#the singular exception would i guess be shot in the dark. that might be the only canon-compliant (ish. lmao. ishhhhh)

[blondiest]

honestly i find it far easier to answer questions about specific stories i've written than to answer questions about canon, bc i spend most of my time writing canon divergence of various flavors. i make an effort to base my characterizations off of my understanding of canon, but there is by necessity some extrapolation taking place in basically everything i've ever written.

[raspberrybluejeans]

hey rat! i was wondering if maybe you'd be willing to talk about your experience on testosterone? i know you've been on it for years - i'm around 10 months on tgel, and i've heard a lot about the first year/two years on t but not as many stories from further on in transition.

no pressure of course! much love to you either way <3

Sure! I have been on T for ten years and my memory isn't great so a lot of details are fuzzy, but I do remember that most of the changes were at the beginning.

Body hair, voice, change, bottom growth, all that pretty early and fast. I pretty much literally did not have body hair before T, like it was all really light and scarce, and T just hit me like a train and now I'm practically werewolf-esque. I've noticed I'm way hairier than my dad or brother so I think the artificial testosterone must do hair harder than natural lol.

One thing affecting my experience that I should probably mention is that I got a total hysterectomy, both uterus and ovaries, taken out about two years after I started T. So my body literally only has the T I don't produce any natural hormones anymore. The hysterectomy made me gain a bunch of weight and occasionally have heat flashes, which are normal menopause symptoms (which is basically the same as getting a hysterectomy, either way your body is no longer getting the estrogen and stuff) but they were lighter because I had T as a replacement hormone.

One pretty good thing is that acne more or less disappeared forever after the hysterectomy. Like I'll still get random singular zits once in a blue moon but I was having a lot of acne from being on T before that. I think it just sort of stopped the clashing of hormones or something idk. I have to literally put moisturizer on my face now though it's wild.

I also started out doing shots for T but switched to gel at some point. I can't remember exactly when but I've definitely been on gel longer than shots. I like it so much more. I hated giving myself shots so much it was just so stressful and unpleasant and the gel is so much smoother too, no hormone spikes and dips. I've heard its good to start with shots though, that it helps bring changes faster.

The only two things I can think of that really kept changing for me past the big changes at the beginning is that my facial hair has continued to slooooowly get thicker over time. My facial hair sucked ass so bad for the longest time. And it's still not great but its decent now. I think it is still slowly filling in. I had a friend who pretty quickly got perfect facial hair on T though so, this is just my curse.

The other one is unfortunately baldness. I think my hysterectomy exasperated this problem. For years I've been able to detect that my head hair has been getting thinner but it's only recently gotten to a point where its pretty noticeable to other people. I finally cut my hair last year which made me pretty sad because I really liked having long hair. I use minoxidil which I guess does something but its not much. I tried finasteride and had a very bad reaction to it. I know the biggest symptom it gave me was absolutely crazy brain fog. I think it might have done some other stuff too but I cannot remember thanks to the brain fog lol...

I would really like to learn how to wear wigs well (like, where you can make them look fairly real) but there's not a lot of sources for men/masculine hair so I don't know where to start. I have buzzed my hair before and I absolutely cannot stand it so I am not interested in just going bald lol. If I ever have reliable money I think I will do hair systems (which is essentially gluing a toupee to you, except it actually looks incredibly real and good; but requires frequent expensive upkeep).

So I guess TL;DR most of the changes were at the beginning and then my body started doing a dark ritual to sacrifice my head hair for beard hair

Thanks for asking!

[lex1nat0r]

The flaming skull of judgement turns its hollow gaze on: Five Broken Blades by Mai Corland.

Look, I didn't expect to be here today either. I thought the skull would be quiescent until I got around to reading Before They Are Hanged. But when the flaming skull of judgement intrudes upon your consciousness claiming it has found grimdark in an unexpected place, I admit I get curious. The Basilisk called Genre can strike from anywhere, I guess. So is Five Broken Blades grimdark? Well… I have trouble calling it that, but I wouldn't begrudge anyone else labeling Five Broken Blades as grimdark. So come down to the lab and let's put it on the slab, feat. a tangent about assassins. Some light spoilers.

Five Broken Blades stuck out to me from before the first page. Someone had nicely thought to put a content warning before the book proper, let's take a look:

Five Broken Blades is a dark adventure fantasy full of deadly liars, gray morals, and kingdom-destroying secrets. As such, the story includes elements that might not be suitable for all readers. Violence, blood, death (including the death of parents, children, incarcerated people, and animals), poisoning, substance abuse, alcohol, sexual activity, animal abuse, gender-based violence, sex work, suicidal ideation, and indentured servitude are depicted. Rape, assault, and graphic genocide are described.

(Sidenote: love a good content warning. I love grimdark, I don't think people should be exposed to content that makes them uncomfortable without a fair warning. You can be an edgelord and still be kind.)

So that's quite a list of ingredients, and with that content warning in mind I read Five Broken Blades with an eye towards assessing its grimdark potential.

It is useful for my purposes to contrast Five Broken Blades against The Blade Itself. That works nicely because they both have 'Blade' in the name. Talking about The Blade Itself, I declared that it didn't hit grimdark for me because there's no hint of the kind of overwhelming darkness that characterizes grimdark. The Blade Itself certainly features a kind of ambient suckage to the world, but what grimdark requires is ambient misery. And what Five Broken Blades does better than The Blade Itself is provide that aura of misery.

Five Broken Blades does two things differently. The first is that the characters feel noticeably more crushed by the system than The Blade Itself. With the exception of Farro the characters in Blade (singular) are pretty on top of things. And even Farro has the patronage of a powerful wizard from the chapter she's introduced. Logen's on the run from Bethod but he's still a Named Man with a reputation feared in the North, Jezel's a privileged nobleman, West has a decently prestigious military job, and Glokta is still the one doing the torturing for all that he has to worry about ending up on the other side of the table. Compare to 5Blades, even Mikail the spymaster is actively trying to work against the government of Yusan. And his background ain't that privileged to begin with. Each of the main characters in 5Blades feel like they are actively in the process of losing something which is why they need to go in on this scheme to kill the king.

Which is the other thing 5Blades brings to the table: we know what the plot is. The world may not be as bleak as I like, but this quest to kill a king who may also be a god sure feels doomed. The story takes these miserable people, none of whom have clean consciences, and puts them in the pressure cooker of this long shot to maybe make things better, which is at least the bare bones of a grimdark plot.

In terms of morally grey characters, I do confess that I rolled my eyes a bit at Sora being an assassin coerced into the job, a character type I am still tired of after finishing the Throne of Glass books (do not ask me if the Throne of Glass books are grimdark). It's an eating-cake-and-having-it-too thing, I think. Like, you want this character to feel badass and dangerous so you make them an assassin, but you don't want them to come off as too bad a person (the specter of Gygax looms) so you say it's okay, they were forced into it. So oh look, they've got all these cool assassin skills, but they feel real bad about all the people they were forced to kill who were mostly nobility anyway so maybe they shouldn't feel too bad. I like it when an author fully commits to making a character a Bastard, I guess is what I'm getting at.

Anyway, Sora's character is redeemed by her plotting to maybe betray the party later in the book, she's fully capable of being a Bastard on her own recognizance. And it's not like 5Blades is afraid to make characters Bastards. Euyn straight-up chose to hunt people for sport, which holy shit is not a thing I've seen in a protagonist's backstory before. Sure he's remorseful about it but it's a thing he chose to do on his own, and that's a hell of a weight to be carrying around.

So: Five Broken Blades is borderline grimdark for me. Importantly, I think in who its characters are and how it sets up its overarching plot it gets closer to full-blown grimdark than The Blade Itself (if you want to stone me for that opinion you'll have to catch me first).

Tune in next time when I weigh in on whether, I dunno, the Gormenghast novels are grimdark I guess.

[thedevilliers]

this is less a tutorial and more a semi in-depth explanation on my process while taking screenies. my do’s and don’ts about lightning, angles, text/dialogue, close-ups and other!

as a disclaimer, anyone is free to take their screenies however they want and this is just my personal preference and opinions ♡ everything is under the cut! i did say its LONG so dont say i didnt warn u 😳

i use the nobluv2 and noglo mods by luumia! i recommend them 100000%

1. lightning

with its exceptions, this being i’m in a room with candles/chandelier/anything that doesnt naturally produce a white light OR ambiance reasons, my setting with screenies is with the ‘Neutral White’ color. this is for me, more visually appealing than just bathing your sim in yellow light.

EXAMPLES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

warmer white:

poor lit:

good <3:

i usually test my lightning before i actually take any screenies so my sim is well-lit but also preventing overexposure bc of the lighting. an example of overexposure is when for example the lighting is SO strong, your sim looks like its ‘shining’

you can see it here on her chest highlights, her arm and her cheeks. i exaggerated it here so its more obvious. fixing overexposure is HARDER than upping the brightness in a poor-lit screenshot. overexposure and makin sims look like they are SHINING is a crime. JAIL

the best light ever tbh. just dont get... to carried away

1.2 outdoor lightning

this is one a bit trickier depending on your location but USUALLY your screenies would look well dark. again, test lightning before actually shooting screenies! i generally look for a lamp posts that have good lightning and shrink them down so if im taking angled shots, it doesnt get in the way. change the color to neutral white and if its too much lightning, just lower the dimmer:

2. just no

just no to all this:

in general, you can ZOOM to the max, and with the scroll-wheel zoom out THREE TIMES. four times we on the edge but its still acceptable. five times and you are goin to JAIL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

in general i also recommend having a semi-big room so you can move around without any problems. small rooms DO work but chances are while moving around you’re either going to go outside the room, run into a plant in the shot or into another decor item.

for example, this is a ‘small’ room. while taking photos i have run into the bookshelves for over the shoulder shots like 8000 times. still, doable, but why put myself thru the suffering>?????

2.2 fill the room

nothin sadder than, for example, doing a bedroom scene and there just being...a bed. the game comes with so much clutter and theres also a lot of clutter cc to make rooms seem more ‘lived in’. its also a lot more visually appealing than the room being empty.

3. angles for screenies

my controversial OPINION!!!! i dont care for FULL surroundings shots for more than for a singular panel. THERE I SAID IT!!! usually i show the surroundings/scene setting in ONE panel and then i move on to other angles. again, has exceptions. these being a banquet, party, ball, another sim joins the scene, montages, etc! ANYWHERE that has something happening with multiple people in general.

for example, i don’t see why repeat the same angle with different poses. i can do it for one panel, but for the next ones? there’s the option of over the shoulder shots,  detail shots, them looking at each other shots, cinammon tography shots........... more than likely your reader already has an idea of where your characters are so showing it in every single panel is not necessary.

always try and leave a lil breathin room for the heads on top so it isnt all CRAMPED! but this all depends on the pose, if theres a height difference included in said poses and the angle you are taking the screenshot from!

same thing about not just doing...full on surrounding shots for when something is HAPPENING. say, someone is fainting, collapsing...ANYTHIN!! theres so many shot options than just repeating the same angle over and over again. DONT BE SHY!!!! DO VARIETY !!!

we in photography class now. BUT yes keep these in mind ALSO while taking photos so it isnt just the same angle, same distance just different pose. your sim has a nice outfit? showing it once is enough! every panel? ummmm......... your sim is crying?  do a medium close up/medium shot and not a full body shot!

3.1 close ups

your close ups and ALL screenies in general, don’t have to be FRONTAL only. they can be right/left side, a lil angled...

waist/chest level is a good level for a close-up sim wise since if you ZOOM in too much WELL

4. text/dialogue

i’d recommend any SANS-SERIF fonts. serif fonts are so hard to read even if nice looking. usually a font-size of over 40px+ works and you can add outside stroke and even drop shadow!

i personally use calibri (bold italic) for my screenies, but other subtitle fonts like arial, myriad pro, helvetica...really any sans-serif ones work.

my stroke settings:

i also wouldn’t recommend putting 4000 word paragraphs in ONE screenie because it’s just visually exhausting. the MAXIMUM i’d do and thats if ABSOLUTELY necessary is FOUR!!!! lines of text. id keep it to three ONLY and thats if your text is the same size as mine. if bigger then two 😳

yes <3:

another no-no for readability is INSIDE stroke or adding bevel/emboss to the text. pick bright, contrasting colors to the background or even clothes your characters are wearing so it’s not hard to read.

something a lil extra i also recommend is if your dialogue has different sentences and one ends and another one starts in the same line, continue it on another line. DOES THIS MAKE SENSE ok lets see:

the “Yes, maybe I went on [...]” continues on the first line, but to make it a bit easier to read just press enter and move it to the second line so it’s on it’s own line.

same thing for the "Be nice or [...]” line! it gets cut off to the third line anyways, so just put it in a singular line. final result:

for me, this is easier to read, less I GUESS ‘immersion breaking’  and easier on the eyes too.

and just other quick things to keep in mind:

will the post be horizontal or vertical? if its vertical, you have to angle and move the camera around keeping in mind you’re going to crop it later. yes, the scenary might be nice if its horizontal, but a lil vertical photo is cute!

best times for OUTDOOR lightning photos are 2pm-4pm. morning light is a bit too dark, 12 pm is the slightest too bright, but 2pm-4pm is just ENOUGH!!!

and thats all : ) i THINK i talked about most things screenies wise??? if you have questions, my askbox is always open : ) and remember these are just my opinions : )

[kpopfanfictrash]

fu-

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: Jungkook

Word Count: 1,983

Rating: 18+ (sexual imagery)

Summary: An accompanying drabble to Five Dates. This drabble takes place after the events of Five Dates and is Jungkook + accidentally teaching Namjoon’s child a swear word.

[ PART OF MY JUNGKOOK BIRTHDAY DRABBLE GAME ]

Staring at the phone held in his palm, Jungkook contemplated one of the most difficult quandaries of his existence, including that time you asked if he liked your new haircut.

The answer was yes, by the way. The answer was always yes, unless you hinted at no and even then, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Jungkook’s current quandary involved you but was far more serious than any haircut-related inquiry. All you’d sent Jungkook was a singular text. Five words, eighteen letters in total.

Y/N: the line is super dark [8:34 PM]

Re-reading the text, Jungkook felt utter despair. To anyone else, it might seem nonsensical, but you’d been trying to conceive for nearly three months and a dark line meant you were ovulating. This would be their third attempt at getting you pregnant; a feat certainly not helped by your irregular cycle. Ovulation tests at least gave a window of when you were fertile.

You’d tested yourself this morning and the line had been fairly light but that had apparently changed over the course of the day. Jungkook chewed on his lower lip, staring at his phone and unsure what to do. Based on what you’d written in your baby planner, he needed to drive home right now and fuck you.

Except, of course, he was currently baby-sitting for Namjoon.

Dejectedly, Jungkook plopped down on the couch. Namjoon’s daughter was around eighteen months now and had been asleep for nearly thirty minutes, but Namjoon and his wife wouldn’t be home for hours.

Shoving a hand through his hair, Jungkook let the strands fall where they may to glumly text you back.

Jungkook: I’m babysitting for Namjoon tonight, remember? ☹️ [8:36 PM]

Y/N: shit [8:36 PM]

Y/N: what time will you be home? I need to get up early tomorrow for that book drive ☹️☹️ [8:37 PM]

Jungkook: Namjoon said around 11 :/ his mom gave them tickets to an opera or something and they promised to make an appearance [8:37 PM]

Y/N: 11?? That’s soooo late [8:38 PM]

Y/N: you could’ve cum inside me twice by then [8:38 PM]

Jungkook: fuck, Y/N…. [8:39 PM]

His heart raced, leaning back on the sofa. Nothing in the world made him so hard so fast as the image of your cunt, stuffed to the brim until his cum dripped down the sides. Jungkook had been treated to the image often over the past few months and didn’t think he’d ever get sick of it.

The whole ‘baby planner’ thing had thrown a kink in romance, but Jungkook tried hard to ensure you lived in the moment. You were a planner at heart and tended to get caught up in how long it was taking, why you hadn’t conceived yet – Jungkook assured you these things took time. You may as well enjoy all the sex before you had an actual child to take care of.

A slightly dreamy smile crossed Jungkook’s face at the thought. He couldn’t wait to be a dad. It was part of the reason he baby-sat for Namjoon as often as he did. Namjoon was the first of their friend group to have a kid and, as exhausted as he seemed, Jungkook had never seen his friend so happy.

It was clear from the way he looked at his daughter and wife that Namjoon was entirely smitten. Jungkook wanted that with you – he wanted a family, another player on their team.

Forcing himself to stand from the couch, Jungkook began to tidy Namjoon’s place. The more distracted he was, the less he’d think about you spread out on the bed, cum dripping from the sides of your used pussy.

Jungkook paused in his cleanup, emerald throw-pillow in hand to squeeze shut his eyes. Fuck. Shaking his head, he opened his eyes as his phone dinged again.

Y/N: couldn’t someone else come and finish babysitting? :) [8:41 PM]

Y/N: jimin, maybe? [8:41 PM]

Y/N: or Seokjin? [8:41 PM]

Jungkook hesitated, but already knew the answers to your questions. Jimin was out of town and Seokjin had posted a story on Instagram about date night. Picking up a blanket and stacking toy, Jungkook exited the room to enter Namjoon’s apartment.

Apartment was a loose term; Namjoon and his wife had the entire floor of the building. Jungkook paused outside the nursery, listening to hear if anything was amiss. The door was open partway, allowing for light to spill in from the hall. Jungkook poked his head in to see their daughter snuggled under her blankets.

Smiling softly, Jungkook stepped in and placed the blanket on top of the rocker. He set the stacking toy in the toy chest and saw you’d texted again. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Jungkook shielded the screen with one hand to open the message.

His heart lodged in his throat when he saw you’d sent a photo of you sprawled on the bed, black lingerie on. A low, frustrated whine left his throat.

“Fuck,” Jungkook said sadly.

“Fuck?” garbled a tiny voice in the darkness.

Jungkook froze.

Eyes wide, he turned to see Namjoon’s daughter standing, tiny hands clutching the bars of her crib. She had just been asleep – when had she managed to do that?! As Jungkook began to panic and hope she hadn’t really heard, she let out a bright laugh and bounced.

“Fuck,” she said, clear as day. “Fuck!”

Jungkook slowly closed his eyes. He was toast. Namjoon’s daughter could barely articulate what she wanted for dinner, but now had the capacity to absorb swear words with ease.

“No,” he groaned, opening his eyes. Rushing forward, he dropped to his knees at her crib. “No, baby, no. We don’t like that word, right? It’s a bad word. You’re not bad! You’re good! You’re a super-sweet angel, who –”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook slowly hung his head. “We’re doomed,” he muttered.

Down the hall to the front of the apartment, Jungkook heard the elevator ding. Double shit – like he’d told you, Namjoon and his wife weren’t supposed to be home for hours.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon’s voice called from far away. “Where are you?”

Starting to panic, Jungkook lifted his head. “Okay,” he whispered, giving the toddler a pleading stare. “This is just between you and me, right? Right?”

All he got in return was a round-eyed look and happy coo, so Jungkook had to hope that meant yes in baby-speak. Jungkook heard footsteps in the hall.

“Jungkook?” Namjoon poked his head into the nursery, squinting at the darkness to find Jungkook on the floor. “What’re you doing?”

Jungkook hastily pushed himself to his feet. “Nothing!” He beamed widely at Namjoon. “I just thought I heard her moving, so I came in to check and –”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook stopped in his tracks at the word happily chirped behind him. Namjoon’s eyes widened in horror, his gaze darting to his daughter who stood in her crib. Jungkook, also wide-eyed, stayed where he was.

Slowly, Namjoon returned to Jungkook. “Was that…” He sounded strangled. “What did my daughter just say?”

“Uh…” Jungkook gave him a weak smile. “Funk?”

“Fuck!”

Jungkook squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m so sorry,” he groaned.

“Did you…” Namjoon inhaled. “My daughter can barely speak in full sentences and now one of those sentences is going to include that?”

Before Jungkook could respond, Namjoon’s wife appeared behind him in the hall. She wore a flowy, floor-length dress and crystalline earrings. When she saw Jungkook, she waved.

“Hi, JK!” Her smile widened. “Thanks so much for baby-sitting. Sorry we’re home early – the opera was such a bore. I convinced Namjoon to leave as soon as his mom saw us. I missed my angel,” she sighed, entering the room to cross to the crib.

Jungkook reached out to stop her, but before he could –

“Fuck!”

Namjoon’s wife halted, blinking in surprise at the crib. Then, against all reason, she started to laugh. Both shoulders shook, her right hand coming up to cover her mouth and hold in her mirth.

Both Jungkook and Namjoon stared.

“Oh my gosh,” his wife laughed, bending over the crib. “Is that what you learned tonight, hm, pretty girl?”

Jungkook watched in total astonishment as Namjoon’s wife tucked her daughter in, smoothing her hair to brush a kiss to her forehead. When she straightened and turned, she seemed mostly amused.

