#this has to be my most incoherent entry so far but well

[marinette-buginette]

Sokkla Saturdays - Day 6: Saturn

Summary:

"You. Wait.”

Sokka froze on the spot. The past few days had been nothing but a string of close calls upon close calls yet none of it prepared him for this. The last thing he needed while trying to execute this escape plan was dealing with Princess Azula but here they were.

Just his luck.

Read on AO3

[ozzgin]

OZZGIN!

May I request an idea/imagine?

It is about yandere! mental asylum patient and psychiatrist! reader, who is very practical and strict regarding her job, takes no BS from others. But, for some reason, she has a soft spot for yandere! mental asylum patient. The reason could either be he had a hard childhood in which he had to do what he had to do, which brutally killed his father, who used to abuse his mother and sister, but when the father tried to sell the sister into prostitution to buy more alcohol, all hell break lose. Psychiatrist! reader thinks what yandere! mental asylum the patient did was OKAY, and she wants to get him out of the asylum. They love each other deeply and would do anything, so far as to kill for one another. If you can, make it as twisted as you can. I live for some dark romance!

Please ignore my request if you are not able to do it. I completely understand. Thank you in advance! <3

Oh my, this request hits somewhat close to home as I have a friend incarcerated for similar reasons. I'm pondering the logistics behind this context you've provided, since murdering someone won't necessarily land you in a psych ward unless there are other symptoms that come with it. And so I've taken the liberty to expand the character's profile if that's alright. (Conveniently enough I still have my psychopathology lecture notes)

I want to add, however, that this story in no way romanticizes mental illness! If anything, one may consider it an opportunity to reflect on the fact that so many people struggling with disorders do not receive the proper care for it, or only do so when it's too late. Furthermore a medical professional should never, ever behave like this and whatever is written here should stay in the realm of fiction!

Yandere! Patient x Psychiatrist! Reader

Featuring a patient that's pushing the boundaries of your work ethic and might even succeed.

Content/warnings: female reader, detailed mentions of mental disorder, violence, obsessive behavior, breach of professional conduct

You roll up your sleeve and check your watch. He should be here soon. Out of habit, you shuffle the papers for a quick case review, even though you already know all the details by heart. You carefully set aside the patient’s MMPI and WHODAS entry assessments, then your first interviews. Your eyes briefly rest upon the resulting report you’ve comprised: Schizophreniform Disorder (Provisional) with good prognostic features; Diagnostic criteria consisting of delusions, disorganized speech (frequent derailment with episodes of incoherence, echolalia) and comorbid catatonia. Responds well to antipsychotic (clozapine 25mg/12 h) with no imminent need for dosage increase. As it currently stands, he will be fit for proper incarceration in less than 6 months. Is it something you agree with? Not quite. You’ve presented your case many times and it has always been met with pitiful shrugs and dismissals.

The door opens and you fix your posture, sweeping the documents back into your drawer. “And? How are you feeling today?” You ask, flashing a professional, cordial smile as the assisting nurse leads the patient to his seat and prepares her leave. “My chest hurts.” The man answers in a low voice, glaring at the nurse. He taps his foot against the plush carpet, seemingly restless. “How bad would you rate it? Chest pain is a somewhat common side effect of your medication.” You retort, following the movements of the woman finally excusing herself and exiting the room. Once you’re alone, the man’s shoulders droop and he visibly relaxes. “It’s not that, you know it. When can I touch you again?” He pleads, despair twisting his features. You tense up at the words. “Behave yourself. It hasn’t been that long.”

It’s not something you’re particularly proud of. In fact, you might even call it one of your great shames in life. You’ve always been a textbook professional, perhaps even too strict according to your coworkers and most patients. Not even in your wildest dreams would you have dared to imagine you’d violate the code of ethics by falling in love with your patient. But something about his situation stirred your sense of justice. Surely one cannot be punished for protecting their loved ones. The only criminal in the equation, at least in your eyes, was that joke of a father and he had it coming. So you found yourself wrestling against a blooming protectiveness and favoritism towards the young man brought here last month.

What would have normally compelled you into action had therefore been silently swept under the rug. Or even worse, you secretly indulged in it. A patient showing signs of affection towards you would instantly be transferred to a different psychiatrist. Yet you couldn’t put away the letters written by this one. Erratic, crumpled notes of “I love you” written countless times, pencil dug so deep it tore into the sheet. Bizarre illustrations that looked almost threatening. His elaborate delusions before medication was introduced, where he’d detail in grand narratives how you were fated for each other and nothing would stop him from having you sooner or later. You do not know what forces possessed you into this addictive plunge, but you’ve come to enjoy his violent, frenzied confessions. So much, that during one of the unsupervised meetings you let yourself pushed into the sofa as his hands tugged at your body in rabid need. It was so out of character that you wondered if it truly happened, though the bite marks and scratches on your neck and chest proved otherwise.

“Are they going to send me to prison?” He changes the subject and stands up, walking towards your desk. “Most likely. What you have is the result of a traumatic event, not a lifelong condition. Sporadic episodes that can be kept under control with antipsychotics aren’t enough of a reason to keep you in the hospital.” You press your legs together nervously and glance at him. “Can’t you just say it’s no longer working?” He suggests, kneeling before you and placing a hand on your thigh. “You know I can’t lie on the report.” You really don’t like it when he manipulates you like this. “Ah, yes, because lying is worse than fucking your patient.” He scoffs, annoyed. “Don’t threaten me like that”, you say as you turn towards him, but you’re stopped by the rough grip of his hand over your cheeks. “I’m not threatening you, I’m threatening everyone else. Listen, (Y/N), I’m not fucking around. I don’t mind pretending to be crazy if I have to. Will the meds still be working if I steal a shaving razor and cut the nurse open?” You try to open your mouth, but his fingers are pressed into your skin, locking your jaw into place. “I’m not going to prison. I’m not. Then I’ll never see you again and that can’t happen. You know that.”

