I like to think that Grogu kept sneaking out of the temple to go sit on those damn things and call on Din when he could reach his mind in sleep.  I also like to think Luke let him.)

[heauxplesslydevoted]

Under My Skin (Ethan x MC)

Warning: 18+, NSFW

Summary: Set in the middle of chapter 6, Ethan and Naomi have it out over the current state of the diagnostics team.

Tags: @colourmeshy @virtualrain202 @fanmantrashcan @writinghereandthere @ao719 @x-kyne-x @paulfwesley @ramseyandrys @a-i-n-a-a-s-h @perriewinklenerdie @aworldoffandoms @thatcatlady0716 @drakewalker04 @canknot @hatescapsicum @lapisreviewsstuff @akacalliope @senseofduties @badchoicesposts @ethandaddyramsey @the-soot-sprite @chasingrobbie @zodiacsign1 @choices-lurker @miyakokurono @trappedinfandoms @my-heart-beats-for-ya @adrian-motherfucking-raines @riverrune ~v~

Naomi stares at the textbook in front of her, eyes tired and blurry. She checks the time on her cell phone and 3:22 AM stares back in bold, white letters. Craning her head slightly, she spots Ethan standing at his kitchen island, looking at something on his laptop. 

She never thought she’d be back in his apartment, but he invited the entire diagnostics team over so they could get some research done on Leland Bloom’s case. Ethan wants it to be solved as quickly as possible, and he wants to be rid of the tech billionaire, so after work they all congregated in his apartment, eating Chinese food, drinking wine, passing around textbooks and throwing out theories. 

They’ve been at it for almost 6 hours now. 

The energy in the room is off. Ethan’s been pissed ever since the board told him they’d need to be for-profit and start accepting wealthy clients and potential donors, and everyone feels it. June, Baz, and Naomi have been walking on eggshells around him, but aside from occasional snark from Naomi, they’ve been extremely curt.

Jenner likes her though. The golden retriever took a shine to her the moment she crossed the threshold to Ethan’s condo, sniffing at her feet and attaching himself to her hip. He’s now lounging with her, head in her lap and she pours over this book, and she’s glad. The friendly dog provides an excellent distraction and Naomi is thankful, because his owner currently sucks.

Naomi has dealt with a lot of Ethan’s moods before: upset, defeated, angry, happy, the works. But she’s never had his ire directed at her before. They’re in this mess because of her, and it’s a tricky space to occupy. It’s not fun.

“As much as I love reading, if I look at another word, I think my brain might melt,” June says, breaking the tense silence. She stifles a yawn.

“I’ve tapped out for the night as well,” Baz adds. “I’ve looked up every possible kidney and bladder disease and disorder known to mankind. I’m on sensory overload. I think it’s time I go home.”

Ethan looks up from his laptop. He knows his team is probably exhausted. He can’t believe they’ve actually stayed over this long. “Well, thank you for staying. Go home, get some rest, I’ll see you at the hospital.”

June and Baz gather their belongings and all of the study material they brought along with them, returning Ethan’s living room to its original tidy state. Muttering goodbyes, the two of them exit the apartment. 

And then there were two. Naomi ignores the tension, ignoring the fact that they haven’t been alone together in over a week. Instead, she buries her face in her book, trying to focus on the words.

Ethan doesn’t bother sparing Naomi another glance before asking, “You didn’t want to leave with them?”

“Why, are you about to go to bed?”

“No.”

“Then, no.” She’s not going to stop now, and give him the satisfaction of thinking she’s given up for the night. Her stubbornness won’t allow it. “I don’t want to disrupt the process. I want this guy diagnosed and treated as badly as you do.”

Ethan scoffs. “I doubt it.”

Naomi has been giving as good as she gets when it comes to the passive aggressive snark, but it’s just exhausting at this point. She refuses to be his emotional punching bag any longer. She whips around in her seat. “God, is being a petulant little crybaby a second full-time job for you?”

That manages to get Ethan’s full attention. He levels a cool glare at the young resident, eyebrow raised in challenge. “You’ve gotten real comfortable calling me out of my name recently. Care to repeat that, Valentine?”

“You heard me loud and clear, Ramsey. You’re being a petulant little crybaby. You’ve been trying to pick a fight with me for the past 2 weeks. Look, I apologized, multiple times, for going behind your back or over your head, but I will not apologize for doing what I believe is right, not just for the team, but the hospital.”

“And you’re an insubordinate know-it-all!” Ethan shoots back. “You’re the type to touch the hot stove despite being repeatedly told not to because you think you’re a special snowflake who’s above getting burned. You lack foresight and analytical thought and self-preservation.”

Naomi recoils, having not expected Ethan to snap at her like that. “Excuse me?”

Jenner recognizes the change in tone between both adults. Not wanting to be caught in the crossfire, he moves from his spot on the couch and trots out of the living room, disappearing into the hallway.

“You thought this was going to be easy, that patients would just come flocking to us, but look at us, and everything would be perfect. We’re part of some social media...something or another’s video diary, we’re competing with a subpar hospital for patients despite being better than them, wasting time and resources because he wants to treat this like a reality show contest, and who knows what’s next, because you’ve opened Pandora’s box. We’re whoring ourselves out to the highest bidder, and the integrity and core foundation of this team has been compromised. So please spare me the martyr act, Naomi, and while you’re at it, please remember that I’m still your boss the next time you want to spout off at the mouth.”

Naomi’s hands are shaking, and she can practically feel the anger boiling in her blood. The nerve of this man. She stands up, ignoring the heavy book that fall out of her lap and onto the floor as she does so. She charges over to him, and sizes him up. Ethan’s almost a foot taller than her, but Naomi doesn’t care about the height disparity. She tilts her head back so she can look him in the eye.

“I’m not a martyr, but you’re a self righteous hypocrite. You’ve been pouting and waxing poetic about Naveen’s mission when you were the first one to mess with his legacy.”

Ethan’s nostrils flare at the accusation. “Excuse me?”

“Last year, you got into bed with Declan Nash and big pharma, compromising your own shaky moral code in order to save the life of one person. I’m trying to keep the team around in order to save a lot more people than just Naveen!”

“That was different!” Ethan argues. It doesn’t even feel right coming out of his mouth, but they’re far too deep in the argument for him to do anything besides dig his toes in.

“The only difference is you were the one in control then. But because it is my idea, you’re rejecting it. You’re being completely unreasonable here, Ethan. We’re standing in the middle of a sinking ship. Edenbrook is in trouble. My friends and I didn’t get our new salaries upon becoming residents, there’s talk of them shutting down the free clinic, and they’ll be coming after our team next. Who knows, maybe they’ll decide that mental health isn’t important and the entire psychiatric department should go. And then the nurses. And then they’ll start ordering less and less supplies, just to stay above water. And maybe you don’t care, because you’re Ethan Ramsey, you’re so wealthy that you only get a one dollar salary from the hospital, you’re established, your livelihood isn’t on the line, and I’m sure any hospital in the world would kill to employ you, but the rest of us? The little guys? We don’t have that option, so again, if you’re looking for me to kiss your ass and grovel because I made an executive decision, you’re going to be looking for a mighty long time.”

Ethan studies her, his gaze coolly fixated on her as she rants because he’s waiting for the second she stops talking, so he can jump back into his own argument. He realizes that it’s not an effective way to debate, and he falters slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Naomi goads, her voice taking on a singsong tone. She’s embroiled in the fight now. “Cat got your tongue?”

In his 37 years of living, Ethan can confidently say Naomi Valentine is the most infuriating woman he’s ever met. A stubborn, impulsive, hot-head with a smart mouth. 

And fuck, he’s made a mistake.

Her mouth. Now his gaze is fixated on it, her full lips that she’s repeatedly bitten down on during this argument, the tackiness of her lip gloss, the way her tongue darts in and out.

Their argument is now the furthest thing from his mind, and he’s actually annoyed by it. What is it about this…woman that completely bewitches him? He wants to argue, not be transfixed on how pretty she is. She doesn’t even have to do anything and he’s under her spell again. 

A sharp jab in the middle of his chest pulls Ethan back to reality. He looks down and realizes that Naomi poked him in the chest, out of anger or to get his attention, he’s not sure.

“Hey!” The fact that he’s ignoring her only makes her more incensed. He started this fight, he doesn’t get the right to dissociate and shut down in the middle of it. “Have you listened to a word I just said?”

“No,” Ethan answers honestly. Naomi’s eyes darken at the response. He didn’t say that to piss her off further, but he won’t lie and say he doesn’t enjoy the sight.

He can tell she’s going to launch into another tirade, one that’s completely separate from their original issue, because that’s just how things are between them; they spiral before either of them knows what’s happening.

Before she can even fix her mouth to call him another name, his hand cups her jaw, tilting her head back, and he slants his mouth over hers, kissing her fiercely.

She gasps. This is the first time he’s ever caught her off guard and initiated a kiss. She’s usually the one to be in control.

All too quickly, Ethan pulls back, locking eyes with the young woman in front of him. She’s dazed, chest heaving and eyes glazed over.

“Did you do that to get me to stop talking?”

“No, I kissed you because I wanted to. But the fact that it got you to stop running your mouth is a personal bonus.”

Naomi huffs, but doesn’t say anything else. God, he could be such an asshole at times.

“I want to do it again,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His blue eyes pierce into her own, and it suddenly becomes hard to focus on anything other than him. “Can I?”

She doesn’t know why it’s so sexy, him asking for permission, but she feels the butterflies in her stomach rumble at the question. She’s barely able to nod her head before Ethan launches himself at her, sending her flying back into the kitchen counter.

It’s so different from any other kisses they’ve shared. This one she can feel all the way down in her toes. His tongue darts out, gliding against her bottom lip and demanding access to her mouth, which she eagerly grants him.

Everything about him invades her senses: the feel of his calloused hands touching her jaw, the scratch of his beard against her face, the smell of his cologne (something by Gucci that she’s been yet to narrow down), his taste (she can still taste the wine on him, even though he drank it earlier), his sounds (the little groans that only she’s privy to, always gravelly and smooth, that make her knees buckle). It all culminates into this one man that is so all-consuming, it makes her lose her mind.

The kisses become shorter, more teasing, allowing Naomi the opportunity to actually breathe. He leaves kisses along her jaw and neck, making her whimper.

Ethan wraps an arm around Naomi’s waist and spins them, pushing her against the wall. She winces upon contact. “Warn a girl next time.”

“You want to know what’s been on my mind recently?” Ethan asks, nipping at Naomi’s earlobe.

“W-What?”

His hands find purchase underneath the grey Henley she’s wearing and he lifts it up. Her stomach clenches under his touch and it’s maddening just how responsive she is to him. “I haven’t been able to get the sight of you out of my mind since I came to pick you up from your apartment the other day.” With trembling fingers, Naomi helps him remove the shirt, and it’s tossed somewhere behind them.

She’s not wearing the grey bra he saw the other day, this one is a soft pink, and he groans at how it contrasts against her skin. There isn’t a color that doesn’t look good on her. “I stood there…” he only pauses to place opened mouthed kisses on her collarbone. “...like a floundering idiot…” this time he kisses slightly lower, earning a sharp inhale from Naomi. The noise does nothing to soothe the erection straining in his jeans. “...while you decided to tease me.”

“You’re the one who decided to stay,” Naomi shoots back with a shrug. “So I had to put on a little show.” He hums in agreement. His tongue darts out, flattening over her lace covered nipple. “Fuck, just take it off!”

“You still have no patience,” Ethan observes. He yanks at the material, until he hears a loud tear.

“That’s La Perla!”

Ethan blinks, struggling to find the significance in that statement. Was it supposed to mean something to him? “Okay?”

“It was expensive, you jerk!”

“I’ll buy you 10 more,” he replies with a shrug before resuming his previous activity, pulling one of her nipples between his lips, sucking lightly. Naomi’s breath comes out in quick bursts, and it’s becoming harder for her to stay grounded to reality. She reaches out, wanting to touch him, but he intercepts, catching her wrist. “Hands to yourself, Valentine.”

Ethan’s fingers make work of the button holding her jeans together, and he drags down the zipper. He yanks at her jeans with the same care he afforded her shirt and bra, tugging them down until they pool at her feet. Naomi does the rest of the work, hopping around until the pants are fully off.

“You and the thin scraps you call underwear, have been driving me insane all week,” Ethan confesses. “The other day when I came to pick you up, part of me was so mad at you because of your blatant defiance, but the other part of me wanted to push you onto that bed, and do very, very inappropriate things to you.”

The wetness that floods her panties is overwhelming. She clenches her thighs together in hopes of alleviating some of the tension, but it doesn’t help. Figuring out a new strategy, she wraps a leg around his waist, pulling him flush to her. She rolls her hips, grinding into him. The growl that escapes his lips only fuels her and strokes her ego. “You should’ve.”

Ethan kisses her again, reveling in the needy way Naomi claws at him. Her fingers are desperate, fingering into his t-shirt, twisting at the fabric. He’s unsure if she wants to take it off, or if she’s impatient enough to say ‘fuck it,’ and just rip it.

Whatever the case, he doesn’t let her continue. Grabbing both of her hands, he forces them on either side of her. “You really do have a problem with listening. No. Touching.”

The gruffness in his voice sends a shiver down her spine, but whatever rebellious side of her that wants to challenge the command is squelched with one look into his eyes. She can tell he means business and now isn’t the time to challenge his authority.

With restraint she didn’t know she had, Naomi places her palms on the hall behind her, and she stays as still as she can.

“Good girl.” Ethan smirks and drops her hands. He untangles himself from her and steps back an inch to admire his work. “You followed directions for once.”

Whatever smart aleck reply that was about to fly from her mouth is stifled by Ethan pulling her soaked underwear down and slipping two digits past her folds. The noise she lets out is a mixture of a high pitched yelp and a strangled moan, something that threatens to choke her.

The pace he sets is random and uneven, never giving Naomi a chance to settle into a rhythm, and she wonders if this is his way of punishing her, keeping her keyed up and writhing on him for what feels like eternity, trapped in her own form of purgatory.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and bucks her hips wildly into his hand, trying to keep pace with him.

“Stop doing that,” Ethan demands, using his free hand to pull her lip out of her mouth. “I want to hear you, Rookie.”

Something about the use of her former nickname makes her moan, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Ethan.

“You like the nickname,” he states. “It’s funny, you know.  You take every opportunity to defy me, argue with me, and push my buttons, yet you get off on me controlling you.”

She can’t focus. He’s too close, it feels too good, and her brain can’t function properly under these conditions. He presses forward, the heel of his palm pressing into her clit, earning a hiss.

“Admit it.”

At this point Naomi would admit to committing armed robbery if it meant he’d keep doing this. She nods frantically. “Yes, Doctor.” He groans at the use of his title, and he pumps harder, curling his fingers inside of her. 

Naomi stands on tiptoes and desperately claws at the wall behind her. “Fuck Ethan, please!”

“Please, what? What do you want?” His lips find her neck again, and he sucks on her pulse point, only making things more hazy. “Use your words, Rookie.”

She wants a lot of things. She wants to cry out, she wants to dig her nails into his back until she draws blood, she wants him to keep talking her through this, his gruff voice in her ear as she shatters around him.

Unfortunately, Naomi cannot form a coherent sentence to save her life. She just rolls her hips, shamelessly grinding herself into his hand. “I...I…” The pleasure mounts, building in the pit of her stomach, spreading out. She’s so close, she can almost taste it. 

“Do you want to cum for me?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, please, I want–” Ethan rewards her for her honesty and his thumb drags into her clit and he rubs the sensitive nub in tight, quick circles. That’s all it takes, and she orgasms with a strangled cry and she’s thankful Ethan is right here because he holds her upright as her legs momentarily give out.

When Naomi regains the ability to stand on her own, Ethan lets go and slowly removes his fingers. Moving fast, Naomi grabs his hand, and without breaking eye contact with him, she slides the two digits into her mouth, licking them clean.

Ethan’s next breath is a shaky gasp that leaves his lung far too quickly. “Fuck, Rookie.”

“Why don’t we move this to the bedroom?” Naomi suggests, releasing his fingers with a loud pop.

Ethan shakes his head. “No.”

He registers the confusion on her face, but Ethan doesn’t give her a chance to respond. He grabs her by the waist and kisses her again, walking them towards the living room. He only breaks the kiss to pull his t-shirt over his head, and it joins the growing pile of discarded clothing scattered around. Naomi helps him speed the process along, getting rid of his belt and popping the button on his jeans. Her fingers hook into the belt loops of the pants and she pulls them down.

Before she can do anything else, Ethan stops her wandering hands. “Wait, wait.”

“Wait for what?”

Ethan knocks his forehead against hers and he sighs deeply. “Naomi, if you don’t want to do this, please stop me now.”

She thinks it’s cute that he’s giving her an out, but she doesn’t need it. Her fingers slip past the waistband of his soft cotton boxers, a warm dainty hand wrapping around him.

Ethan shudders as a warmth spreads through him at the touch of her hand, and he mentally curses himself. He pushes her hand away.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m not cumming into your hand.” Ethan spins Naomi around and bends her over the arm of his couch. 