Finding Jungkook, she arched a brow. “Your handiwork, I presume?”

“I’m so sorry.” Jungkook kept his voice to a whisper, not wanting to wake their daughter again. “It was an accident, I swear.”

Again, Namjoon’s wife grinned. “It’s fine,” she said, waving them into the hall. “Let me guess – Joon freaked, huh?” Her husband adopted a guilty expression. “She’s a toddler, she’ll forget this by next week. And if she doesn’t, then she’ll have something for show and tell when she starts preschool, huh?”

She laughed at their shocked expressions, reminded Namjoon to pay Jungkook for baby-sitting and then left to wash up.

Namjoon stood alone in the hall with Jungkook, who frowned. “Were you supposed to be paying me this entire time?” he asked, turning to Namjoon.

“I’ll get you a pizza or something,” Namjoon said stiffly.

Despite his wife’s words, he still looked somewhat pained and Jungkook’s shoulders dropped.

“I really am sorry,” he said again. “I know your wife said everything was fine, but I am. It was an accident – I didn’t think she was awake!”

Namjoon shook his head slowly, starting to smile.

“Ah, it’s fine,” he said with a laugh. As he walked them towards the front door, he glanced curiously at Jungkook. “What happened, though? Stub your toe on one of her toys?”

“Does that happen often?”

“More times than I can count.”

Jungkook laughed. “Nothing like that. I was just texting Y/N.”

Namjoon’s brows shot upwards. “Is something wrong?”

“No, um…” Jungkook rubbed the back of his neck. “Actually, the opposite.”

They came to a stop at the elevator and Namjoon turned to face him. He had an amused look on his face as he pressed a button. “Oh, really?”

“Yeah. We’re, uh…” Jungkook glanced over his shoulder. “We’re trying.”

Namjoon’s expression became almost comical. “You are? Shit, JK, that’s amazing!” Reaching out, he pulled Jungkook into a tight hug. When he finally let go, Namjoon grinned. “Damn, I can’t wait for there to be another dad in the group.”

“I mean, we’re only trying,” Jungkook hastened. “Y/N isn’t pregnant yet. She’s actually ovulating right now, which is why I was swearing. She wanted me to come home and – you probably don’t want to know all this,” he said, cutting himself off at the look on Namjoon’s face.

A look Jungkook read completely wrong, as it turned out.

“What are you waiting for?” Namjoon blurted as the elevator arrived. He practically shoved Jungkook inside. “Ovulation is no joke, man! Get the fuck home and put a baby in Y/N!”

From somewhere in the apartment, Namjoon’s wife called, “Language, Joon!”

Namjoon turned in surprise. “Really?” he called back. “I thought we could say that word now. You know, since the cat’s out of the bag? Anyways,” he said, returning to Jungkook. “Get out of here!”

Shaking his head, Jungkook stepped onto the elevator. “Okay. Weird, but thanks! And sorry again!”

As he waited for the elevator doors to close, Jungkook heard Namjoon leave and pulled out his phone to text you back.

Jungkook: coming home now xx [8:55 PM]

Jungkook: Namjoon and his wife hated the opera, left early [8:55 PM]

Jungkook: think there’s still time for twice tonight? [8:55 PM]

You answered almost immediately.

Y/N: I’ve always liked a man with ambition ;) love you. Hurry home xx [8:56 PM]

kpopfanfictrash, 2020. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[starculler]

Whumptober 2021: Day 6

Word Count: 2271 || Read on AO3

Tags/Warnings: Star Wars, Obi-Wan Kenobi, Anakin Skywalker, Emotional Hurt

No violence. Only ✨emotions✨

Obi-Wan woke in a room not his own with the smell of blaster-fire and charred flesh in his nose, tasting it on his tongue so clearly that it nearly made him sick. He exhaled one long, slow breath that did nothing to purge the lingering traces of his nightmares, and opened his eyes to thick, black darkness. His brows furrowed, frowning as he struggled to clear the sleep-haze from his mind, a task that had grown considerably harder over the years. He spared a brief, token effort on remembering what he might have done, or where he’d gone, the day before to find himself in a stranger’s home, but only shrugged it off when nothing came to mind.

Perhaps, he mused with only a touch of sardonic humor, the suns’ heat had finally gotten to him and he’d broken into some poor farmer’s home. Whose, he hadn’t the faintest idea considering he only really visited one and this was, most certainly, not the Lars’ farmstead. He would know, he’d been inside once after all — a week spent in a guest room as he’d delivered little Luke to his aunt and uncle. Any subsequent visits had been … difficult.

Luke looked so much like his father sometimes.

He sighed, shoving the thought forcefully away, and focused once more on the room, straining see a little better. The walls, he noticed first, were bare except for a few occupied shelves whose contents he couldn’t even begin to guess at. A single window peered out into the world, tinted black by a light-blocking feature he remembered using … Before. The floor was much the same: spartan, with only a low table in one corner with a cushion to sit on and the bland bed roll he’d woken on. A bitter tang of nostalgia crawled up his throat, lodging there like a bottle’s stopper, and he struggled to swallow around it.

Shoving that away too, he clambered inelegantly to his feet — noticed he still wore the rattier robe and tunics he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eschew along with everything else — and made his way to the room’s singular exit. The door opened with barely a brush of his palm over the panel next to it. He made to move out into the home proper with a steadying hand laid on the frame’s cool metal. And froze.

“Anakin?”

His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper, almost too soft to carry across the larger living space to the spitting image of the little boy he’d raised, failed, and left behind, burning on a bank of churning magma on Mustafar. He couldn’t breathe, lungs seizing and stuttering as they refused to work. He gripped the door’s frame harder, knuckles white and fingers little more than pricks of insignificant pain where they dug into the sharper edges. Anakin’s screaming roared in his ears, violent hatred and pain alike with faint echoes of the single plea he’d let slip from his lips somewhere in between before Obi-Wan had turned his back and waled away.

Anakin — oh Force it was Anakin — twisted around on his cushion, one hand braced on the long, low table in front oh him while the other lay flat on the floor, when he heard his name called. Obi-Wan’s gaze caught on his Padawan-braid, so short still that it barely brushed the boy’s — a boy. He was just a boy now, younger than twelve and a picture-perfect replica of the child who lived only in Obi-Wan’s memories and Luke’s shadow — shoulder.

“Master!” Anakin flashed him a bright grin, his blue eyes practically glittering with the strength of his joy. “You’re awake! Finally,” he said, excitement turning to a familiar teasing tone that tore Obi-Wan’s heart to shreds. “I almost thought you’d sleep for forever, and then who’d help with my lessons?”

The boy’s nose scrunched, his distaste for his lessons made clear in the way the word dropped from his mouth like a particularly foul piece of rotted food. Obi-Wan swayed where he stood, mouth suddenly drier than Tatooine’s desert as he stared. Then, faintly and feeling all too much like the very words he spoke had stolen free from him without permission, he said:

“Master Windu would, he’s told me so many times himself. He does so enjoy your company.”

It was a joke, one of several he’d indulged in often after having noticed Anakin’s distrust of the Council. A reassurance as much as something to make the boy laugh. Mace Windu had never told him he’d help with any of Anakin’s lessons, but Obi-Wan had never once seen the Master turn a youngling down when they asked him for help. Oh, he thought with a painful pang in his chest, Mace had loved the younglings, from the tiniest initiates in the Crèches all the way to the padawans, no matter what his severe countenance might have portrayed. He’d tried so hard to show that to Anakin, to teach him that Jedi — even and especially the Council — were, at their core, kind and compassionate. Had his Padawan ever truly known that, or was it another failure to be laid at Obi-Wan’s feet?

Anakin scoffed and rolled his eyes, still grinning. “Yeah, and I’m a heard of Bantha,” he said with a snicker. Obi-Wan’s mouth twitched despite how he wanted to be sick.

“You certainly smell like one,” Obi-Wan replied by rote, more of a murmur than the steady sarcasm he’d once thrown at his Padawan. Anakin squawked regardless, all faux-offense as he puffed himself up for a comeback, but deflated suddenly to squint at him instead.

“Are you feeling alright? You look…” Anakin floudered for a moment and settled on a bland, hesitant, “not good.”

“I,” Obi-Wan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “No,” He admitted, slow. Reluctant. “No, Padawan, I don’t think I am.”

The trembling in his hands hadn’t stopped and his chest still hurt and his stomach had managed to twist itself into nauseating knots as he stood there, still in the open doorway to the room, he realized, that had once been his at the Temple. Anakin’s eyes widened and he shot to his feet, anxiety flowing off him in sharp, erratic waves that only further soured the bitter, ashen taste in Obi-Wan’s mouth.

“Do you need a healer? Are you hurt? Kriff, uh, should I— I mean— I’ll go grab someone, Master, I’ll be right back, okay? Real quick, I—”

“No!” Obi-Wan winced. He hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t meant to put that hurt, wide-eyed look on his Padawan’s face. He’d just —

Obi-Wan watched Anakin’s familiar, blue lightsaber cut through another Jedi, horror curdling in his stomach. It was all he could do not to be sick, but he forced himself to continue looking at the security feed Master Yoda had found. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t be blind to this any more than he could turn back time and undo it. So he watched, ill, as his former Padawan, his friend, his brother, cut down Jedi after Padawan after Initiate until none at all remained in the place they had both called home.

“No,” he croaked, softer, blinking back the stinging heat in his eyes. He lifted the hand not helping keep him upright, clammy and shaking much more obviously than before, and made as if to reach out but stopped short. “No,” he said again, so low he barely heard himself, pulling his hand back to clutch at the fabric over his chest and wondered if he’d suffocate on his feet.

“Master?”

Anakin sounded so scared even as he took a tentative step forward, his hands fisted into the hem of his tunic. Obi-Wan wanted to rush to his side, to comfort him as he’d once done so many years ago. He wanted to run, to flee from the face of this apparition — the ghost of a boy who’d chosen to become a monster because he’d failed as a Master. He wanted to fall to his knees and weep: for this boy, for himself, for the scores of Jedi massacred to mark the end of an unjust war. For the galaxy being crushed under a Sith’s oppressive thumb. For the children of his former student, who would be called upon one day. Who would lose friends and family alike as they worked to dismantle the bloody legacy left to them.

He almost didn’t notice when his legs gave out, choking on his own ragged, wet breaths as Anakin cried out, alarmed, and ran to his side. Obi-Wan flinched away from those small, calloused hands when they reached for him, curling into himself as he struggled to breathe, but his Padawan was nothing if not determined.

He gasped when Anakin’s fingers brushed his arm, searing his skin through three layers of worn fabric. Whined when they traveled up to his shoulder, and hissed, a pained and wounded sound torn from him when Anakin pressed the palm of his hand to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck. Slowly, with a care he’d rarely seen in his Padawan, Anakin maneuvered himself in front of him, hunched and twisting as the hand on Obi-Wan’s neck pulled until he’d knocked their foreheads together.

How long had it been since he’d sat so near another sentient being he trusted? Since he’d been touched so familiarly? Kindly? Luke, perhaps. Little more than a toddler, freely affectionate with the man who’d carried him across the stars and sands to the home he’d remain in.

Obi-Wan didn’t settle. Didn’t calm. His breathing hitched and every inch of him shook so hard he thought his bones might rattle right out of his skin. The stinging bite of fresh tears lingered in his eyes and every limb was weighed down with the same deep exhaustion that had dogged him since he’d left Luke with the Lars’ and lost the only source of immediate responsibility he might have distracted himself with. He did, however, reach forward. Brushed his fingers over the front of Anakin’s tunic and felt the rough material, caustic and abrasive against the suddenly sensitive digits.

“Are you—” Obi-Wan swallowed painfully, his own saliva turning to grains of coarse sand. “Is this real?” he asked, whisper soft and broken. “Are you real, Anakin?” His padawan pressed harder against him in response, puffing out an incredulous breath.

Obi-Wan wondered if he’d melt from the heat of his brother-friend-Padawan’s touch, as skin-crawling as it was a burning, aching comfort for all it seemed to set him further on edge.

“I’m real,” Anakin said, voice strangled. Obi-Wan could taste his fear. Felt it soak into his skin and curl around his heart. “I’m real, Master, I promise. I’m here. I’m real.”

“Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s voice cracked on the name as a sudden desperation washed over him, urging him to reach out further. To pull and clutch and hold his Padawan as close as he could, breathing raggedly against his short, brown hair as Anakin hid his own face against his neck, letting a few tears soak into the collar of Obi-Wan’s tunic. He rocked them both, letting Anakin hold on to him as to him as fiercely as he did his Padawan.

An eternity might have passed there between them as Anakin cried and Obi-Wan babbled — apologies and reassurance and a half dozen other words he’d meant to tell his Padawan over the years tumbling clumsily from his tongue — until the intensity eased, leaving them tired and tangled up together against the room’s cool wall. Obi-Wan let his eyes slip closed, just for a moment. Let himself soak in his brother’s presence, young and bright and much too old to be held like this, half asleep and slumped over him. But he didn’t let go.

He brushed his fingers over Anakin’s hair, short and bristly except for the bundle tied back into a short nerftail, and breathed in the citrus scent of the hair products his Padawan had favored those first few years in the Temple. Leaning his head back against the wall, he let himself drift into his thoughts. Into the Force. Out past the confines of the room, through the halls, and across the Temple, jaw clenching as he felt the bright, living presence of hundreds of Jedi. Thousands. So many his head spun.

His breathing hitched, and he wrapped his arms a fraction tighter around his Padawan. Strained to squeeze his eyes closed harder until he saw blurry, red shapes dance across the darkness behind his lids.

It felt so real.

This. His Padawan. The sights, smells, sounds, even the taste of the Temple’s chill air. Anakin had said he was real. Obi-Wan had squeezed him, had him currently in his arms safe and close and whole. He shuddered, exhaling a wavering, wet breath.

Perhaps, he let himself hope as he drew back to himself, it had been a vision. A warning from the Force — a life lived in the span of a few hours’ sleep. He let the thought comfort him, burying his nose in his Padawan’s hair as sleep slowly claimed him.

Obi-Wan woke in a room he recognized, the sweet, tangy scent of citrus thick in his nose, so vivid he could practically taste it. He exhaled one long, slow breath, letting himself savor it for a moment longer, and opened his eyes to bright light, sandy-colored walls, and the sweltering, suffocating heat of Tatooine’s long, dry days. His fingers curled into the rough, thin, ragged bedroll he’d all but tossed himself into the night before. Alone. Utterly and completely alone.

For the first time since his family were slaughtered at the hands of his student,

Obi-Wan wept.

[tabbyrp]

@goodlawman

Cont from here [x]

Investigating a homicide didn’t fall under the marshal jurisdiction but protection did. When news of the second murder of a bartender made it into the paper and a pattern emerged instead of a possible singular issue between the first victim and the one committing the murder, Raylan started to hover in the background of Tabby’s workplace, finding a booth or table to work at to stay out of the way but still keep an eye on her. Not only was she his CI but in the time they’d known each other, a bond had formed and like hell anyone would bring harm to her.

When the third murder occurred and the state police were still at a loss, Raylan insisted on seeing Tabby home every night she worked and wouldn’t hear otherwise. It was how he wound up putting chairs on top of tables that night after closing while Tabby finished up some tasks in the back. Momentarily distracted by a text from Beth, he wasn’t aware of another presence nearby until something forcefully twisted the outer doorknob and the mechanism fell to pieces. Raylan slid his gun from the holster, taking aim at the doorway about where the heart of a man of average height would be. Quicker to adjust that way.

The light night breeze brought the scent in before the arrivals appeared, most normal to his heightened sense of smell except the hard to describe scent underneath it all. While he couldn’t put it into words as well as he might other things, he still knew it immediately - death. A particular scent for a particular creature that woke with the sun’s setting, one that he shared enough commonality with and yet the unique circumstances of his resurrection made for some differences from. Raylan prayed Tabby stayed in the back a few more minutes while he dealt with the situation.

Four of them in all but only one familiar face. Raylan’s lip curled up in disgust as the other vampire threw open his arms with a laugh. “Well as I live and breathe, if it ain’t my old friend Sheriff Bullock. Guess that shot I got off wasn’t so lucky after all, huh?”

Lucky enough. If it hadn’t been for Beth - Rebecca - finding him in that alley and the choice of paths given to him in the afterlife, well, that may have been a different story. One in which he wasn’t standing there on this night between the door to Tabby and his murderer.

George tilted his head towards the door, the smile growing. “How ‘bout you join us for dinner and we all catch up?”

The door into the bar’s kitchen smashed open hard enough that later he was surprised it stayed on its hinges, the two tumbling across the floor until they smashed into the stainless steel counter, Raylan ending up on top. George snarled up at him, flashing fangs, and Raylan drew back his fist, promptly nailing the vampire hard enough across the face to leave a horseshoe imprint on his face.

He caught Tabby out of his peripheral vision just before he landed another hard jab, taking advantage of a stunned George to get up from the floor and grab the bartender’s arm, pushing her ahead of him towards the door that would lead out the back. “Go! I’m right behind.”

For perhaps the first time in their friendship, Tabby obeyed Raylan instantly. She did not argue, like she had when the marshal first commenced his nightly vigil. She did not bombard him with questions, even if a simple ‘what the hell is going on’ may have been justified considering the guy Raylan had body slammed possessed crazily sharp incisors and a remarkably high pain tolerance. Instead, she ran. 

Long used to getting outside with hands full of weighty trash bags, Tabby slammed into the metal touch bar and the exit door swung open in turn. There was never enough light in the small car park to the rear, the need for a stepladder to replace broken bulbs enough of a reason for it to be relegated to the bottom of the task list. She was aiming for her car, a beaten old truck redeemed by a cherry-red paint job, when the painful awareness that her keys were in her backpack, which was sat safely in her employee locker.

Tabby faltered, a half-turn to her head as she thought to ask Raylan if they were taking his car. Maybe they should aim for the street. Or the fence to the rear. It had been a sizable number of years since she had been forced to scale a chain-link fence, and even Mr Long Legs behind her would need to climb rather than jump it, but there was a good range of alleyways to hide within on the other side.

In the pair of split seconds she debated, a loud metallic clang caused Tabby to startle. Then a figure rose from the bed of her truck, the noise suggesting that it… she… had somehow launched straight into it from the shadows. Running would only bring Tabby closer and she skidded to a halt. Stocky and weathered, with hair that dropped in waves to her shoulders, the woman curled up a lip, revealing even in the darkness another glistening fang.

“Take another step and I’ll break her legs.” Empty eyes stared part Tabby to aim at Raylan, each word carried a feral hiss and the cold certainty that not only did this lady mean it, but she had the capability to make good on the threat. Something what would have been ludicrous thirty seconds earlier, if Tabby had not witnessed Raylan leave an imprint of his ring in someone’s face. “I hate it when the heart is running like a jackrabbit. Makes the blood bitter.”

“Fuck you, psycho.” Tabby’s answer came before she could even question the wisdom of provoking an apparent serial killer. The mere existence of one within spitting distance was enough to turn her soul to ice. One of her deepest-set fears brought to life. But she hated being terrified, let alone confused about what was going on, and wilful defiance felt a better option than meek compliance. Plus, it did not matter the track records this woman and her pals inside had against bartenders. They hadn’t come up against Raylan Givens before and Tabby would always bet on him.

[shimmershae]

Sometimes logic is the most, I don’t know, logical thing to apply to a situation.

Because Daryl Dixon has shown every*damn*body who his number one priority is this season.

He’s dropped wholeass conversations and pretended like people in front of him were all but invisible to meet Carol Peletier halfway on a dock when her ship come in and sweep her up in his arms and off her feet in the most exuberant and happily relieved hugs ever and essentially ignored the rest of the people loitering around because his vision narrowed strictly to her.

Right before that, he blew off discussions and scouting trips to investigate whether the latest big bad threatening the communities’ safety had returned in favor of waiting for her ship to come in and he continued to blow the whole situation off to get Carol alone for some quality just Carol and Daryl time.

Knowing the Whisperers were still out there, he still daydreamed of escaping to somewhere new and leaving everybody behind—everybody except Carol because she’s the only person he can envision actually escaping for and with.

The man made her a friendship bracelet and flirted and blushed in her presence like an awkward dork with a crush.

He expressly told Carol he needed her to stay.

He bodily restrained her from taking a second shot at Alpha when the bald baddie taunted her and he looked past any misgivings he might have had to tell her he believed her about the Whisperers nobody else had seen but Carol.

Before that, he came running when Carol screamed his name in that old school and fat chance convincing me he didn’t help carry her injured ass all the way to the same infirmary that he waited outside of like a worried husband.

He’s made her dinner trays with flowers, looking out for her physical well-being when she’s been lost in her ongoing grief and he felt powerless to help with it.  