Eventually he releases his hold, allowing you to speak. "I understand. Then there's no choice but to arrange your escape." You sigh, defeated, and he raises his eyebrows. "Won't that get you in trouble?" You chuckle at his statement. "Either way I'll be in trouble. You said it yourself. Might as well quit before I have to stand in front of the ethics board and have my license revoked." You'd prefer to keep the last ounce of pride if possible.

He sits on the floor and you notice his trembling hands. "Nervous?" You ask. "No. Just really happy. I'm not a bad person and you were the only one here to see it. But God, (Y/N), I'd kill anyone if it was for your sake. I can't wait to hold you whenever I want." He gazes at you as a smile widens on his face.

[astromechs]

hi! I wanted to make a request and you don't have to do it but, if it isn't too much trouble would you mind expanding your comments on Gamora's writing in vol 3 from an objective perspective?

I felt like you were getting at something I have been struggling with and that's figuring out a balance between what I didn't like and what was objectively not great writing. I saw the movie twice and both times left feeling like it was such a good film conclusion except for most of what happened with Gamora. A few friends said it's because Gamora technically isn't a guardian so she didn't get the same kind of treatment. But that doesn't make sense to me. From my understanding even villains need to be presented as fully realized people for it to be good writing. With Gamora it felt like she was given the most shallow character representation. It also felt like her main purpose in the film for most of the time was to be a physical manifestation of Peter's grief and something for him to work through that nobody else had any real attachment to or feelings about. Mostly because we were never given a good view of the inner workings of what Gamora had been through since coming to the future and what she's been feeling. And due to her relationship with Nebula getting as little development as possible. This seems like objectively bad writing to me. I also thought because Gamora has been the female lead and had a real purpose of her own in the movies, that was still something that could be done for her in vol 3 even if she's not exactly the same due to experience and even if she's not a guardian. It seems to me Yondu and Kraglin have had better writing in the past. Even when they weren't guardians in vol 2 they were presented as fully realized people who have complexity. Plus though she was reluctant and harsh at times Gamora still took risks for the team and I thought that deserved more recognition in the writing.

Also it felt like all the writing for her in Endgame was ignored. She might not be a guardian but she still stood up for her sister and took a stand against Thanos. She tried to encourage 2014 Nebula. All of the things Gamora went through in the movie were beyond overwhelming and they could have built sympathy around that. Instead I felt vol 3 often almost tried to villainize her so that she wouldn't be seen as the hero the guardians were and I want to be mindful of my words but some of the writing around that felt kind of sexist. She's not a villain. she's been put into a situation that's incredibly overwhelming and also awful because it comes on the back of her being previously murdered. In an interview Zoe Saldana said Gamora's dealing with a lot of confusion and Karen Gillian said Gamora's lost a lot of her healing and Nebula sees that and wants to help. I feel like these awesome possibilities were almost nonexistent in vol 3.

I apologize that what I'm trying to say is such an incoherent ramble. It's difficult to express what I'm struggling with and I'm trying not to jump to conclusions but a lot of the ways Gamora was handled compared to the other wonderful parts of vol 3 has me giving it a genuine side eye.

hi, no worries for the ramble! i enjoy reading all y'all's thoughts.

when you look at this story as presented from the first film, while this is generally an ensemble effort, there are three main characters that are focused on more than the others: peter, gamora, and rocket. they're the ones whose entry into the group you're following in the first film. in vol 2, each of these three characters is leading their own subplot, which all end up coalescing into the third act (as all good sets of subplots should), and each of the three characters have their own distinct character arc.

vol 3 has a big focus on rocket, but peter, as a main saga character, gets a well-articulated arc alongside rocket. these are two of the main players in these films, so that's well in keeping with the story that has been told thus far. but remember, gamora had a well-articulated arc in both vol 1 and vol 2, and was one of the three principal characters of this narrative, so suddenly... that's missing. gamora barely has an arc or really any focus at all, so the narrative structure that's been set up from the first film suddenly gets a bit wobbly, and doesn't quite feel in keeping with the rest of the story that's been told.

so i genuinely think, from a story perspective, this film merited more focus on gamora, as a main saga character. you can look at the whole story put together as a whole and peter has a throughline that makes sense, rocket has a throughline that makes sense, but gamora's is a total mess. and i think that makes the overall story just a bit weaker.

[kylekozmikdeluxo]

Further post-Election journal/diary entry/LONG POST... Again, nothing up for debate, just raw and incoherent AF thoughts and how I'm seeing things...

So in the current whirlwind of figuring out what went wrong, and how to "reach out" to the millions of Americans who are so easily swept up in a massive modern misinformation apparatus that favors the far right and that reprehensible orange hog... The thing I'm hearing now is... Young cis men or whatever were alienated by "elites"?

What the hell is an "elite" in this context? Well, to the right, it seems to be a member of a marginalized community. If not, then it seems to describe a college-educated person, or someone who has some kind of perceived savvy?

I'm immediately flashed back to 2011-ish... The sorta hipster stereotype, the pseudo-intellectual iPhone-toting, Starbucks-drinking, vinyl-collecting, back-to-simpler-aesthetics geek? Is that who REALLY alienated men from their spaces and made them feel left out? Thus they turned to incel shit and utter misogyny and Andrew Ta- I'm sorry what? I gotta pump the brakes here for a second.

I won't lie, I definitely caught wind of a sort of "what's with these fuckin' hipsters?" backlash. I was actually kind of that myself in 2011-12ish, while also decrying them. Like the dumb young adult that I was. I was simultaneously very arty/into those sorts of things, and also kinda resentful of that overall subculture? Like I was indeed kinda snobby, especially with my own interests, most of which a projection of my own insecurities as an artist, writer, and... Well... Human being who wasn't "smart" enough", wasn't "good" enough, barely got through school, etc. I remember a paper I wrote around 2016-ish in college, decrying who I was in high school without realizing, "Hey! You are AUTISTIC, and were SURVIVING week by week in a system built almost entirely against you! Be easy on yourself!"

Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, "elites". It seems like anyone who went to college is an elite, or colleges by nature are elite. Being this specific kind of "intelligent", and not being a "common sense" kind of person... Apparently one is synonymous with the left, the other with the right and Orange Nightmare and whatnot...

Some out there who don't feel smart enough for the former criteria, maybe as a form of rebellion, look at this so-called elite as what they think it is.

Some people, from my perspective, have this self-defeating shame of having not gone to college or living up to this perceived intellectual echelon. “That must mean I’m dumb!!”

Then they wear that as some sort of badge of honor in retaliation, and then that insecurity is further weaponized.

Yes, there IS a lot of snootiness in the world. Some people will just look down on you, no matter what. Both on the "common sense" side and the "intellectual" side... Not just in college and education, but also the workplace, various industries, you name it.

It’s not really an “elite” if you're being looked down upon like this, it’s hard cold biases at play. I feel a truly smart and intelligent person doesn't look at someone who is trying their best, or even a misguided person, and calls them "stupid", "unintelligent", "uneducated", etc. Well, I don't do so well at that, so count me out as "smart" lol.

Condescension like this can come from racism, ableism, and classism even. It’s not some league of hoity-toity "elites" conspiring against you and the soul of America or whatever such bullshit.

That very real snootiness you can experience in some of academia and other supposed higher-up institutions is then somehow applied to anything remotely left-leaning... And the right? That whole detached misinfo sphere? Do they weaponize that or what! Again, the whole "we're the common sense side of this equation" mentality. They then drill that into the heads of your average Joe: don’t feel bad for not being “smart”, for you are not in the “liberal elite”!

Anyone who ever tried to make me feel stupid in life, and that happens OFTEN… it has nothing to do with whether or not they went to college or are actual "intellectuals", or their accomplishments. I am a college graduate, and as an autistic person whose support needs are overlooked ("oh, you're mild autism, you can handle this"), it didn't come without unique difficulties. There is indeed ableism and discrimination in academia, but that's just it. It's prejudice, NOT a sort of cultural and aesthetic "elitism". No, it was in their ableism against autistics like me. Their adherence to an imagined hierarchy, a true "elitism" if you will. Get the words "left" or "liberal" outta there.

By contrast? Orange Man is an elitist who looks down on others, as do many other Republicans and rich assholes who are in bed with them. The irony...

“Intelligence” as we know it is VERY inclined towards neurotypicals. It’s not a “liberal elite” that struck me down or continues to strike me down as a left-leaning person, it’s people who are following set-in-stone social norms and codes that are hardwired against people like me, and many many others. Again, no matter who you are or where you're form. How it got intertwined with left-leaning politics is something I've yet to dissect.

So, there was indeed this sorta stereotype of that pseudo-intellectual left-leaning elitist that was prevalent in the 2010s, from my perspective. And somehow this stereotype became synonymous with the party of... Checks notes... The Clintons, Barack Obama, and Joe Biden. And it seems like some people out there can't process that their party was seen as stupid and uneducated because of their bigotry, their warmongering, and everything else they do to make Americans' lives so much harder.

And what do they do? They double-down and make that dingus their official spokesperson... Along with several other dinguses...

And that was how you got all this "common sense" bullshit, such as sneering at doctors and scientists in the face of a pandemic. Oh, who needed the pandemic response team anyways? This is all a big conspiracy! They wanna control us! Anti-vax this and "Dr. Fauci is evil" that. That kinda shit, right there. Like it's some kinda rebellion against an imaginary enemy, when ironically, it's ignoring common sense. When "be sure to ask questions" becomes "Question everything! Everything is a conspiracy! NEVER question the Orange Man, though!"

I don't know the answer to this question, but what really made these people feel so dumb in the first place? What would make them turn to a bunch of wannabe-rebels like this? I'd say it's a systemic issue that fails the lot of us, no matter who you are or where you're from. A meritocracy that measures us all on a hierarchy. Either you step back and realize you're being judged on this needless scale and see that your usefulness to capitalism is being determined, or you become a rightwing anti-vaxxer bigot transphobe orange-man-supporter.

Again, it's a loaded question for another post that I may probably not make, but I wanted to just put out what's on my mind right now.

[doshmanziari]

Dark Souls 3: “More of the Same”

In terms of its public approval and situating, and relative to the first and second entries, Dark Souls 3 seems to have ever been in a curious place. Just two month’s after its release, I authored a very small essay, “What to say about Dark Souls 3?”, the very title of which implies that there just might not be a whole lot to say. But, six years later, I can’t help feeling that it really is the most fascinating, the most imaginatively spurring, of the bunch. This is a feeling which must balance against my first few playthroughs of the game being neither particularly memorable nor surprising. It is also a feeling which I do not think would exist if I weren’t compelled, by a reorientation of interests, to re-view Dark Souls 3 through various psychological, spiritual, and mythological contexts -- meaning, in part, that for those first few playthroughs I had not only differing expectations but also interpretative tools.

This has put my critical sensibilities here in an equally curious place. I understand what people mean when they coolly describe Dark Souls 3 as “more of the same”; but emphasizing mechanical novelty as the qualitative criterion simply isn’t how I approach this game anymore, even though I reject the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” mentality pervading videogame culture and am similarly unmoved by worship of the almighty Polish. This fixation on novelty presents an interesting conundrum. It’s such a sensible and coherent expectation -- we want a new thing to be new in ways exceeding its release date! -- yet it is also so commonly in the service of industries which act as restless conveyor belts of “experiences” and tend to undermine conservational or traditional principles, or devalue subtlety. One might remember, for example, how many journalistic outlets began to cast 2D videogames as contemptibly passé once 3D was identified as the hot new thing.