While it’s not the desk in his office, Naomi won’t complain. She feels one of his calloused hands trace the length of her spine and her eyes flutter shut in anticipation.

No patience left, Ethan tugs down his underwear, letting the material pool at his ankles. Without another word, he lines herself up at Naomi’s entrance and thrusts into her all at once. He groans at the sensation.

Naomi has never been more thankful for couch cushions, as they muffle the scream that escapes her.

“Fuck, Naomi.” He digs his fingers into her hips before pulling out and slamming back into her. He doesn’t give her any time to adjust, but she doesn’t mind. They both know patience isn’t her forte. “You’re...so...tight.” His words are punctuated by sharp thrusts that threaten to steal the air straight from her lungs.

He leans forward slacking against her, but Naomi welcomes the weight. His beard scrapes against her shoulder blade, his breath warm against her ear, his fingers which are no doubt going to leave a bruise, all of it makes her dizzy, and god, this isn’t going to last much longer.

His thrusts become sloppier, more frenzied as the pleasure mounts, his blood boiling in his veins like molten lava. The only thing he can hear is the sound of the skin slapping, and his ragged breaths.

“Are you close?” He asks. But Naomi can’t think, let alone actually speak words, even if something monosyllabic would suffice. Why does he keep trying to make her speak? Her head drops with a thud and she mumbles something incoherent.

“For someone who had so much shit to talk earlier, you’re mighty silent.” Letting go of her hip, Ethan tangles a hand in her hair, yanking it back so she can’t hide her face in the cushions anymore. His other hand reaches around and he rolls her clit with his middle finger. Still way too sensitive from her last orgasm, she thrusts back, clawing at the couch with her nails, but he holds her in place, refusing to let her move.

“Ethan, fuck, don’t stop!” The words fly out all at once, shaky, fast and jumbled, but it’s all Ethan needs. 

With a burst of energy he didn't know he possessed, he drives into her, plunging deeper. “Cum for me, Rookie.”

Naomi screams. Loudly, and she’s sure his neighbors might be very annoyed, but she doesn’t care. Everything goes white behind her eyes as he all but pushes her over the edge. She clenches around him and Ethan hisses as she’s holding him in a vice-like grip. A few quick thrusts later, and he’s joining her in ecstasy, spilling inside of her. The hand holding her hair tightens for a second, then relaxes.

She’s pretty sure she blacked out for some period of time because when Naomi is finally able to focus, they’re no longer obscenely bent over the arm of Ethan’s couch. They’re on the floor, in the cramped space between the couch and the coffee table. 

She’s hot and sticky and absolutely exhausted. She places her hand over her heart, willing it to stop beating so erratically. Stealing a glance, Naomi peers up and looks at Ethan. He looks as disheveled as she feels, his hair tousled, lips swollen, chest and neck flushed red.

Her voice is horse and completely shot to hell when she finally speaks, “If that’s how our fights are going to play out from now on, I’ll let you pick more fights with you. And I’m a Cancer, we’re stubborn people.”

“I think we can find a happy medium somewhere.”

Naomi rolls over, until she’s nestled into his side and her head is on his chest. She can feel his heart beating rhythmically under her cheek. “Are we still fighting?”

“No.”

“Are you still mad at me?” He doesn’t answer the question right away, and a sense of dread fills her.

“I was never really mad at you,” Ethan admits after a long bout of silence. “I’m just mad at the entire situation. I’m mad at the budget cuts, I’m mad at our country’s healthcare system, I’m annoyed with your inability to listen to me. I’m mad at Leland Bloom’s obscene wealth and the fact that he gets to dangle his money in our faces like we’re horses waiting for carrots.”

“You made the right call, Naomi,” he continues. “But it’s a call you shouldn’t have been forced to make in the first place. I’m sorry for making you carry the brunt of my misplaced anger.”

“Apology accepted. And since we’re apologizing, I’m sorry for calling you a petulant little crybaby.”

Ethan chuckles. “Do you apologize for calling me a goddamn diva, as well? Don’t forget ‘entitled jackass’ and ‘spoiled child’.”

“You co-signed ‘spoiled child’ so I am not apologizing for it.”

“Fair point,” Ethan concedes.

Blindly searching with an outstretched hand, Naomi finds her cell phone and checks the time. She has to be at work in 2 hours, though she’d much rather get into Ethan’s bed and go to sleep.

“That happy medium that you mentioned? I think I have it figured out.”

Ethan raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Oh, yeah?”

“First and foremost, I promise to never go over your head again, if you agree to do a trial run on whatever ideas I may come up with. You can’t shoot me down immediately.”

“I’m...willing to agree to that.”

“And once this all settles down and the hospital isn’t on the verge of complete financial collapse, maybe we can convince the board to only take on one or two billable patients a quarter.”

“That’s actually not a bad idea.” 

“Yeah, I tend to have those every once in a while,” Naomi teases.

Ethan stares at Naomi as she laughs at her own poor joke. Everything about her is an anomaly to him. She blew into his life a little over a year ago and here he is, willing to adapt his entire ethical code for her. And here they are, entangled together as if he didn’t spend 2 months on a different continent in order to get her out of his head. What is it about her that he can’t shake?

He gently cups her jaw and kisses her as if she’s a precious gem, like he didn’t just try to devour her. “What are you doing to me?”

Naomi smirks, recalling that it’s the same question he asked her in Miami. “Hopefully something good.”

He kisses her again. “Better than good actually.”

Realization washes over her that once she leaves this apartment, things are going to go back to being the way they were. He’ll go back to pushing her away. “So does this mean you want to have another reset?”

The question throws him off, but he soon understands what she means. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” Ethan repeats. If there’s a happy medium to be found between his team and the board, maybe there’s one for him and Naomi.

She doesn’t allow herself to get swept up by his words, but instead she braces herself for the chance that he pulls the rug from under her feet. “Well, what does that mean?”

“It means you and I are going to take a shower together, go to work, and we deal with our obnoxious patient. And after work, you’re going to put on something fancy because I’m taking you out to dinner. How does that sound, Dr. Valentine?”

Naomi can’t stop an annoying grin from spreading across her face. “I think it sounds pretty damn good, Dr. Ramsey.”

[impaladolan]

Capture - Grayson Dolan [3/-]

summary: everything has started to whirlwind around Y/N as she realizes what predicament she’s in, but is consoled by her captor.. her nameless captor..

warnings: smut & slight fluff :/

a/n: hey, this is part THREE of this little series! if you haven’t, check out part one and two before reading this, or you might be a little confused :) enjoy!

"Don't you make one fucking sound.."

To his hoarse words, your teeth instantly clamped shut around your bottom lip and you closed your eyes in anticipation. You expected to be ruthlessly grabbed and shoved into by his cock, but the slowness of your panties being pulled down your legs and the ever so soft touches of his long fingers against your inner thighs brought you a surprise. And suddenly, the world began spinning around you the moment you felt his thick, and warm tongue glide against your soaked folds. The pit of your stomach shuttered in the overwhelming pressure he had against your extremely sensitive nub, something you have been day-dreaming about ever since you first saw him.

He was slow— almost passionate with the way he moved his pleasureful tongue around your pussy, slurping your arousal like it was a glass of ice water on a hot day. Your hips slowly rolled against his mouth, unintentionally, and your head fell back against the soft mattress beneath you. Your hot breaths filled the absence of sound, as well as his lapping and frustrated groans from underneath you. It seemed purely magical when he creeped one of his thumbs to your bundle of nerves, swiftly rubbing it in small circles. It made your breath become caught within your throat and had your own fingers running through his heavenly soft hair. The way his gruff groans and grunts vibrated through your core and up your spine made it excruciatingly difficult to keep your sounds to yourself.

You had had it when his only free hand crept up through your gown and wrapped itself around your breast, caressing the tenderness and softness. When your hips began to buck a bit more violently and the small, quick intakes of breaths that had queued your soon dispatching, he stopped.

He lifted his head from you and licked his lips, flashing a grin your way. "Such a pretty girl, already fucked out and you've barely been touched." He chuckles as he turns back to his little pile of clothes on the floor, snatching them and leaving the room in a hurry.

You were infuriated.

So much so, that you led your own little hand down there and began to rub at yourself, trying to finish off whatever he had started before he could notice anything. You just circled your clit quickly until your high came, and went, before slipping into your comforting bedding, yet again regretting your day's decisions and falling into a deep and useless slumber.

-

When you first wake, you quickly notice the weakness between your legs, like it was missing something, but soon after you feel the stretching of your esophagus. And then you're hit with the reoccurrence of the night before. Again, you had let this unknown man take full control of you and liked it.

How disgusting were you? To enjoy something superbly disturbing? What would your mother think?

You shook your head to your own thoughts, sitting up against the pillows and reaching for the newly placed water bottle on the nightstand. You unscrewed the cap and chugged the liquid until there was no more to be gained from it. It at least soothes the aching you felt in your throat, but nothing could stunt the aching and needing pains that your pussy was currently throbbing with.

You didn't feel an ounce of drowsiness at the beginning of the day, like you had the days prior. You felt fully regenerated and well awake. Maybe now you'd be in touch with your morals and mature senses. It has become terribly boring in this room, staring at the walls and ceiling for what seems like hours doesn't help the fact. You would've gotten up and explored your confinement space, but you were terrified he'd make an appearance the moment you step on the ground.

You actually haven't seen him at all today.

You didn't really have a source of time, but by the way the sun was sat in the sky, you had gone a whole entire day without a thing to eat or drink, which angered you. He should at least have enough courtesy to provide meals for your famished self if he's gonna keep you hidden in this place for so long. But then again, you were forcefully kidnapped from a bench only days ago, and could be kept in much worst conditions than you are now. With that simple thought, a tear had formed, watering and blurring your eyesight. Without any consent from your own self, tear after tear began to trail down your frozen cheeks, staining them a darker red. You didn’t even realize you were crying until an explosion of hiccups began to sound from your mouth and send you into a sobbing mess. Your throat began to burn as well as your eyes and your stomach began to lurch within its self, while your head became pained with all the activity that’s happening. You grab one of the pillows laying behind you and squeeze it against you roughly, trying to soothe the discomfort and agony of your new coming realizations. The flow of your tears and whimpers only strengthened, like your body was combusting with the amount of held back frustration you had. The streams of tears began to pool at the bottom of your chin and roll down your neck in thick waves.

You weren’t too sure why you were crying, but it made you feel a little better.

Your sobbing hadn’t come to a stop when the door soundlessly opened and closed. You didn’t even hear him enter, let alone sit beside you. When his large and warm arms wrapped around your small, shuttering frame, you helplessly fell into them. You let go of the pillow and snuck your arms around his muscular torso, squeezing him tighter than you did the pillow as you uncontrollably cry in the crook of his neck. “Why? Why’d you trap me here?” You hardly whispered, but his heart sank deep in his chest the moment you acknowledged him.

He didn’t have an answer. He just swayed the two of you back and forth, easing you into a peaceful sleep that you truly didn’t want, or need. You weren’t awakened when he had easily lifted you up, and carried you away from your enclosed space, leading the two of you down the hallway until he was at the threshold of his own door. He didn’t need to think twice before quietly opening it and settling you on his much more comfortable bed, leaving the lights off and classical music on in the background. He understood your saddened questioning, but he just couldn’t do anything about it quite yet..

-

You awoke for what seemed like the fiftieth time in a place you didn’t recognize. Instead of the boring grey walls and the one gold-trimmed painting, you were surrounded by pristine white walls with a few different posters of musicians you didn’t really know, except Tame Impala. Your heart almost skipped a beat as your eyes scanned the poster that had tour dates and the songs from the 2015 Currents album.

What a coincidence?

You drew your eyes away from it and settled them on the man sitting in the chair in the corner. Again, your heart leaped out of your chest from slight terror. You hadn’t noticed him before, but he seemed harmlessly asleep. Though his presence slightly angered you, he really did look peaceful and almost cute, snoozing away in the little recliner. A smart person would’ve ran to the door and exited the house as quick as possible and make it to freedom, but your head really wasn’t in the right place for the moment. You just sat there, silently interrogating the nameless man snoring in the corner.

He hasn’t been anything but nice to you, except for the lack of food and water. You faintly remember him saying something about knowing you, but everything’s truly a fog and you can’t tell whether anything is a dream or real life, since you’ve been sleeping entirely too much. Hell, you can’t even recall how you were placed in this room, or why.

But you liked it a lot better than the original room you were in. It’s not freezing cold in this bedroom, it’s comfortably warm and soothing with some sort of autumn smelling candle. Even the few little Halloween decorations around the room, which are slightly early, made this place feel a lot more homely than it should. Because honestly, you shouldn’t be “enjoying” being kidnapped/stolen by some nameless hot guy.

Speaking of, what the hell is his name?

Suddenly, the so-called nameless man begins to shift in his seat, his eyes slowly opening and widening as they adjust to the small light surrounding him. The only light within the room was the window, which displayed the day’s dark overcast from the soon-coming rain. Once he’s familiar with his own room, his eyes land on yours, a sheepish smile covering his lips compared to your stern one. “Good morning, sweetheart.” He firstly says before stretching his arms above his head and letting in a deep yawn.

“Cut the shit, sweetheart. I want to know why I’m here and when I’m allowed to leave, now.” You mock with a darkened voice, just to get your serious point across. He exhaled a large breath and stands to his feet, shuffling over to his dresser, probably finding a shirt since he feels the need to be shirtless all the time..

“Listen, I want details. I’m tired of fucking waking up and falling asleep in a strangers home. So if you could politely drop me off at my own house within the next hour, I won’t press charges. Fair and simple.” You almost plead as he takes his time looking through the drawers of his dresser. His silence and slowness was beginning to get in your nerves. It’s a large pet peeve of yours when you aren’t directly answered.

“Love to, but can’t.” He just simply answers with that, throwing a white shirt over his head and fitting it upon the rest of his body. You internally groan to his statement, shifting your eyes to the doorknob that looked very much enticing. Your head began forming a plan b, if bribing him doesn’t go too well.

“Please..?” You surprised yourself with the stupidly seductive voice you used, something you do to get what you want with men, and it most generally works. “Maybe.” He shrugs, carelessly. He seemed so disinterested and distracted to care about any of the words you were uttering. He strides over to his connecting bathroom, slightly closing the door to piss and brush his teeth.

I guess we’re going straight to plan b, huh?

You hobble out of bed and quietly walk towards the door, successfully letting yourself out without notice. Holy shit. You sprint down the somewhat familiar hallway, around a corner and through the kitchen and what seems to be a living room, until you see a front door looking exit. You immediately scram towards it and unlock the handle and the two deadbolts, successfully pulling it open and letting the outside air smack you right in the face.

Freedom at last.

You run outside, not even caring to close the door, and sprint straight towards the tall fence, the eerie tree-covered surroundings offsetting you slightly. Nevertheless, you ran as fast as possible to the nearest fence sticking your foot in one of the holes to begin your climb. “Hey, get back here!” His low, demanding voice rang through your ears, but you didn’t stop there. You kept climbing, as fast as possible, nearing the top of the fence. You didn’t have the heart to look back and see where he was, you just kept climbing to what would hopefully be safety. The moment you make it to the top to swing your other leg over the fence—

You feel a hand attach to your bare foot..

(masterlist)

[luminouswarriorwitch5879]

Skull Cavity/Faraday Cage: Musings

I hear him. I don’t know who he is yet. But I hear his cries. I hear the pain, anger, confusion and shame. He always held his high regard for practicality and sensibility in high regard. But who would want to be the pedestal on the first prize pedestal? Nothing made sense. Practicality ghosted him so hard he thought his mind had been kidnapped. 

What really happened is far beyond his human cognitive skills. She never truly knew. Oh, she knew. He just never spoke the words. All she had was the feeling. Then Hades crawled out of his Plutonian dwelling place. He was triggered. When he saw her, she looked more like him. Not physically, of course. She was beyond beautiful. She had shifted in his mind. She had become Hades and Persephone alchemically in the flesh standing before him. She was all of his hate, all of his love. All of his pain and fears. They never spoke. Not one utterance of human language was shared between the two. 

She dissolved. She disappeared. She shifted. He kept saying she did this and that she is why…

His cognitive functioning, his motor skills, they seized operations. Soon his brain made loops around her trying to pinpoint the moment the deceit was born. Yet he couldn’t find any signs of her having bore the traitor keeping his mind trapped in this feeling. He saw her pain, she was smiling. He saw her victories, she was tired and feeling defeated. He witnessed her life resurrect. The she that he had known was clearly dead and gone. This she isn’t real. Once again, he feels deceived. The pain deepens as he knows he will have to traverse the perilous Hell of Pluto. Then he loves again. That’s how she…

She knows. Beyond her human comprehension, she knows. Of course, her intellect demands the hypothesis be tested. With a mind that is always searching for hidden truths and golden keys, she opened Pandora’s Box. 