His thoughts, this season, have rarely strayed from her and his eyes have been open and watching out for her because he wants to be her safety net while she’s been struggling so very much with Henry’s loss and her consuming need for vengeance. I mean, granted. Daryl Dixon is no fuss, no muss pretty much 24/7, but have y’all ever seen a man get his ass ready that quick to follow a woman without some kind of promised benefit to him? Yeah. Naw.

He did his version of getting the Dixon flirt on again when they were tossing acorns at a can—because they be cutely competitive af.

Daryl Dixon when teased by Carol Peletier about whether his budding friendship with a sweet and seemingly perfect fellow community member could be more?  Deadass told her with utmost seriousness and sincerity that it wasn’t like that—not at all.

And then proceeded to pocket the double capper acorn Carol gave him as a good luck charm right over his heart and later gaze at it longingly in the privacy of his own room.

When they were doing their good cop/bad cop routine with the captured Whisperer, Daryl only really lost his cool when the Whisperer made some lewd and disrespectful comments to Carol.

The man has argued for her to sit the more potentially dangerous missions out and remain in the relative safety of Alexandria.

When she went along anyway? Again she was his primary focus. So much so he stopped her from walking into a literal trap, called her on her bullshit, and comforted her when the tears come in a way that honestly? Daryl Dixon has never really shown the inclination to do. By thumbing her tears away from her cheeks, hugging her tight and nuzzling her hair while telling to tell him. To open up to him with her feelings and her fears. And that they “have a future.”

Carol was so much in his sights on that same mission that he immediately recognized when her attention strayed and sent their group running after her into the unknown.

He followed, of course, and Carol’s name was the only name that ever passed from his lips. She was the first person he sought out in the darkness. The first one he encouraged to follow him to relative safety.

When her claustrophobia reared its ugly head, he was the one informing others so that they might offer their own comfort and he didn’t stand a second for Magna getting all up in Carol’s face.

He asked Carol to follow his light when her claustrophobia had her frozen. Everybody else, including a dear sweet deaf woman and her sister—also losing her hearing, were told to follow his voice. 🤦‍♀️

He let Kelly’s ass somersault at his literal feet and gently tugged Carol to safety.

He followed her back into that dark cave and pleaded to her with tears in his eyes and emotion tightening his voice to come back with him and he was all about getting her to safety when that faulty dynamite slipped.

Daryl Dixon didn’t even look back to make sure any of his other friends and community members had made it out of that cave until he knew Carol Peletier was a safe distance away.

Try convincing me his ensuing emotional breakdown wasn’t just as much, probably more about Carol breaking her recent promise to him to think more clearly and be more cautious. Helpful word of advice? Stop while you’re ahead.

Instead of scouting out an alternative way back into the cave to possibly rescue C0nnie and Magna later? The man tried to singlehandedly take on the source of so much of Carol’s grief—Alpha herself, when he so recently discouraged Carol from such a lone wolf action—and ended up seriously injured as a result.

Back at Hilltop? In spite of the hurt he felt, Daryl told Carol perhaps the truest truth there is when he said “I’m never gonna hate you.”

During this same time frame, he made little reference to the two people lost at the cave. Not because he doesn’t value their lives because he does. But he values the community’s overall safety more and the only times he’s ever been shown to blink in that regard? It’s always been because of Carol Peletier.

After the fall of Hilltop, when he and Negan crossed paths and Negan alluded to Carol as Daryl’s girlfriend? Daryl doesn’t even blink. And whereas before, the safety of the community mattered more? The man chills with someone he deadass hates waiting patiently all night for Carol to come back to him. Let’s not even talk about how many hours he probably paced and waited inside Alexandria’s gates.

So. Who do y’all suppose has been Daryl’s number one priority all damn season? Huh?

I’ll give you three guesses and the other two don’t count. Just for giggles I will demonstrate who it ain’t by giving a basic outline of the kind of focus her bond with Daryl has gotten.  

At the beginning of the season, Daryl was on his way down to the docks to wait for Carol’s boat to come in with he crossed paths with a new friend and Dog happily sought out pets because what Doggo of any salt or intellect will turn down pets from a pair of kind hands that have fed it before?? Daryl and this friend shared a cute little two second convo that was interrupted and abandoned with his first sight of Carol waving at him like he was her sweetheart there to welcome her home and this friend basically ceased to exist from that moment until her sister went missing for a short while.

Daryl, already being present after accompanying Siddiq to Hilltop and caring about the overall welfare of the communities and such, helped in the search for Kelly and even told this new friend a funny story about his own (departed) sibling as a means of comfort and gave her hand a reassuring maybe two second long squeeze.  Honestly?  There were so many echoes of his friendship with Denise when I see these two together.  So many.  But I digress.  

Once Kelly was found and safe, Daryl’s attention reverted back to form and he didn’t linger at Hilltop.  They had a weird little interlude where I still can’t figure out whether she was trying to butter him up to keep her own family’s secret or was genuinely welcoming him as a fellow found family member.  

Anyhoo, their paths didn’t even cross again until they did a combined search for Alpha’s horde and Lydia and Daryl acknowledged her with a shoulder tap to get her attention—I mean, he was approaching her from behind and she couldn’t hear him so.

What little bit of interaction they had in the cave basically came about because of Carol and I gotta tell you. The man deadass forgot she existed when he was trying to help get Carol out of there.

We’ve already kinda covered what I thought about his reaction to the cave in, but I will say this. Leave y’all with a little food for thought: if Carol was underneath those rocks, can any of y’all logically see the man leaving there for any reason short of Judith and RJ being in immediate danger?

Can you? Because I can’t.

If they had managed to tear him away even briefly, his ass would be right back first chance he got. And suppose he’d run into Alpha in the meantime. I don’t think he would have attacked her until he found a way to get to Carol. Naw. That attack was all about Carol (and maybe Lydia) from the word go. Else Daryl would have been smart and patient and found his way in that damn cave to mount a rescue.

You know why?

Because logic. The story’s shown us the way this season. Logic and history. A whole ten fucking years of history.

Daryl Dixon can’t lose Carol Peletier anymore than she can lose him.

Only in the absence of all logic can anyone ever think differently.

Explains a lot, huh?

And some people are still up in arms over Daryl simply soldiering forward and not having the singular thought of C0nnie, C0nnie, C0nnie in his brain when his communities, his long established found family, and the one person he absolutely cannot lose still need safeguarding.  

I mean, he cares but Daryl done told every*damn*body already.  Take it from the man himself, the reason why.  

“It’s not like that.  Not at all.”  

I know logic isn’t really this show’s strong suit, but in this case?  The story has been leading us to one logical conclusion all season, and I don’t think it’s the one that some people out there are prepared to accept.  I mean, yeah.  I’d feel some kinda way, but.  

[yodawgiherd]

Insecurities

>>>Read on AO3<<<

Short main fic (anytime anyplace) reject I found while cleaning up my file. As it doesn't really fit where the story is at, and doesn’t tie into it, I could either delete it or post it here, and I decided for the latter. It's definitely "canon" in the AU tho o_o Hope you'll enjoy it :)

“So, what do you fear? “

From her perch on the dorm bed, Mikasa shot Eren a slight frown, and he shrugged innocently in response. Well, she supposed that he had the right to know, considering that she just woke him in the middle of the night by violently shoving him off the mattress they shared together, screaming. Mikasa sighed. She wasn’t used to this yet, the bed sharing, but she liked it. Most of the time, it helped to keep the nightmares at bay, but tonight was an exception, sadly, and the dream sneaked its way through Eren’s embrace and into her mind. In just those two weeks that they were together, her life felt so much brighter, and she hoped that this little accident won’t push her newfound boyfriend away. Then again, if he survived the failure of their second date, he could most likely handle a night of ruined sleep over her bad dreams.

“Why do you want to know?”, she asked, curious, “Planning on scaring me?”

A smile appeared on Eren’s face, just a small twitch of his lips.

“Of course not, I’d just like to understand you. Whatever is going on in those dreams of yours, it’s an important part of who you are.”

He fell silent, most likely waiting for her to start, but Mikasa wasn’t really feeling like talking. She just woke up from another terrible dream, in the middle of the night, and her brain was still dealing with that unpleasant reality. Instead of voicing her concerns, she bent forward, intertwining fingers with her toes, letting her hair cover her face.

“Look,”, Eren began, seeing her unresponsive, “it’s not hard to guess that your dreams have something to do with your parents, right?”

Honestly speaking, Mikasa didn’t even know why she told him about her past on their first date. Bringing up the tragedy of losing your family to someone you just met was unusual, weird, especially for someone as silent as her, but Eren just made her open up, talking to him was natural in a way she didn’t truly understand. Well, now she had to deal with the consequences. With a sigh, she nodded, just a tiny movement of her head, but he caught it.

“I don’t always have them.”, still not feeling brave enough to meet his inquisitive green gaze, she kept watching her toes, “It just happens from time to time, I can’t help it.”

“I don’t blame you, I have nightmares myself.”

She peeked up at him through the curtain of her hair, curious.

“You do?”

“It's about my dad.”, Eren leaned back in the chair where he retreated after being forcefully evicted form the bed, eyes studying her posture. He reminded her of the therapist she went to, years ago, when Levi tried helping her with those dreams this way. But therapy has no chance of working if the patient doesn’t want to, so after a few sessions of her stubbornly staring at the floor and not opening her mouth once, her brother gave up. Then again, she never had those warm feelings in her chest when she looked at the professional, but Eren made her spine tingle.

“It’s always the same. I’m standing on the ground, in the middle of nowhere, and there’s a plane flying over my head.”, he took a shuddering breath, as the topic was not exactly pleasant, “I know, I just know, that there’s my dad in there. Then suddenly, the plane starts falling, and there’s nothing I can do about it. So, I just stand there, and watch, as it goes down, spiraling until it crashes and explodes. Then I wake up.”

Mikasa didn’t even realize it, but she covered her mouth with one hand during his story, staring.

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t have it that often anymore,”, Eren shrugged appearing indifferent, “I got used to it. Kind of.”

But it was forced, this unnatural calm and Mikasa could see the pain behind his eyes. Dulled, maybe, but still present. If anything, she surely owed him her nightmares, now that he shared his own.

“I don’t really remember much,”, she began, “but I know that’s its always cold, and dark. There’s blood on the floor, and the bodies, but I can’t see their faces. Luckily.”, extending one hand, she closed it, fingers curling inwards, “I’m holding something, and it’s warm against my skin at first, but as I sit there, listening to the quiet, it always gets colder over time, until it’s like ice in my grasp.”, her breathing became agitated, “And I’m scared to trace the thing in my palm because I know what it will be, it’s always the same. It’s my mother’s hand.”, dropping her arm, she redirected her gaze back at her feet, a singular tear falling on the tips of her toes. “I usually wake up then.”

Eren didn’t say a word. Instead, she could hear the shuffling of his clothes as he stood up, and soon after the bed dipped under his weight as he sat down next to her. The arms that wrapped around her body were warm, and she leaned into the hug, closing her eyes as she rested her head on his shoulder. The remnants of the nightmare finally gave up, and their cold fingers disappeared underneath the warmth. It surprised her, but it felt good to share her demons.

“Mikasa?”, he asked, waking her up a bit. She hummed in acknowledgement, not feeling like talking right now. “You told me your secret, I told you mine. It’s good to get that off your chest, no?”

She just hummed again, burrowing deeper into his embrace.

After a few minutes, Eren cleared his throat, making her look up at him. The boyish smile that she liked so much was there again, as he ran a hand through his disheveled hair.

“I was thinking since we aren’t sleeping anymore, maybe we could…. practice?”

It wasn’t hard to guess what he was implying. And while it might look stupid and insensitive, to suggest something like this, it was exactly what Mikasa wanted. There was only so much that talking could achieve, and the feeling of his body against hers, to know that this is real, not the nightmares, that was something they both craved right now.

“Again?”

“Why not?”, I mean, we are still far from perfect and…”

Both to silence him and her laughter, Mikasa climbed into his lap, straddling his waist as she kissed him, aggressively. Maybe there were better ways to spend your night than sleeping. She just had to make sure to watch her teeth, that’s all.

Those downtimes between classes were always the worst. It was bearable when Armin could hang out, but most of the time his friend was unavailable, as his breaks were on different times than Eren’s. Just perfect. Like, what exactly could you achieve in an hour? Eren usually just ended up wandering around the campus, sitting down somewhere to review his notes, or meditating on the futility of life and whatnot.

Today was the first day he found himself in front of the gym, looking at the entrance. Contrary to the masses, he didn’t even come here to work out himself, but rather to meet someone who spends almost all her waking hours here, in her own words. Pushing the door open, he had to admit that the room was in a rather good state. The walls seemed freshly painted, the air inside was kept cool through the ventilation system, and the music was silent enough to offer the beat the gym-goers were most likely looking for. Eyes darting around, he searched for the object of his interest, only to find her in front of the punching bag, going wild at it. Her hands were a blur, the leather was creaking, and Eren couldn’t help but wonder what all those guys from elementary school would say, with the whole “girls can’t fight” shit. Mikasa seemed immersed too and didn’t even notice him, taking a step back to put a few well-placed kicks to the sides of the bag. Satisfied with her performance, she took a break, putting her hands on her hips and breathing deep.

“You could kill a man with your punches.”, Eren stepped in, making her turn on her heel with a surprised expression. He grinned “You do them so fast, it must feel like getting a shot when you hit someone.”

“Eren.”, she shook her head, but she was smiling too, those dumb jokes making her feel giddy, “What are you doing here?”

“You said that you will be here, and I had some time to kill so…”, he shrugged, “can’t I come to see how you work out?”

“I mean, sure, if that’s what you want. It’s just that I was expecting someone else, that’s all.”

“Oh, a secret lover in the gym.”, with a fake expression of anger on his face, Eren scanned the room, working his muscles, “Where is this rascal?”

“Stop that.”, Mikasa poked him in the chest, unable to hold her laughter in anymore, shoulders shaking, “It’s my brother. I usually go out of the campus to his gym today, not here, but he’s got some paperwork in the city, so he said that he’s going to drop by.”

As on cue, another man appeared behind Eren, short and grumpy, looking him up and down.

“Mikasa, who is this guy?”, he arched an eyebrow, disbelief in his voice, “Your new sparring partner?”

“No, no, of course not, this is Eren, he’s my….”, she was nervous, fidgeting a bit, “friend, just friend.”

“Just” friend? Wow, that one stung.

“I see.”, Levi seemed to lost interest in Eren, turning back towards his sister, “Get to the ring, let’s see how much you slacked in your training.”

But while Mikasa was climbing up, a hand bunched up in Eren’s shirt, and the man pulled him down to his height, with unnatural strength, staring right into Eren’s eyes.

“Listen, “just friend”, I want you to know that If I ever hear that you’ve done anything bad to my little sister, I swear to god that you and I will have private sparring, between my fist and your face. And if you ever make her cry,”, he moved even closer, growling the words in Eren’s ear,” I’ll cut your balls off.”

With that, he released him, and followed Mikasa into the ring, as if nothing had happened. Right, Eren thought as he was straightening his clothes, seems like Levi didn’t buy into the friend thing much. Checking his watch, he saw that he still some time, so he leaned against the wall, watching the two siblings fight.

Hours later, when he was done with his classes and picked up Mikasa from the gym, they were walking through the darkened campus hand in hand. The air was clear, the evening quiet, and her hand in his warm, but still, the little friend thing just kept circling inside his mind.

“Mikasa?”, he began, “Can I ask you something?”

She liked the way Eren pronounced her name, how it rolled off his tongue. Her name wasn’t even that hard to say, but in her life, she met a ton of people who tried impressing her by adding that weird -h at the end of the -ka-, or by using the Japanese honorific – Chan in the end. She didn’t like either of those things. Not to mention those smart assholes who called her Gothkasa, because combining your name with your fashion style is soooo smart, right? Not even mentioning the girl who kept asking if she is sad, since all Mikasa wears is black. That one dubbed her Raven. But Eren didn’t do anything like that, he said her name exactly as it was, and she did enjoy the sound of it.

“Sure.”

“Back in the gym, why did you tell your brother that we are just friends. I kind of thought that we are … more … by now.”

“We are! Of course, we are.”, she squeezed his palm a bit tighter, pulling at it to make him stop and turn to face her. “I just never had a boyfriend before, and Levi came out of nowhere,”, she sighed, “I was surprised, and I didn’t want to break it to him like that.”, she looked up, blushing slightly, “Are you mad at me?”

As if he could ever be mad at someone as cute as her, with his red scarf wrapped around her colored cheeks.

“Nah, not mad. Your brother is a scary guy, I understand.”

“True that.”, she sniffed, “he’s the toughest midget you’ll ever meet.”

With Eren still being silent, a bit of suspicion entered her tone.

“Wait, did he tell you something? Eren?”

“Nah, nothing.”, to stop her grey gaze from staring at his face so inquisitively, he brushed the ends of formerly his scarf from her mouth, pulled her closer by the silver cross around her neck and bent down to press a kiss to Mikasa’s lips. “You still owe me one, friend.”, he murmured when they paused, and she pinched his bicep in retaliation, before surrendering to the sensation. They both still had a lot to learn in that area, anyway.

“Tell me a secret.”

“Secret?”, Mikasa half turned in his arms, watching him over a shoulder, “What secret?”

“Something about you, a thing I don’t know.”, Eren grinned, hiding it by burying his face in her hairline, “Something you wouldn’t tell just anyone.”

“Oh?”, a tiny frown appeared between her fine raven eyebrows, “And why should I tell you my secrets, mister?”

He shrugged.

“Think of it as a payment for the friend stuff.”

“I thought you understood!”

“I do, but I still demand satisfaction.”, a hand poked her, under the ribs, “C’mon Miki.”

Mikasa used to hate pet names, despise the way couples called each other as if they were children. But that was before she had Eren, and now she was strongly considering how it would feel like if he called her a kitten. Maybe not so bad after all. Before him, Mikasa never had a pet name in her life, well, if she didn’t count that Levi was usually calling her brat, but she grew to enjoy this little one Eren gave her. It was certain intimacy to it. She was also hyperaware of his touch now, of the arms around her, feeling his fingers through the fabric of the shirt. Sure, he touched her before, and she liked the way his palms roamed up and down her body when they kissed, even the few times he got lost in her and traced her shape all the way down to her ass. Mikasa usually stopped him there, for now, but overall, she was very satisfied with how his touch felt.

“You want to hear a secret.”, she cooed, putting her hands on top of his, both to press him more firmly against her skin, but also to stop him from moving. Eren sometimes tended to be more adventurous than she was comfortable with.

“Pretty please.”

“All right, well I got one.”, it was awkward, but she couldn’t think of anything else right now. So, she took a deep breath. “I used to hate my breasts.”

That silenced him for a moment.

“Your…. breasts?”, he queried, unsure if he heard her right.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

“Because they are useless! Useless weight! I mean…”, she turned around, watching his face for a change. Eren’s cheeks had a slight blush in them, but he met her eyes with a small smile, clearly interested in hearing her explanation. ”I was flat as a board when I was a kid. So, when the puberty started, and things began to…. expand, it bothered me. I know that I’m not big either way, my, uhm, chest, is small compared to other girls, but suddenly, there were two bags of fat on my chest, completely fucking up my balance. Out of nowhere, I was being forced to wear a tight bra just because otherwise my tits would bounce all over the ring when I train.”, she looked down, over the place where her shirt was raised, “I used to bind them you know.”

“For training?”

“No, for everyday life. I didn’t want them.”

“Oh.”, Eren could see that it was a sensitive topic for her, the way she saw her body, and he felt happy that she trusted him enough to share it with him. “Well for what it’s worth,”, Mikasa looked up, and he couldn’t miss that the way those few strands of hair got into her face was downright adorable, “I think that your chest is beautiful.”

She started laughing, on the cheesiness of it all, small simpers escaping her lips, so he kissed her to stop it from blowing into a full-blown explosion, and before either of them realized what was happening, she fell on her back, pulling him right along. With Eren on top of her, his hands roaming all over her sides, mouth sealed against hers, all their long weeks of training were paying off. Comparing the first time they kissed, and the second, third and a lot after that, which usually ended up with either of them laughing, losing breath, or doing something that the other didn’t like, this was much better. She knew now to open her mouth for him when he nipped at her lower lip, and to push her tongue against his, licking into his mouth, not caring how obscene sounds it was making. It felt good for them both, and that was the only thing that mattered. Considering that she was doing her best to remember the things he liked, Mikasa was rather surprised when Eren pulled back, sitting up. Did she bite his bottom lip too hard again?

“Miki…”, he began, before she could ask what was wrong, “Could I….”, suddenly she realized that his hands left her sides, and were now toying with the hem of her shirt. Eren swallowed, obviously not sure how to proceed, although it was rather easy to understand what he wanted to ask. Her face was already red, from all the kissing and stuff, but now the color must have been on par with a tomato.