Here’s another problem: interpretations of novelty vary; and, depending upon one’s frame of reference, novelty can seem over- or under-interpreted. People who have spent hundreds of hours with FromSoftware’s games are likely able to detail what mechanically separates Bloodborne from Dark Souls 3; but, for most people who reside outside of this time-sink, the two will probably not appear to be that visibly different. Both of these viewpoints are what I would call experientially legitimate. One does not cancel out the other. Let us also not forget that Dark Souls 2 offered a number of tweaks, construable as novelties, and inspired a significant (but not majority) outcry. Novelty is not some dependably positive or negative attribute.

Let’s get a little more specific. Dark Souls has always had a remarkable enthusiasm on its side. It remains one of the most significant videogames of the 2010s (personally, I would go so far as to say it is one of the most significant artworks of this century). The constitution of this enthusiasm is such that, when people discuss the Souls games, Dark Souls is implicitly the central and even formative figure, almost as if it were a small-scale variant of the literary or musical sentiment that everything after some canonical high-water mark been “so much noise” or simply variations on a maximally archetypal work (of course, Dark Souls is itself a rearrangement of very old things). On the flip side, the responses to Dark Souls 2 have largely developed as self-aware reappraisals tending to take the form of “defenses.” In other words, much as it might sound counterintuitive, Dark Souls 2 has benefited precisely from its mixed responses (even though there continues to be basically no longform writing concerning its mythopoeic structure!). It has the ability to provoke discourse by its being designated as weird, incoherent, ugly -- essentially as marginalized.

Dark Souls 3, then, is... well, it’s the third Dark Souls game. It is an obvious “return to form” after the sequel. It is post-Bloodborne, which had the upper hand by being FromSoftware’s first venture on newer technology (I cannot stress enough how stunningly, almost overwhelmingly, amazing Bloodborne looked to me when I first played it) and their shift to faster action. It does little to inspire controversy, besides being especially hard to narratively put together, which has only hardened the opinion (one that I once held!) that its returning figures and iconography are merely chintzy fan-service. In some ways, the whole situation conforms to the trend of a series having some relatively experimental sequel and then “correcting course” by bringing the third entry closer to the first, or just appearing to take less creative risks. Given all this, it’s unsurprising that Dark Souls 3 may not inspire much more than a sort of dulled appreciation of craft, refinement, technical solidity.

Not that it somehow has to, as if we were all beholden to a sort of critical imperative, but it’s hard to imagine how this situation might change. Dark Souls 3 is simply too conspicuously well-made, too asset-endowed, for it to be treated as an underdog without the effort looking pathetic. Moreover, its world design has been dragged into the persistent dichotomy of linearity vs. non-linearity. Although Dark Souls 3′s type of linearity is a contextual virtue, further concretizing the game’s eschatological emphases, it is often slighted -- I cannot count how many times I have seen it written that the game is fine in spite of the linearity --, as if the game were lacking something from the first without which it is crippled. Interestingly, the relative linearity of Dark Souls 3 is a kind of novelty for the trilogy -- and it would, by association, condemn Demon’s Souls too! --, but the dichotomy’s prescriptivism insists on an inherent difference of value, presumably in part because non-linearity extends play-time and thereby offers more “content.” The other issue with this either/or insistence, as there tends to be with assessments of Dark Souls 2′s in-flux manner, is that it excludes surprising and fecund alternate analyses, such as one by Mike Stenbæk which discerns a tripartite and suggestively rich assembly of Lothric’s domains.

This isn’t all I want to say on the matter, but it’ll do for now. I’d like to conclude this brief exploration by sharing some words from a friend expressing his viewpoint:

DS3 was actually my favorite of the trilogy. DS1's combat didn't play well with my sense of timing, and I found the lag between input and move execution off-putting. Nevertheless I did eventually beat it. I have no idea where the hell I'm going in DS2, so I've never finished it. Most FROM games do a good job of letting you do whatever at the start, and you can pick your threads back up when you exhaust one direction. DS2 was just — where am i and where am i going and I don't remember why I care except to progress.

Bloodborne was a revelation because it took the DS combat and aligned input and output better. By which I mean, you press a button and you get a move rather than press a button and anticipate. BB was my "Ah ha, now I get it" moment. I didn't dislike that DS1 was hard. I disliked the way that it was hard. Which brings us to DS3, which takes some of the mechanical learnings of BB and marries them to DS. And its environments were crafted in such a way that I could move through without getting super duper lost.

I think that having a starting point to understand the spirit of the games makes the others intelligible too. If it takes a linear/action experience like BB/DS3 to show me what the Soulsborne games do best, I'm more likely to seek that aesthetic in experiences that I enjoy less naturally. Well, "more linear," I should say. All of them give you different ways to approach exploration.

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Pancakes

A/N: Here is my entry to @pit-and-the-pen ‘s writing challenge! Thank you for letting me take part and congratulations again on 100 followers!! Though I’m sure you’ve got more than 100 followers now! I apologise for it taking so long! I do enjoy writing Remus. This does get a little steamy, so please read the warnings before reading the fic. It is just a load of fluff though, too. I’ve set this through the first wizarding war but before James and Lily because I like happiness. 

Summary: “Is... is that my shirt?” Remus questions from the doorway.

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader

Warnings: it gets a little steamy, but nothing graphic - making out and all that jazz. mentions of food.

Word count: 1.2k

Something tickling your face wakes you from your dreams. Rubbing your eyes, you see that it’s Remus’ hair tickling your nose. His head is on your chest with a leg thrown over yours. You want to laugh; he’s effectively pinning you to the bed. You run a finger down the length of his nose, enjoying the way he scrunches it up in his sleep. He murmurs incoherently before settling back into his dream.

You manoeuvre your way out from underneath the love of your life. You take a moment to watch him sleep; Remus looks so young in sleep – the worries that plague him in his daily life disappear when he sleeps, and he looks his age. Old, silver scars cover his nose, his cheekbones. He’s most insecure about these so you made it your mission when you fell in love with him that if you are to kiss his face, you would kiss him on those scars. He may not like them, but to you, they’re just as much a part of him as his intelligence or his lycanthropy.