Pandora’s Gifts are well known, or should I say notorious for being cursed. Great dangers, loss, grief and suffering have befallen many a recipient. When she received her very own blessing, she was full of rage. She screamed at the heavens, cursing any and all life. She felt that life was a cruel and meaningless joke some small town jocks play on the AV kids. The only thing she knew with absolute certainty is that she needed to die. So she did.

*************************************************************************************************************

They say that death, the process of dying, is something the living will never truly understand. If the dead cannot talk, the living cannot listen. She knows. She knows the feeling of life draining away. The frantic gathering of whatever can be salvaged into something that looks like she’s got her life together. She knew perfection was an illusion meant to make you feel small and unworthy. She understood that death was a process where she would never return the same. She understood that death was not limited to physically expiring. So she came back from the dead to speak to the living about the process of dying and living. 

Pandora’s Gift always held healing. She was searching for the golden key hidden in the subtle feelings and unknowable knowings. The one that would unlock her inner Siddhartha. She wanted to transcend all of the pain and finally feel what the liberation of truth feels like. Truth had always been distorted by her external world. She felt betrayed by the books and the Magick Box of Pictures. Each scene allowing the princess to reach a destined point of space and time. She lived life one moment to the next but she lived in fear. Afraid that the next moment might tear away the joy of the scene she is currently living. Somehow that always happened. Her mind knew. She knew. Survival of the fittest, smartest, most resourceful. She didn’t know if she was the fittest, the smartest or the most resourceful. She just wore her cape and looked for opportunities to be there for her people. She knew how it felt to feel so alone and weighted down by it all. 

She could only be healed by the truth. Her mind searched as if she was holding her breath until she was given what she needed to feel like she was safe. She would demand her cerebral librarian to search the entire archive. Find this answer! She had to hire many new librarians due to the dangers of the archives. They would receive their instructions and head off to unknown parts of her to find the answers. They would never return with what she needed. 

One day, as she was gathering her mind to create a new librarian, she decided to investigate the archives. Creating a new librarian was very taxing on her mind. She found the archives sign in the back corner. Underneath the sign was a doorway with wooden stairs descending. They looked as if they would fall apart if she ate a heavy meal before stepping on them. Each step screamed of the dangers ahead of her. Warnings that she was about to open the door to demons and seraphim alike. She couldn’t discern the messages and pushed through her fears. As her foot stepped into the unknown darkness before her, everything disappeared. She was surrounded by such dense darkness she couldn’t see herself. Panic set into her mind as she questioned the core of her reality. 

Her eyes became heavy. As if she knew the key was behind her eyelids. Her surrender is what saved her from every last sense and practicality being lost. Her eyes opened to reveal a corridor with a flickering fluorescent light stretching the entire length. As she stood under the light, she noticed many doors. She wondered if the librarians were stuck behind one of them. No, she thought. They probably didn’t make it through the insanity of the darkness. She didn’t want to have to come back down here so she knew she had to pick the right door the first time. There were so many to choose from. Not knowing which door to decide on, she stood in the hallway under the flickering light. For a moment, she thought she was back in the dense darkness at the bottom of the stairs. This gave her an idea. Something new inside her. She waited for the moment she felt the darkness envelop her. As the darkness swallowed her, she thought of the flickering fluorescent light above her head. At that moment, her eyes opened. She was in the darkness. Above her all she saw was the fluorescent light. It was a steady trail to door 7. 

She reached for the doorknob. As the electrons of her existence met the electrons of the knobs existence, she remembered. Pieces of her existence woke up and reminded her of what she always knew. Lifetimes she couldn’t know. Souls with different faces. Souls with a frequency she was now following. She didn’t know who or where or when or why or how. She was simply following the frequencies. She infused herself into the threads she followed to see if she could discover the truth of each core. She knew that the threads leading to her led to truth outside of her. She didn’t know how that truth was going to help her find her truth. 

Pieces of her existence were coming together and begging her to speak what she discovered within. She would speak. When the bells within the belly of the beasts rings their very last war cries, she will surrender her truth to the heartbeat of the universe. She needs to hear the angels sing and feel the wheel kick into movement beneath her feet. She wants to hear the seraphim confirm the cosmic truths which will break all matrix encodings entrapping human consciousness within these Faraday cages we call skulls. She will speak. When he has traversed death and decay within. When he has finally called in the jaguar and the vultures to eat away at the detritus he carries within the very core of his reality. He will find her there. She knows in an unknowing way. 

*************************************************************************************************************

He screams and pleads for her to stop. Cease and desist. His mind has her stored. A cell for each memory. Locked away in his hell. He screams at her through the bars he has entrapped her behind. Why is she here? Why won’t she leave me alone? He has tried to kill her a hundred ways a day. But the memory of each breath that he watched dance from her lungs to his was frozen in its enchantment. He knows she is not real. He knows she is dead and gone. He starts to consider that he is not real. Exhausted from another day of slaying his demons and searching for his throne of fire, he rests. The deepest of rest surrounds him and he dreams instead of walking in nightmares, for once. He begins to feel that dream frequency he had forgotten. The one where her heart danced through each breath she shared with him. He never knew it was her heart that she was sharing. 

Any good captain knows they’re going down with their ship. The underworld hellscape he was drowning him. It crashed all around him with serpents and feelings of absolute hopelessness. If she was dead and gone, how could he fulfill this feeling crashing into his mind? His crew has already abandoned the ship. Panicking and fearful of his mind being swept away in his rage and terror. He couldn’t see that he was the clouds and the waves. The rain falling upon the windshield distorted his view of his reality. He couldn’t see that his heart was simply saying “I love you” while his mind was calling the heart an infidel. A Godless Heathen sent to destroy all sense and sensibility. His crew had abandoned ship at this point so sense and sensibility were no longer applicable on these Plutonian Seas. If the captain must accompany his ship, he is surrendering to the descent. He released his grip on the wheel allowing his arms to fall to his sides. His eyes close and he questions what is down from here? 

Nothing. Empty. There is nothing here. Devoid of everything that haunted every moment he remembers. Every tear, laugh, hug, pain, sorrow, joy and fear is….gone. For a moment, he calls this peace. He looks. He searches. He tries to find she. There is nothing for him to find. She isn’t real. The anger rises within him as he begins curing Heaven and Hell alike for this deception. 

This doesn’t make sense. He panics. This is the dream feeling. If the dream is down here, why isn’t she? She is not down here. Her form begins to appear as he releases the grip on the wheel a little more. His mind drops into his heart. He sees her there before him. She is not present. Her frequency of truth dances around her with joy and peace. The demons in his cages orbit around her shielded by her dancing truth. He sees the breath that he once shared with her. His mind crumbles to now know that it was her that he was fighting the oceans for. She was dead and gone a long time ago. Her life dances willfully and liberated knowing exactly where to place her feet next. He is illuminated by an unknown source as he witnesses his dance arise. 

His eyes open. He is back on the ocean. The serpents and knowings rise to meet his ship. If only for a moment to say hello. To greet his experience with a little more joy. He doesn’t understand why this calm has met him. He sees a beam of light flash into his windshield. He feels land nearby. The lighthouse on the shore will guide him to his familiar sense and sensibility again. He was not seeing a lighthouse. He was seeing his reflection. He was seeing the dance of his breath of life. His light was mapping out his fulfillment while he rested on the calm waters. He wishes he understood why her light had to be the teacher. 

His eyes closed and he followed the dance within to discover where it was originating from. As the light of his calm waters faded away, he took a deep breath and his eyes opened. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he began to see an iridescent glow amongst all the forms he couldn’t define or categorize. He knew he was on the right path if he didn’t know where he was. 

*************************************************************************************************************

They met there. The garden was where they always met. She would sit on the stone bench enjoying the sunshine on her skin. She would breathe the most nourishing of breaths as the peony filled the air with their healing magic. Between her and the unknown, were the evergreen trees. They stood there as if they were her personal guardians and ancient ancestors. She knew that any entity crossing that barrier was divinely intended to be there with her. He would step through and she knew. What she knew she didn’t understand. He would walk up to her with passionate force, whisper into her mouth as if it were a kiss and then look beyond her eyes into the cosmos. As he smiled, he turned away to exit through the evergreens. It was that moment there that she saw all of him. The smile that can’t hide the agony of being him. It gave him joy, in her eyes, to share that whisper that her heart suddenly felt. Because the smile she saw turn the corner of his mouth was pointing towards the heavens in prayer. Prayer for what was somewhere in that archive. 

On this particular day she knew that it was something ordinarily mundane. She was sitting on the stone bench enjoying the sunshine and allowing the healing of the peonies envelope every cell in her existence. Her mind created willows of butterflies that would wisp around her crown. She would send them her heart’s song as an offering of gratitude for their beautiful dance. She didn’t see them store her wishes and dreams in their hearts and flutter off through the energreens. This day was like any other. As the butterflies flew past the guardians and ancestors, the sky began to dim. The sunshine was no longer kissing her cheekbones. She knew what this was as she had known this scene. Different forms surrounding her. The core of the frequency was always the same. It was the calm in the storm. It was wrapped in the screaming and grinding of distorted groundings. As this frequency breached the ancestors and guardians, the sky split open and her acid tears dissolved her garden. A maddening beeping and the slapping of lumber on metal rang through her skull as if it too were splitting open. 

The void space had tricked her yet again. Time and time again, she woke up alone and realizing her life was an illusion. She had no choice but to create the reality where she knew peace. She never had him in her mind when she drew her blueprints. That’s the complicated part of carrying space in your heart. As her mind and heart tried to comply with her code of ethics, her two truths fought to be king of the dung pile. Each one rolling their truth up a hill slapping away at the vultures trying to lighten the load. As her truth was under attack by these ravenous vultures. She sent her armies to defend her truth. Unfortunately her truths weren’t saved that day. The heart and the mind anihilated each other. 

Her heart still sang. It was something new. She knew this frequency. She forgot it. If she had remembered it the day of the Great Battle for Truth, she might have been able to save them all. But she did not. She was still forgetting the Truth. Not just truth. The Truth. When she allowed Truth to sing, she disappeared and all that was left was Truth. This truth was the anvil and the hammer. It was the lightning that cracked the sky open. It was the thunderous scream as the two parts of her reality separated. From the opening above her, acid tears rained from her eyes. She needed this all to disappear so she could dream of a new world in the void space. She needed to wake up there again so she could deconstruct what she had built in the garden. As she sat upon the stone bench, it crumbled beneath the weight of her rage. She asked the garden through her acid tears why she couldn’t heal there any longer. Nobody ever replied to this question. She silently raged in the wet cardboard box world she now inhabited. She became a stone angel defending to the end her only portal to him. She had become the guardian and the ancestor of her pain. 

*************************************************************************************************************

He was wasting his energy. Somewhere there were supposed to be some kind of rest stops where he could safely rest and relieve himself. A respite from the hell he was running from. It was like driving down the turnpike while holding in a piss for unforseeable distances of space and time. Suddenly a sign would appear in the dim light of the headlights. “Next Rest Stop 85 miles.” Of course, he knows he can simply cross the line somewhere between “Hey man, we have to piss” and actually being incapable of holding it in any longer. He would cross that line and relieve himself, take a rest to cross back over the line and return on his merry way to 85. Until the next time his natural urges arise and he feels the need for relief. 

The day the sign changed was like any other. Piss, 85, cross the line, rest, cross the line, drive. The familiar urge informed him of his needs. This time, the headlights illuminated “Rest Stop 58 miles ahead”. He thought it an average thing to see when you’ve been driving for forever and the distance to rest seems to be a bit closer to completion. He continued to drive along the road towards 58 as he knew when he was there he would have the greatest rest he had felt in a long time. Yet there were no further indications of his progress towards his destination. He made the decision to cross the line again. 

As he opened the door, he felt the rush of a phantom train pass by him. Thinking he was about to be blown into the next dimension by an oncoming train he couldn’t see, he nearly pissed himself. Thankfully his practical mind kept his urge for relief in check. He can’t get hit by a train he can’t see. As he walked around the car to the side facing the evergreens, he could no longer control his body. His body and heart were joyfully walking through the trees. His mind was screaming in terror as he had no idea what was happening at the moment. His mind sent armies that never returned to the castle. He had no idea where he was going through these trees. His protest was largely ignored. Through the ancient evergreens he walked as if he knew what was through there. His eyes closed as he placed his foot on the other side of the evergreens. As he pulled his other foot through, his eyes opened. His mind could not comprehend what he was seeing. They spoke of worlds which did not exist yet and love which was yet unloved. The breath of life dancing in his DNA. He whispered into the core of the dance. “       ...            “ He knew it was her. The one he called She. 

His lips kissed the life dancing behind the ancient evergreens, his eyes closed and he felt heavy again. He knew it was time to cross that line again. He knew and it hurt. But in that moment, he felt wholly joyful for the experience here. His eyes opened as he had finished resting again. As he crossed back over the line, he felt the tearing away of something inside him. It was as if his innards were caught in a woodchipper that was on the other side of the line. He tried to conjure up the frequency of all that ecstatic joy from the evergreens. He tried to find it within him. Yet he knew it was her. He knew that the acid tears falling on his car were her acid tears she surrendered from her heart. 

Fighting his own calling to 85, he would cross the line to rest. He figured he invested all of his energy into this journey. The countless hours of driving to 85. The numerous ways he calculated, categorized and capitulated the thought forms that weren’t fitting into the known. His mind would play stories informing him of phantom thoughts of strangers having phantom judgements against his very existence. Was he a phantom? He always said “Proven judgmental until you prove Self innocent.” He even applied it to him knowing very well that he was his own worst enemy. 

He knows that improper storage of a corpse is illegal. His mind entrapped her corpses in the cages of his rage at her death. He wanted to keep her safe and loved. Days pass to nights as he keeps driving towards 58. He gets the urge, crosses the line, rests, crosses the line and drives. He carries the memory of an abstraction he can’t categorize. If only he remembered the flickering lights in the hallway. In his forgetfulness, he set course for 85. Her cries become subdued and the acid tears melt the screen of his mind. Slowly and completely, he dissolves into him. His void space truth infusing into every ACGT. A process that takes him beyond space and time. He stayed on the turnpike while his time processed in the beyond. His eyes close. His hands feel a gift being put in place. He shudders as he feels the dance he knows so well. On this gift, the tag read

<3 Pandora

*************************************************************************************************************

She always knew that sitting on a throne could put you in the cross hairs of someone’s scope. Something she learned about the scope was it could be finely focused on the subatomic details or widely viewing the whole. Her microscopes and mathematics allowed her to year things apart and look at the patterns. Pandora sure loved the patterns. It was in the repeating events where the scenery had been changed yet the fracture screamed the same frequency. Try with all her intellect and frustration, the lid would not go back on the box. The screams of this fracture were too powerfully unleashed for the powerless lid. 

*************************************************************************************************************

He always knew that everyone was judging him. His mind projected all of the deep analysis of his every last hair out of place and wrinkle in his shirt. Surely, he was only steps away from full blown schizophrenia. As he walked by another face, regardless if it was printed or human, he could see their judgements. Not with his eyes. But he saw their face flash a grimace as he walked by. The same grimace he would make when he saw his own reflection. He grew to understand how to hide it. How to hide himself. Like deer piss on a hunter, he walked through this world disguised to make him feel secure. 

As he parked the car within the confines of a painted parking space, he sat for a moment preparing his mind for the adventure ahead. He had made it to 85. Or was it 58? He couldn’t be sure at this point. He was deeply occupied in the art of disguise and placate to consider the destination he finally made it to. The opportunity of a soul’s journey. It was very often that a traveler on their own journey crosses by the sign above the entrance. There were very few that could see the sign above the entrance. It was as mundane looking as a toaster on a kitchen counter. For him, on this particular day, it radiated. He nearly lost control of his mind as he looked up and his mind perceived it. As simple as it was, it said that he had arrived somewhere significant.

                                                                  ∞

There was a feeling ringing throughout his body. He couldn’t understand what it was. It was like running a mile and sitting down to feel your heartbeat still trying to calm. The heart gets so excited to supply you with the nourishment you need! His urge for rest, and the reason for coming here, had faded. His mind was starting to wonder why he was here and what he was doing. His heart started to envelop his mind with a sensation of complete newness. He felt new in that moment. He closed his eyes. He felt for the handle of the door and as his hand touched it, he melted into him. Into the endless existence of him. 

The beginning of it all is hard to pinpoint. They say that there was nothing to consider in existence prior to the Big Bang. We’re nearing 15 million years ago. As much as our science and math and logic has been a tool for huge advancements in human consciousness, they’ve also restricted us. He knew that. He knew that the limited world of facts and concrete knowledge held him back from the dreams of music and travel and art, beauty. He walked the line of hedonism so seductively that he nearly seduced his heart into thinking this was all real. Every now and again the truth would arise in him again. He would see massive catastrophe as a part of him was ripped away by rogue planetary development. That’s why he loved plans. Concrete knowledge. If he had known that the collision was imminent, would he have been able to save that part of him from also becoming a rogue? He thought of some “...bard and a rogue walk into a bar…” joke and chuckled a bit. He wanted to be here all the time. He wanted to be able to rewind and review so that he could course correct. The symbols and the messages weren’t making any sense at all. Even the musings deep within him were just too contradictory to what he knew to be concrete. She was dead and gone. He had never spoken to her. So how could she be musing him to feeling this way when she was no longer emitting her frequency?