But why should she deny him? They were taking it slow already, and there’s a difference between taking things slow and not moving forward at all. Just a few seconds back, she was thinking about how good Eren’s touch felt, so why would this be any different? With a mortified expression, that didn’t do justice to how she felt inside, she nodded.

Eren’s eyes went wide when he saw her agree to his proposition, but he wasn’t one to question his good fortune. Yet even with her agreement, he could feel the light uncertainty that covered Mikasa like a blanket, and he wanted that feeling gone. So instead of going right to his prize, he lifted her shirt by just a few inches, bringing her muscled stomach into view.

“I love those.”, he pointed out, tracing the shape of her abs with his fingers. They didn’t even look real, more like a sculpture, made by an ancient Greek master, the way they perfectly stood out beneath the skin. But unlike marble, Mikasa’s skin was warm to the touch.

“Why?”, she frowned down at him, “It’s just muscle.”

“Nah, it’s much more than that.”, willing to see just how much she would let him do, he dipped his head to press a kiss to her firm midriff, loving the way the skin shivered beneath his lips. “It’s proof of your dedication. Show of your strength. It’s admirable and gorgeous at the same time, just like you.”, he murmured in-between gentle nips, making Mikasa’s breath hitch in her throat. She never saw her stomach as beautiful, just useful, but the way Eren genuinely seemed to enjoy spending his time down there, it made her wonder if perhaps her torso is aesthetically pleasing after all.

But he couldn’t just spend the whole night admiring her abs, he was on a mission. With just slightly trembling fingers, he started pulling the hem of her shirt further up, eyes darting between the increasing amount of revealed pale skin and her face, to notice the moment she changes her mind and tells him to stop. But she didn’t. It was mesmerizing, watching her body come from underneath the fabric until the bottom of her chest finally came into view. They were home, relaxing after school, and Mikasa ditched her bra as always, so the shirt he was currently lifting was the only cover. With a last peek to her face, seeing her nod again, Eren held his breath and pulled upwards, with finality. The instinct to cross her hands over her chest hit Mikasa hard, now when it was bare to him, but she held herself back, fisting the bedding instead.

“Holy shit.”, Eren breathed out, running his hand over his face.

“That bad?”, Mikasa could feel the old insecurities knocking at the backdoor in her mind, the same that made her roll those bandages around her breasts, every morning before going out, that made her angry when she felt the extra weight on her chest anytime she breathed. This was a mistake, she shouldn’t have done this. Now he’s going to….

“Bad?”, the word was choked out, as Eren still had trouble controlling his breathing. “Bad?”, he repeated in disbelief, not sure why in the world would she think that, “No, it’s not bad. It’s fucking wonderful.”

“Huh?”, she asked, not sure if she heard him right.

“Whoever told you that you look bad Miki?”, he wanted to get to the bottom of this, even with his brain working on about ten percent of its capacity.

“Well…”, no one told her anything like that, now that she thought about it. Then again, the only people in her life to saw her topless were her mom, her doctor, and now Eren. The only thing the doctor said was that she’s a healthy female, as one can expect from a professional, and if mom ever said anything, Mikasa didn’t remember it. All those doubts were her own.

On top of her, Eren was having the night of his life. Sure, it was the twenty-first century, he saw boobs before, with internet, TV and everything, but it was the first time he got to see a pair live, and there was quite a significant difference. Mikasa’s chest was rather small, but with next to no excess fat on her body, what could a sane person expect? Honestly, Eren didn’t care about that one bit, she was perfect just the way she was. The perky, firm shape, the flawless skin, the darkened area around her nipples, that all combined to make her breasts one of the prettiest things he ever saw. He found himself wanting to touch it, to feel it beneath his fingers, but just as he raised his hand, Eren realized that starting to grope her might not be the nicest thing to do to Mikasa right now. That was until she spoke.

“You can t-touch me.”, she answered his unspoken question, words unsteady, eyes wide and watching his every move.

Carefully, he put one arm down, tracing the shape of her chest with his fingertips, paying special attention to the underside, where he just found out she was ticklish.

“H-Hey! Stop that!”, she squeezed out in-between the giggles, squirming beneath him, but her voice betrayed that she didn’t want him to stop. Continuing in his exploration, Eren worked his way all around the breast, cupping it with his hand and thumbing the nipple lightly. It was amazing, to find something so soft and squishy on Mikasa’s rather toned body, so he gave it a few testing squeezes. In conclusion, it felt pretty damn good. Overcome with a sudden urge, Eren leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to the top, right in the middle of the peak, which in turn made Mikasa gasp and quickly pull her shirt back down. All right, playtime was over, but Eren was immensely satisfied, nevertheless. Her breathing was shaky, a very light frown on her face, as she sat up, pushing the hair from her face.

“Couldn’t help myself.”, Eren reached out, hoping that his sudden show of affection didn’t offend her too much, and was pleasantly surprised when she took his hand, intertwining their fingers. Not too mad then, all good. “But Miki, let me tell you, your chest is god damn perfect. I love it. And my opinion should count for something, after all, I’m a certified FBI.”

That gave her a pause.

“FBI?”

“Female Body Inspector.”

With a tug, he pulled her to himself, and together they tangled back on the bed, mouths once again combining amidst the laughter. And for the first time in her life, Mikasa was glad that puberty changed her the way it did.

[uraharasandals]

How about a fluffy (or perhaps smutty) scenario where the reader comforts Akutagawa in regards to the shit Dazai put him through? I want my edge Lord to realize that he doesn't need Dazai's praise because he is amazing and beautiful on his own. Make our boy feel loved 💜

Uhhh, so this kinda got out of hand at the end, but I hope you like it! I have a terrible grasp of Akutagawa's personality AND how his fluff would manifest with a partner but somehow I appear to write fluff with him the best? Anyways enjoy! 

   Lazy July afternoons were the epitome of bliss. It was a brief window of time in which the world wandered by without a care, in which, as the sun sets and tendrils of sunlight trickled through the window, the summer heat gets into everyone's head and frankly, no one has the energy to do anything except take a nap. 

   And that was precisely what you ended up doing. Cocooned in a nest of blankets and nestled in a warm bed with the air conditioning on full blast, there was no other place you would like to be right now. Add to the fact that Akutagawa's body temperature was a default freezing, it was a nice past-time for a summer afternoon; it was as if you had no care in the world. 

    Shifting across the blankets to find a cooler spot, you were about to fall back into dreamland when you heard a wince from Akutagawa. Normally you would have ignored it and went back to sleep, but the moment there was a tight grip on your arm draped across his abdomen you knew something was wrong; Akutagawa may be hostile to touches from time to time, but he had never stopped you in the middle of something. 

   "Are you okay?" Alertness started coming to your brain, though it was still slow; there was still a hint of sleepiness coating your tone as you sat up, taking care not to brush against him, lest you trigger something else. You weren't sure what had happened, but you guessed it may have something to do with the scars blooming all over his body. He had willingly exposed himself to you once, when you dressed a flesh wound on his chest, and noticed the network of criss-cross scars, as well as what looked like small punctures on his skin (quick research made you realise that those were bullet marks, and you were shocked at that). Experience taught you that scars tend to leave ghost trails of pain even long after the wounds have closed, and judging from the extent of injuries Akutagawa suffered from, your accidental brushes might have forced a dizzying wave of pain back into his system. 

  "Fine." Despite his words, you could see the flash of pain that went across his face, and you sighed. "I'll go get some painkillers; wait here." As you prepared to - unwillingly - get out of bed, Akutagawa caught at your hand, managing to hold onto your little finger, giving a small tug; this was a clear sign he wanted you to stay, so you did, though kicking the blankets away to watch over him properly. 

   A quick glance at Akutagawa's face made you realise that it was no longer contorted in pain anymore, and he was just lying there, as if contemplating something. You raised your eyebrows at this, but said nothing, letting the silence be broken by occasional splutters of the air conditioner and the spilling of sunset into your bedroom; the sunlight fell short on his face, but illuminated his cheekbones and eyelashes, startling you with the seeming display of youth. 

  Had Akutagawa really been this young? His mannerisms and speech frequently persuaded you otherwise, but after you reasoned that there was no way you would've chosen someone notably more mature than you, you realised that he was. His time in the mafia had hardened him; his mentions of his superior, a man named 'Dazai', reflected to you a certain degree of hardship and torture he was subject to in the organization, which would likely have forced him to grow up as well.

  For that moment, you found yourself bearing hate for a man you haven't even met, much less having a grasp of his personality. 

  "What's wrong?" You were the first to break the silence, as always; the words escaped from your mouth quietly, as if you didn't want to break the sudden tranquility in the mood. The singular moment that took your eyes to meet his was enough to catch you off guard, and another insistent tug made you fall back onto the bedsheets with a small groan. Before you knew it, his eyes were inches away, the tip of his nose - cold - brushing against yours, in a distance close enough to kiss. Heat crept up your cheeks, but you forced yourself to maintain eye contact with the man in front of you. Then, he opened his mouth and a single statement tumbled out, "You're too fragile." 

  "Says you?" Eyebrows raised, you ran the pad of your thumb lightly down the hidden scar on the column of his neck. Immediately, he gave a small wince. "Since when did strong and tough mafiaso get triggered by scars, I wonder." You shouldn't tease him like this, cruel words with a sarcastic edge, especially not about his scars, but you couldn't help it; the more you thought about who inflicted those on him, and how he still suffers from them, the more you feel anger rising within you -- and somehow you had decided to take it out on him. 

   The effect told hold -- too well, you thought bitterly -- and his eyes narrowed at you, the fire kindled within them again. Just as you were bracing yourself for the onslaught of Rashomon, he suddenly deflated, and guilt crossed his face. "You were right." 

    "I - I am?"

    "Yes. If only I was as strong as Dazai-san - " 

     His words were immediately cut off. Akutagawa's lips were still freezing beneath yours, which sent a shiver down your spine, but it was worth the surprised - or what passed for surprised - look on his face as you pulled away. "What was that for, _________?" 

     "You're already strong enough, Ryunosuke." You probably shouldn't, after a narrow escape from the tiger's fangs, but you reached up and wrapped your arms around his neck, where another criss-cross patch of scars sat. Luckily, he only stiffened under your hold. "Remember? Otherwise I would've died." Untangling an arm, you pulled down a corner of your shirt to reveal the thin strip of white skin tissue running across your shoulder, shivering slightly from the sudden exposure.

      His face was hidden from view, but you could feel his icy fingers fluttering above the wound hesitantly. "The bullet...." One of Port Mafia's enemies had decided to take down Akutagawa - their so-called 'trump card' -- sometime ago by kidnapping you, his dearest person, holding you hostage, and intending to kill him as soon as he showed up. Little did they underestimate their power, and he had wiped them out in a matter of seconds, though one last brave attempt by the sole survivor had left you a souvenir dangerously near your neck; a true shot that missed thanks to Akutagawa. "Does it...still hurt?" 

      "A little." You admitted, and was about to pull away from him when you felt a pair of -- still freezing -- lips press onto the wound. An embarrassing gasp escaped from you as your hands tightened around his neck, which turned into a moan as he diligently worked his way up the column of your neck, ending with a sharp nip right behind your ear. "R-Ryunosuke!" 

      "And aren't you just like me, __________." You thought he was mad, but a look at his face revealed the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his mouth. "At least I wasn't the one attempting to be strong," You huffed, sitting up. "I, unlike a certain someone, know my boundaries." 

      "Do you?" 

      Akutagawa, magically, lost the staring contest. 

      "Anyways, I was serious about what I was saying earlier, Ryunosuke." You leaned back against the headboard, shifting a little to let him have some sitting room next to you. The fading sunset traced out a line of sunlight right across his shoulder, which ran across the scar on your still exposed shoulder. "You don't have to compare yourself against anyone else because you're already strong enough." Reaching over, you clasped his hand, feeling your warmth bleed into his. When he attempted to open his mouth -- no doubt the beginnings of an argument -- you immediately cut in. "Especially not against Dazai-san. I don't care how good he might be, he'll never be you, Ryunosuke." 

       "Me." There was a hint of bitterness underneath. "What about me?" 

       "You're amazing." You shifted closer to him, and began to pick your next words carefully. "You were able to survive his training. I don't think anyone else would've been able to do that so well. You also have proof to show for it, see?" Bringing his hand up, you started tracing his scars. "The fruits of your success." Turned over; the star-shaped paleness inside his wrist. "The proof of your hardship." One jagged line running up his arm and disappearing into his shirt. "The - " 

       "Was that the prelude to your testing my resolve?" Somehow, you found yourself pinned underneath him, his knees holding your legs firmly in place; his ankle dug sharply into yours, but the suddenness somehow made your brain register only the proximity of his face from yours, allowing for a tiny 'oh' escaping from your mouth. 

        "I didn't - " A small voice at the back of your mind was reminded vaguely that this scenario had played out only seconds ago, but they soon faded into nothing as his tongue worked roughly against yours, forcing its way into your mouth and effectively cutting off the stem of words you were about to say. "If that was a test of strength, I would say I passed it successfully, no?" Mind still spiralling into a whirlpool of confusion, you barely registered his words and the fact that his fingers tilted your head so that your eyes bore into his, which had turned dark. 

       "Or do you need more proof of my so-called power*?" 

         Brief note: Because the word for 'power' and 'strength' in Japanese can be used interchangeably, Aku could also have said 'strength', which may have another meaning ;) 

[thelioncourts]

title: the mannequin gallery fandom: captive prince pairing: damen/laurent rating: mature words: 5366 for chapter six (6/?); 35387 all together

Damen was almost certain that his dream had been a pleasant one. There wasn’t anything all that concrete he could hold on to in memory of it, but he recalled lots of sunlight and the smell of freshly baked bread. He would have liked to have continued in that dreamworld for a few more hours, but it had been interrupted by a sudden –

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The person at the door, Damen first thought upon hazily waking up to the sound, must have a death wish.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Still too asleep and too caught up in trying to remember if the warmth from his dream had been from the sun on his skin or the warmth of an oven, Damen couldn’t even process a second coherent thought yet. Instead, he groaned. It was that overly loud kind of groan someone might do after not having used their voice for a few hours. Then he turned his face into the pillow, willing the person on the other side to magically disappear.

Knock knock knock.

“Damen.” Nik groaned too, his groan somehow sounding more frustrated in its tone than Damen’s own. “If you don’t answer that right now, I will not be responsible for the murder I commit.”

Damen ignored Nik for a moment, flipping over onto his stomach and bringing the pillow up and over his head so it muffled the sounds from outside.

Knock knock knock.

With yet one last groan, Damen threw his legs over the bed and stared blearily at the red lights of the alarm clock on the joint nightstand between the two beds. 5:47. When there was again another knock knock knock, he finally stood up and shuffled his way across the room.

Damen really was normally hard to frustrate or anger, but exceptions could be made for ridiculousness such as incessant knocking before six in the morning. It’s why, as he crossed the floor and flung open the door whilst rubbing sleepily at his eyes, he didn’t even have anything particular he planned on saying to the person on the other side, he was just going to say whatever came to mind. And, if he had actually stopped to think about that before he did it, he would have probably tried to stop himself because he was (rightfully) pissed off and nothing good ever came from greeting anyone while (rightfully) pissed off and –

After he pulled the door open, it took his sight a moment to adjust and come to the realization that it was Laurent DeVere standing outside his hotel room.

Laurent, very much unlike Damen, appeared to have been up for some time already. He looked impeccably put together, a black peacoat falling just below his waist and leading down to black pants and black shoes similar to what he had been wearing the other evening, and his eyes – blue and bright – looked perfectly awake.

“Hi,” Damen said dumbly, a total one-eighty in his voice from what he had intended.

“Were you planning on sleeping the day away?”

It took Damen a moment to react, but when he did, he squinted as though trying to make sense of conversation. “It’s not even six in the morning.”

He realized they were talking too loudly, and he began to whisper in courtesy for the old woman staying in the room next to their own. Damen and Nik had run into her once or twice as she gallivanted from party to party, and she was quite a firecracker.

“I thought I was giving you two a grand tour of my city today. So unless you plan on wasting my time, I suggest you put on whatever you consider clothing and come get a coffee so we can begin,” Laurent said, already turning and walking back down the hotel hallway.

“But what about –” Damen began to call out after him, but Laurent didn’t turn around and Damen didn’t want to yell anymore. With a heaving sigh, he closed the door and went back into the room where Nik was sitting up on his own bed, his hair a mess of darkness and his mouth pulled in a sleepy frown. Then he flopped back onto his pillow and gritted out, “Please tell me I didn’t hear who I think I heard.”

[Continue on AO3]

“Laurent asks that we go downstairs and meet him for coffee immediately,” Damen said, already rummaging through his bag and pulling out some clothes.

“Well Laurent,” Nik started, “can begin to learn that not everything has to be done on his pompous self-regulated schedule. I’m going to need at least half an hour.”

“I’ll buy you whatever you want if you say that to his face,” Damen said with a laugh. “How about I go right now so he doesn’t go on some kind of diva-freakout, you order a cappuccino from room service, and he and I meet you back here?” Damen offered. He flicked on the bathroom light and Nik groaned again.

“A cappuccino sounds really nice right now.”

Damen’s morning routine was simple enough. He jumped in the shower for no more than five minutes, and then he was out and brushing his teeth, combing through his hair, and drying off best he could before pulling his clothes on. It didn’t matter to him if his hair was still wet before walking out the door because he never did much to it anyway; his curls had a mind of their own.

Laurent was waiting for him. Well, actually, Laurent was waiting for them. Watching the door for a moment, Laurent turned to Damen with a delicately quirked eyebrow.

“Your friend not coming?”

It hit Damen, suddenly in that moment, just how odd this situation was.

Not even a month ago, Damen had been entirely in the dark about Nik’s attempt to begin something professional with his photography and now Damen was grabbing coffee, alone, with a model he had met sporadically over the course of three days so said-model could show them around Paris.

But if Laurent found it odd, he didn’t show it. Instead, he waited for a response.

“He’s just waking up,” Damen said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “He’s going to order a cappuccino from room service and then we can all meet up.”

Not missing a beat, Laurent didn’t say anything else, but began to walk, his demeanor full of an arrogance that Damen would simply follow. Damen did.

The streets were relatively empty of people and it allowed Damen to pay attention to the things one missed while dodging foot traffic, like the intricate designs on buildings, on the flowers just beginning to bloom, on the way the wind snuck through the gaps between buildings and rustled his hair. But with such a leisurely walk at hand, Damen found his attention wavering to the stranger at his side.

It was a confirmation to Damen that Laurent was a thousand times more beautiful without anything on his face. His outfit wasn’t attention-getting, his hair was simplistically done, and yet he was impossible to look away from. In fact, without anything deterring one from looking at only him, Damen found that there had never been anyone he’d ever seen with such effortless allure. (Nik would tell him right now he was biased and always weak when blond hair was involved. Actually, Nik would probably tell him just that at some point today.)

Realizing he was staring (a horrid habit he seemed to have mastered since arriving in France), Damen asked, “Do you go get coffee this early every day?”

“Nearly,” Laurent answered, not looking in Damen’s direction. “Mornings are often quiet. I try to enjoy them unhurried.”

Before Damen could comment back, something about how his and Nik’s mornings were often hurried in trying to visit entire cities in a week or less, or how the only time they got coffee this early was when they were already at the airport for a before-sunrise flight, Laurent was turning and walking through the doors of a cafe.

It was a small place, unsuspecting with its glass doors with gold handles and a handful of tables both outside and inside. The tables were black, as were the chairs, with only the smallest of gold decorations on them. The counter to order was also black, and very tall, and it was all so very much like how Laurent dressed himself, so very much opposite of how Etoile did anything Damen had seen yet. Damen couldn’t help but smile.

The baristas here seemed to know Laurent too, reacting warmly to Laurent’s ‘Bonjour.’ Without even needing to order, Laurent paid for whatever they were already preparing. After his own ‘Bonjour’ and weathering the curious gazes of the two baristas as they looked between him and Laurent, Damen ordered un petit café. Laurent grimaced visibly.

“What?” Damen asked after paying.

“It tastes like what I would guess gasoline tastes like going down your throat,” Laurent said. He motioned to where the barista was pulling the singular shot of espresso into an espresso glass, the crema on top sleek and shiny.

“It’s not that bad,” Damen said. Just then, the second barista handed Laurent his drink. It looked to be un café crème, a latte-like drink of espresso and steamed milk. Damen couldn’t help but notice the pile of sugar cubes next to the glass.

They took a seat outside, per Laurent’s lead, and Damen watched as Laurent took one of the sugar cubes and dipped it into his café crème just long enough for the sugar cube to take on a light brown color before popping it in his mouth.

“You like sweet coffees, I take it?” Damen asked. His espresso was warm in his hands.