Looking around the bedroom, you bite your lip at the mess. Clothes thrown in a hurry, landing on different pieces of furniture – you don’t miss the grey scraps of your t-shirt, remembering how Remus tore it from your torso. You turn to check the time but find the alarm clock smashed to pieces on the floor… where you had kicked it.  

You grab a shirt from the floor, pushing your arms through the sleeves, knowing immediately that it’s Remus’ from the size and smell. The hem of the shirt skims the middle of your thighs as you tiptoe downstairs to the kitchen, ravenous after last night’s activities.

The sun is barely rising as you enter the kitchen. The rays painting the room a pale pink. You watch the early morning sun begin to rise from the window, enjoying the start of the day in peaceful silence. Today, would be a long one, with family arriving for Remus’ birthday.

You sigh, rubbing your arms at the slight chill in the kitchen, suddenly wishing you had found some sweatpants on the floor.

Your mental to-do list is getting longer and longer by the minute, but it’s pushed to the side momentarily as your stomach begins to growl, desperate for some sort of breakfast.

You gather the ingredients for pancakes before turning on the radio; needing background music as you prepare breakfast for both yourself and the sleeping man upstairs. He needed the sleep; the lunar cycle combined with the missions from the Order, he had barely slept all month. He needed the sleep, for if Sirius plans were to happen, he would not be getting any sleep for his birthday.

You had fully intended on letting him relax all night, but then he looked at you in a way that showed his love and affection for you. He had pulled you down onto the bed beside him, pressing kiss after kiss to your lips, to your neck, to your chest and before you knew it, you were lost in each other. The idea of sleep was the furthest thing from your mind when Remus’ mouth landed in the right spot.

“Is… is that my shirt?” Remus questions from the doorway, startling you from your reminiscing of the night previous.

You turn from mixing the pancake batter, smiling at him, eyes running across his bare chest, “You scared me! I didn’t know you were up.”

He smiles, “Your side of the bed was empty. I woke to investigate. Are you wearing my shirt?”

“It’s the first thing I could find in our mess of a room, and I think you may have ripped mine last night, trying to get it off me.”

Remus chuckles, his eyes running up and down your body, taking notice of your bare legs, “I can’t say I’m sorry about that. We really did make a mess, didn’t we?”

You laugh with him, “Did you see the state of the alarm clock?”

He rubs the back of his neck; eyes shining with mirth, “I did, I don’t suppose I did that?”

“Nope, that was all me.” You state, somewhat proudly, “I want to say it happened somewhere between rounds two and three but honestly, who knows?”

“What are you making?”

“Pancakes,” You answer, “I thought we’d have a nice breakfast before Sirius and the gang start to arrive for your birthday.”

“What did I do to deserve pancakes?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t know about you, but after last night, I am starving. And who doesn’t deserve pancakes on their birthday?”

You continue to mix the ingredients as Remus watches you for one moment more from his place in the doorway. At some point before he came downstairs, you had put the radio on low and now you in the lull of your conversation, you were swinging your hips to the sound of Rick Springfield. Remus watches you utterly immersed into the sog; singing along to the lyrics quietly and he wonders just how on earth he got so lucky to have someone like you fall in love with someone like him.

He had gone through his entire education without truly loving someone or feeling like he could be loved himself. Then he met you at the first meeting of the order; a witch talented in Potions and mission strategy. He had fallen from the moment you said hello; he didn’t know until a lot later than you had fallen for him at the exact same time.

You grab the chocolate chips from the cupboard as Remus makes his way into the kitchen, leaning on the counter. You grasp his chin, pressing a light kiss to his lips, whispering, “Happy Birthday,” against them.

He smiles against your mouth before pulling away enough to whisper, “Thank you, my love.”

Remus wraps his arms around your waist as you add chocolate chips to the pancake batter.

He runs his nose along the expanse of your neck, inhaling as he does so. “You smell so good,” He groans.

You laugh, “I don’t see how. We didn’t exactly have time to shower last night.”

“No, we didn’t. I suppose we’ll have time to shower and to eat later.”

Remus spins you in his arms before you can question what he means, crashing his lips to yours in a messy kiss.

His hands travel to the top of your thighs, tapping twice, signalling you to jump. You do, wrapping your legs around his waist as he sets you gently on the kitchen counter. His hands now wander along your body; tracing light patterns on your thighs raising goosebumps in his wake. You moan into his mouth at feel of his hands so close to where you need him.

You pull away, not far but far enough to whisper, “Don’t play, Remus.”

“Oh no?” He smirks, dropping his head to press butterfly kisses to your neck, kissing over the hickeys already bruising there.

You groan as he nips at your skin; your hands settle in his hair, pulling slightly. “Remus,” You murmur.

He hums, continuing his onslaught of kisses. His hands have left your thighs now; they’re opening the buttons to his shirt so slow you’re sure it’s torture, his fingers barely graze your bare skin. His touch close to driving you towards insanity.

“Remus, breakfast.” You remind him.

Remus chuckles; one of his hands moving to a place that has you gasping against him. He grins wickedly, “I’m already having it, dear.”

You let yourself surrender into his touch. Pancakes can wait until later… a lot later.

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

General (HP) taglist: @chaotic-fae-queen​ @obsessedwithrandomthings​ @harrypotter289​ @dreamer821​ @kalimagik​ @heloisedaphnebrightmore​ @nebulablakemurphy​ @the-hufflefluffwriter​ @figlia--della--luna​ @bforbroadway​ @idont-knowrn​ @summer-writes​ @big-galaxy-chaos​

[so-i-dont-forget-again]

So I Don’t Forget Again: A Breath of The Wild fanfiction

Entry 208: Zora’s Domain

 Sidon made me breakfast. He made things I had taught him to make back at Hateno, he had to wake up very early to get the ingredients on time. He tried to hide it, but I could see he was a little sleepy through the whole day, he’s had such little rest. I really appreciate this, him just focusing on me, almost like there’s nothing else, but I don’t want him to push himself. Though I want to thank him all the same. He just makes me feel so special and safe, in a way unlike anything else, I guess. I feel like he really sees me, like he truly wants me. I don’t know how to describe this, but I want to. I want to pour these feelings into these pages, have him read this so he can know just how much he means to me, how he’s an irreplaceable part of my life, how he

I just want him to know as amazing as he finds me, I find him to be just the same. He’s much more eloquent with words than me, so maybe he’d know how to write this, but I want to at least try, even if this is just kinda incoherent thoughts by now.