He knew it was coming from beyond his mind. From spaces she was thrown into. His mind reeled from the thought of her alone in that cold darkness. Away from his warmth and the loss of her glow. He honored her and mourned her but he knew that he had to continue his own existence. That was concrete. She was not returning. Her song still rang through him. Like the heartbeat after a mile. It had infused within him and he felt her hugging his heart. 

*************************************************************************************************************

She wanted to understand but she knew she couldn’t. Her heart was speaking and she gave her heart the stage. She sat in the front row and closed her eyes as her heart sang a song. She allowed the song to audition in her mind. The thoughts that began to dance were fantastical at first. Sheer miracles of love. Memories have a habit of creating this molasses dense trap along the neurons. The spots where ghosts haunt the current joy and fulfillment presented to us. The ghosts were pulling away at the molecules of this glorious song and dance the heart and mind had begun. She knew her heart could heal these ghosts and allow them to reach liberation through this dance of life. So she let her heart sing and her fantasies dance. 

Within the neurons lie the memories of her pain. They’re nothing but memories at this point. Like a library section titled “Things Human Do To Hurt Each Other”. Her intellect knew she could figure out the reason and the rhyme. The cause and the effect. When she did find her answer in her library, she couldn’t reconcile what she had discovered within her archives. She knew it was him in her archives. He was not him. The one that had left the molasses trap in her neurons. But it was. Like a ship at port to restock on supplies, pillage and depart for the stormy seas again, he taught her more than he knew. 

Her life had been a continuous series of events which confirmed to her exactly everything she had known. It also fortified the fractures and their detrimental deepening with each attempt at loving this world. Like a wedge meant to split wood and pile it up pretty for burning in the stove, her love had always been through the filter of what she knew and what the world confirmed for her. She didn’t know that her heart had the power to heal and love and protect her. She searched for someone in the world who had the sense and sensibility to be able to love. But love doesn’t follow sense or sensibility. 

Sometimes she’d allow herself to day dream these stories of finding her place in all of this existence. But she felt like she was floating in the middle of nowhere all the time. She knew that void space is where thoughtforms and the emotional dimension meet and coordinate the creative process with the rest of the universe. She knew that if she could just rest for the time it took for the universe to coordinate all of their ends, what would be carried out of the void with her would be pure divinity. She knew that within the very creative process of her heart, mind and the universe working in synergy together, they could create something with graceful power. 

What she could not see is that she was the creation. She had died and was sitting in the void space for so long she couldn’t discern between herself and everything else. When she saw the world of forms surrounding her, she saw nothing but the light of life itself swirling and dancing and living to the beat of the heart that powers the creator mind. How could she possibly be the one carrying divinity into the world of forms? It was in this question that she realized: She is the divinity in the world of forms. 

*************************************************************************************************************

He couldn’t comprehend this calling. His feet had carried his so far without a fight. It was an automatic response to the world at this point. He would enjoy the things life had for him and then his mind would start spitting in his face. So he lost her. 

*********************************************************************************************************

The journey is never something to take for granted. From the mundane everyday events which we find ourselves bored of to the grand awakenings that shake the very core of our existence. Every single day is something that brings to you an opportunity to live. How you live is entirely up to you. The thoughts that are processing in your mind are simply programmings which need to be removed and repaired. But repaired, I really mean neutralized. Much like being plugged into some command central explaining to you false prophecies of what life is, your mind has been programmed to operate in a way that is wholly detrimental to your living essence. There have been many events which have carried the essence of living for you to witness. Yet the density of your reality pulled you into its core. This is essential for you to know as part of this story is to warn you of the entrapments of gravity. 

As you grow and amass more gravity, you will pull in frequencies which you do not understand yet. These are ancient frequencies we have forgotten. I will not categorize or define what it is for you because it is your responsibility to hold yourself accountable for that. Living, being alive, is to create. What are you creating? When you get an idea to create something in your life, what excuses are you using to support the programs which tell you that you cannot? How you live is entirely up to you. It is essential for you to really know that. You truly get to choose if you are going to be a decent human, a hero, a tyrant or a lesser than worthy human. Every single moment in your life you get to set the tone for who you are and what you represent in the eyes of divine life force. It doesn’t matter who told you what in your childhood. Nothing you have been told applies to your reality at this point in space and time. You are safe and your family is safe. There are always moments where we cannot see our way to peace. It’s vital for you to remember these moments are the spaces where our surrender to divinity and love creates unexpected solutions. I heard a collective scoff at “Love and light”. I am not all love and light. I am rage and terror and love and a destroyer. It is your perception of what the words do to your stable reality that causes you to recoil. 

Sacred Rage can sweep the minds of a nation into revolution for equality and peace without war destroying the love of a collective. Terror is the edge of the cliff that the fool blindly bounds off of knowing so firmly that regardless of the fear welling up inside, the fool will get back up and continue on their journey. Love for the experience of reincarnation allowing us to arrive closer towards home each opportunity we discover.

[goodlucktai]

don’t make a noise, don’t leave the room

good omens pairing: aziraphale/crowley word count: 2926 title borrowed from you are jeff by richard siken

read on ao3

x

Aziraphale wakes up, which is a distinctly disconcerting feeling when one doesn’t often sleep in the first place. Added to his discomfort is the fact that he’s on the floor, limbs sprawled every which way, with a pounding in his head that makes him think he forgot to sober up before falling asleep.

“Ugh, really, my dear,” he grumbles, pushing himself upright. “Just how much did we have to drink?”

He expects to open his eyes to the back room of the bookshop, but he doesn’t. There is no worn-thin carpet beneath his hands, no aged coffee table or yawning loveseat, and certainly no snake-eyed demon draped on a flat surface nearby to poke fun at Aziraphale for being a messy drunk.

In fact… Aziraphale doesn’t know where he is at all.

“Finally awake, are you?” a familiar voice snaps.

Aziraphale’s heart sinks. He turns around to find himself under the scornful scrutiny of the archangels Uriel and Sandalphon.

What on earth?

“What, um, are you doing here?” He pushes himself to his feet, looking around at the unfamiliar room they’re in. “What am I doing here?”

“I don’t know what’s happened to you to make you so different,” Uriel tells him shortly, “but if you haven’t Fallen yet, you can probably be rehabilitated.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, and Aziraphale doesn’t know where to begin.

“Ah, no thank you,” he decides to go with, straightening his waistcoat for something to do with his hands. He’s terribly uneasy, bordering on frightened, with having been summoned here by them in the first place. It’s safe to assume he won’t want any part of their plans to rehabilitate him, whatever that could mean. “I thought we had agreed I was best left to my own devices. I’m perfectly happy on Earth.”

Going on as if he hadn’t spoken, Uriel says, “You’re never going to be a proper angel while you’re running around with a demon, of all things.”

Aziraphale goes cold at the mention of Crowley. He finds himself listening more intently now, preparing himself for fight or flight.

“You’ll see,” his estranged sibling tells him, as if to reassure. “He can’t actually care about you, Aziraphale. He’s not capable of it. I’ll prove it to you, and then you’ll come home.”

“I don’t care about all that,” Sandalphon says with a cruel smile. “I’m only here for the show.”

Uriel waves a hand, and something appears in the middle of the floor. It’s Aziraphale, or a likeness of him, sprawled in a heap like a discarded puppet. Its eyes are vacant and staring. There’s a sword driven through its chest and the burned outline of wings outspread on either side of its body.

Aziraphale feels sick just looking at it.

“You’ll see,” Uriel tells him. “Just watch.”

Their horrible plan is beginning to take shape. Horrified, Aziraphale surges forward, beginning to say, “You mustn’t—” when he runs headlong into what feels like a brick wall.

The hard collision all but bounces him back, sending him staggering. Eyes stinging, Aziraphale looks down at where a binding circle lay at his feet. Dormant until he tested the lines, it’s glowing with holy white light now. The work of an archangel, and well beyond his power to break.

Aziraphale tries his luck against it anyway, gritting his teeth through the sharp recoil.

Uriel and Sandalphon watch him with a remote interest, like he’s a little animal doing something clever, and Aziraphale shouts, “Don’t do this! Let me out!”

“But it’s just getting good,” Sandalphon says gleefully, and that’s when Crowley’s bright presence appears on the scene.

Aziraphale feels him coming before the others do. He whips around just as the door flies open, his lovely demon flying through like a mad thing.

“I got your message, angel, could you have been anymore cryptic? And what are you doing way out here any… way…”

He stops dead when he sees the archangels, his face twisting into a snarl.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls, hoping against hope that Crowley might hear him.

Crowley doesn’t so much as twitch in his direction. Goddammit, Aziraphale thinks with a venom that should surprise him, and throws his metaphysical weight against the barrier once more.

“What have you done with Aziraphale?” he hisses, more serpent than man now, despite what his body may look like. They will certainly be having a talk later about his lack of self-preservation in face of two archangels, but for now Aziraphale can only watch in terror as Crowley begins to stalk. “You both think you’re hot shit. I know he’s here, I can feel him.”

“Or what’s left of him, anyway,” Uriel says flatly, and steps aside to show Crowley her creation.

The look on Crowley’s face breaks Aziraphale’s heart.

“No,” he mutters. “No no, angel, no.”

He’s across the room without moving, skipping through space-time like he’s forgotten how to do it the mortal way. He crashes to his knees in the ash around the corpse and his hands tremble as if they don’t know which direction to fly in first.

His yellow eyes are stark and wild. The sword impaled through the puppet’s chest is flung violently away by work of a crude miracle, and only then does Crowley touch him.

Human, so human, in the way his fingers fumble against Aziraphale’s wrist for a pulse. Searching out the familiar heartbeat, the reassuring sound of life.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale screams it so loud it all but tears his throat. “Lord, spare him this! Let him hear me, please!”

The Almighty isn’t granting prayers today. Crowley is kneeling in what he thinks is the burnt-out remains of Aziraphale’s grace. His fingers are sooty and dark with feather dust.

Uriel and Sandalphon are watching the scene raptly, as if waiting for Crowley to break character, to stand up and dust his hands off and say “ah, well, so my evil plan turned out to be a wash.”

But he never does. He doesn’t even seem to remember they’re there. He might as well be alone in all the world, so possessed he is by grief. He hauls Aziraphale’s body up into his arms, bows his head, and begins to weep.

Aziraphale’s holy core burns within him, bursting at the seams and straining so ferociously against the archangel’s binding that it’s a wonder he doesn’t melt his human body clean away with the effort.

“It’s enough!” he cries. “You’ve seen enough! What more could you possibly want?”

“Disgusting,” Sandalphon says gleefully. “Whoever heard of a demon mourning?”

But demons were the first to mourn, Aziraphale thinks, dazed by such willful ignorance. They were the first to have lost.

“But it isn't real,” Uriel says slowly. “It can't be.”

Crowley goes abruptly, terribly still.

His shoulders freeze in the middle of a sob. He’s a creature of sudden stone, an anguished work of art. Aziraphale is pressed hard against the barrier between them, blinking wetness from his eyes, trying to see what’s happened, what changed.

Crowley’s lips part, the forked edge of his tongue darting out almost too quick for the eye to follow. He kneels there, his awful collapse of limbs and sorrow, his arms wound around the shape of Aziraphale, and scents the air again.

Then he lifts his head. There’s no chance for anyone to react before Crowley stops time. There are still the sounds of traffic outside, and rain, and Aziraphale himself is still present and aware; so it’s only the archangels that have been displaced from the steady onward drum of the universe.

It’s silent. Aziraphale’s heart is the loudest thing in the room, pounding against his chest.

Crowley lowers the body gently to the floor, his hands lingering, the curl of his fingers reluctant. When he finally lets go he does it with a painful yank, and he pushes himself to his feet as though gravity is somehow ten times heavier where he's standing.

His eyes are burning yellow, like sulfur, like the bright warning bands of a venomous reptile. He doesn’t move the way a human would, or even the way a snake would; he moves like he’s rearranging the fabric of space and time in tiny step-like increments, bearing him closer to where Uriel and Sandalphon are still standing like sculptures.

Aziraphale watches as Crowley draws right up to them. He studies Sandalphon’s face closely; the archangel’s mouth is twisted in a sneer, caught in the act of throwing Aziraphale a look of hateful triumph.

And then, following Sandalphon's line of sight with utmost deliberation, Crowley turns his head and looks directly at Aziraphale.

Their eyes lock, and Aziraphale’s next breath chokes him. Crowley’s expression puts Aziraphale in mind of natural disasters, of wars and kingdoms put to torch, floods and plagues and children drowning. The demon might as well be desolation itself, given blood and bone and a suit to wear, a bleak, yawning absence where there should be a wily, mischievous good nature.

Even the day the world was scheduled to end, when Crowley holed himself up in a little bar and wept himself sick among bottles and bottles of clear spirits, wasn’t as bad as this. Nothing could be as bad as a corpse.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale sobs, pushing himself forward. The barrier is hot against his palms, on the cusp of burning, and still he pushes forward. “I’m right here, Crowley, I’m here! I haven’t left you, sweetheart.”

Crowley must not hear him. He certainly doesn’t see him, scanning the empty space with his eyes. But there’s a seed of something unquelled inside him, something rebellious. A tiny kernel of what might only be denial, what might just be hope— elbowing its way through all the despair, making room for maybe and what if because the alternative is too much to bear.

Crowley starts to walk, with his hands outstretched before him, fingers splayed and searching. Each step is deliberate and determined, and his eyes are off-focus now, an inch or two to Aziraphale’s left, but he’s headed in the right direction.

“That’s it, my darling,” Aziraphae whispers. His voice is a wreck. He hates to be trapped here, aches to meet Crowley halfway. He’s as close as he can get, clustered against the wall with all his might.

There’s only a moment where Crowley falters. When he steps into the dust of the archangels’ cruel trick, where the outermost tip of an angel’s wing is burned into the tile. His stride stutters, and his eyes dart away to the shape of his dead husband on the floor, and Aziraphale could scream.

He is terrified that Crowley’s burdened faith might desert him before he’s made it all the way. There is nothing he can do to give Crowley strength, no signal or sign he can provide that this painful march will be rewarded.

Please, he prays. He sends it outward this time, not upward.

It seems to reach. The demon’s mouth screws up. He staggers forward two quick steps, a third, stepping over the dust and moving— unknowingly, hopefully— in the right direction.

Aziraphale shuffles to the side so that Crowley is directly in front of him. He’s holding his breath when Crowley finally reaches him. His long fingers meet resistance in thin-air, and he chokes. He presses his palms to the invisible wall, and Aziraphale mirrors him.

“You’re there, angel?” Crowley whispers. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale whispers back. “Of course I am. Of course I do.”

Crowley looks down. The circle is a lurid, vivid glow at Aziraphale’s feet. Crowley can’t possibly see it, but he’s always been far too clever for his own good. With a snap of his fingers, the floor begins to crack. The tiles bearing Uriel’s handwork rupture as if in a miniature, localized earthquake, and the second the lines are broken, the barrier disappears, and Aziraphale falls forward against Crowley’s chest.

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale blasphemes, gathering him up in shaking handfuls, hauling him close. “Crowley. I have you. I have you.”

It seems to take a moment for Crowley to process Aziraphale’s sudden appearance. His arms are slow in creeping around the angel, his embrace a trembling, tentative thing. But he takes a breath— breathing in deep, nose pressed into cloudy white curls of hair— and seems to come alive again.

When his fingers grow claws, and his broken halo burns the air around their faces brassy and hot, and the secret self of him threatens to push out of its tight mortal confines with every second, Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief. What should probably rightly be horrifying is instead the sweetest comfort he knows.

“There you are,” Aziraphale says, swaying their bodies side to side. He thinks he could stand there holding Crowley until the next end of the world and Crowley would let him.

Over the demon’s shoulder, Aziraphale has full view of the archangels who tormented him. If Aziraphale were capable of hatred, they would know the full force of it. If he could bring himself to bring them harm, he would make them hurt.

“I can feel that,” Crowley mutters, muffled against Aziraphale’s neck. His voice is thick and wet. “Leave those unholy thoughts to me, angel.”

Aziraphale presses a kiss to the side Crowley’s face, right above the snake sigil. It’s the only spot he can reach without peeling his husband off him and he has no plans of that.

“How did you know? How could you tell?”

Crowley’s eyes give away how he’s hurting, despite how much practice he has had over the millennia in schooling his voice to perfect dispassion. He looks like he would like to tuck away out of sight again, but the cradle of Aziraphale’s hands keep him still.

He turns his face, pressing into one of Aziraphale’s palms. His lips part there against the salt and sweat of hands that have spent all of history keeping him still.

He says, “Didn’t smell like you.” And suddenly Aziraphale understands.