Laurent hummed and took a drink. Damen wondered, briefly, if he was using the coffee to wash down the graininess of the sugar cube or if he was using the sugar cube to continue to sweeten the coffee he was drinking. “I was in New York for fashion week a few years back and tried this horrid sugary concoction they tried to pass off as coffee. It was a double-shot of espresso in a pool of chocolate and caramel, shaken with milk and ice, and topped with whipped cream. It was delightful. We don’t have anything quite like that here.”

“I’m pretty sure something like that would be considered blasphemy.”

“Very un-Parisian in every way,” Laurent agreed. He popped another sugar cube into his coffee, then his mouth.

It got quiet for a moment. Damen sipped his espresso and his mouth puckered at the taste. He had heard that Parisian coffee wasn’t up to par with expectations, but having spent as much time in Italy as Damen had in his life, he had a coffee-tuned palette that was displeased greatly with the drink in his hand. Across from him, Laurent was looking out at nothing in particular. This close, and with the newly shining sun facing them, Damen could make out the length of his eyelashes.

“So,” Damen began after it started to feel awkward, after he couldn’t help but shift around just to do something that wasn’t sip on espresso and stare at Laurent, “why are you doing this?”

“This?”

“Showing me and Nik around.” Damen paused as though thinking about what he was going to say. In reality he was waiting for Laurent to respond. When Laurent didn’t, Damen continued. “I’m not trying to sound rude, but you don’t exactly seem the type.”

That got a smile, however small, out of Laurent. “You don’t say.”

This time Damen did wait while Laurent, unhurriedly, took a drink of his coffee.

“I hadn’t been lying when I said that this would keep my uncle off of my back. Every year I spend weeks enduring his demands that I participate with his Paris’ Got Talent search photographers and every year that I don’t, his patience wears thinner. Over time I’ve chosen at least one photographer to,” he did air-quotations with the hand not holding his cup, “‘get to know’ for a day so that I can’t be lectured when I abandon the Friday luncheon early.”

“You’ve done this a few years?”

“Of course. It didn’t take me that long to figure out what to do to appease him.”

“And what made you choose Nik? Why not choose Guillame or someone else?”

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself,” Laurent began, leaning back in his seat and crossing one leg over the other. “Guillame is a mumbling and weak little thing. Had I approached him about anything he would have pissed himself before he could find words. Hendric had other matters to attend to. Those matters, of course, being one of our makeup artists, Genevot. Talik and I would have had more conversation with a brick wall than each other, and Jeurre is a friend of my uncle’s and I am tired of old French men who are friends with my uncle. That, you barbarian, is how I found myself stuck with your friend and, in turn, you.” He paused to take another drink. “You two may be social media celebrities, but nothing could be easier for me than giving you a tour of the city I’ve spent my entire life living in.”

Damen ignored the jab about being a social media celebrity. “Alright, that’s fair enough.”

After running their dishes back indoors, Damen waited for Laurent to get off of his phone so they could go back to meet Nik. While walking, Damen found himself saying, “I don’t understand why you want your uncle off of your back so badly though,” before he could stop himself. He might as well have not said anything at all though. Laurent didn’t react.

Nik was ready and outside by the time they arrived. He had his camera in hand and was taking advantage of the emptier streets like Damen had, only he was using the opportunity to snap photos of Paris in the soft morning light. There was no acknowledgement from him that Damen and Laurent had gotten there but instead, like it was instinct, he turned the camera to Damen and Damen simply talked.

They fell into their normal routine.

“Routine” was probably an extravagant word for what they did. The reality of it was this: Nik occasionally had Damen move around and they chatted while Nik took photograph after photograph after photograph. Damen had learned a long time ago he couldn’t just stand there, it was too awkward, too forced. This “routine” allowed for Damen to not feel like he was doing something fake while also allowing Nik experience with a moving subject. It’s what had built Damen’s Instagram, these candid photos taken while Damen sometimes talked about the most mundane of things, like what he wanted for dinner or that tomorrow was leg day.

They chatted about nothing in particular at this moment. Damen asked how the cappuccino was, Nik said it was shit. Nik asked how the espresso was, Damen said it was shit. They discussed how shit French coffee was and how the next time they were in Italy they were going to drink espresso by the gallon. It wasn’t until the sun had completely risen over the horizon that they both remembered Laurent.

Laurent had been completely silent as they had gone on about like the day was any other day in a new city. When they both turned to him, he was leaning against one of the many columns of the hotel awning, his expression almost amused. Then, with a bored tone, he asked, “Are we done here? Or are you planning on standing outside of your own hotel the entirety of the day?”

On foot, they were able to witness how the streets gradually became busier with bustling herds of people off to work and tourists wandering in every direction. Despite the growing population around them, they could have easily gotten to wherever Laurent was leading them in a short amount of time, but Nik was stopping every five steps to take a photograph of something new. After about twenty minutes of this, Laurent finally let out a huff of annoyance. Damen was pretty surprised he held himself back that long.

“If you would stop taking pictures of every godforsaken lamppost in the city, you would find we are but a street away from something actually worthy of attention.”

In front of them was a building that looked to be made from the mind of Lewis Carroll. It was the polar opposite of everything else along the walk of the now very familiar Rue de Rivoli street, namely for the faces from a Steampunk world that stared out at every passing Parisian and tourist, beckoning them to come inside its bright yellow front door.

Laurent didn’t say anything. He waited while both Damen and Nik walked the outside of this odd building to take in the colors and the signs and the flowers made of metal hanging off of its railings and when he decided they had had enough time, he wandered inside. Upon entrance was a spiral staircase littered with hundreds of writings in mostly French, but there was also English, Arabic, Spanish, German, Mandarin, and Korean that Damen could spy along the way down.

Nik found a painting on the wall to their left, a painting of realistic gemstones glittering between the bones of a stark white skeleton. Next to it was a painting from the election in 2010. Next to that was a drawing of a school desk covered in various graffiti.

“What is this place?” Damen asked, his head tilted up to take in the paper airplanes hanging from the ceiling.

“59 Rue de Rivoli. Otherwise known as the Aftersquat,” Laurent said. He began descending the spiral staircase. “In the late nineties, three artists broke into this building. It had lain abandoned for nearly fifteen years and they had decided it could be put to much better use. Thus, it began to become what it is today, a set of artists’ studios.”

Damen and Nik followed, their eyes trained on the walls. There was every kind of art style imaginable along the way. Damen wasn’t an expert, but he recognized pop art and realistic art and abstract art. There was art that looked like it could have belonged in an old church, its style Renaissance-esque and Biblical. There was traditional and modern Japanese art as well as minimalistic art. It was overwhelming to the senses and yet entirely captivating.

“This place is insane,” Nik breathed, his eyes caught on a painting of a woman staring into a lake at her own reflection.

“It is French counter-culture at its finest,” Laurent said.

They were walking by a room that they realized quite quickly wasn’t a room at all, but an open artist studio. Laurent continued on, but Damen and Nik both stopped to peer inside when a man who had been staring at the doorway stood up from a desk and came out to the hallway far too excitedly.

“Laurent!”

Laurent turned to face the man, his face unreadable. “Torveld. I didn’t know you were still here.”

“I took a two-year sabbatical from the studio to return home for some time, but I couldn’t stay away. Paris has too much beauty to leave behind,” the man, Torveld, said. His face, unlike Laurent’s, was entirely readable, full of adoration and awe at Laurent’s presence in this place. “It is wonderful to see you again.”

“You as well,” Laurent said. “I assume since you’re back you’ll be meeting with Charls soon. He still adores your work.”

“I very much hope so. He’s great to work with and he does work with the most beautiful of models in all of Paris.”

Damen and Nik were standing somewhat to the side, quietly taking in Torveld’s blatant flirting. Nik gave Damen a look that said he was making a silent prayer in Torveld’s honor.

“Charls is wonderful, I’m sure you two will create something just as stunning as the last time,” Laurent smiled. “I’m sorry to rush off, but I did promise these two a tour and we’re already horribly limited on time.”

“I apologize,” Torveld said with surprise in his voice and even a little bit of laughter. “I’m being rude. I am Torveld Patran, one of the artists here in the Aftersquat. This is my third year of residency.”

“Damianos Vallis.”

“Nikandros Kyroi.”

Torveld motioned to the camera in Nik’s hands. “Are you one of the photographers for Etoile’s show this year?”

“Yes. Rehearsals start next week.”

“What an exciting time. Etoile truly houses the best Paris has to offer.”

“So you’ve said,” Damen chimed in.

Laurent was already down four steps toward the next level, and he threw a dismissive wave in Torveld’s direction as an end to the conversation and Damen and Nik did the same, their curious eyes focused on Laurent’s retreating form.

“This is the level that, I believe, will interest you the most,” Laurent said. Around them were photographs layered upon one another like they were pages in a book instead of art on the walls. There were black and white photos to the left and colored photos to the right, all of a variety of subjects. Nik, nearly in a trance, immediately wandered to the photos of a desert near the top of the right wall.

“You seem familiar with this place,” Damen said in reference to the building and its inhabitants as he watched Nik with a smile.

Laurent hummed. “Charls, Etoile’s designer, loves this place. A few years back he was here looking for inspiration for Paris Fashion Week and met Torveld. Torveld’s art is painted on fabric. Charls adored him and had me come meet Torveld as well and to compare Torveld’s art with my skin and my hair and so on. That year, it was no surprise the designs were based upon Torveld’s own. But I came to enjoy this place more than most.”

“Why?” Damen asked. Laurent turned to look at him, his expression unreadable once more.

“My uncle despises this place.”

Damen was going to respond, but just then Nik called him over to point out a photograph of Pulpit Pit. They both brought their phones out to pull up their own photos from that trip which had, of course, involved some very fun rock climbing at a different and less touris-filled area of the Rogaland region. While they talked, Nik began to take pictures of the room, of Damen, of the view down the rest of the open spiral staircase. Like at the hotel, they fell into what was natural for them and only when they remembered they weren’t alone did they stop to face Laurent who was leaning against one of the photograph-covered walls.

“I’m not used to not being in front of the camera,” Laurent said.

“Sorry,” Nik began, fumbling with the camera as if trying to figure out if he should put it down or turn its lens toward Laurent.

“It’s quite more relaxing on this end. Perhaps you can fill in for me during Fashion Week,” Laurent said, angling his head in Damen’s direction.

‘I could fill in a lot if you’d like,’ Damen found himself thinking before he could help it, but, luckily, he bit his tongue. Nik threw him a glare as if he knew what was running through Damen’s mind.

They wandered through every floor of 59 Rue de Ravoli with wide eyes and a camera ready for anything. Damen’s favorite art was a section of one of the walls on the fifth floor that was made like an ancient Greek creation, all inlaid with gold and people with straight noses. Nik kept wandering back to the floor with all the photography and even had a good chat with an artist that showed up around nine in the morning. Eventually, after they had seen a lot and not even a quarter of what was there, they exited out of the multicolored side of the door to leave.

The streets were busier at this time, but in the earliest days of March it wasn’t near as busy as it could have been such as in the summer. Laurent didn’t miss a beat in walking out of the door and onto the streets, and he began walking toward wherever he had set his mind to go. Like before, they would have gotten there earlier if it hadn’t been for Nik only, this time, it wasn’t really Nik’s fault. A group of (assumed) friends across the street were struggling in getting a group photo and when they saw Nik’s camera in hand they yelled across the way, causing quite a scene, to ask for a few pictures of them together.

“We’ve never been to Paris,” one girl stammered out, looking stressed.

“And we don’t know if we’ll ever get to come back!” another girl said.

“And selfie sticks can really only do so much,” one of the boys said too.

After a shove on the shoulder from Damen, Nik obliged and thus began an actual friendly photoshoot in the middle of a Parisian street just after breakfast. Eventually, after everyone seemed content with at least one photo each, Nik was freed and turned a slightly worried look to Laurent who must have been horribly irritated. But Laurent was on the phone, listening, not talking, and after it became evident he wasn’t going to get off of the phone with whoever he was on the phone with, Damen and Nik wandered up and down the street, taking pictures with beautiful and colorful doors, with script written signs and tiny alleyways, with clothing store fronts and bakery food items.

“What are you doing?” came Laurent’s voice out of the blue. Now he looked impatient. His right foot was angled out in front of him, the heel firmly planted on the ground almost as though he would begin tapping his toe against it at any moment.

“Waiting for you,” Damen said. Nik burned a hole into the side of Damen’s head with his stare. If Damen noticed it though, or cared, there was no sign. He looked at Laurent, meeting Laurent’s gaze without any kind of challenge. Laurent didn’t react. After a moment he said, “Let’s go,” and began walking as though all of this had been his plan the entire time.

Damen and Nik followed, or tried to anyway. It seemed as though Laurent was determined to have them tour the entire city on foot in a handful of hours with the pace he was walking. It was exhausting, Damen thought, as he tried to look up and around at the blur of buildings.

Damen spent a lot of time looking up. Whenever they travelled, which was always, he walked with his head and eyes up, taking in the way the sky set against unique skylines, taking in the way locals casually went around to their familiar spots, taking in the way that atmosphere felt around them. Right now, all of that was impossible with the worry he had of listing Laurent in the crowd or tripping over unknown grounds.

It was Nik, unsurprisingly, who finally forced them to come to a halt. There was something on a wall that caught his attention, and it was as though his camera gravitated to it without his own action.

It was impossible to miss, truly. It was exceedingly large, especially for its placement not but three-quarters of the way up on a wall, and it protruded from the wall at least a meter, casting large shadows all around. Its gold and black coloring shined on the plain beige of the wall it was on, but most striking were the gold figures. A man with a sword, a dragon, a crab, and a rooster, all made of hammered gold, stood under the watch of a round and golden clock. The hands of the clock were still, stuck, and people rushed by it without a glance.

“What is this?” Nik asked, already taking pictures.

“The Defender of Time,” Laurent said. He was staring up at it with something almost sad in his eyes. “It’s a clock. It hasn’t worked in years.”

Nik was moving so he was facing away from the sun, allowing his camera to pick up on the glint of the gold, on the shadows on the ground. “Why hasn’t it worked in years?” Damen asked.

“The funding for it ran dry. It’s expensive to keep a mechanical clock of this magnitude working.” He paused, his eyes scanning over the craggy landscape, over the gaunt face of the man with the sword. “It hasn’t worked since 2003. I never got to see it running, but my brother had apparently loved it.”

“What did it do exactly?”

“On the hour, the man would fight one of the three animals. Each animal is representative of something, those somethings being the ground, the sky, and the sea. It would depend on which animal the man was fighting, but each fight was accompanied by sounds, like the earth moving, the wind howling, or the waves crashing. But then three times a day the man would have to fight all three creatures at the same time.”

“You said it was a funding issue that turned it into this?” Nik asked. He was scrolling through the photos on his camera already. Laurent nodded. “Why not just fund it yourself then? You seem to enjoy it.”

“I’ve never seen it, how on earth could I enjoy it enough to spend money on it?” Laurent asked back. Then he was walking again, not sparing a glance for the Defender of Time.

Nik kept lagging behind, eyes catching on statues, on buildings, on people, and on light, and Laurent looked as though he wanted to be anywhere but here. Damen, picking up on that, did what he did best: talked.

He watched Nik change his angle around an extravagant statue of a man on a horse before asking Laurent, “How exactly did you get into modeling?”

“I was thrown into it,” Laurent said.

“Thrown into it? I thought you wanted to do it,” Damen said, recalling a conversation with Laurent’s uncle from days earlier.

“I did ask to do it, yes. But I never intended on it being my life.”

“But –”

“The wants of a thirteen-year-old are far different than the needs of one. I was too young to know what I needed.”

Damen knew there was a furrow between his brows, knew that whatever was about to come out of his mouth was going to probably piss Laurent off, and yet he asked, “Then why do you do it?”

Laurent finally looked at him, eyes scanning the expression on Damen’s face as though looking for something. “It’s what I know.”

He said it so simply, as though it made perfect sense, as though there was no other option at all and Damen was stupid for even asking such a question.

Damen was struggling with what to say, or ask, next. There were so many things running through his head, namely things that seemed to contradict one another, and he didn’t know where to start. Luckily, or unluckily, for him, Laurent had the next question already sorted out.

“You don’t know about my family, do you?”

For once there was no maliciousness or superiority in the tone of his voice. He sounded curious, his eyes trained on Damen’s face as though still looking for something, though Damen had no idea what.

Damen didn’t want Laurent knowing about his midnight-Googling, of the way his brain couldn’t put together that Laurent was the son of the slumped over bodies of Aleron and Hennike Devere.

“No.”

The word sounded strange coming out of his mouth. Laurent huffed, the sound almost a laugh. “Well you’re not from France so I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Content to keep adventuring, Nik joined them and broke the heavy tension. They began walking again, this time at a more leisurely pace, but eventually the need for food after a coffee-only breakfast made Damen’s stomach rumble in the middle of an alleyway where the sound almost reverberated off of the walls.

“We’ll want to get him food,” Nik said, still shuffling through photos. “He’s insufferable when he’s hungry.”

Damen didn’t argue. “Any recommendations?” he asked Laurent instead.

“Café de Flore is just around the corner.”

To say Café de Flore was busy would be an understatement. Damen was about to suggest something more casual so they wouldn’t have to spend most of their time awaiting their seats, but Laurent was known by the hosts who saw him and said something in French too quiet for Damen to hear. Before he knew it, they were being shown their table.

Nik asked for Damen to get him water before following signs to the restroom in the back. He took his camera and Damen rolled his eyes; it might be a few minutes before Nik was finished photographing every window and light fixture in the cafe.

“Do you come to this café often?” Damen asked Laurent who hadn’t even picked up his menu yet.

“I haven’t in a few months, but, yes, usually I’m here at least once a month or so.” His eyes were trained on the tablecloth, almost as if he was remembering something, before he said, “This was my mother’s favorite cafe in Paris. She said she used to come here almost every day when she first moved to the city.”

“Where was she from?

Laurent actually smiled, though Damen couldn’t for the life of him figure out what he was smiling at. “She was from Sweden.”

“My entire family is from Greece. Mostly from the same city and everything. It must have been nice having two different cultures to grow up within.”

Laurent hummed. “I suppose. Being in Paris, having a French father, and having him immersed in French politics made it oftentimes feel like a singular, all-consuming culture. But my mother did her best to take away some of the seriousness at times.”

“I wish I would have had something like that growing up,” Damen said, but he didn’t sound bitter.

“Was your mother as serious as my father?” Laurent asked. The corner of Damen’s mouth quirked.

“My mother died giving birth to me, so I never met her,” Damen said. There wasn’t any sadness there, feeling and being as removed from it as he was, but it changed the atmosphere in the room. “And my dad was quite serious. But,” he started, trying to change the atmosphere back to what it had been, “my brother’s mother was always kind to me and I feel lucky enough to have had her.”

“How old were you when your father remarried?” Laurent asked.

“Very young. Maybe two? But my brother, Kastor, was already around, had been since before I was born. And his mother had always been in the picture as well. So nothing really changed when my father remarried.”

This time, it was Laurent who had a furrow between his brows. He was just about to say something, ask something for clarification, when Nik came back to the table, just catching the tail-end of the conversation.

“Are you talking about Kastor?” Nik asked with blatant dislike in his voice.

“Yes, Nik,” Damen said with a sigh.

“Damen’s family has more drama than any show you’ll watch on television,” Nik said as he slid into the seat next to Damen. “His dad got Kastor’s mother pregnant back in 1984. Mind you, he got her pregnant while married to Damen’s mother, Egeria. Egeria stayed. Theomedes, Damen’s dad, was part of Kastor’s life and, in turn, Kastor’s mother’s life during all of that. A decade later, Egeria became pregnant and died. Then Theomedes deemed it okay to marry Kastor’s mother.” Nik stopped to take a sip of the water the waiter had left on their table silently. “You would think with Kastor being a whole ten years older he would be more mature than he is, but –”

“Nik, I don’t think Laurent needs or wants to hear about my family drama,” Damen said, doing his very best to change the topic. But Laurent was resting with his chin on his hand, face void of any judgement or emotion.

“Oh no, do tell. I feel as though there’s a story there and it’s only fair. I have been showing you around my city, it’s the least you could do.”

Damen wanted to argue, wanted to say that Laurent wasn’t showing them around out of the goodness of his heart, but instead he found himself saying, “Nik has always hated my brother so you’ll have to take that into consideration.”

“Damen,” Nik started with a sigh. “You –”

“Here, how about I tell it instead,” Damen interrupted. “My brother slept with my girlfriend while knowing of my plans to propose to her. She initiated it, but that doesn’t make it…” He trailed off at the end.

Both of Laurent’s eyebrows were raised, not in disbelief but moreso in fascination, when Nik said, “And sleeping with Damen’s girlfriend was just the final straw of things Kastor has said and done over the years.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Damen started off just a degree louder so as to speak over Nik, “because I forgave them both, I moved on, and now they’re getting married. Clearly it was the right move on their part.”

“We are not doing this again, Damen,” Nik said.