We went to market, it’s a bit away from town, but that’s because it’s more of a trading area so Hylians and Gorons and others can get there easier than going through the canyon to the town. We did some shopping but we heard a lot of rumors. A new hero appearing, one who couldn’t be the reincarnated one. A hero who did not wield the blade of evil’s bane but a trident, instead of working in service of the princesses, or royalty, or goddess they worked for the people, a blond gender ambiguous Hylian who slew a massive, fearsome beast all to get ingredients for a medicine for a gerudo woman’s sick husband they didn’t even know, a person who helped the descendants of the champions calm all the Divine Beasts soon after their rampages began, a person who is a brother to the strong gorons, a person who had begun to teach others how to fend for themselves, on and on it went, even false or exaggerated tales. They were all about one simple person who served the people for their sake and nothing else. This person was not grand or flashy, they were only recognized since tridents are an uncommon weapon and even more uncommon for hylians outside of the royal family to be blond, two odd, eye catching characteristics and people made the connections from there. Sidon told me it just seemed fitting that the “Hero of the People” would wish to use all his peoples’ fighting styles, a person who was strong with all their power, their best qualities united.

I guess it is fitting. Before being the chosen hero or whatever felt like a burden, but this time, it felt different, it didn’t feel bad, like there’s this cumbersome weight I just can’t carry. I’m being called a hero for things I have done already, not things I’m expected to do, I think that’s the difference. I think Sidon could tell too. He admitted he was a little nervous about this, but if I did react badly, he wanted to be beside me so he could comfort me and not have me over hear this some other place far away and for my thoughts to go dark again. And we had the whole day to be together so we could do something fun to get my mind off it.

We had a lovely walk back. Bossa Nova kept trying to steal some of the ingredients we ended up running part of the way as he chased us. He even tried nibbling on my hair to get my attention. Sidon tried scolding him, but Bossa Nova didn’t care. After gifting a Hearty Radish he calmed down, but Sidon said I shouldn’t spoil him, that he’ll just take advantage of that and eat through all my non-meat supplies sooner or later. But then he just looked at me for a moment, smiled and shook his head before turning back to the trail ahead. When I asked him what that meant he told me he couldn’t find my behavior endearing and that I need to learn how to say ‘no’ sometimes. I guess he is a prince, he has to make decisions for his people, and he’ll likely have to say ‘no’ sometimes, but how can you say no to a cute hungry capybara! Besides I don’t think he would have stopped trying to knock us over till he was fed so I don’t think it could have been THAT bad. Just a treat. He’s a good boy, he needs the love. Sidon then gasped and said this must be why Bossa Nova likes me more now. It was clear he was play acting, playing up the moment but his reaction did get Bossa Nova to charge at him and knock him into the river for hugs. Much of the fruit started floating down river and it took a while to collect it all.

We cooked lunch together, a fusion between Rito and Zora cuisine. I always love cooking with him, well I just like cooking, but especially with him. Food reflects it’s culture and traditions, cooking is literally making something to help the other keep living and making it enjoyable all the while. I don’t think I need food, not anymore at least, but I can still enjoy it, making it and tasting it with others. Eating and cooking with others feels different than on your own, it only makes sense, food reflects people and so more people would surely make it taste better. All this to say I just really enjoyed lunch. And Bossa Nova still ate his meal so giving him his treat was not spoiling him! He didn’t eat his whole thing though, but that’s not the point! He still ate it… I guess it’s because I don’t get hungry I don’t see the point in having scheduled meals. Sidon said that was not the point, the point being Bossa Nova acting bratty to get whatever he wants. But could it be so bad, all he ever wants is food or extra affection.

Sidon asked if I knew how long I can hold my breath for. Much of his kingdom is underwater and he wanted to show more of it to me. Zoras really are made for the water, even the shape of their heads are kind of like arrows so they can effortlessly pierce through it. I know fish need fins to swim, I wonder how fins help Zora swim. They’re just stunning racing past, or at least Sidon is. Even with my complete zora armor set swimming can be a struggle but for him it’s effortless, he can go in circles and make twists and turns so quickly. Light seems much starker underwater, either bright or dark, I notice his glowy parts much more, I still can’t tell if they’re always glowing or if the glow activates when he’s in shade.

His home underwater looks similarish to land with similar plants, but there are also very different ones I don’t even know where to begin describing them. Some are kind of like flat dishes and others more spindly, then there are others that are wrinkly, I’ve never seen plants like those in the rivers before. There are some like stone, Sidon says they’re called coral and are plants oddly enough. Many of these only grow in the domain, but there are similar ones in the ocean. I wondered if any could be used in cooking, as they are plants zoras have never tried and Sidon was rather keen on assisting me if I tried working with them.

His kingdom underwater is so much larger than on the surface. Sidon and his people could so easily be separated from the rest of the world and be just fine. Their most important places like the throne room are on the surface so others can more easily reach them. That is something he’s always had been so appreciative of his ancestors for doing. His people, they’ve always been distant from the rest of Hyrule whether they lived solely underwater or some place out of reach or hidden away, of all times this current era is likely the closest they have been to others even with being separated by a distant canyon still. He doesn’t like this distance, even if it is better than before. After the champions fell and the hylians had no leader, everyone mostly went their own ways and more of a divide was created between everyone, sure there’s trade and the mail service but other than that, nothing, no alliance promises or at least documents stating they were at peace with one another, there’s nothing except for the few individuals who sought out pay from others, that’s why he finds what I’m doing to be so incredible. This legend I’m making just by being myself, becoming something or someone everyone can connect too or want to strive for. A kind of hero he could only have dreamed of. I told him I can’t do anything like uniting everyone, I’ve just lived with them and gotten to know them, he however, someone who knows how to lead others, someone who can understand and relate to others so easily or through his sheer determination, his hunger to know others better, wanting those connections, he could become someone who could lead and unite hyrule. He told me uniting hyrule again was going to be a monumental task, surely one he could not handle on his own, he’d definitely need someone who’s on good terms with everyone, and more importantly a partner by his side, someone he could lean on during the rough days, someone who could emotionally support him and just be by his side, just someone precious to him to keep close.