This body has carried him soundly since the Beginning. Even if his core had been burned away, the body left behind would have presumably smelt like his cologne, or his books, or whatever it was he’d eaten last. Of course, it’s something the archangels would overlook. It’s something they wouldn’t think to copy. It’s something intimate and human.

‘I know what you smell like,’ the demon had snapped at him not long ago.

Oh, to be so known, to be so loved. Aziraphale could cry for days if he let himself linger on the notion.

“Let me take you home, sweetheart,” he says, speaking the words into Crowley’s hair. “Where I can keep you close to me.”

Crowley hums what is probably an assent, but when Aziraphale glances into his eyes, he finds them turned away from his own and uncomfortably fixed; staring without blinking at the archangels who let him think Aziraphale was dead.

Aziraphale touches Crowley’s face with his free hand, a brush of his fingers against a sharp cheekbone. Love swells in his chest like pain.

“You’ll have to let them go sometime,” he says with a lightness he doesn’t feel.

“No I don’t.”

Truly, the remarkable creature might find it within the realm of his imagination to trap them as they are for eternity. But…

“I don’t want them on your mind, darling,” Aziraphale says, both gentle and unrelenting as he turns Crowley’s face back towards his, so that those slitted eyes have no choice but to follow. “I don’t want them in your thoughts. Let them go.”

Crowley bares his teeth, sharper and longer than usual, and snaps his fingers. A wall of hellfire appears at his whim, curving around Uriel and Sandalphon in a vicious mockery of the trap that had held Aziraphale, standing at easily ten feet high.

“They can puzzle their own way out,” he sneers, and only then does the time in the room reorient itself to the rest of the universe.

Aziraphale doesn’t wait a moment longer. With a thought, he brings them home to the flat above the shop. The bed has turned itself down for them, pillows plump, sheets smooth and cool.

He walks Crowley backwards, lays him down. Crowley's hair is a glorious spill of red against the pale pillows, but his eyes are still manic and afraid, his fingers clutching fistfuls of Aziraphale's clothes as if to keep him from disappearing again. “As long as you need, Crowley,” Aziraphale assures him, pressing their foreheads together. “I’ll hold you just like this as long as you need. We can lay here until the end of the world if you like.” Crowley makes a watery sound that might have, an hour ago, counted as a chuckle. “Until you get peckish, you mean.”

Humor is always how they've dealt with a blow. Aziraphale smiles at him, thumbing a rogue piece of coppery hair back behind Crowley's ear.

“For you— and only for you, mind— I would be willing to go without.”

“Hah!” Crowley's death grip on Aziraphale's shirt has loosened. The hairline slits of his pupils have rounded out a bit to something less likely to panic. He's giving himself, ever so slowly, back into Aziraphale's hands. “Who are you, and what have you done with my angel?”

“It's me, love,” Aziraphale says. “I'm here.”

It ruins their little joke, but he has to say it, now that he can.

Crowley's eyes get very bright, the same way they did in the Garden, and Aziraphale is certain that Crowley heard him loud and clear this time.

[valentinesirwins]

winter break; billy hargrove (pt. 3)

｡･ﾟﾟ･ pt. 1 ; pt.2 ･ﾟﾟ･｡

summary: taking place after the events of stranger things 3, the reader finds herself falling for the boy next door, billy hargrove, after moving to hawkins during winter break of 1985.

warnings: abuse, angst, fluff, cussing, drinking, smoking, stranger things season 3 spoilers!!

a/n: most of this is heart-melting fluff and made me fall in love with billy hargrove all over again. thank you so much for all your feedback, reblogs, notes, and replies! it means the world to me!! (p.s: you can click here to be added to the taglist!)

word count: 2, 675

(gif not mine!)

You quickly learned that the winters in Hawkins weren’t so kind. The overcast had turned into pouring rain in a within a matter of minutes, freezing cold drops landing on top of yours and Billy’s heads as you rushed back to the neighborhood.

“Last one pack to my place makes the cocoa!” Your voice was nearly muted over the sound of thunder clapping above you and shaking the earth as you and Billy entered a head-to-head race.

Strands of wet hair stuck to the sides of your face as you followed closely behind Billy, who already had the advantage of knowing how to get home in the first place. His strides were long, boots crashing against the pine needles and damp dirt as he took the turn out from the woods and back onto the familiar street.

You weren’t surprised when Billy won the race, the man had the body of a Greek God and probably had the best mile time in Hawkins. Billy waited as you approached the front door, fishing out the keys from your pocket and unlocking the house with shaky, almost numb hands. You were still catching your breath when you entered through the door, you and Billy kicking off your boots and hanging up your damp coats before making your way to the kitchen.

Billy took his usual seat at the island, his rings tapping against the tile as he watched you put a pot of milk on the oven and take out two instant hot chocolate packets. “Sorry it’s not the real thing” You apologized for only having the cheap and artificial brand, setting down Swiss Miss packets beside the stove before leaning back against the counter.

“Lucky for you Swiss Miss is my favorite” Billy flashed you a coy smile, the ends of his hair drying into crisp curls as you watched him lean back into the barstool. God, everything he did made your heart fall out of your ass, butterflies replacing the empty space as you watched his eyes travel up and down your form.

There was a comfortable silence between you, almost as if everything that needed to be said came from simple eye contact. He would never admit it, but he found himself completely and utterly enamored by everything about you. But it was different- a completely unfamiliar, yet inviting warmth filling his chest every time he looked at the goddess before him. For once, his heart wasn’t dormant, his chest wasn’t chockful of cobwebs and dust. Rather, it felt as if the curtains had been opened within his heart, sunlight and stardust filling his every corner of his chest in the shape of you.  

Billy Hargrove was falling in love.

For so long, you had pushed down and pushed away anything that would come even remotely close to a relationship. The idea of falling in love terrified you. Being completely devoted to someone for three, four, six, sometimes twelve months before you were packing all your belongings back into a U-Haul. You’ve lost too many people to the fact that your foundation didn’t exist, that you could never truly settle somewhere long enough to form actual relationships.

But Billy, Billy was different. He rekindled a kind of warmth and content that you hadn’t felt in a long time. And at the end of the day, no matter how much you hated to admit it, you couldn’t get enough of that warmth. The feeling of your heart jumping into your throat and your core filling with fervor was something that you had been craving for years, and the fact that the boy next door who you had only known for two days was making you feel this way had you in all sorts of emotions.

But at the end of the day, you had to call it what it was- love.

Those four letters were still bitter against your tongue as the sound of the milk simmering around the pot caught your train of thought before going any further. Taking out two mugs, you opened the hot chocolate packets and emptied the powder into the cups. Pouring the hot milk into the glass and watching the dehydrated marshmallows as you handed the mug over to Billy.

Froth covered his upper lip as he took a sip of the still steaming liquid, licking the excess of perfect rosy lips without breaking eye contact with you. The image of tiny bubbles sticking to the edge of his lips caused a smile to tease at the corners of your mouth as you circled over to Billy. Setting your cup down, he turned the barstool to face you as your finger made its way to his upper lip.

Before you could wipe away the bubbles, your lips met his. The taste of chocolate and cigarettes migrated to your tongue as Billy deepened the kiss, standing up from the barstool and resting one of his hands on the small of your back. His free hand cupped your jaw, thumb running delicate circles over the skin as both your hands rested on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat against your palms.

His lips traveled down to your neck, finding the spot behind your ear that made you melt within his grasp. The smell of rain and department store cologne lingered against his skin as he smiled against the crook of your neck, his hot breath leaving goosebumps against the sensitive skin as he wrapped both of his hands around the small of your back and pulled you flush against his torso.

The entire world could come crashing down and you would still feel safe within Billy’s arms, his head still settled in the crook of your neck as he peppered lazy kisses across the tops of your shoulders. You looked up at the clock- it was only 2pm, despite the storm making it feel like late afternoon. Two hours and fifty-eight minutes wasn’t nearly enough time to get to truly know Billy Hargrove, but maybe it could be enough to start picking your way through that tough exterior.

“I think I might have some dry clothes for you upstairs” Your voice was barely audible as you picked up your cup of cocoa and turned on your heels, making your way up to your bedroom.

Billy followed like a lost puppy, his mug still sitting on the countertop as he followed you upstairs. The familiar scent of your lavender candle hit your nose when you entered the bedroom, inviting Billy in before leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

You went to grab a pair of grey sweatpants and a black hoodie from your dresser as Billy walked around the room, picking up various picture frames and memorabilia from all the different states you’ve lived in. One photo, however, caught his eye. You watched as he picked up the framed picture of the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk, the Ferris Wheel’s colored lights lit up against the night sky. “Did you take this?” Billy questioned, walking over to him with folded clothes between your arms.

“Yeah. Santa Cruz, a couple of years ago…” Your voice trailed off as you remembered that night. It was taken during your last day home before you and your dad moved to Arizona. You and your mom had snuck to the Boardwalk a couple hours before it closed, catching the last concert on the beach before watching the fireworks beside the Ferris Wheel. She would always buy a strawberry funnel cake with extra powdered sugar to share between you two as the scent of fresh popcorn and sea salt filled your lungs.

“That’s my mom. Right there” You pointed out the head of fiery red hair in the corner of the picture, a trait that you hadn’t inherited but always admired. She was barely in the frame, but present enough to point out her warm, friendly, inviting smile that beamed so bright that the Ferris Wheel almost appeared dull.

Billy struggled to keep the lump in his throat contained as his mind flashed with images of him on the beach, his surfboard held beneath his arm as he ran towards a familiar figure in white, cheering him on from the shore. Blonde hair would tickle his wet shoulders as she pressed a kiss against his forehead, asking if she had watched him ride his biggest wave yet. She would always give him ten more minutes, warning him to watch out for rip currents before his yellow surfboard disappeared into the Pacific Ocean.

What did I raise? A pussy for a son?

That right, run away like you always do

You saw him again, didn’t you?

I don’t understand, why not?

Please come home

“Billy?” You voice overlapped reality and fiction as he snapped out of his trance. It was his source, the driving force that made him the way he was. It almost killed him in July, but he survived. Through everything he’s gone through, he’s survived. A choked-up and stiffened, “Yeah” fell from his lips, coughing to conceal the lump in his throat that had caused his voice to break.

“Just… didn’t know you were from California” He tried to laugh off the coincidence that you two had ended up in the same shithole town, but you could see right through his glossy eyes and shaky hands. You let out a deep exhale, handing Billy the clothes before telling him that he could change in the bathroom or in here, which earned you an almost authentic smile.

Billy disappeared behind the bathroom door and you took the opportunity to change into some dry clothes as well. Slipping on a pair of jogging shorts and an old t-shirt before tying your damp hair up into a half-assed bun. As you waited for Billy to finish changing, you found yourself drawn towards that same picture, holding the frame between your fingers as you could almost imagine the scent of fried food and the ocean filling your senses.

You craved everything about California- sunburnt cheeks, freckled shoulders, salt-filled curls, sand lingering in every nook in cranny of your flip flops as you ordered a single scoop of peaches and cream from your favorite ice cream shop along the Boardwalk. The sweltering hot days could only be solved by diving off the boat dock in your backyard and into the Pacific Ocean, finishing off the day by swatting away seagulls trying to steal your tacos from the Mexican place that lived on the corner of Main and Boardwalk, watching the sunset over the horizon and paint the sky in hues of orange and pink.

This time, it was Billy who was snapping you out of a trance. The way your name fell off his lips softened every muscle in your body, looking over relieved to see that the clothes fit him perfectly as he leaned against the doorframe. He never would have told you this, but his heart ached as he realized how much you truly missed home. Your eyes swelling with tears as you remembered every reason why you loved California made his chest sting, knowing that you wanted nothing more than to smell the sea salt and funnel cakes again.

“You alright?” Billy asked as you set the photo down, shaking away your tears with a simple sniffle and pinch of your nostrils before looking over at Billy.

“Yeah, just…” You struggled to find the right words as you picked at the skin beside your cuticles, a bad habit you had formed after moving.

“Homesick” You and Billy stated in unison.

He took his hand in yours, running his thumb back and forth against the space between your thumb and index finger before looking up at the goddess before him. Strands of hair that weren’t long enough for the bun had curled around your temples and framed your face, the trim of your neon green jogging shorts were barely visible beneath the hem of the t-shirt that you had gotten from a thrift store in Santa Monica, the collar of the loosely hung across your collarbones and threatened to fall off your shoulder as Billy moved your arm up to his shoulder.

Your other arm eventually found its way beside its counterpart, Billy’s arms taking their usual place on the small of your back. His kisses were incredibly sweet, finding that he could let down any sort of façade when he was around you and revealing a kind, vulnerable, and beautiful man beneath it.

“I’m gonna take you there someday” Billy breathed against your lips, the delicate skin barely grazing against each other’s as you hummed in question.  

“California. We’re gonna go there, see the ocean again. You could show me Santa Cruz and I could show you San Diego” His voice was just above a whisper as you tangled your fingers in his curls, Billy refusing to break eye contact with you as to ensure that he was being completely serious. The idea of dropping everything and escaping to the West Coast was incredibly alluring, and you could practically see the scene playing out in your head- sitting beneath a pinstriped beach umbrella, fingers resting on the thin edges of your latest read as the sun hit your feet, toes digging into the fine sand as the image of Billy appearing from the ocean with his board held beneath his arm, fingers running through wet curls and nearly hitting the pages of your book before looking up at the glowing boy in front of you.

The daydream was interrupted by Billy deepening the kiss, tongues dancing in a beautiful symphony as he guided you towards the bed and landed himself on top of you. Your lips smiled against his, letting out the tiniest of moans as Billy’s arms pinned themselves down on either side of you. One of his hands found its way to your hair, playing with the messy strands and giving the slightest tug against your roots, earning him a much louder moan to escape from parted lips. Billy pulled away to look at the spectacle beneath him- your cheeks flushed in rosy pink, lips slightly swollen as you caught your breath, your collarbone peeking out beneath your skin every time you took a breath in. Your arms still rested at Billy’s shoulders, fingers intertwining with the curls at the nape of his neck as you pulled him back down towards you.

The pressure of him grinding between your legs made you hook your leg against his hip, releasing some of that tension by pulling him closer to your body, a deep groan escaping from the back of Billy’s throat. His calloused hands traveled down to your back, making their way beneath your shirt before pressing his palms against your back, pulling your torso up flush to his. The kiss was messy and desperate, but just satisfying enough to feel like you could stay here kissing Billy Hargrove all fucking day.

But suddenly, the sound of the door opening and closing from downstairs had caused your breath to hitch, immediately pulling away from Billy as the sounds of heavy footsteps came up the stairs and approached your bedroom door. Your legs went completely numb, heartrate increasing rapidly as the footsteps grew louder and louder. You could almost feel the Earth beneath you shake as the steps ended at the doorway, the sound of seething breaths coming from behind you. Turning your head, the image of a familiar camouflage uniform met your gaze and with trembling breaths you spoke out,

“Run”

taglist: @pii-per @queenbbarnes @jupiter-leo @stra-vage ✧*･ﾟ* —  if your url is crossed out it means that i can’t tag you for some reason!! i’m sorry!! ✧*･ﾟ*

[accio-kitty-malfoy]

A Breath of Fresh Hair

Chapter 9: First Name Basis

 https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633025/chapters/60625606

When they got back from the hospital Harry knew the only place he was going was to bed. It was nearly ten and he felt tired to his core. He took his potion and was asleep before his head had hit his pillow. When he opened his eyes again, everything was dark. He looked around and as his eyes adjusted, he noticed how small the space he was in appeared to be. There were three toy soldiers neatly lined up on a tiny shelf and he was sat on his bed. A feeling of loneliness welled up in him so profoundly that he though he was going to cry, but tears did not come. He heard a voice in the back of his head telling him that he was a silly boy, and that real men didn’t cry. He closed his eyes again, shutting them tight to block out the overwhelming darkness. When he opened them again, he was stood alone on a train platform. He felt lost and he realised that he had no-one to ask where to go. Everyone was avoiding him and getting on with their life. He tried to speak but no sound came out of his mouth. He screwed his eyes shut and opened them again. This time he was stood next to an archway, watching a tall, rugged man slip softly through the curtains. Harry tried to grab him, but his arms went through the man like smoke. He screamed, trying to let the world know how unfair it was. His eyes slid shut once more. He opened them defiantly, wanting to see the man one last time, but instead he just saw bodies. All around him laid the bodies of his friends and family. Remus, Tonks, Fred, his mum and dad, Dobby and Sirius were all staring glassy eyed up at him. He fell to his knees and beat the ground, shouting until his throat felt raw. Gentle but firm arms wrapped around him and pulled his face into their chest.

 When he awoke, Ginny was cradling him, making soothing noises to try and calm him. He woke up screaming less and less, but it still happened, and when it did Ginny was nearly always there to help him. His heart began to slow after a while, and he wiped the tears away from his eyes.

“Cup of tea in the kitchen?” Ginny always knew what he needed. He nodded, grabbed his glasses and they made their way downstairs. When they got into the kitchen Harry noticed the letter that was addressed to him on the table. He opened it carefully, scanning the beautiful writing.