“I may have to flag the waiter over for a drink,” Laurent said. “Do continue.”

Nik, predominantly, did continue until their food came. He rambled about Kastor’s jealousy, about Theomedes’ unwillingness to come across as having favorites, about Damen’s horrid inability to not immediately trust those he was expected to trust. Damen waved it all off with a dismissive hand, having a reason for everything, and Laurent listened silently but with rapt attention. Damen swore he saw something new in Laurent’s eyes, a kind of understanding of something Damen didn’t know.

Eventually they were off and walking, but not before a very heartfelt goodbye from the host to Laurent. There was something different in the way Laurent was acting now though. He was talking more, pointing out more landmarks and telling their histories with a less guarded facade up and surrounding him. He still wasn’t talking a lot, by no means a chatterbox, but it was as though the things that were necessary, like explaining the meaning behind a building’s title or the reason a gargoyle on top of one of the buildings was missing a bat-like wing came out of his mouth without thought.

He once even laughed – not a long and loud laugh mind you, but a small and quiet yet genuine laugh – as they walked by Jules Lavirotte’s 29 Avenue Rapp and Damen said, “That reminds me of Etoile.”

“I’m not sure if that’s intended to be a compliment or not,” Laurent had said, more amused by that than Damen knew to make sense of.

Eventually, Nik’s instincts had him minding traffic as he crossed the street to ask a woman if he could take her picture. It made perfect sense; she was an older woman, probably in her sixties, maybe even seventies, and she was dressed like the model she most definitely was at one point. The black jumpsuit she was wearing was accentuated by the leopard print scarf that was tossed carelessly over one shoulder. Her red lipstick left a perfect ring on the cup she was drinking out of. She, unsurprisingly, relished in a photography session. It was obvious how stunning the photos would look, her backdropped against the cafe with its swirls in its name and its red curtains in the window.

Laurent seemed to be looking at nothing in particular whilst Nik when about doing his thing. Still standing in front of Damen from the position he had been leading them on their tour, Damen could take in the way the wind played with the end of the braid down his back.

“Can you explain this photographer thing to me?”

The question had left Damen’s mouth suddenly, but he knew why he had asked it immediately. It had been something that had been nagging him since this whole thing started, a thing Vannes had mentioned condescendingly almost (“...one of our photographer experimentees,” she had said with a laugh), a thing that, the longer Damen dwelled on it, seemed odd.

“What do you mean?” Laurent asked, not turning all the way around to face Damen, but turning enough so he could see Nik in his line of sight.

“The whole,” Damen paused to find the words, “competition of it. It’s not normal, is it? This isn’t a thing commonly done, having photographers send in applications and having them participate in a week of photoshoots and events in order to decide who should be at the show?” Damen waited for an answer, but when it never came, he kept talking, asked, “Is it a thing your uncle came up with to give unknown photographers a chance? He was a photographer when he first started, right?”

Laurent still didn’t answer right away, but now Damen had nothing else to say or ask. He continued to wait, trying to figure out why it was taking Laurent so long to answer, and when he couldn’t read Laurent’s face, he turned to watch Nik again. The woman was directing Nik around now and Nik did what she said without complaint.

“Etoile used to have its own photographers. Many of them were older, friends of my uncle’s from his photography days. Some of them are still around. But four years ago one of the photographers made an accusation toward my uncle. As you might expect, my uncle was quite displeased. From then on out he decided that finding new people who wouldn’t get the chance to become familiar with Etoile’s ins and outs.”

The explanation came as the last thing Damen expected to hear. He had perhaps expected a heartwarming tale of using one’s position to provide opportunity. He had expected a story of desire to find the best the world had to offer before anyone else. He had even expected a story of corporate desire to save money by hiring more unknowns. And all Damen could think as his brain tried to comprehend what Laurent had just said was what he had heard that first day of the photoshoots:

“Jeurre over there has worked with him before. Jeurre says that at a photoshoot two years ago, Laurent made one of the newer designers cry so hard that he quit on the spot. I’ve heard one of the current designers talking about how Laurent refused to let one of the newest models, one of the newest signees, be part of this show at all and put down his foot until his uncle gave him his way. I also heard another one of the models say that Laurent gets to lead all the shoots because of his name.”

“He’s a spoiled and entitled brat,” Vannes said matter of fact. “Over the years, he’s gotten mouthier, refused to listen to his uncle or the Etoile board on what he needs to do to represent us. He won’t re-sign because he doesn’t want to be told what to do.”

“Oh, yes, appearance-wise he is. But, as I said, the world of fashion is cruel and it made him cruel. I’m sure you witnessed some of his callous behavior.” Neither Damen or Nik confirmed, but they didn’t deny it either. Laurent’s uncle flashed them a sad smile. “It pains me that I couldn’t protect his innocence. I had thought I was doing the right thing in allowing him to choose his path in life but…” he trailed.

“What were the accusations?” Damen asked.

Now, Laurent turned to look directly at Damen and Damen felt horribly assessed as though he had done something wrong.

“Is there anywhere else you two would like to go before I leave you two to your own devices? I’m afraid I have dinner plans I’d like to not be late for.”

Damen looked at his phone. It was just after two in the afternoon.

Nik was joining them again, ruining the chance for Damen to figure out how to push for Laurent’s answer, and somehow took over the conversation. They ended up walking alongside the Seine once more, Nik stopping every now and then to take photos of peoples’ reflections on the water, all while Laurent led them to wherever Nik had negotiated as a final sight.

Eventually they came across a park with closely cropped grass and artfully trimmed bushes. It was the Parc André Citroën. It was fairly busy with people lying out on the grass, with people and their children admiring the water features. But what was most eye-catching was the enormous and unmissable balloon that read Balloon Generali in beautiful red writing.

Laurent was walking toward it, allowing his words to trail behind him with the wind. “This is the Balloon Generali, a hot air balloon that will get you to the second highest point in Paris.”

Damen could tell Nik was excited. Things like this were familiar territory for them, views and cityscapes. Sometimes they got there by climbing mountains and sometimes they got there by ski slope, but it was what they did, what they always wanted to do. Even Damen was dragged into the excitement, momentarily forgetting the uncomfortableness he had felt in that last conversation with Laurent.

They didn’t have to wait long to get on the balloon. Each ride was only ten minutes long and the ride before them had been up for at least half of that when they arrived.

The place to stand in the balloon was essentially like a donut. There was a hole in the center where people couldn’t go as the cable controlled by the hydroelectric winch was there to raise and lower the balloon. Damen and Nik filed in behind Laurent. There wasn’t a lot of room to move forward or back, but there were only a few other people on with them so there was plenty of space to go around.

They weren’t given much warning before the cable began to turn and Damen felt the ground fall out beneath them.

Nik was shoving Damen with friendly and familiar hands to stand where he could get pictures of him. Damen laughed, relishing in the feeling of the wind picking up around them, and ignored Nik in favor of staring out at the sights coming into view. They could see everything and could see more the higher they got. Right near them was the Seine which got longer and longer the higher up they got. Turning, Damen could see the maze of rooftops come into view around them, could see the Eiffel Tower across the way, a beacon for Paris, could see people walking streets and sitting on benches.

The camera was clicking in Damen’s ears as he turned and looked at Laurent. There was a strand of blond hair out of his braid and he was looking out at the city with a kind of contemplation. Damen wondered what it was like to live here, to have been here as long as one could remember, and Damen wondered what Laurent was thinking.

Nik found something else to garner his own attention which was a group of people on a rooftop across the river. He quickly changed a few settings before finding them. Damen knew the photos would be clear they’d be able to see the color of the men’s ties.

Too soon they were landing, the ground finding its stability under their feet once more, and they exited with windswept hair and Nik’s camera still clicking.

“I found something just over there,” Nik said, pointing in a vague direction. “I’ll be right back.”

He was off without waiting for Damen, or even Laurent’s, reply. And as he walked away Laurent shook his head physically. Damen didn’t like it.

“What?”

Laurent turned his cool gaze on Damen.

“Is this truly all you do? Take a million photos in a city and leave just to do the same thing in another?”

The huff left Damen’s mouth, but he heard Nik in his head saying, “He’s a spoiled, entitled, and, again, raging bitch. If he doesn’t like someone, he can and will make their life a living hell. And in this case, that means that if he doesn’t like me, it’s me whose life will be made a living hell.”

“We do actually work,” Damen said. “There’s a lot of planning, a lot of days we stay up until dawn making sure things are the way they need to be.”

“But you simply travel. Anyone with a camera phone and some money could do what you do,” Laurent pushed.

“Then why don’t they?” When Laurent’s gaze didn’t budge, Damen continued. “It wasn’t always like this either. We worked hard for our first year of travelling. And our hard work was enough to get us tickets to places, but not enough to get us in nice hotels or houses. We stayed in hostels, we ate cheap street food to save money, but we were happy getting to do this. Then it gained traction and we realized we would be stupid to not take an opportunity when it was presented to us.” There was a boiling feeling underneath Damen’s skin, one that had been there since the day he had taken in the extravagance of Etoile, since the day he had realized his joke about Nik having to deal with stuck-up high-fashion snobs was a reality and not just a joke.

“Besides,” Damen said, “I don’t have to explain my life to you, and I definitely don’t have to justify it. How is what we do any different than what you do? You stand there and look beautiful. Other people choose your clothes, other people do your hair, your makeup. Hell, you didn’t even have to work for where you are because your uncle owns the place and gifted you with an opportunity some people work years for and never get to have.”

Nik was calling out Damen’s name from somewhere behind, but Damen couldn’t not watch the way Laurent’s face transformed. It was the small things that changed; the subtle raising of plucked brows, the clenching of his jaw, the squaring of his shoulders.

“There’s a restaurant called La Grenouille Bleue around the corner,” he said, voice hard, just as Nik joined.

Without so much as a goodbye or even a snide comment, Laurent turned and left, his head high and his hair moving with each step.

“What was that?” Nik asked.

It took Damen a second to tear his look away from where Laurent had been, where he had just disappeared around a corner with a flash of gold. When he did, he found Nik’s look a mixture of genuine curiosity and What the fuck did you do now, Damen?

“High maintenance models,” Damen said, hoping that would be enough. It wasn’t.

“What did he say?”

That night, Nik fell asleep fairly early. As he had yawned for the seventh time in but a few minutes, he blamed it on Laurent’s early wakeup call and the fact that they probably walked twenty miles. Damen envied him now, watching for a moment as Nik shifted onto his left side. Tomorrow was the luncheon event and it was going to be a long day, but Damen couldn’t get his brain to stop thinking of Laurent. Infuriating and cold and everything his uncle had said.

Unbiddenly, his fingers were typing Laurent DeVere into the search bar on his computer again, almost as if trying to justify his current feelings. The images were all modeling photos, most of them runway shows, and Damen couldn’t help but curse that someone with Laurent’s disposition was so unbelievably beautiful.

The images went on and on, all professionally taken with but a few paparazzi photos outside of the now-known apartment building, and soon Damen found himself adding something to the search bar. He didn’t really know why. Laurent DeVere young.

The photos here were entirely different than the ones he had just seen. In the first picture was a beautiful blonde woman with perfectly styled hair and a small smile on her face. She was holding a bundle in her arms, a bundle wrapped in blue, and when Damen clicked on the image the caption said Hennike DeVere with her newborn son (2000). There was another picture, the one right next to the one of Hennike, of a child that was unmistakably Laurent at the age of seven or so with an older boy ruffling his hair. The older boy was nearly a man actually, probably nearing the age of twenty in the photo and he was looking at Laurent with unbridled affection. Auguste and Laurent DeVere at the UN Council Meeting (2008). There were more photos like those, ones of Laurent hiding from the cameras behind his brother’s broadening shoulders, ones of Laurent holding hands with his mother, and just a handful of ones of Laurent watching his father.

Not long down the list, however, there was a change. Damen saw Laurent’s uncle sitting in a velvet-lined chair, a tiny body in his lap leaving his dress shirt tearstained. Funeral of Auguste DeVere (2013) is what the caption said. There were a series of funeral photos next to that, ones with captions reading for Auguste DeVere (2013) and Aleron and Hennike DeVere (2013).

There was yet another shift, the only photos of it on the first page of results just at the bottom. Damen was sure they continued and were probably the entire content of page two. They must have been some of Laurent’s earliest modeling photos for he looked exceedingly young. His blue eyes were startling and large, trained on the person behind the camera as he clutched the sheer red fabric over his bare chest. Behind him were roses dripping with water and the water must have been on Laurent as well for the ends of his hair were curled and a shade darker than the rest of him. It was clinging to his eyelashes the same way it clung to the petals of the roses.

Laurent DeVere’s first magazine cover, February 2014.

[stillwinterair]

Pretty sure this thing is rife with typos and inconsistencies because I spent way too long writing this and Refuse to proofread, but, some notes from the writers’ room (my brain) on my Personal Mental Sequel Trilogy Rewrite:

On paper, I think the Kylo/Snoke situation as it occurs is really compelling. Killing Snoke midway through the trilogy was a stupid move in the context of the trilogy we got, but could have very easily been made to work well with a few changes... many of which in The Force Awakens.

(This is gonna mostly be focused on Kylo Ren, but in this version of the story he’s far from the focus, it’s just kinda what I would want to see from a villain)

The ultimate goal in my own personal version of the trilogy would have been to make the late-second-act twist (this trilogy’s “I am your father” moment) be Kylo Ren becoming Supreme Leader, and cementing himself as the big bad. But to do that effectively... we have to make Kylo Ren more sympathetic. We have to trick the audience into thinking he’ll come around. As it stands... the movies don’t actually do this. A certain subset of fans certainly think they did, but there’s really no buildup to “Bendemption” aside from a single scene where he’s hesitant to kill his mom, I guess. Other than that, he’s all evil, all the time.

He should still do all the same things: slaughter a village of innocents, torture multiple people, stand idly by as his fascist regime destroys the seat of galactic government. But give him moments of pause before they happen, and feed into the “pull to the Light” with whispered voices calling through the Force, begging him to stop. Every time, he almost listens... but he pushes them away. And every time he pushes them away, something in him changes. He stands taller, grips his blade tighter, and his power with the Force grows a little stronger.

Now, another crucial building block to the twist: move Kylo’s “doesn’t wanna shoot Leia” scene up a movie... and give it to Han.

The scene plays out as we see it in TFA: Han Solo pleads with his son to come home (I would have had them find Luke by this point for the sake of a trio reunion but that’s an entirely different thread to follow). Kylo Ren -- or, perhaps, Ben Solo? -- grips the silent hilt of his lightsaber, visibly unsure. Is he going to submit to his father? Does he plan to kill him?

We don’t find out. Not in this movie, anyway.

A blast rings out. A bolt hits Han in the chest, his eyes glaze over, his fingers drift from his son’s cheek, first slowly, then altogether. He tumbles aside, falling to his death. The camera pans: someone, perhaps Phasma or Hux, is looking down the smoking barrel of their rifle. They salute, then quickly take cover as the distraught and agonized trio of Rey, Finn, and Chewbacca begin firing on them.

Rage fills Kylo Ren’s eyes. He tenses. His lips twist into a twitching grimace. It seems entirely focused on Phasma/Hux. Bands of white-hot electricity trace the lengths of his fingers.

And then it all subsides.

He turns on his heel and pursues our trio, and the film proceeds as we’ve seen it, except again, Luke is also there. I’ll figure out that puzzle piece later.

EPISODE VIII:

Snoke should be heavily involved here, very clearly the puppet master pulling Kylo’s strings. Kylo is clearly haunted, though: those whispers we heard throughout the last movie are growing louder. Who are they? Jedi of the past? The souls of the dead? Anakin Skywalker himself, his spirit shattering itself into a million little pieces trying to push past the jagged barrier of Dark-side energy Kylo Ren surrounds himself with?

But Kylo needs to be less composed in this movie than he is in TLJ. No standing around calmly or stoically, he’s constantly on edge, looking over his shoulder, feeling judged by everyone and dreading it. Kylo Ren is tortured and haunted and it feels like at any moment, the facade will break. Clearly, the source of all his problems are because he isn’t being who he’s supposed to be, right? Clearly he could turn around at any moment and become someone better, right? Right?

Rey ends up before Snoke and Kylo Ren again, because she thinks Ben Solo can be saved, because the narrative is at least putting some work into making us think he can (“he’s haunted by the choices he’s been making, why wouldn’t he turn back to the Light?”). Snoke plays them against each other, yadda yadda yadda, but it perhaps becomes apparent that Snoke has an ulterior motive:

He doesn’t want Kylo Ren anymore. He wants Rey.

He toys with them, makes them duel to the death, but there’s a lot at play here: Snoke wants the strongest to survive, to shape them into a more worthwhile apprentice. Rey fights defensively, refusing to give up on Ben. Kylo is as aggressive as we’ve ever seen him, more conflicted than ever, raging against the voices in his head. Turn away from her, and strike him down, they say. Join the girl, rebuild the Jedi. Come back to Luke. Come back to your mother. The voices are familiar: Jedi from the past, friends who have died along the way. And then a final voice rings out, more ghostly than the rest: Come home, son, says Han Solo, an echo of his soul which has left a stain on the Force surrounding his son.

He knows what he has to do.

The electric currents we saw in our previous episode return, stronger now. The ground around him is charred, ash-black. Years of so-called “Gray Jedi” in Legends jump back to mind: are we actually going to see a Light-sider using Force lightning? you might wonder. All of his energy goes into a singular blast, aimed at Rey...

But it arcs past her, decimates Snoke’s guards. The Supreme Leader stands, shocked and enraged. He challenges Kylo: “You dare slaughter your own allies? You, boy, are nothing but a worm! But it matters not. I never needed you, anyway. The girl will take your place, and you’ll die as they did.”

Snoke attacks, but his mastery of the Force is nothing compared to what comes next: a torrent of lightning from the fingers of Kylo Ren.

The blast knocks Rey back, flings Anakin’s lightsaber from her hands. But when she stands, there’s a smile on her face. She did it. She won. The evil in Ben Solo has been vanquished, the Light has prevailed, and the First Order is finally defeated.

She asks him to come back with her, back to Luke, to Leia, to the Jedi. He can start again, help rebuild, save the galaxy.

He turns back to face her, and his eyes are bloodshot and yellow. He’s seething. He extends a hand, and an offer: join him, let the past die, create something new. Feel the power of the Dark side. There’s nothing like it. There never has been, and never will be.

This is the true Kylo Ren. The first steps of his manipulation were led by Snoke, but it was the taste of power that led him the rest of the way. It seduced him. Consumed him.

We cut back to the lightsaber of Anakin Skywalker, lying on the ground far away. We see Ren and Rey far in the background, standing opposed, but they’re out of focus. The lightsaber is all we can truly see. It begins to shiver, as if being called by someone. Presumably Rey. We cut back.

Rey refuses his offer, refuses the power, tempting as it may be.

“No? Then you’ll die as he did. As all your weak friends will.”

Another torrent of lightning bursts forth from Kylo Ren. But Rey makes no moves to defend or attack: she’s utterly in shock, confounded by this turn of events.

When the lightsaber ignites, it isn’t Rey who’s holding it. It’s Finn. Lightning crashes into it, holding it back, long enough for Rey to regain control, Force-push Kylo, and for the two of them to run.

Rey and Kylo’s Force bond from TLJ is maintained, as is the ending shot of Rey closing the door of the Falcon in Kylo’s face... but with it comes a darkness. The bond is severed. The door has been closed forever.

The twist of the Original Trilogy’s second act was that the villain was of our hero’s blood; in the end, it saved him.

The twist of our Sequel Trilogy’s second act is that the tortured soul we thought might have been a hero, never was one and never could be. You ~subvert expectations~ but in a way that builds the mythos and actually pays off a plot thread. Looking back at all of Kylo’s moments of tortured almost-goodness, the realization hits that he always had a chance and never took it, that the whispering voices which followed him, his pull to the Light, were an annoyance that pushed him the other way.

Anakin, Luke, and Ben were easily corrupted by the Dark. The difference is, Anakin was manipulated, Luke had the force of will to be a hero anyway, and Ben reveled in the Darkness. These are the Palpatine genes resurfacing.

And then in our Episode IX, we wouldn’t [re]introduce a new (well, old, but new to this trilogy) villain in the LAST ACT, but would instead build the story and mythos of one villain throughout the trilogy, off the puppet master when his role is done, and let him flourish as the evil bastard he always should have been. And then the Force-ghost of Anakin Skywalker can show up and basically confirm that he hasn’t been around because he’s been trying for decades to reach his grandson, that it consumed all of his power, etc.

Anyway. This is a lot but we could have had a really compelling villain here but they didn’t do fucking ANYTHING with him

[jpat82]

Sanity

So my sister @devilbat request 21, 26, and 28 form the prompts. I decided to make this part of My Uncle Tony series.

21.) And so, I start another day being kidnapped.

26.)all that blood looks good on you, brings out yours eyes.