How tenderly he held my hands and stroked them with his thumbs, and just that way he looked at me. I don’t know what I was feeling but it was so warm, and soft, and like my chest was fluttering. Just… how he wants me, not just for what I can do, he just wants me. He wants me to be there because he just wants to share his life with me, I just happen to get some additional satisfaction since I know I get to help, but even if I couldn’t I KNOW he’d want me to be there with him and it just…

It means so much to me.

Today was just so nice.

After leading me to my room he collapsed on the bed. I don’t know about him, but I know swimming definitely takes a lot of energy and he was already working with little sleep, at least this way I know for certain he’s getting rest. I hope nobody comes here looking for him. For now, I guess I should get some sleep myself.

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[fatalelity]

a very incoherent post on my thoughts on last night’s episode:

her entry moment where she selfquoted herself is quite literally the most addison thing. now, i bet some people were like ‘how the fuck would addison realistically remember that line enough to reference it?’ well the answer’s easy. addison has anxiety. when she first saw merder in 1x09, she definitely rehearsed that line a million times and we do have a moment where she’s just ... looking at them before walking over. she’s nervous and honestly, it makes so much sense that she’d be nervous to go back to grey-sloan since it was rennamed

ganycanon confirmed - addison has a sweet tooth. when she asked jo for her coffee black and extra sweet i rolled my eyes and went ‘you fucking dor i love you so much’ 

her dynamic with schmidt is exactly how i pictured it. the way how she picked him out to be her resident to scrub in. the way how she was like ‘is that a question?’ the way how she asked him if he was alright in the OR  exactly how i pictured their whole dynamic. 

i think it was so funny that her and wilson didn’t really even get a chance to actually speak this episode because sooner or later they’ll be find out ,,,, they both banged the same man ... awkward

i just love how everything i’ve been saying for years was confirmed canon. from her reverence and respect of meredith to her being actually so, so, so loving to the merder kids. i haven’t felt this validated in YEARS by this show so it was a breath of fresh air. 

addison being more radical than she was let to be on private practice is something that was so important to me. she has so much empathy and patience for the people, for the world  of course she would defend the residents and understand them. i’m so proud of her. so, so, so proud. 

i just loved how i wrote so many of these scenes out through RP and what not but to actually SEE it portrayed on screen? it hit so good. it hit so different  and my god, the addimelia reunion made me bawl my eyes out

also uh, that threesome comment? addison why you remember that huh??? did you actually THINK about that threesome with merder?? HMMM??? sounds a lil fruity to me

HER INTERACTING WITH THE MERDER KIDS HAD ME IN MY FEELS. the way how she LOOKED at bailey and saw derek. the way how she just has so much love and i’m just so so so proud of merddison for coming so far. 

i love the fact that at first they were almost driven apart because of derek. they couldn’t be friends because of derek. they couldn’t bond because of derek. then now, to them being brought together because of their shared LOVE for derek and at some point being derek’s wife? UGH that full circle is so GOOOD

anyways i’m looking forward to next week so much i cry 

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 1/?)

Because nothing says ‘independence day’ like writing the participants in a French rebellion as members of the British upper class...

The Bridgerton AU that no one asked for. Will be at least 4 chapters, probably, to be published on a schedule only God herself can predict. Developing E/R, hijinks and shenanigans. All of the shenanigans.

One might recall when, not too long ago, the author of this paper hung up her pen and retired from reporting on the drama that each new season of fresh-faced debutantes and their endlessly anxious mothers brings. But alas, dear Reader, the excitement of this season has proven too much for this Author to suffer without company – which is why the pen has been passed to a new scribe.

But the fortuitous timing of the season has not been met with equally thrilling events for sharing here, as indeed, the most recent ball, hosted annually at the start of the season by the ever-insufferable Thénardiers, was positively under-attended. Not by the eager mothers that are the backbone of any season or their equally eager daughters, but by the young, eligible men who usually at least deign to make an appearance, dance a few dances, and exchange niceties as is expected for men of their station.

Instead, the only poor sap who wandered into the Thénardiers’ den of matchmaking was the Baron of Pontmercy, who was positively beset by hopeful ingénues, the most brazen of which was undoubtedly the Thénardiers’ eldest daughter, Éponine. While this Author notes that Miss Thénardier has had a patchy history with suitors and thus cannot be fully blamed for attempting to sink her claws into one as eligible as the baron, this Author must also sympathize with Baron Pontmercy, who seemed only to find himself with one moment to himself. 

Then again, rumor has it that his single moment was interrupted by an unknown young lady with an equally unknown chaperone who whisked her away posthaste. Her identity is one mystery both this Author and Baron Pontmercy are equally eager to discover, but the more pressing question is where the others of Baron Pontmercy’s gender were when they should have been equally beset by potential brides.

Never fear: Whatever answers I find, dear Reader, I shall certainly share with other enquiring minds. For a nominal fee, of course. While there are rumors of young men meeting in the backroom of a certain gentlemen’s club to discuss the overthrow of society, capitalism, and the King himself, this Author, being of the gentler sex, finds herself unable to obtain an invite, and as such, alas, cannot bring herself to comply with their lofty goals. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 20 MARCH 1831

The air in the backroom at the Musain Gentlemen’s Club was hazy with smoke and thick with plentiful conversation as its guests, all young men dressed in their dinner best, traded stories and jokes in between sips of their drinks.