 “Mr Potter,

 I hope you’re feeling somewhat better than you did at our last meeting. If you still wish to meet, we can either try again at the coffee shop, or I can travel to The Burrow and meet you there if you’re still feeling under the weather. I don’t usually travel to meet my clients but I’m willing to make an exception for you due to your illness.

 Fleur let me know that you had the flu. You really shouldn’t have made yourself more ill just to attend the meeting. I would have understood if you had postponed our meeting for a different date.

 Get well soon, Mr Potter.

 Sincerely,

 Draco Malfoy”

 Harry couldn’t work out whether the letter was genuine or if Malfoy was being sarcastic. He sighed and rubbed his temples, handing the letter to Ginny to read. He told her that he didn’t think he would be attending another meeting with Malfoy.

“I don’t think I can face him after what happened. He’ll never let me live it down. And I don’t know if I’d be able to work with Malfoy even if I hadn’t fallen onto my face in front of him and had him carry me in his bloody arms back to The Burrow.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Ginny replied, “Malfoy is actually incredibly professional. He hasn’t let past issues be a problem or stop him from working with individuals and doing a bloody good job too.”

“But it’s Malfoy, Gin. What the hell is he doing with a job anyway?” Ginny frowned.

“What would you think he’d be doing?” They asked.

“I don’t know, flouncing around the manor being a pretentious twat.” Harry scowled.

“You do realise that he lives in a two bedroom flat with Pansy right? I think Hermione said they lived above some coffee shop in London.” Ginny sighed. “Look Harry, you either work with Malfoy and get this idea off the ground and live the life you want, or you let the fact that it’s Malfoy ruin what you could have. You never know, maybe he’s grown up a bit since school.” Harry was slightly taken aback by Ginny’s tone, but he guessed they were right. He shouldn’t let old rivalries stand in the way of his happiness. He’d just have to maintain a professional relationship with Malfoy and only see him when it was absolutely necessary. He took a long drink from his mug of tea to avoid having to respond to Ginny. Harry’s silence was a perfect confirmation to Ginny that they were right.

 Harry felt much better that day, but he still took his potion as instructed by Fleur. She would be staying in the hospital for a few days for observations as a precaution because the baby had been born just over a week early, but they both seemed fine. His appetite was fully back, and he ate his breakfast outside while he watched Ginny train, giving them pointers here and there. Their try-outs were getting closer by the day and they’d taken some time off for the wedding and the birth of the baby, so they were on a very strict routine. It was still warm, and Harry lounged in the sun, enjoying the rays on his face. He watched the members of the Weasley household coming to and fro and decided that he should reply to Malfoy’s letter. He said goodbye to Ginny and went up to his room.

 “Dear Mr Malfoy,

 Thank you for your concern, I’m still not 100% but I am getting better. I think Fleur is a miracle worker with her Potions. It’s probably best if we meet at the coffee shop again as Fleur has just given birth so it’s somewhat hectic at The Burrow.

 If you let me know when you’re free, I’ll be there. My schedule isn’t particularly full at the minute.

 Sincerely,

 Harry”

 Harry read over the letter a few more times before he sent it off with Pig. He made himself another cup of tea and settled down in the reading nook to half read-half nap and enjoy the sun coming through the window. He kept checking the sky, looking for signs of Pig. He was worried about the meeting with Malfoy, but he supposed Ginny was right. If Malfoy could be professional, so could he. He wondered who else Malfoy had worked with and what their experience of working with him was like. Ginny seemed to know a little bit about Malfoy’s work so he decided to ask them after they’d finished training. When the letter from Malfoy arrived, Harry’s stomach flipped a little. He read it quickly.

 “Mr potter,

I am free at one in the afternoon tomorrow. If you’re feeling up to it then we will meet then at the same coffee shop as last time. If you aren’t feeling up to it, please send an owl on the day and we can re arrange the meeting for a more suitable time and date. I’m sure you’re anxious to get the ball rolling with your idea and the sooner we can meet to discuss the basics, the sooner I can formulate some plans for you.

 Please also pass on my congratulations and best wishes to Fleur and Bill on the birth of their baby.

 I hope you are well,

 Draco”

 Harry stared at the letter for a while. The word ‘Draco’ stood out to him and made him feel weird. He’d signed his last letter to Malfoy ‘Harry’, but that was just out of habit. Had Malfoy signed his letter using his first name because Harry had done the same? Would Malfoy expect him to call him Draco? Or would they be ‘Mr Potter’ and ‘Mr Malfoy’ to one another? He supposed they would develop some familiarity with each other if they were going to be working together. He said the word out loud and it even felt weird on his tongue as he said it. He couldn’t ever imagine calling Malfoy ‘Draco’, especially not to his face. He sighed and shook his head, writing in his response that the next day would be fine, and he would see him then.

 When Ginny came back in from training, he asked who else Malfoy had worked with. Apparently he’d worked with Luna when she’d taken over the Quibbler to help her reform the business and make it work more smoothly. They’d since become friendly and went out for a drink occasionally. This eased Harry’s worried slightly, as Luna was a very good judge of character and, if she liked him and got on with him, he supposed he could too. Ginny said that they knew he’d worked with some other people and their businesses were all pretty successful so far and that eased his mind further.

 The rest of Harry’s day was spent lounging. While he didn’t feel particularly ill anymore, his energy levels weren’t very high, so he took the opportunity to rest, eat and drink tea. He spent a lot of time in the reading nook in the front room. It was one of his favourite places to be because he could alternate between reading, napping and watching the chickens out in the garden. It rained in the evening and he went out to a sheltered place and relished the feel and smell of freshness in the air. He hoped it was a sign of good change coming to him, even though he’d never really believed in omens or divination. When he went to bed, he slept much better. He couldn’t remember his dreams but they weren’t nightmares, and for that he was thankful.

[chicagoindiecritics]

New Written Review from Mike Crowley on You’ll Probably Agree: 10 Reasons Why ‘Blade Runner 2049’ is better than ‘Blade Runner’

If you haven’t’ seen the movie, see it then read this. No intro, let’s jump right in.

1. K is a replicant

The reveal of K’s genetic code, or lack thereof, flips everything we assume the movie will be on its head. We are learning along with K what it means to exist. Do we as humans, live like replicants? Do we obey a society that treats us like trash but breath anyways out of the fear of death? Where we viewed “Blade Runner” mostly through Deckard’s eyes who didn’t have much of a personality, K’s lack of a character is his entire purpose for existing. For K to emote is to face death.

Where Harrison Ford’s Deckard entire arc was us questioning if he’s human or not (despite what Ridley Scott unequivocally says), there’s nothing much of substance to Officer Deckard. He gets drunk, retires replicants, that’s it. Name one thing that makes Deckard standout? I’ll wait. Ryan Gosling’s Officer K goes from a machine that is dying spiritually on the inside to someone wanting to have a purpose in life. All while maintaining his composure, if perhaps too much poise for the film. Anything with a conscious can feel. Whether or not how it was made is as relevant as where you were born or what skin color you are. The importance is that you’re here.

K doesn’t seek gratitude nor affirmation. He doesn’t suffer from a narcissistic personality. All he wants is not just to be another useless piece of metal.

2. Deckard has depth this time

Being a daddy changes you a lot. Rick isn’t just a slouchy drunk who likes to shoot robots out of legal obligation. He’s a man who’s principles and love for forbidden things cost him his life. What kind of soul did Deckard have in the first film? Who did he care for? Please don’t say, Rachel, we all know why he was attracted to Rachel. Like Winston in 1984, Deckard rejects Big Brother for a life of pain to gain a glimmer of happiness. 

3. It’s horrifyingly relevant

Denis Villeneuve based the imagery in 2049 on a planet that has become degraded with pollution. The buildings are extrapolating enormous amounts of water into the atmosphere, the sea wall at the end of the picture will be our new Mount Rushmore, the orange Vegas is happening now. Denis Villeneuve didn’t predict the earth looking like this, but his production team was still spot on. A picture that transcends its very style, developing a look that will be discussed on its merits separate from the ubiquitous original, is a stunning achievement.

Everything isn’t dystopian because that’s the way it was in the book. It’s what will happen to us in real life, why we’d look for colonies to live on if we had the technology or funding towards NASA to do so. God help us all.

4. The love story questions the essence of relationships

The story between K and Joi further examines the meaning of love, sex, and mortality, with the two being different versions of artificiality. When the default sexed-up version of a naked Joy pops up on the screen, we are emotionally mortified. Some of us may be repulsed to observe a character we care for utilized like a thirsty Godzilla.

The towering ad tries to seduce K tempting him to buy it, rendering everything Joi said to K throughout the picture questionable. Its manipulation solidifies his final decision in life to help another man. We’re not sure if she loved him or said what it thought it wanted him to hear throughout the narrative. Possibly Joi herself didn’t know her intentions. An unusual amount of nuance and uncertainty rests in the love story. Who do we love? Why do we love? Do we love by the heart or the heart of our designers whom we don’t know?

Meanwhile, Deckard was just drunk and horny when he bashed Rachel up against the wall. Sorry, that really was all there was to their passion despite what Wallace says.

5. The movie was an honest commentary about how the world views woman

Here’s a controversial one. A lot of women were disgusted by the way they were depicted in the film. Outwardly watching the movie, I can’t blame them. I’ll let Mr. Villeneuve speak for himself. “I am very sensitive to how I portray women in movies. This is my ninth feature film and six of them have women in the lead role. The first Blade Runner was quite rough on the women, something about the film noir aesthetic. But I tried to bring depth to all the characters. For Joi, the holographic character, you see how she evolves. It’s interesting, I think. What is cinema? Cinema is a mirror on society. Blade Runner is not about tomorrow; it’s about today. And I’m sorry, but the world is not kind on women.”

Villeneuve is right. Women today are still sexualized. Even with the Me Too movement, women are continually seen as sex objects or subservient slaves in a male-dominated society. Villeneuve isn’t interested in painting a rosy picture that Hollywood does for female roles to make the audiences feel comfortable. It’s an honest reflection on who we are. What we see is what we don’t want to see, but that’s part of the honesty of cinema.

6. The score is mesmerizing

Another point in which I may face some contention. Yes, Vangelis’ score is iconic, but it only works for the era it was composed in. Much of its mixture of bleeps, blops, and wind chimes are a product of its time. A lot of emotion is missing from the score other than the opening theme and “Tears In Rain.” Hearing much of the soundtrack while on the road, I sometimes thought I was listening to something from a porno. Take a listen to “Wait For Me” in the soundtrack and tell me otherwise. Hans Zimmer and Benjamin Walfisch’s score is timeless while also paying respect to Vangelis’ synthetic use in the original. It dives into the character’s mind providing a replication of something more human than what Vangelis composed.

7. It thematically ties more directly to “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep” than “Blade Runner” does.

“Blade Runner” got the overall gist of Phillip K Dick’s novel. Replicants are scared, trying to find a way to survive as Deckard hunts them down. However, the Andies in the movie almost deserve to die. In their quest for more life, they torture and kill multiple civilians. What did the guy making the eyes do to deserve being frozen to death? What about J.R. Sebastian? He was nothing but pleasant to Roy and Pris. Did Roy eye gauge him when he was done with Tyrell?

Aside from Luv (Sylvia Hoeks), our replicants are fully rounded people. Sapper Morton is a watchful protector who was meant to be a NEXUS 8 combat medic; Joi’s true intentions come into question for herself and us. K’s inner conflict is the central core of the story. All of this revolves around the meaning of existence within a world that has forgotten about you. The introduction of Robo procreation is an evolution of Dick’s ideas, widening his notion of why life exists in the first place.

8. It doesn’t get lost in the scale

Many sequels love scope over characters. Remember “The Matrix”? Remember how they talked about Zion and all these other things we didn’t see? When the sequels brought in Zion, the focus got lost in the spectacle. “The Matrix Reloaded” was a bumbling CGI mess of Agent Smith Clones and cave orgies. “The Matrix Revolutions” was a glorified “Space Invaders” game. Shoot as many sentinels as you can before becoming overwhelmed. Amidst the sequels bumbling chaos, I missed the smaller scale of the Nebuchadnezzar crew.

The story of “2049” could have focused on the replicant uprising with thousands of robots slamming into humans. We could have gone off-world to finally see what all these other colonies we’ve heard about are like. Some have argued that the movie could have borrowed some of its source material from the later novels about replicants creating humans, so on and so forth. All of that sounds incredible in theory. In execution, you would likely get “The Matrix” sequels.

A movie that overreaches in scope, attempting to please fans by showing everything. What we got was an incredibly meaningful story that further explores the themes of the original while building upon its world without going too far. We see what’s beyond L.A. on the dilapidated west coast. The answer is not much. The film aims at minimalism over extravaganza.

9. We’re still talking about it

After being MIA for decades, “Blade Runner 2049” isn’t forgotten. I can’t say the same for “Superman Returns,” “Monsters University,” “The Incredibles 2,” “Live Free or Die Hard,” and “Indiana Jones and The Kingdom of The Crystal Skull.” In fairness, people do talk about Indy 4, but not in a positive fashion. “Blade Runner 2049” returned to the limelight with disastrous box office results yet high accolades, even gaining the Academy’s attention. Ironically it seemed destined to live the life of its predecessor.

“2049” may have tanked because it was a multimillion-dollar art film that respected its audience’s intelligence. Maybe “Blade Runner” was too far gone amongst the public to gain an interest geared almost entirely towards comic books and Disney. I think the trailers after the reveal teaser looked too generic for my own two cents, turning me off from the film for a short while.

Here we are with Honest Trailers in 2020, making a video about a film that came out in 2017. Bloodsoaked orange skies from the headlines mention the atmosphere of this film. Somewhere, about 100 other people are writing their analysis of “Blade Runner 2049” as I type right now. Seven years from now, we’ll be talking about why the world is still like “Blade Runner 2049.” Villeneuve made a timeless sequel to be remembered.

10. It’s better than the first film and one of the best films in the last ten years

Here’s why you’ll probably agree with this one when you put your pitchfork down. Remove your nostalgia goggles. I know it’s hard to do, please, trust me. Look at the points I made above. Think about how ironic the love story is to our lives. The layers of meaning behind K’s existence is lightyears beyond the featureless Rick Deckard. The picture isn’t flawless. Niander Wallace is spectacularly corny in his scenery-chewing grim monologues. Dr. Eldon Tyrell had some ambiguity regarding the morale of his intentions. For that, I’ll give the original the benefit of my doubt. I understand Ryan Gosling was cast to be intentionally deadpan, but it’s okay to emote once. His distant stare in all of his other performances made it difficult for me to discern myself from the actor’s rather dull persona.

With this said, “Blade Runner 2049” understands cinema. Its atmosphere is why we venture into a dark room that takes us to a different place. Denis Villeneuve’s masterful follow up is one of the most orgasmic cinematic experiences I have witnessed in the last ten years that demands a re-screening in 2022 when theatres reopen at an entirely safe capacity. The style doesn’t overshadow its substance, which is far richer in detail than the original without grasping at blatant metaphors. “Blade Runner 2049” is slow cinema at its finest, letting us into the character’s heads, knowing when to be quiet and when to be loud.

Like “The Empire Strikes Back,” not everyone appreciated the movie at first. Time has been incredibly kind to it, though. I wish the Academy recognized “Blade Runner 2049” beyond its technical marvels in 2018. I suppose it wasn’t the type of picture that catches Oscar voter’s eyes. But it has acquired the audience’s to this day. Now, if you could just look up and to the left for me?

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[queensofrap]

Cardi B in the March 2019 issue of Harper’s BAZAAR. QUEEN.

Cardi B Opens Up About Her "Rags to Riches" Cinderella Story

When Cardi B visits her favorite nail salon in the Bronx, she enters through a raggedy hallway covered with a rug emblazoned with the image of a $100 bill. The salon, which overlooks a bustling avenue of pizza shops, sports-gear superstores, and boutiques with weaves in 70 colors, is a temple to money, excess, and sexiness, symbolized in the application of nails that look like diamond-encrusted Buck knives. Portraits of two icons of pulchritude hang on the walls—namely, Marilyn Monroe and the very 2019 version of Marilyn: Cardi. 

With a posse that includes her dad, her half-sister, her half-brother, and two Drogosize bodyguards whose names I don’t catch but imagine to be Bulwark and Spear, Cardi, 26, heads toward a private side room. She surrenders her hands and feet to Jenny Bui, her sharp-tongued nail tech of more than half a decade, even back when she didn’t have the money to move out of this borough.

A tiny, makeup-less sprite in magenta leggings and a playful Moschino sweatshirt, Cardi talks about where she’s at today. On one hand, she says, “I feel like my life is a fairy tale and I’m a princess—rags to riches, people trying to sabotage,” she says. But she also complains fervently about being over the fairy-tale life and wanting peace and quiet. “Before, I cared about everything—relationship, gossip. Now I don’t feel like I have the time to please people,” she explains. “I don’t care about anything anymore—just my career and my kid.” What about money, the thing she raps about caring for quite a bit? “Well, I care about my career because of my money,” Cardi says, giving me a “c’mon, stupid” face.