28.) why is there a raccoon in the kitchen? And why is it wearing an apron?

     You blew a strand of hair from your forehead as you looked around the small room. The walls a slate grey, a cement floor, an annoyingly bright uncovered over head light bulb that wasn't doing anything to help the throbbing in your head. A singular metal door that had multiple dents. The ropes that wrapped around your upper torso holding you tight to the chair was an ever present reminder that you knowing the Asgardian brothers would no doubt lead you to moments like this. Adding to the fact that your uncle was not only a very prominent man but an Avenger as well, that probably didn't help. But on the bright side at least you had had your back surgery.

     "And so," You sighed heavily with aggravation. "I start another day being kidnapped."

     It had been months, almost a year since your last kidnapping. You had went out to replace the stuff Thor had took while Loki was the distraction from last night. It was the return trip, broad daylight, well some what overcast but still very much during the day. Carrying two bags back toward your upscale apartment, at first you thought you had felt a bee sting you. And naturally you brought your hand up to your neck, only to the brush dart out instead.

     And that lead you to this moment, well actually only a couple moment before this one right here. The blinding headache, the steady small pain throbbing in your neck, and the demeanor of a disgruntled penguin. You wanted to slap whoever thought this was a great idea, this never went the way they planned. However that never stopped them.

     The door creak and all you did in response was raise your eyebrow. A very well dressed man with a neatly groom goatee walked in, his heels clicked against the cement floor. He held his hands behind his back, and you weren't sure if he was the big boss man or just a really well dressed henchman.

     "Asgardains or Stark?" You demanded.

     "Come again, little girl?" He asked with a thick accented voice.

      "Or Romanoff?" You tilted your head slight, narrowing your eyes. "Russian?"

      "What would give you that idea? And why would you think Romanoff?” He questioned, stopping just before you. Maybe if you had the ability to stretch your legs the tips of your toes would touch his black Italian leather shoes.

      "Well, your accent. I know a lot of people, been around a lot of different accents. Comes with the territory. So what do you want with Natasha?”

“It’s not Romanov that we want.” He stated, his lip curling in a sinister sneer. “We want our asset back.”

“Your asset?” You question feeling your brows bunch together.

“Yes, and you, little girl are going to get him for me.”

“Me?” You rolled your eyes taking a deep breath. “I don’t have your asset and this, this right here kidnapping me and holding me hostage is only going to end badly for you.”

“Nobody knows where you are, trust me, we are safe here.” The guy smirked, cocking his head to the side. You laughed in response looking straight at him.

“You really think you’re safe here? You seriously think so? Do you know how many times I’ve been kidnapped?” You asked him, taking a deep breath. “Look buddy, attempting to go through me to get your asset is like going through Comcast to get ahold of Disney, it just doesn’t work that way.”

“One of two things are going to happen.” You stated flatly before continuing. “You either get Thor and Loki, cause they are very protective me, especially the raven haired God of Mischief. He’ll likely rip you to pieces while Thor fries your ass. Or you get my uncle, and he is not someone you want to be on the bad side of. Cause either route you go, it’s going to be severely painful.”

“I’m hoping it’s your uncle. We are heavily fortified, and he will need his entire team to get you out. And when he does that he will bring me my asset.”

“Okay, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” You stated just as a red light in the hall turned on and began flash before the power flickered. “Guessing that was the back up generator being kicked on?”

The man looked over his shoulder before pressing on the ear piece that was hidden in his ear. He shouted something in Russian briskly. He turned his gaze back to you, you shifted, straightening yourself a bit more.

“Guessing the perimeter was breeched?” You smiled.

It didn’t take long before you heard gunfire and the man in front of you sprang into action. He spun on his heel, pulling a gun from his hip. He never got a shot off before you watched his body jerk and blood spray out behind him onto you. You reeled back slightly in the chair caught off guard, normally things like this didn’t happen yet here you were covered in someone else’s blood. You blinked hard a couple time before it dawned on you a flash of green and gold had entered the room.

“My pet,” Loki cooed as he knelt down in front of you, a dagger materializing in your hands. He cut you free as you slowly looked up and met his eyes. “All that blood looks good on you, brings out your eyes.”

“Loki?” You said softly before the room went black.

—————-

You woke with a start, your soft blanket surrounding you and Loki’s side of the bed empty. If it weren’t for the fact you could still feel where the ropes had rubbed against your arms making them raw you would of just thought it was a dream. The window outside was dark and you weren’t sure if it night or early morning.

Slowly pulling yourself from the confines of your warm soft bed, the second thing you notice was you were in your pajamas. So whatever had happened after being doused in the guys blood Loki had at least had the decency to change you into something clean. Hushed voices came from your open doorway making you wonder what the hell was going on.

Slipping out into the hall you excepted to hear Tony sternly talking to the brothers, yet the voices you heard beside the idiots were ones you didn’t recognize. You walked out into the landing looking down into the living room where a woman who was green was standing. Not wearing but her skin was green and you felt a wave of confusion. She was talking to another woman with overly large eyes and antennas sticking out of her head.

Whatever they hit you with must of had some psychedelics into as a tiny tree looking man was kicking a huge guy that was silver and red at the base of your stairs. The tree thing repeatedly say ‘I am Groot.’ in a very angry tone. Almost everyone stopping talking as you hit the bottom of the stairs, except the tree. You started walking toward the kitchen where you could hear Thor and Loki talking to someone else when a man in a red leather jacket stepped out of the dining room, his out fit almost reminding you of Micheal Jackson era clothing.

“Well, hello gorgeous.” He smirked, his blue eyes traveling over you.

“Wow, nice one Thriller, the 80’s called and want their wardrobe back.” You stated walking past him as you rolled your eyes.

Stepping into the kitchen reveled even more confusion.

“Why is there a raccoon in my kitchen? And why is it wearing an apron?” You asked looking from Thor to Loki.

“Who you calling a raccoon? Is she calling me a raccoon?” It spoke, you blinked even harder looking slowly up from it back to the brothers.

“Lady y/n, this is Rabbit.” Thor stated proudly, smiling.

“Thor, that’s not a rabbit.” You replied looking at Loki.

“Darling, I know this might all seem confusing, but these people are who helped us get you out of Hydras base. This is Rocket, the only sane one of the group.” Loki explained.

“If you think he’s sane then obviously it’s someone else in this group. I think I’m going to see if my therapist has any openings. You boys have fun and don’t use my good knives.” You replied, slowly turning and taking a deep breath. “And also to ask my uncle if I’m going to need a bigger apartment.”

Permanent tag-

@kitkatkl

@octobermermaid @ajosieface @instantnoodlese @crystlblu @coffeebooksandfandom @thisismysecrethappyplace @the-wayward-robot @lokilvrr @shynara51 @fourtyninekirbygamzeegirl l @loislp @savedbyimagination @bubblycypres87 @ifyousayyouloveme @courtmr @blue-cat-1989 @saharzek @lokiodinsoninwriting @silverhart93 @rynabarnesrogers

Some Loki tags.

@theoneanna @jewels2876 @devilbat @sarahivi

If I missed you just let me know or if wanted to be added as a tag

[agent-yolk-writes]

Friends Like You and Us - Venom!Reader- Ch. 3

Instead of going to sleep and doing this in the morning, I’m uploading the next chapter to Tumblr right now! 

In today’s episode, we take a blast to the past (AKA a week prior to the main story) to share a snapshot on how Venom and the Reader met along with a very special guest cameo. I hope you guys enjoy!

Content warning: It starts with depictions of nausea and vomiting which is a no-no to some people, so be cautious when diving down. I know I’ll properly tag it, but still.

Previous Chapter

AO3 version here!

You didn’t even process your own scream, but you’re sure as hell awake now.

"Hello, (First Name)." The thing in the mirror had the audacity to greet you almost casually in your reflection. You dunked your head into the cold water thinking it’s just a figment of a dream you had. You felt your body pull yourself back up when you were certain your muscles were lax.

“Who...Who are you? What the hell are you?” You sputtered.

"I...We are Venom." He leaned closer in the mirror, and so did you. “We are not from here.”

“No shit.” At this point your breath is just uneven, struggling to voice proper words. “So...so what, you’re like from space or something? Mars? Alpha Centauri?” If your voice was this bad, you could only imagine looking like absolute crap.

Before he could answer, it happened. You don’t remember falling. There’s that feeling in your mouth when you bite your tongue too hard. An inhuman sound can be heard, and it took a minute to realize it was coming from you...or was it that Venom thing? Just as you became aware of everything that’s happening, it stopped. Your eyes couldn’t open properly as the singular light in the small bathroom became all too bright.

You raised your arm to block it out. You didn’t realize you couldn’t feel it until you saw it. Different colors flashing in random intervals as your hand twitches in a way you know isn’t human. There were moments just before you blinked where your hand split into two, one that you know it’s yours and while the other resembled yours, the black hue and the unnatural way the fingers are positioned and shaped said otherwise. When you opened your eyes again, whatever you saw was gone. What came next was a wave of nausea seeping in from everywhere at once. Your head felt like lead, vision swimming as you sat up.

There was a soft knock on the door and a call of your name. “I heard yelling. Is everything okay?” Your aunt asked, peaking through the doorway. You could barely process the concerned look on her face.

“I...I think I’m…ah...” You didn’t finish your sentence. Instead, you clobbered over to the toilet and spilled your guts out.

Needless to say, you didn’t go to school that day.

~

“Are you sure you’ll be okay by yourself?”

“Uh-huh.”

“There’s soup in the cabinet. Make sure you drink plenty of fluids, okay?”

“I know.”

Aunt Mary’s worried expression hasn’t changed. You really did look like shit, didn’t you?

Gently, she cupped her cool hands over your heated cheeks. “Just make sure you only get up when you need to. I’ll pick up some medicine after work. We’ll go to the hospital if you don’t feel better, sound good?”

No! No hospitals!

“...Sounds good. Love you.” Ignoring the new voice in your head, you bent your head down so your guardian could plant a kiss on the top of your head, hoping she didn't see you flinch when that thing spoke in your head.

“Love you too. Take it easy, dear.” With that, Mary gathered her things and left the apartment.

You stood in your living room for another minute before your nails started clawing at your clothes and skin. “Come out, you weird alien. You haven’t answered my question.” On cue, your fingers got caught into your shirt, if you can even call it your shirt anymore. It began to blacken and ooze under your hand, shifting around like it was alive. In your sick daze, it took you longer than usual for you to realize it really was alive. This thing, whatever it called itself, assimilated into your clothes! Peeking at the nearest reflection, it started to look like a body suit that got slapped by movie magic. You almost jumped out of your skin when you brought your eyes back and see a tiny version of what you say in the bathroom, still attached to your body, looking at you.

“We already told you that we are Venom.” He said.

“There’s no ‘we’ in this.” You rebutted. “What makes you think I’m the perfect candidate for an alien abduction? How...How did this even happen, anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” Venom squinted his milky eyes at you. “We are a symbiotic life form, I depend on a host to live. You just happened to be standing at the right place at the right time.” It took a moment for all the pieces to fit into place as you vaguely remember the events last night.

You recalled being in Times Square for something you’ve always planned on seeing. It was a school night and Mary wanted you home before a set curfew. Time, however, runs on its own schedule. Before you knew it, it got dark and you needed to get home pronto. The subway that takes you straight home was experiencing delays due to an earthquake that happened earlier that day. So you decided against your own judgment to cut corners by weaving in between buildings and construction sites to save you some time. You...don’t remember how exactly you got home in time.

“You thought a bird took a shit on you.” Your already flushed face turned redder in embarrassment. You would’ve remembered that for sure. With a sigh, you gave up on prodding more info out of him. You plopped yourself on the couch, reaching for the remote so you won’t be alone with your thoughts and your uninvited guest as you turned on the TV.

You couldn’t keep your eyes on whatever daytime game show on the screen. You want to find something to eat, but the energy to do so probably went down the toilet with your vomit. A good nap wouldn’t hurt…

...Until a feeling of alert woke you right up after who knows how long.

It’s him!

“Wha-“ Without warning, your body shot up and scrambled to the widescreen TV, hands clambering over the newsreel playing footage of Spider-Man you sure was playing yesterday when it was more relevant. The afternoon news starts after the game show, so that nap didn’t last as long as you hoped.

“Do...do you know him?”

“We were bonded together.” Uh oh, that tone didn’t sound good.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” There wasn’t an immediate response, but the feeling of heartbreak-no, betrayal-flutters in your chest. “Venom?”

“...He didn’t want us anymore. Said we corrupted him. He slammed into a bell to get rid of us.” You’re not crazy into the superhero scene, but it doesn’t a fanatic to know that that isn’t what Spider-Man does. You oughta give him a good talking about abandoning those in need.

“...You know what? We should talk to him!” You stood up too quickly, grabbing the top of the television as balance. “Let’s give him what for!” Too caught up in your own plan, you didn’t feel your companion shifting your clothes around until the feeling dissipated when your hands automatically moved on their own, covering your mouth just before someone knocked at the front door. Surely you weren’t talking that loud...right? Did Mary forget something? It couldn’t be, she would just enter without warning and get whatever she needs.

“Hello? Anyone home?” Relief rushed over you when you realize it wasn’t the police but your neighbor across the hall. You might as well open the door before the actual police, or the landlord, arrive.

Who’s there?

“A good guy, don’t worry.” You assured him as you made your way to the door. Without looking through the peephole, you opened the door just enough to poke your head out and see none other than Aaron Davis, your neighbor.

“Goooood...afternoon, Mr. Davis,” You paused your greeting to remember the time, opening the door a little bit more. Mary knows him a little better than you do, and the only thing you do know from the idle chatter over the years is that he tends to work at night doing who knows what. You amuse yourself sometimes imagining him making drinks for the drunk college kids with fat wallets. He’s too gentle to be a bouncer, but you don’t want to piss him off to find out if he does have some hidden strength in him.

“Hey there, kiddo.” He greets back. “Shouldn’t you be in school by now?”

“I would, but I caught something fierce last night.” You exaggerated a dry cough that triggered your reflexes, resulting in making you actually cough. You didn’t catch the raised eyebrow Aaron had on his face.

You could see him stifling a yawn before letting out a tired chuckle. “Guess I’ll leave you so you can rest then. Don’t want your aunt on my case if I catch it too.”

“Don’t worry, she will.” You returned a chuckle of your own. “You know you’ll have to eventually accept her invitation to dinner one of these days. Maybe she’ll get off your back if you could bring your nephew over when he visits again to liven up the dinner party.”

“I’ll...look into it.” Aaron turned away to unlock his door. His reply was curt and short. It’s most likely going to be a no for him then. “For now, I’ll need to sleep on it.”

“Well, then I won’t keep you any longer then. Good night, or afternoon...Whatever’s better, I suppose.” Before you slid back into the safety of your home, you heard your name being called again. Poking your head out one last time, you listened to what Aaron wanted to say.

“I like your costume by the way. Could use some color if you want to fit the part.” With that, he closed the door without a moment for you to question him. Costume? What costume? You’re wearing an alien pajamas...right?

Catching your reflection in the closest mirror, you did a double take at what you were actually wearing. Your once short length nightwear was nowhere to be seen. Your body from the neck all the way down to your feet was devoid of color with the except of some silver lines going this way and that. You tore your gaze to chase one of those lines until you led you to a somewhat familiar insignia plastered on your chest.

The same one Spider-Man has.

Wha...what is this?

It’s ours.

[anistarrose]

Distortion (Gravity Falls x Pokemon)

Summary: Ford’s search for a way to take down Bill Cipher brings him to the Distortion World, where he meets a surprisingly kindred spirit.

Word Count: ~3800

Warnings: some self-blame and self-hatred

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19440313

Another Pokemon Falls crossover, this time with Portal Ford!

***

Finding himself surrounded by shadowy trees that hung in the air like smoke, and staring down a massive waterfall that drew from a pool at his feet and ran upwards into the sky, Ford decided that he was getting really damn tired of gravity anomalies.

You’d think that falling through a punched hole in spacetime would be a singular sensation, unmatched by any other experience — but one of the first lessons Ford had had to learn was to never underestimate the vastness of the multiverse. There would always be yet another dimension where every too-light step would remind him of being lifted off the ground by a humming, crackling portal behind him, of bolts of blue-white electricity winding around him while gravity’s pull rendered him just as immobile and helpless as a Thunder Wave would —

At his side, his Ninetales let out a soft warning growl that jolted him back to reality, just in time to glimpse a shadow shoot across the clouded, dark blue sky. It vanished the span of a single pounding heartbeat, and Ford couldn’t help but look back to Ninetales, hoping for some confirmation that he hadn’t imagined the sight —

An ear-splitting screech filled the air, inhuman and indescribably enraged. Ford dove into the grove of spectral trees, Ninetales close behind him, but as his hand passed through one, they all faded away completely, leaving him no cover.

Yet as painfully exposed as he was, neither the shadow nor the screech returned. The dimension was left eerily silent, aside from the almost peaceful gurgling of the waterfall.

Ford stomped to the center of the floating platform, and yelled to no apparent target: “What is this place? Why did you guide me here?”

Naturally, there was no apparent reply. The waterfall kept gurling, and the illusory trees kept swaying in an intangible wind, but the dimension seemed almost completely devoid of any sentient life.

Except the shadow, of course — and Ford was already forming a hypothesis about that shadow, just as he did about nearly everything, but it seemed almost too incredible to believe. He wasn’t even sure if he would be thrilled to be proven right, or terrified.

He would make up his mind soon enough.

***

On many a rainy autumn afternoon back home, Ford would curl up in the top bunk with Rowlet and Vulpix while Stan would build a pillow fort beneath him with Meowth and Zorua, and they’d just sit peacefully together, drinking hot chocolate and sharing little tidbits from whatever they were reading at the time. Stan preferred comic books, loved the adventures of Crobatman and Captain Braviary and the Green Lanturn, but Ford…

Ford was always into mythology.

“Get this, Stan! There’s a Pokemon called Giratina that can travel between dimensions — and takes on different forms in the different worlds!”

“Huh, neato.”

“And here’s the coolest part — they say that in at least one of its forms, it has six legs and six spikes on its wings!”

“Really? Wow, sounds like you should try and catch one!”

“Well, according to the legend in this book, there’s only one in the whole universe — so catching it is probably off the table, but I’d still like to meet it. Except… except it doesn’t look like I’ll get a chance to, because…”

Ford’s face fell as he skimmed the next few paragraphs. “They say it mostly stays in a world on the reverse side of ours, because it was… banished there. It was just too… violent and destructive for our world, I guess…”

He didn’t say it, but he thought: Too much of a freak.

“Hey, lighten up! That just sounds like a spooky bedtime story someone made up to try and scare their kids into behaving,” Stan told him. “Or their little siblings. It seems kinda like something Shermie would come up with, doesn’t it?”

“No,” Ford said quietly. “These myths are usually pretty credible. I think it’s real.”

“Well, then I bet it’s just misunderstood,” Stan declared, unfazed. “You know, I bet you will meet Giratina one day — ‘cause you’re gonna clear its name! Find it an alibi! Show the world what makes the freaks and the weirdos the coolest of all of us, not the scariest!”

That got a smile out of Ford. “You’re right. And, you know… I always have wanted to travel to other dimensions…”

***

Ford quickly discovered that not all of the trees were illusions — but not before confidently walking into one and getting a faceful of rough, paper-thin leaves. He didn’t hear or see any more signs of Giratina — if that even was the shadow’s true identity. He still wasn’t sure if he wanted it to be.

True, he had kept seeking out more myths about the Renegade Pokemon well into his college years, and would always be thrilled upon discovering a new tidbit of lore of even the most dubious credibility; and true, he had always clung to the improbable, self-indulgent dream that he might one day encounter Giratina itself and discover its true nature for himself —

But here in a dimension that bore an uncanny resemblance to the elusive Distortion World, subject of both shrouded legend and scientific speculation; here outside of idealistic childhood fantasy; here in reality where a hostile Legendary Pokemon could hurt or more likely kill him with ease, where his demise could spell the end for the whole universe’s best shot at escaping a demon’s tyrannical reign… here, Ford couldn’t help but be terrified.

Terrified and frustrated, that was, as he walked into the same damn tree for the second time.

“We’re just going in circles, aren’t we?” he realized aloud, and Ninetales gave a low murmur of agreement. “Just big, spacetime-defying circles. Shit, what do we do?”

As if on cue, something lit up near the edge of his peripheral vision. He instinctively whirled around to face it, but the light — a pulsating blue sphere, reminiscent of ball lightning — was already darting away, erratically weaving between floating trees and leaving behind a meandering, faintly glowing trail that arced between floating slabs of earth and across sideways lakes.

It was a familiar sight to Ford, having led him to this world in the first place.

“Azelf?” he whispered. There was no reply aside from the trail growing just the slightest bit dimmer.

“Fine,” he finally muttered. “I’ll follow you one more time.”