“Before,” in this context, means before the tectonic shifts that have taken place in Cardi’s life in the past year: that she became a global superstar; relocated from New York to Atlanta to live with the charismatic rapper Offset, her new husband; gave birth to an unplanned but much loved daughter, Kulture Kiari, in July; then, five months later, after the drip-drip-drip of rumors about Offset’s infidelity, announced on Instagram that the marriage was over.

Today Cardi tells me that Offset has been to her apartment, but they haven’t seen each other and are “not really” talking, which is a bit hard to believe after she shows me videos of her gurgling baby on her iPhone and happens to scroll past a photo of Offset with a time stamp reading today. When I ask her if she’s getting back with Offset, I can almost hear her curious entourage, who have arranged themselves on sofas on the perimeter of the room, lean forward to catch the answer. For a moment, the only sound is Bui engaging in some hard-hat-level sanding and scraping of the star’s three-inch nails. Then Cardi says both, “I don’t think so,” and “Who knows? You never know, you can never tell,” neither of which is exactly a definitive answer.

I’ve interviewed dozens of pop stars, and Cardi, despite the massive entourage and the bear-claw-like nails, seems the most normal. She’s not the most down-to-earth or the most perfect, and she’s definitely not the least into social media, but she knows who she is and where she came from, and has somehow managed to keep expressing genuine emotions in the face of blockbuster success. And while her emotions can sometimes seem out of control, who hasn’t been there? We might not have screamed and thrown a shoe at Nicki Minaj at a Harper’s Bazaar event this past September (in retribution, Cardi has said, for various slights from Minaj, including liking a negative comment about her parenting skills), or allegedly ordered an attack on two female bartenders at a strip club visited by Offset (a judge issued orders of protection in December for the accusers), but we’ve all been mad as hell. And the unbearable cuteness and sexiness of Cardi, a raunchy L.O.L. doll, quickly erases those moments, drowning them in adorable high jinks.  

Leaving aside the fake nails and boob implants, with Cardi the artifice is in the artwork. In the space of less than a year, her music, videos, and fashion have made her a star of Lady Gaga proportions. She releases hit after hit; following last summer’s “I Like It,” the first Latin trap song to rise to number one on the Billboard Hot 100, with “Money,” a song, unsurprisingly, about money. In the video, she wears gorgeous clothes (she’s got “10 different looks and my looks all kill,” she raps), including outfits referencing Thierry Mugler, a gold bikini inspired by 1990s Lil’ Kim’s, and a custom Christian Cowan bodysuit fabricated from dozens of actual watches. She’s a post-Kardashian American superstar, a master of selfies, belfies, late-night Instagram videos, and all other manner of self-promotion— and also a creative genius. In 2019, no one needs to pick.  

Raised in the Bronx, Cardi was the naturally rebellious daughter of a Trinidadian-born cashier mother and a Dominican Republic–born cabdriver father. Her mother was strict. Nevertheless she joined the notorious Bloods gang, moved out of her mother’s home and in with a boyfriend and, finding herself broke, took a job as a cashier at a grocery store. To build a nest egg, she became a stripper. To build a bigger nest egg, she became a hot girl on social media. In 2015, she was cast as a lovable loudmouth on the VH1 reality show Love & Hip Hop: New York, then began releasing her own mixtapes. Her debut single, “Bodak Yellow,” went to the top of the charts, and it took her only one album to achieve escape velocity: Invasion of Privacy, arguably the best debut album from a female rapper since Lil’ Kim’s 1996 Hard Core. 

It’s an intense time for Cardi, now one of the biggest rappers—and one of the most famous women in the world—caring for an infant and dealing with a semi-estranged husband. Her answer is to be as real as she can. As much as she may imagine herself as a princess, she talks about admiring Meghan Markle for becoming a real one. “She must just be like, ‘Who am I?’” Cardi says, referring to Markle’s having to live by the royal family’s rules. Not being able to be herself would be the worst punishment for Cardi. 

Up and down, joy and pain, sunshine and rain—we’ve experienced all her days on her social media channels, where she posts close-up, emotional videos like an Instagram mime. She’s not your typical grasping celebrity, and doesn’t get off on endless adulation. “I work with somebody who gives me compliments all day, and I’m like, ‘Oh, my gosh, can you just stop?’” she says.   

Cardi’s fans have been so protective of her that when Offset broke in to her set at a concert, walking onstage with a $15,000 rolling floral display made of 2,000 roses that read TAKE ME BACK CARDI, they exploded on social media with anger over a man who refused to take a woman’s “no” at face value. (A backstage video showing one of Cardi’s reps escorting Offset to the stage did little to dim the outrage.)  

I ask if any family or friends influenced her decision to leave Offset. “No, I decided on my own,” she declares, looking me straight in the eye. “Nobody makes my decisions about my life but me.” Before they broke up, Offset begged Cardi to see a therapist. “I didn’t want to go to marriage counseling,” she says, in a firm tone of voice. “He suggested it, but it’s like, ‘I don’t want to go.’ There’s no counselor or nothing that could make me change my mind.”

Like many women who’ve experienced heartache and alleged infidelity, she seems caught between wanting to stay and leave. As Elizabeth Gilbert wrote in Eat Pray Love, Offset is “[her] lighthouse and [her] albatross in equal measure.” But Cardi also knows that dating new guys might be bizarre. “I have a kid, and I’m also famous,” she says quietly. “So I can’t just sleep with anybody. People talk. You know, if I date somebody in the industry, that’s another person in the industry. If I date somebody who is not in the industry, he might not understand my lifestyle.” Since the breakup, she’s been getting a ton of messages from guys but ignoring them. “It’s like, ‘Bro, why would you want to holler at me right away? You’re weird.’ If you think Imma automatically hop onto you after a marriage, that just means you think I’m a sleaze. And I’m not. I have a kid—I have to show an example.”

Bui, who has been listening intently to our interview while crafting Cardi’s nails, waves a hand and then interjects, “You’re so old-fashioned!”

“Jenny, just because I’m out there and very sexual doesn’t mean that I have to be whorish,” says Cardi. “I like to have sex. That doesn’t mean I have to have it with everybody.” She pauses, then adds, “Not that I judge women who want to have sex with the world.”

Done with her rant, Cardi turns her attention to her nails. “Damn, that’s sharp,” she says to Bui, whistling a little under her breath. “The polish will make them less sharp, right? Because we can’t forget about the baby.” Ignoring her, Bui says only, “Don’t move.”

Throughout our conversation, Cardi has been jiggling her leg up and down like a schoolkid. I ask her how long she’s had that habit. “Forever, and you know what? People always talk shit about it, but now it’s like, ‘Ha ha,’ because when I do it my daughter likes it,” she says.    

Despite the indelible image of Cardi breast-feeding in the “Money” video, wearing a black gown open at the bodice, she isn’t breast-feeding Kulture, whom she’s nicknamed KK. “It was too hard,” she explains. In fact, she spent most of the time after the baby was born in a haze of postpartum depression. “I thought I was going to avoid it,” Cardi says. “When I gave birth, the doctor told me about postpartum, and I was like, ‘Well, I’m doing good right now, I don’t think that’s going to happen.’ But out of nowhere, the world was heavy on my shoulders.”

Realizing that taking KK with her on the tour bus was unrealistic but unable to bear leaving her at home, Cardi dropped out of a lucrative tour with Bruno Mars. She started feeling better a couple of months after the baby was born, she says, and her mother has been helping out; Cardi hasn’t hired professional help because she isn’t sure she can trust anyone outside her family.

As a new mom, Cardi is still experiencing aches and pains. “For some reason, I still don’t feel like my body’s the same,” she says. “I feel like I don’t have my balance right yet. When it comes to heels, I’m not as good at walking anymore. I feel like I’m holding a weight on me. I don’t know why because I’m skinnier than I’ve ever been. But there’s an energy I haven’t gotten back yet that I had before I was pregnant. It’s just the weirdest thing.”

The baby is starting to help Cardi balance her emotions, though. “Sometimes I’ll see something online and it’ll piss me off, and then my baby will start crying or something, and it’s like, ‘You know what? I’ve got to deal with the milk. Forget this.’” She’s thinking about pulling back a little from social media. “I’ve noticed that every time you respond, you just make things worse, so I’m over it. I’m just over it. I really don’t need it, and sometimes it just brings chaos to my brain.” She adds, “I can stay off social media. I’ve been trying.” For months after KK was born, Cardi didn’t put pictures of her on social media, and certainly didn’t sell any to the tabloids. She says Offset wanted to put a picture up, but she was unsure.  

“As soon as she was born, one month in he was like, ‘She’s so beautiful. Watch how people gonna go crazy.’ ’Cause a lot of people were saying mean stuff, like that we don’t post her because she’s ugly. He was like, ‘I’m about to post my baby right now.’ But then we were very concerned because we were getting a lot of threats, so he said, ‘The world don’t even deserve to see her.’” Eventually Cardi wanted to put a photo up because “it’s really annoying and we don’t have a life. We have to hide her all the time. I can’t go to L.A. or Miami and walk down the beach with my baby. I want to go shopping with my baby. I want to take a stroll with my baby. Sometimes I feel bad for her because all she knows is the house.” But can’t you put on a baseball cap? I ask. Will people still recognize you? “Yeah,” she says. “It’s my nose.” 

Bui applies a final coat of purple paint on Cardi’s nails—a brief discussion ensues about whether the shade is the exact “baby purple” Cardi has requested—and then she talks about needing to get home to go to sleep. “I’ve got a big meeting in the morning in Boston,” Cardi says, nodding slowly. “Lots of money in Boston.” She begins horsing around with her six-year-old half-brother, ribbing him for being rebellious the way she used to be. “He’s a child of the corn!” she wails. “He’s just like me.” (Her half-sister adds, “Like you, sharp but sweet.”) Bui says she thought that when Cardi hit it big, she wouldn’t see her in the salon again. “I told her, ‘You’re going to forget about me,’ ” Bui says. “And she said, ‘Never.’”

[derkastellan]

Musings: Quo vadis, Fallout?

(I had this one in my drafts for a long time and I think I’ll polish and publish it now.)

Where is the Fallout franchise going?

I’ve been sinking quite some time into Fallout 4 and I wonder at myself. In many ways FO4 is a meh game, but yet I keep playing it. With 120+ hours it clocks in at more play time as my Steam copy of Fallout: New Vegas, but that discounts the time I sank into this game years ago before I even got Steam, IIRC.

FO:NV is one big quest tree. The design team put lots of effort of making your decisions and actions count and also impact the endgame. Minor factions align with you and you align with a (or make your own) major faction, and the whole landscape plays into this. There are detours and sidequests but the war between Caesar’s Legion and the NCR overshadows the whole setting. Decisions matter and dialogue makes all the difference.

For comparison, without modding FO4 doesn’t even tell you what you will say. Not many important decisions are left to you. Organizations you join may tell you you’re the boss but flood you with quests, setting your targets for you. FO4 has an addictive element because it has a gratification delay tuned so that you don’t mind its boring main quest and nonsensical main loop. You go places, explore, fight, kill, collect trash, and then return to work benches to improve settlements and gear. There are not so many advantages to building settlements - they can act as bases, produce food, water, safe stashes, caps, and allow crafting. But at the same time they throw up constant annoying distractions in the vanilla game.

FO4 has a barely passable setting builder that I nevertheless spent lots of time with. Carelessness or bugs however prevent you from making settlement defense matter (unless you’re there to help defend it). For a key element of the game it’s in many way more like an afterthought, more designed to limit than to enable the player - and again modded. I never had the sense of being on a meaningful quest and have explored the Commonwealth on side quests, roaming, exploring, clearing areas. I turned off respawning because the idea of doing it again seems nonsensical to me - just to up my level??

Let’s call it “world-building”

But where FO4 is truly the successor of FO3 and truly has chosen not to learn much from FO:NV is the lay of the land. The Commonwealth is big, lots of nooks and crannies, but also lots of samey-same. Supermutants, raiders, different raiders, ghouls, mirelurks, molerats. Some themed raider gangs and locations beat the monotony. The size of the Commonwealth has resulted in repetition, and you can tell how “unique” locations have been thrown in to hide that fact. Also every settlement except Diamond City has either failed or is one of these puny ones too small to be self-sustaining without the Minutemen.

That’s the joy of FO1, FO2, and FO:NV - to walk into settlements and learn their stories. It’s how people chose to survive, and also how these ways change. Great care has been put to make sure the settlements of FO:NV each have their own story and character. In this sense, FO4 only has Goodneighbor and Diamond City. And that matches up with its other major world-building flaw: Where are the damn people?

In Obsidian’s Fallout games people cluster together and try to eke out a living. There are clearly populated areas away from the dangers. In FO4 people talk about Diamond City like they go there every other month but realistically speaking that means passing through the Boston wasteland full to the brim with Supermutants, raiders, and more raiders. If people followed the highways in FO:NV they have a decent chance to make it to New Vegas, or at least had until some recent events made the route more dangerous - just in time for the player to play a role, of course.

In FO4 your potential settlements are often sitting in the wide open, much easier to attack than raider settlements, usually undefended and without fortifications, whereas the raiders, busy like beavers, always manage to make top-notch hideouts. (And then are too stupid to defend them - running towards noise and out of cover all the time.) It’s of course up to the player to add that little detail. Oberland station is the best example - it’s just a tall wooden building with a bit of crops next to it. The building offers space for three beds. The only advantage the settlement can offer is higher ground - which is not much. Raider attacks on the settlement were frequent until I switched them off and showed that the place was kind of pointless.

Don’t get me started about “Sanctuary” Hills...

In general, the populace of the Commonwealth seems unable to huddle together on their own, their militia has failed, raiders are rampant, and people die due to the many dangers. People roam alone without livelihood or defense in a region with great danger, yet reliably hear radio messages and follow them to Minutemen locations.

Sins of their “rule of cool” fathers

The logic of world-building is, however, in FO4 well above the one in FO3. I remember leaving that game for good when I learned about the quest where I need to bring an old lady a violin - a lady living in an isolated house in dangerous territory with no defenses but her own radio station. Get me that violin and you get caps. (And the violin would be in some axe-crazy museum location, of course.) And if you entered her house while followed by monsters, the game engine itself would show you how stupid the location was. (Or a quest to make “survival guide” by going on one dangerous mission after another...) FO3 tried to have “wouldn’t it be cool” locations but all of them are illogical and suck. The settlement on top of the highway is basically indefensible, too small, and while you’re there you’re prone to Mirelurk attacks. The miraculously remaining apartment towers have been completely sealed off with concrete walls - leaving not even a yard to grow some damn food in. Getting to the real town requires traveling mutant-saddled routes.

There is simply no sense in FO3. There’s no logic. Why do I do things? Why are things here? It seems like the team who made it had no idea. In FO:NV threats to settlements and their placement make some sense. Humans are the main threat to humans. And human warfare makes them vulnerable to other dangers. FO4 also makes no sense, like FO3, but not as blatantly.

The world-building of FO4 is that of a shooter game. It packs areas with enemies and designs them for shooting. It never concerns itself with the fact that the human and Supermutant baddies outnumber the humans. The size of its busy map requires it to have enough baddies around whereas FO:NV could allow empty spaces because it was set in the Mojave desert. Raiders are like predators - they cannot outnumber the prey. In order to eat, raiders have to hunt. For that to work they have to traverse a dangerous wasteland which makes their lives hard. Why would raiders then invest time in silly manhunts (like at the start of the main quest)? What would they gain from hunting for example the Quincy massacre survivors? (They already have taken over Quincy as their base.) The whole lot of them has two items of gear. Nobody but a cannibal (or worse) could get anything out of them.

Raiders have hideouts and prey on settlements. Like in FO. Like in FO:NV where their settlement actually makes sense - a camp in a canyon. In FO4 there are no viable settlements in most places until you make them. In other places, they are endangered by something that calls in questions how and when they have been erected in the first place. The chain of causality is often in question.

And that’s only one thing. If you think about the environment of FO4 nothing much makes sense, either, on a deeper level. Why are there lots of trees but none of them have leaves? Why has a dead forest not burned to cinders in wide areas? Why is there radioactive rain? Heavy isotopes have settled out the atmosphere long ago and don’t rise with evaporation. Lighter isotopes probably would have already stopped emitting life-threatening doses of radiation. (Radioactive Caesium halves over 30 years - 210 years after the war that’s 7 cyles, and that means that less than 1% of the original radiation remains.) Radioactive sandstorms make sense in comparison - in a dry environment radioactive dust can be blown about indefinitely, including heavier isotopes not bound into the soil.

We’ve come a long way... but it was mostly downhill anyway

In comparison, the original FO games explained how nuclear war worked and what fallout as a phenomenon actually is. What a grim lecture. But understanding things and making them go together with some sense didn’t make it into the Bethesda area. FO3 is like a fantasy game in how it makes sense, but lacking the underlying copout of magic to explain all inconsistencies away. Elder Scrolls: Fallout...

FO, FO2, and FO:NV kept their world-building wthin reasonable bounds. The story of a regrowing human civilization centuries after the war is largely sensible, and FO2 nods to human ingenuity when the old Core Region basically has it figured out by then. Okay, oceans being toxic sludge was just childish “Oh, look how dark and depressing everything is!” for its own sake, but all in all the games strike a balance between their dark setting and some kind of sense. (Yes, FO2 had goofball humor interludes. Nothing is perfect or safe from some silly Monty Python jokes.) 

FO3 and FO4 don’t. They go for effects, emotions, Rule of Cool. They are games first and stories as an afterthought. Their main quests are quite frankly crap and the decisions left to the player negligible. Do you really ever feel like you are impacting the world in a lasting way? FO and FO2 did some really cool things with a few decisions and slides to match, making you feel like you decided some key junctures of life in the Wasteland.

I’m not holding my breath for FO5. FO5 is mostly a shooting gallery, FO76 is a multi-player shooting gallery. Just like Fallout Tactics ditched the cool, story-driven roleplay for endless tactical battles, all Bethesda-bred FO games have ditched what made the FO, FO2, and FO:NV great. I don’t need more of that, not with better shooting mechanics, not with a half-broken settlement building, not with anything. Give me a good story and sensible locations first and foremost. Or I don’t care where you are going, Fallout.

(Looking forward to the Fallout tabletop role-playing game, though, if the 2d20 version ever sees the light of day...)

[travllingbunny]

The 100 6x07 Nevermind

Season 6 of The 100 has been fantastic so far, and 6x07 is not just the best episode of the season so far, but also one of my favorite ever episodes of the show. Nevermind is, in many ways, a dream come true for me: this is exactly what I was hoping for at least since the promos for the show started promising the theme of characters “facing their demons”. At the time, I couldn’t have guessed that it would be about Clarke battling a centuries old woman who has taken over her body after her parents had decided to bodysnatch Clarke in order to bring their daughter back, but I was hoping for trippy, mind-bending, character-based storylines. Most of all, one focused on Clarke Griffin, the main character and hero of the show (oddly enough, this needs to be pointed out, since there are fans who keep forgetting it), her psyche, her traumas and emotional issues and character development.

After the wonderful last scene of 6x06 and the promos for this episode, my expectations were really high, and they were met. There was a little bit of fear that the whole “which characters will make a cameo”, “who will be mentioned how many times” thing would distract from Clarke’s character exploration, but that was not the case. This episode was almost entirely (except for the last scene) set in Clarke’s and Josephine’s mind space rather than the real world. The walk down the memory lane that the drawings we saw on Clarke’s mind-wall was there, but it was, above all, a great character study of the show’s protagonist, a battle of wills between the hero and the villain, and it had some big revelations – for the audience or for the characters. It had brilliant dialogue and acting, and was emotional, dark, intense and even funny at times (mostly thanks to Josephine, who is evil and detestable but also incredibly funny and charismatic).

And what particularly made me happy is that it addressed some long-standing questions of morality that the show had been ambiguous about. The show’s moral complexity/greyness has long bordered on moral relativism, and allowed (mis)interpretations in the fandom, to the effect that “There are no good guys, the protagonists are as bad as the villains, therefore it’s all the same and it doesn’t matter if someone does bad things, since everyone does it”. The unfortunate motto “for my people” has been overused and abused by many morally ambiguous or straight-up villainous characters on the show, to justify their own actions (the classic “who are you to talk, when you killed all the Mountain Men! Therefore I get to do whatever I want ‘for my people’’ – as if doing the only thing that could have stopped the evil society of technological vampires/overlords from killing and cannibalizing all your loved ones, is the same as killing people with no remorse to get power). By season 5, Clarke herself seemed to start buying into that view. Josephine Lightbourne again try to use that against Clarke in this episode, and nearly made her give up. This time, however, Clarke and the show both finally said “f*ck you” to that worldview.

One of the reasons why Josephine is such a great villain is that she is both a parallel and a striking contrast to Clarke. On the surface, they seem similar – their looks, background, family. When we first saw her in the flashback in 6x02, the similarities were obvious – another intelligent, capable, beautiful blonde girl with loving parents (Russell, in both versions, even matches the same physical type as Jake), a princess from a privileged background. But Josephine is everything that Clarke-haters (in and out of the show) claim Clarke to be, but that Clarke most definitely is not: selfish, narcissistic, with a god complex, remorseless, sociopathic, completely ruthless, pampered, classist, treating people as disposable. A start contrast to Clarke’s compassionate, caring, self-sacrificing nature.

Various thoughts about this episode in bullet points under the cut.

One of the many contrasts between Clarke and Josephine is the disorganized, beautiful way that different memories fill Clarke’s mind space, as drawings all over the walls of her room, unlike Josephine’s highly structured, organized mind. Just like “Monty”, I also like Clarke’s better.

I’m overall very happy with how this episode included references to various people and events from Clarke’s past, through a combination of drawings, flashbacks, mentions and objects. Most important people in Clarke’s life were referenced – both dead ones like Jake, Finn, Lexa, Jasper, Monty, and living ones like Bellamy and Madi (not so many mentions of Abby, but that’s because she’s both alive and, unlike so many others, not a source of guilt for Clarke).

The only exception is arguably Wells, and it’s really unlucky that the planned appearance by Eli Goree didn’t work out. We still got a confirmation of his importance in Clarke’s life (which should be big – he was her best friend since childhood and died tragically, even if he didn’t last long on the show) through several drawings (and the Chinese version of the idiom “A friend in need is a friend indeed” under one of them), and, more importantly, a close-up of one of them. Let’s be honest, the drawings are generally little more than a cool Easter egg for the fans, if the show doesn’t focus on them through close-ups and flashbacks or mentions – something that the general audience would notice.

I love the way that Clarke’s outfit and hairstyle kept changing depending on which memory or part of her mind space she was in at any given moment. For instance, she started as Ark Clarke from the Pilot, then turned into Eden Clarke when she visited her safe space of the life there with Madi for those 6 years – which was far from perfect (what with being isolated from everyone else, without any adult with her, without other friends or any chance of love or sex life, and waiting for Bellamy to come back and talking to him without answer to keep sane), but was still the most peaceful time she’s known. Except maybe for her childhood, which she did spend in a not-happy space (life on the Ark was difficult, if not for her, then for so many others who were less privileged, and we know Clarke was aware of that), but she had a happy family life, so it makes sense that her father is the first person she would see in her mind-space. Jake and Eden stood for safety and family life and peace, which Clarke thought she got when she briefly believed she had really died – before Jake (aka her own mind) told her it wasn’t true. It’s the sign of her being upset – the rain and storm outside that happened due to her mood – that alerted her to the fact she was still alive.

Every character, other than Josephine, who appeared in Clarke’s mind space was, of course, an embodiment of a part of her.  

Although I’m not sure about ALIE, whose code may have remained there, and who delivered information that Clarke may not have already known. It was the one cameo in this episode that really surprised me (since the rest had been revealed or guessed on social media). She was there for the big revelation that the neural mesh from the time Clarke was in the City of Light is what ended up saving her. This made this episode’s link to 3x13 Nevermore even stronger. (Funny that the erased memory of ALIE!Raven is what gave rise to that awful amnesia theory. Glad that this has been shut down now.) I guess this means that I was wrong about other hosts being savable, and that Delilah is gone forever? A big part of why I wanted it to be true, apart from liking Delilah, was to give the Earthkru more incentive to fight the Primes. But we have been given a lot of other reasons why they should make the decision to so that.

ALIE also had a conversation with Clarke about the nature of life and humanity, which, however, could be just Clarke talking to herself. Clarke has been tempted to run away from pain, she’s even tempted to run from it by accepting death in this episode, but she’s still insisting that pain is a necessary part of life and that there’s no joy without it. At the core, Clarke is not someone who gives up.

The revelation that the darkest and most painful memories are those that aren’t even on the wall and that Clarke keeps hidden, explained some things, such as why there were no drawings on the mind-wall of such huge moments as Jake’s death or Finn’s death (Clarke’s trauma from this was a subject of an entire episode – one of my favorites, 2x09, Remember Me)... However, while I don’t want to criticize the prop department, who did an incredible job drawing those pictures from scenes, they did make an error - one of the drawings of Lexa is actually from the scene of her right after being shot, which doesn’t really fit (her death is one of the “darkest place” hidden memories) – though you wouldn’t know that by just looking at the picture and not knowing the scene.

I’m glad that Josephine called out Clarke on child abuse, and that the drawing of Madi in pain in the shock collar was so prominent on the wall. Season 5 had Clarke at her lowest point, and that was certainly, IMO, one of the worst things she’s done.

We know (from 6x04) that Clarke’s biggest regret is leaving Bellamy in Polis in season 5, and this episode confirmed that this weighs so heavy on Clarke’s heart that she can’t even face Bellamy in her mind space (which fits with the fact that the darkest and most traumatic moments are those she did not put on the wall). She is afraid that he hasn’t really forgiven her in his heart, and that he can’t, because she can’t forgive herself. Even if Bellamy is alive and well, Clarke’s feelings for him make her betrayal of him unforgivable in her own eyes (even though, at the time she did it, she had been heartbroken and furious because she felt he had betrayed her). Octavia, or rather Blodreina, was the right embodiment of her guilt in a weird way, since she was the danger that Clarke left Bellamy to, the one who threw him into the pit in the first place (kind of like Jaha was the embodiment of Bellamy’s guilt over the culling in 1x08). She reminded Clarke of some of her other sins, those that involved Clarke being ready to sacrifice Octavia (while trying to protect Bellamy) – letting the bomb drop on the people in Tondc, stealing the bunker in season 4, but she was there mostly to talk about Bellamy, because the relationship between Clarke and Octavia has always mostly revolved around their respective relationships with him. Even in her own mind, Clarke is still deflecting when confronted with her feelings for Bellamy (“I care about both of you”, just like she said “I care about all of them” when called out on her feelings for Bellamy by Lexa in 2x14). Octavia is also the embodiment of the unwillingness to forgive, so her refusal to fight for Clarke makes sense.

Not that Clarke needed any help to kick Josephine’s arse. It was satisfying to see, but expected. Josephine is an actual pampered princess who’s never had to fight for anything, while Clarke has been fighting and surviving in adverse circumstances for 7 years.

Maya’s appearance made perfect sense, but she was the most OOC character of all the “mind space” characters – maybe because Clarke didn’t get to know her that well, but mostly because she was the embodiment of Clarke’s guilt over the innocent deaths she’s caused. Maya was a good person, someone who helped them against her own people because it was the right thing to do, and because she knew what the Mountain Men were doing was wrong. She is also linked in Clarke’s mind with her feelings of guilt over Jasper – Clarke didn’t know Maya well, but Jasper was one of her closest friends, and Clarke feels deeply guilty for indirectly causing his downward spiral that ended with his suicid4. I was happy to see him referenced so much in this episode – through “Maya”, the case Clarke found in 5x01, and his goggles that she found there, which all played a big role in this episode. The accusations that “Maya” (Clarke herself) made sounded a lot like the repertoire of Clarke-haters: that she likes being a savior, has a god complex, has killed more people than she’s saved, is no better than the Primes… This is a confirmation that Clarke herself has agonized over all of these things. But it’s not what the real Maya would have said – the real Maya died acknowledging the responsibility all of the Mountain Men had for the evil things their society was doing, saying “None of us is innocent”. When Clarke made her “Maya” character be helpful against Josephine, it was the closest thing to what the real Maya had been like.

Clarke’s darkest place, the most painful and traumatic memories she has, are the deaths of Finn and Lexa, the only two people she has had romantic relationships with – relationships that were both extremely brief and tragic, and ended with deaths that traumatized Clarke a lot and made her feel guilty – even though she doesn’t really have, IMO, objective reasons to feel responsible for either of them, it’s not hard to see why she would feel, on the emotional, irrational level, that she is the one causing people to die. (The show and especially the fandom have tended to ignore one of these relationships  post-season 2 and to over-focus on the other, so I was pleasantly surprised that they were both acknowledged in a similar way for their role in Clarke’s development and emotional traumas – with the visual references with Lexa’s throne and the pole Finn was tied to and the knife Clarke used to mercy kill him, combined with the flashback of Finn’s death, a different flashback of Lexa seen before, and Josephine’s indirect mention of her death – which was probably the most elegant solution, since I don’t think the show would ever dare replay the footage of her death for fear of more backlash.)

It’s certainly no coincidence that this dark place that’s about Clarke’s traumas of her tragic romantic life is the place where Josephine breaks Clarke by convincing her that Bellamy has given up on her and that he and everyone are better off with her dead. Josephine didn’t technically lie – she told her he took her death hard but in the end made the rational choice of agreeing to the deal with her murderers. But, by showing her an out-of-context memory of Bellamy taking the deal, she showed her a skewed version of the truth. Clarke didn’t see Bellamy’s grieving, despair and anger, and didn’t realize that Bellamy saying that she would do the same was out of admiration for her, as a leader who’s not just smart but also selfless and caring. She probably took it as another sign he sees her as a monster, doesn’t care that much about her and is better off without her, because it fed into her own insecurities.

Josephine: “Have you considered sacrificing yourself?” Bitch, watch the season 4 finale. She didn’t just consider it, she did it.

I loved the fact that the case Clarke used to hide the important memory was Jasper’s case, that it contained Jasper’s goggles alongside Jake’s video, and that the lock password was “102”. More confirmation of the importance of the initial Delinquents community from season 1 in Clarke’s life and the show. “You forgot Bellamy and Raven” may be my favorite line from this episode.

Monty’s return (which the show tried to hide by not putting Chris Larkin’s name in the credits until the end credits, but it revealed it through not cutting enough of one of the promo pics) was not a complete surprise, thanks to the detective work of some of the fans, but was still my favorite part of the episode. Monty was most in-character, because Clarke knew him so well, and it makes perfect sense that he was the voice of Clarker’s reason and moral compass, which is what made her change her mind after having given up and given Josephine the victory. (You want a great platonic friendships between a man and a woman on The 100? Here it is!)

The ‘Monty” part of Clarke’s mind fought back, against all the BS – the “bear it so they don’t have to”, “for my people” mottos and moral relativism and Josephine’s half-truths) and reaffirmed Clarke’s resilience and will to live, and reminded her that what it all comes down to is not just saving your people, but doing the right thing. After Monty told them to be good guys and be happy. Both of these messages are what Clarke had to remember. As I’ve been pointing out, doing better is not just standing by and not killing people. It’s also actively fighting against evil. They are not being good guys if they let the Primes murder, bodysnatch, oppress, brainwash and sacrifice the people from their community, just because it doesn’t affect them.  As “Monty” (Clarke) pointed out, it’s not doing better if you let the Primes murder people to live forever.

Clarke’s trip through Josephine’s memories (of being killed by Kaylee, and of killing Isaac and sacrificing a baby) helped her fully realize that Josephine is truly evil and needs to be stopped. Really, if killing babies is not enough to make you classify someone as true evil on a whole different level, what can?

Josephine tried to pull the “for my people” motto with Issac, but she was full of s*hit. She only does things for herself and maybe a few other people (not even all the Primes, since she murdered four of them). We learned that Children of Gabriel are literally the children that the Primes tried to sacrifice to the trees and that Isaac saved and brought to Gabriel. We also got another confirmation of the cruel caste system of Sanctum, where “nulls” (people who are not Nightblood gene carriers) are treated as lower life forms, and routinely sacrificed, and that Josephine would rather kill them all, if she was allowed to by her father. Not that having the NB gene is so good, as it means your child may end up as a host, and obviously, the “honor” of being a Nightblood means you get bodysnatched at the age of 21.

When Isaac said  “if only we were allowed to be more than your janitors and guards”, it felt like it was the writers’ way of reminding us of the class system on the Ark, where Bellamy was a janitor and a guard-in-training. It’s also another reminder of how different Clarke and Josephine are – Josephine would have considered someone like Bellamy expendable and useless, whereas Clarke quickly showed in season 1 she valued people based on their personal qualities rather than their origin or class.

It was cool to see a flashback to the time before the apocalypse, complete with references to Diyoza and Becca, but this memory was my least favorite part of the episode. I guess I just wasn’t that interested in Josephine’s traumatic memories, since I don’t think they’re enough to explain her sociopathic nature. On second thought, you could say that this guy was her Finn, and that her response to that trauma was completely different from Clarke’s – genuinely shutting herself down to any compassion or remorse.

I love the fact that what saved the day was the fact that Clarke and Bellamy were both good students of Earth skills (taught by Pike!) and that they are, once again, so well attuned to each other that they can communicate this way. Or the fact that Bellamy was watching JC so carefully, even though it must have hurt him emotionally to look at her, that he noticed her movements and read them correctly.

Nice to see Miller back, but did he have to be so… not-bright? In any case, it’s great to see Bellamy as determined to save Clarke, as he was despondent in the last episode. This is maybe the first time that Clarke really needs saving, but a huge and crucial part of that rescue was Clarke deciding that she wants to live.

Rating: 10/10