***

On many a day spent while wandering the multiverse, far from home and even further from peace, Ford would catch himself wondering if it was for the best.

Growing up, it would have taken more than twelve fingers to count all the times Ford was told he was cursed, or a bad omen, or simply a “monster.” Often, it wasn’t to his face — just whispered to his parents, or sometimes even his brothers, when the accuser didn’t think he was listening — but it was an omnipresent, inescapable constant of his childhood, something he had to learn to either tune out or shrug off.

Ironic, then, how it was only now that he was starting to believe it.

Now that he’d seen the lives he’d ruined. Now that he’d seen the destruction he’d invited in to his world. The way he’d torn Fiddleford away from a young and loving family and traumatized the poor man into starting a cult, the way he’d been so wrapped up in his own ego that he ignored all the words of warning from his friend, from his Pokemon, and eagerly put himself to work for an ancient entity of pure chaos and malevolence… “bad omen” didn’t even begin to describe the way he endangered everything and everyone he grew close to, the way he ruined everything he laid a hand on.

And yes, he was doing everything he could to fix his greatest mistake, to construct a weapon capable of destroying Bill, but his conscience simply would never allow him to do anything else. And yes, he sought out leads for ways he might one day be able to get safely home again, after Bill was dead and gone, but that was for his Pokemon’s sakes, not his own. He had left a world that he had never fit into, never done anything but endanger, and had he been adrift in the multiverse alone… he wasn’t sure he’d ever go home, even if given the chance.

***

Ford called Ninetales back into its Pokeball for a time, as he leapt between stepping stones across an unnaturally calm lake. Two twin rivers fed into it, twisting down from above like a double helix and generating a froth of bubbles that dissipated quickly, leaving the surface pristine like a giant mirror. For a moment, he thought that he saw a massive shadow reflected in it, looming and angular — but then he blinked, and it was just an all-too-familiar face that was staring back at him.

(His face, but not his face. Gaunt with exhaustion and weary from fighting off despair just like his, but not for the same reasons.)

Then the surface began to ripple, so subtly at first that Ford couldn’t quite pin down what was wrong, even as his instincts screamed at him to run. Cautiously, he crouched down and lowered his head to the water’s level —

Another screech tore through his ears, and he jerked his head up to see an invisible shape burst through the helical tributaries. Based off the massive explosion of water it displaced, Ford surmised it must have been gigantic, easily taller than he was and maybe as much as three or four times as long…

And now it was barreling straight towards him, its path made visible by the V-shaped wave it churned up as it flew. The spray from the lake seemed to interact with its body for a few brief seconds, revealing a glimpse of a set of long, thin wings — six of them, by Ford’s count.

He took a step backwards, nearly toppled into the lake, and then made a split-second decision as he righted himself. The creature had to be flying only just above the surface, in order to leave such a large splash in its wake —

Just before the point of the V reached his stepping stone, Ford jumped as high as his legs could carry him and slammed against something solid.

***

When Ford had nearly drowned while hiding from pursuers at the bottom of a lake, his oxygen tank leaking at an alarming rate, the hidden entrance to a submerged cave full of breathable air had felt like divine intervention — and the stories of lake-dwelling spirits, representing knowledge, willpower, and emotion, that he remembered reading as a child only reinforced that feeling.

Yes, it may it may have been a bit naive, a bit too optimistic, of him to get his hopes up for an encounter with Uxie in particular — but he couldn’t stop his mind from leaping to the possibilities that a favor from the Being of Knowledge would offer him. He could ask for information about Bill Cipher’s history, or weaknesses, or even where in the multiverse he could find some of those stubbornly elusive components of his quantum destabilizer…

And besides, he was Stanford Pines. What lake guardian would take an interest in him, if not the one representing knowledge, and truth, and memory, and by extension science?

So when he noticed a pulsating blue light shining on the cave walls — not the golden-yellow of Uxie, which he’d been so desperately hoping for — he was taken aback. He froze in place reflexively as a glowing blue orb darted out from around the corner and circled him erratically, stopping inches away from his face for a second before teleporting a few feet back and taking on a less luminescent, more defined form. Two resplendent red gems rested near the tips of two long, flat tails, and another between bright, intelligent golden eyes that seemed to be constantly shifting, looking Ford over.

Azelf, Being of Willpower, was not the first Legendary Pokemon Ford had ever encountered, but it may very well have been the most unexpected.

“Why you?” he blurted out. “Can you help me defeat Cipher?”

Azelf took off in a flash, so quickly that Ford momentarily thought it had left the room before he noticed it behind him, circling one of the the larger puddles like a glowing, crackling blue whirlwind. He took a step towards it, and realized the puddle seemed oddly reflective — his mirror image was bright and vividly colored, albeit warped and distorted by ripples.

Azelf zipped by once more, narrowly missing his face, and he tried to take a step back but his legs felt as heavy as lead. With horror, he watched as the puddle in front of him sunk into the ground, creating a roughly conical and ever-widening depression that he almost immediately found himself on the slope of.

“With all due respect, Azelf,” he growled as he was dragged towards the center, “what the fuck?!”

After a moment of frantic fumbling, while continuing to slide towards the apparent portal — a cylindrical hole in spacetime itself, starlight from Arceus-knew-what galaxies flashing from within the tunnel’s navy blue walls — he managed to procure a grappling hook from his bag, and aimed for a jagged formation of stalagmites a few feet beyond the outer edge of the conical whirlpool. But his shot was instantly pulled off course as the wormhole’s gravity caught it, redirecting it down and into the distortion as Ford felt a violent tug on his end of the line. For the first time since the portal had appeared, he felt his feet move — dragged down the side of the cone and into the portal, where his vision went white and his body went weightless.

When he felt solid ground beneath his feet again, he was surrounded by gravity-defying waterfalls and wispy illusory trees.

***

His attacker became visible as Ford landed on it, his hands running over a red and black-striped back that felt rough, yet oddly immaterial. The sensation of touching rough scales was undoubtedly present, just not as vivid as it should have been to Ford’s senses. He nearly lost his grip as the creature — no, as Giratina, there was no doubt anymore — writhed and screeched in apparent surprise, but Ford somehow managed to turn himself around and grab one of the yellow ridges where its wings attached to its body, straddling its serpentine neck awkwardly as the six wings beat furiously around him.

Half-blinded by the spray as Giratina flew through another waterfall, Ford was guided by experience and instinct alone as he reached for a Pokeball on his belt. His Decidueye appeared in a flash of light, dodging red-spiked wings and a lashing tail to fly along Ford’s side.

“Use Spirit Shackle!” Ford yelled. “Immobilize the wings!”

Decidueye perched briefly on a floating stone and let three arrows fly. Two of them were lost to the gravity anomalies, deflected off in unpredictable directions, but the last one flew true — piercing through two of six smokelike wings, which spasmed as a purple aura spread down the tendrils. Giratina immediately careened off to one side, and Ford instinctively tightened his grip — a mistake, he realized a few seconds later, when the two of them crashed into the mirrorlike surface of the lake below and the force of the impact tore through him, ripping him off of Giratina’s back and plunging him into the water.

The cold hit him first, a wave of icy pins and needles that swept down his body, trying to inject him with numbness, with that atmosphere of lifelessness and hopelessness that permeated this dimension. He spluttered and thrashed, desperately trying to breach the surface, to find a handhold to pull himself to shore, but as second after precious second crept away without oxygen, he realized: there was no sense of buoyancy in this lake, no tug pulling him towards the surface. No way to know which way was up.

He forced his eyes open, and saw glowing red stripes lighting up the darkness. They coiled all around him, above and below and to every side, as two gleaming crimson eyes floated ever closer —

Enveloped in a bright blue aura, Azelf zipped through the water between them. It touched one tail to Ford’s forehead and the other to a spot right between Giratina’s eyes, then disappeared before Ford could even process what had happened.

“What —” he gurgled, opening his mouth reflexively and not closing it fast enough to stop the water from surging into his lungs. He hacked and coughed, trying to whack himself in the chest with one hand and reach for his Pokeballs with the other, but he failed on both counts as his limbs grew heavy, and blurry spots danced across his already obscured vision —

Something lifted him above the surface and he gasped for breath, taking longer than he should have to realize that he was now kneeling upon Giratina’s head, just behind its golden crown.

You need to breathe? a raspy and faintly echoing, yet surprisingly soft voice asked him.

“Most humans do,” he choked out automatically, spitting coughed-up water back into the lake and recalling a concerned-looking Decidueye back into its Pokeball before the nature of the conversation sunk in. “Wait — Giratina? You saved me?”

Yes. Giratina went silent for a while, as it lazily drifted across the surface of the lake — how it could float despite the disorienting lack of buoyancy, Ford wasn’t sure.

Why are you here? it finally continued.

That was a good question, Ford thought, and also a question he wasn’t sure how to reply to. It was tempting to simply blame Azelf, but given how it was Azelf who had evidently opened up their current line of telepathic communication, that didn’t seem wise.

In a roundabout way, he’d ultimately ended up here for the same reason he ever traveled to any dimension, Ford figured, so that was how he decided to reply.

“I’m looking for a material that will help me save the multiverse,” he stated slowly.

Why does the burden of saving the multiverse fall to you?

It wasn’t the response Ford was expecting — though it may have been one that he deserved.

“I made a mistake. I was the one who endangered my home dimension in the first place, and now I need to fix things.”

Giratina didn’t respond immediately. What is the material? it eventually asked.

“Well, there are a few different components I’m looking for… do you have anything small that distorts spacetime either far more or far less than its mass would indicate?”

Yes. Hold on tight.

Giratina spread its wings and lifted into the air, Ford still perched atop its head. Columns of water and floating rocky islands flew past them as they ascended, and raced towards the blanket of foreboding purple clouds that stretched across the sky from horizon to horizon —

And then, they’d breached it, and were surrounded by stars — white dwarfs and red giant and everything in between, binary pairs dancing waltzes together while supernovas exploded into sizzling plumes of plasma. Yet they all ranged just from the size of a fist to a basketball, and floated by within arm’s reach of Ford, so close that he could feel their heat drying out his sopping coat.

Instinctively, he held out an arm to run a hand through a glowing red-orange nebula, and streams of gas danced around his fingers, swirling together to consolidate in his palm. He made a fist, and the contents of his hand immediately caught ablaze under the pressure — not quite hot enough to singe him, but bright enough that rays of white light escaped from the cracks between his fingers, illuminating all six of them like a beacon in the night sky.

Giratina dove back beneath the layer of clouds, and as they slowed to a more leisurely pace, Ford opened his hand again to see a system of six tiny stars all orbiting each other as they hovered just above his palm.

Will that work?

“...It’s perfect.”

They drifted past the double helix waterfall once again, close enough for Ford to make out his distorted reflection in one of the streams.

Life isn’t meant to stay in this world, Giratina told him. We should part ways soon… but before, I can open a portal nearly anywhere in the multiverse for you…

A pause. You know, I could open a portal to your home.

Ford looked down at the star system in his hand, and then back to his reflection… and then over his shoulder, to the still nowhere-near-complete weapon strapped across his back.

“I deeply appreciate the offer, but my team and I can’t. There are still things we need to do that… we need to keep traveling between dimensions to accomplish.”

You are banished by your own choices, then…

Giratina nearly came to a complete halt for a moment, and Ford cringed, so preoccupied with worrying he’d misspoken that he hardly noticed the sphere of ball lightning descending from the sky just a few feet from his face.

You have a fierce stubbornness inside of you. Azelf’s voice was loud and resonant inside Ford’s head, completely unlike Giratina’s hesitant, rasping whisper. And when you embrace it, it may often turn out to be to your detriment…

It shed the sphere of blue lightning, revealing its true form. Warm golden eyes fixated on Ford, and its tails twitched as an oddly human smile spread across its tiny face.

But our flaws often stem from our greatest strengths, and you possess exactly the dedication and endurance that are needed to save this universe.

“Thank you, Azelf,” Ford whispered. “I’m sorry for doubting your judgement.”

Have you decided where you wish to go, if not home? Giratina asked him.

“I suppose… Dimension 61-6,” Ford decided. That was the dimension he’d encountered Azelf in, a place that he still hoped would contain many more resources to help him in his fight against Cipher.

Alright. Giratina opened its mouth and breathed out a whirlwind of shadows that bore into the surface of the lake below, carving a conical depression in the water. A white glow lit up at the bottom of the funnel, flickering faintly as if beckoning Ford towards it.

“I’d be so lost without your help, Giratina. Thank you so much.”

Giratina’s head bobbed slightly, as if nodding.

I wish you luck with your quest… friend.

Before he could change his mind, Ford jumped through the portal.

***

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Thanks for reading, feedback/reblogs are appreciated as always! I’ve been thinking about the Mystery Trio and how they correspond to the Lake Guardians for a while, and eventually settled on:

Stan is emotion (Mesprit): He can definitely be very stubborn, but that stubbornness is often derived from emotion, such as his love for his family. He acts closed-off sometimes, but emotions are the driving force behind so many of his actions, like restarting the portal despite the dangers and sacrificing himself to beat Bill and save his family.

Fiddleford is knowledge (Uxie): This one is probably the most clear-cut, since Uxie is capable of erasing memories. Of course, Fidds is highly intelligent and inventive as well, just like the traits Uxie is said to grant.

Ford is willpower (Azelf): Knowledge could of course be fitting for him too (and that manifests a little bit in the fic itself, with Ford hoping to meet Uxie), but I think willpower encapsulates his personality even better. He survived in the multiverse for 30 years with the sole goal of taking down Bill, and then endured a brutal amount of torture in Weirdmageddon but still refused to give Bill the equation.

[noccalula-writes]

Can you give us your detailed thoughts on Avengers: Endgame?

SPOILERY THOUGHTS ARE COMING.

The basis of most of my gripes are: if Age of Ultron hadn’t been so shittily written, a lot of this could have been avoided. Not all of it, but a lot of it. But I’ll go line item by line item outside of that thought.

First off, Steve. Y'all already know I’m a Stucky shipper, but even outside of the context of the ship - and I fully support people who feel their relationship is platonic but very intimate as long as they have been supportive of how emotional their story is, let’s do that more with male friendships please - you have to admit that there has been no greater, longer standing or fucking emotional relationship arc through the entire goddamn MCU than Steve and Bucky. Platonic, nonplatonic, whatever. We literally watch Steve tear down a branch of the goddamn government to get Bucky back, and since the first movie, Bucky has been his emotional touchstone. Steve’s singular dedication to rescuing and protecting Bucky has driven him to the heights of recklessness and has made him nearly sacrifice himself a dozen times.

But he ditches out on him, after he’s been dead for five years no less, to go back to the fucking fifties and derail Peggy’s entire well-lived life.

I don’t buy it. I think this was purposeful diversion to avoid appearing “too gay”, and it fucking infuriates me. There is an article on The Daily Dot that explores this better than I even thought to and you should definitely read it.

The idea of Steve getting to live a full life and be happy? Wonderful. But the way this was executed felt cold, clinical. We’ve spent more time developing emotional bonds with Steve than any other character in the MCU except maybe Tony, and yet we the audience were completely shut out of his feelings for the entire last half of the very last film. It felt like a door had been closed on us. There was none of the warmth of Steve, only the resolve of Captain America, and a very rash decision that felt so poorly planned after he said barely two things to the man who has been the axis of most of his decisions in this entire series.

Sam is absolutely the right choice for Captain America, though. That was what I was hoping for, and he deserves the mantel.

Tony Stark, love of my life, was set up to make the martyr play from the very first Avengers film. This is where it was always meant to go, and I have spent every movie since AoU waiting for it to happen. Honestly, I feel like Tony’s arc was the one arena where everything was done right (except, I’ll be honest, I don’t know how I feel about him having had a kid - I’m not mad at it, though). If you follow me you know I don’t think he and Pepper had real staying power no matter how much they love each other, but I also never anticipated that he’d be with anyone else, so this wasn’t a disappointment (I love Pepper, to be clear). I was proud of him. I was sorry he wouldn’t get to see Morgan grow up, but I was proud of my man saving the world.

I love him with all my heart. He’s made dumb decisions but when the metaphorical knife was against his throat, he came correct with absolute resolution.

Wanda might as well have been a cardboard cutout, which on one hand was fine because she had way more screen time in Infinity War than she’s had anywhere else since AoU (shudder), but she’s been reduced to this background character who got shipped off with Vision just so she’d have something to do (and yes, I know it’s comic canon, but it was so out of left field in the MCU that there was no way this wasn’t a factor in). Wanda is a wealth of possibility for a storyteller - think about the grief this character has endured (consider my consider, Wanda Maximoff diatribe from yesterday) and how she’s learned to use her power. Think about the evolution of going from a volunteer for a program to literally become a mutant to fight the Avengers and then becoming one and losing your fucking twin brother, the only constant in your life. Think about having to kill the only person you could try to put a life together with. Think about all of that and tell me she hasn’t been wasted in the background.

(Also - how in the fuck is Steve gonna tell his black best friend Sam that he preferred the fifties? Really? )

This brings me to what I think is easily the most egregious of all the fuck-ups in this movie - Clint and Natasha. This is where we can draw a direct line back to the problem in AoU, when Joss “Feminist Icon” Whedon decided that dropping a house, wife and 2.5 cardboard-ass kids we got zero development time on was a better answer than, oh, actually developing Clint as a character. Partially this was to promote Brucetasha, which as we all know went so fucking well through the rest of the movies, but subverting what he felt was the “obvious” ship for Nat (the irony of this being he said something along the lines of “well, Bruce and Nat made so much more sense to me” and pulled some lame ass Beauty and The Beast allegory out during an Entertainment Weekly interview about AoU and it’s ended up becoming one of the most hated creative decisions in the MCU as of yet.

Listen, if you want Clint and Natasha’s deep and intimate and formative relationship to be platonic-only, I’m cool with that. I ship ‘em but I also love male-female friendships that mean the entire world to the involved characters and are not romantic. But we were given a decision in AoU that was eliminated so many future possibilities and put us on the path we’re on now.

If you know Clint as a character, you know that he’s a loveable fuckup. THat’s kind of his schtick. I have no idea how they plan to make that work in the supposedly-happening Hawkeye series based on Matt Fraction’s run given that now we’ve got Clint married with kids and Natasha dead, but okay. Endgame takes Clint’s grief and weaponizes it, but naturally, we only ever see him killing people of color (they mention he killed a Mexican cartel, we see him going after Yakuza) ((if you couple this with the shaved haircut and the shitty Japanese-inspired sleeve, you start venturing dangerously close to white supremacist territory)).

Clint is dark and broken, and Natasha saves him - just like how Natasha was dark and broken, and Clint saved her. By not dying. So. I mean.

As I’ve said in another ask, here’s the thing: I would have been okay with Natasha making the sacrifice play if there had been no Bartons to bring back. I still would have been furious if they hadn’t loophole’d her ass back - What happens when Steve returns the soul stone? Do you get back what you paid for it? - but the idea that we had to trade the original female member of the team - the closest thing to diversity they had being a white woman is terrible but here we are - for one of the shittiest, most sloppily written things that Joss Whedon plunked down on a page? My blood boils.

It’s been like 4 days and I am still just beside myself angry about Natasha Romanoff. Furious. I love her and Clint and I don’t undersell the strength of their relationship but at the end of the day, she died so a man could go back to his family, because nuclear families are more important and Natasha has no one. I guess. I don’t know. I’m so fucking mad.

That pandering-ass “we’re doin’ us a feminism” scene of all the women fighting together, even though it made zero logistical battlefield sense and most of them didn’t even know each other, felt even more gross and cheesy and self-congratulatory considering what had just been done to one of the most important women in the series. But hey. We got a shot of a lot of women fighting. Hashtag feminism.

Thor’s ending was okay. Thor’s arc was pretty good. The fat jokes were shit but I loved the idea of Thor still being worthy even when he’s not who he used to be. I nearly came when Cap caught Mjolnir. Conceding New Asgard to Valkyrie was super smart, and I like that he’s going to go figure himself out with the Guardians.

Speaking of, Gamora’s whole story has made me feel gross. As the daughter of an abusive stepfather who also loved me a lot when he wasn’t being a monster, it def made me squirm. But the reality is I don’t give enough of a shit about any of the Guardians to care about what happens to them other than Thor, so. Chris Pratt can eat my entire ass.

The things it got right - pacing an insane amount of action in a way that never stalled, executing a beautifully woven and inlaid sacrifice arc for Tony, Paul Rudd in general - are so much smaller than the things that were just… gapingly terrible.

Did Bruce even get an ending? Did anyone remember what the hell he said he was gonna do? He got lost somewhere in the shuffle and I legit have no idea what his ending was.

Ugh. I need some ibuprofen and a nap. I’m gonna go back to writing my Natasha sex-shop au in which SHE WILL NEVER EVER EVER DIE FOR CLINT’S STORY DEVELOPMENT and wish I still drank.