At least one among them was not drinking, though – Enjolras, who sat in an overlarge armchair towards the back of the room, his back to one of the large windows that spanned almost the entire height of the wall. He alone was also not joining his friends in their merriment, his brow instead creased as he read over something.

When he had finished, he glanced up. “Combeferre,” he called, barely raising his voice despite the cacophony of the room. 

Not that he needed to: the moment he spoke, the room fell quiet as all eyes glanced at him as if waiting for him to continue. In return, he just arched an eyebrow at them. “Well, don’t let me put an end to your fun.”

A dark haired man sitting at a table in the far corner playing cards with two others raised his glass in a mocking toast. “Worry not,” he called in return. “You won’t.”

Laughter broke out yet again at that, and most of their number returned to their previous conversations as Combeferre pulled up a chair next to Enjolras’s. Enjolras pursed his lips, looking unamused. “Why is Grantaire even here?” he asked Combeferre, who, quite to the contrary, looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“I imagine because you have not yet told him that you wish for him to leave and never return,” Combeferre said evenly before giving Enjolras a rather assessing look. “Assuming, of course, that is what you wish.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “That’s not the point—”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “No, the point is that you had a comment, I assume, about the pamphlet I gave you to review.”

Enjolras still looked disgruntled, but seemed more than willing to allow the change in subject. “The pamphlet is fine, but I imagine you already knew that.” He handed the pamphlet draft back to Combeferre before asking, “What do you imagine the distribution schedule to look like? With Parliament sitting this week—”

He was interrupted by a thin, rather-nervous looking man appearing at his elbow, the doorman to the establishment who was paid a decent sum by each man inside the room to not interrupt them and to report nothing of their comings and going to any who might enquire. When Enjolras had made that arrangement, he had been thinking of the police; when his friends had followed his lead, most were thinking of their mothers.

“M’Lord Enjolras, I do beg your pardon—” he started, sounding almost as nervous as he looked.

Enjolras’s brow furrowed again. “It’s fine, what is it?” he asked, a touch impatiently.

The doorman bobbed his head and cleared his throat. “There is a, ah, a woman seeking entry.”

Bahorel, seated nearby, let out a wolf whistle. “The young ladies of the season are getting restless!” he crowed, to much laughter. 

“Restless, and bold, if they are coming into the city to seek their groom, and without a chaperone to boot,” Bossuet said with a grin.

“Leave to Enjolras to be the one to cause all tradition to break,” Jehan sniggered.

Enjolras could feel his ears burning red but he studiously ignored the jeers and catcalls from his friends, instead frowning at the doorman. “May I ask why are you telling me this?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even. “Last I checked, it was your policy to restrict admittance to men, despite my protestations to the contrary.”

“Of course, M’Lord, it’s just…” The doorman quailed slightly at the look Enjolras gave him. “The woman in question claims to be your mother.”

Immediately, all jokes ceased as identical, horror-stricken looks crossed the faces of each of his friends. Enjolras blanched, all the blood draining from his face. “Did you confirm that I was inside?” he asked, a little desperately.

The doorman shook his head, his eyes widening. “No, of course not, m’lord’s discretion being of utmost importance to this establishment.” He hesitated. “That said, she did not appear to believe our denial, and is threatening to come inside and verify for yourself that you are not here.”

Enjolras groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course she is,” he sighed. He glanced at Combeferre as if considering asking for his assistance, but seemed to think better of it, instead standing and drawing himself up to his full height. “Right,” he said. “Well, I think you’ve got everything handled here, so I suppose I’ll just go, er, handle this situation.”

Combeferre again looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. “Of course,” he said. “And, if you do not return, I shall call upon you later this week, shall I?”

“Yes, but the question will be more whether you should call upon me at my house or at the hospital,” Enjolras muttered, and it was to Combeferre’s credit that he still somehow managed not to laugh.

The same could not be said for Grantaire, who started humming what Enjolras recognized vaguely as a funeral dirge as soon as he headed towards the door, and Enjolras gave him the nastiest glare he could muster. Of course, Grantaire was unaffected – if anything, it only caused his grin to widen, and he raised his cup in yet another mocking toast as Enjolras swept out of the room to go deal with his mother.

It was anyone’s guess whether his mother or Grantaire irritated him more.

He started to ask the doorman where his mother was, but found that he did not need to ask – her voice was echoing all the way from the entrance hall. “I am the Dowager Marchioness of Enjolras,” she was practically shrieking, and Enjolras winced, mentally calculating how much money it would take to smooth this particular incident over. Certainly less than when Courfeyrac almost burned the place down, but almost certainly more than when Bahorel and Grantaire had gotten into a fistfight and broken two statues and a chandelier.

He really needed better friends.

And a different mother.

“I demand to speak with my son!” his mother continued, her voice rising in both volume and pitch. “And do not give me this nonsense that he is not here, I know quite well where my son is!”

“M’lady, I apologize, but as I have said, we cannot confirm that your son—”

“I shall confirm it for myself,” Enjolras interrupted, saving the poor proprietor, who had never looked more relieved to see him. “Mother, kindly stop screeching at these gentlemen for doing their jobs.” His mother spluttered incoherently  but Enjolras knew better than to allow her the chance to regroup.

Instead, he grabbed her by the elbow and steered her to the door, glancing over his shoulder to nod his thanks at the proprietor. As soon as they were outside the building, Enjolras dropped any pretense at propriety. “What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, not releasing his mother from his grip. “Coming all the way into the city to find me? Pray tell what could possibly have been so important to cause such a scene!”

His mother yanked her arm from his grasp and glared up at him. “A scene?” she repeated, her voice deathly quiet. “My dear son, if you consider that a scene, you are ill-prepared for what is soon to follow.”

Enjolras sighed and tried not to roll his eyes. “There is no need for theatrics—”

Without warning, his mother slapped him across the face. “Theatrics?” she hissed. “When I have spent every waking moment these past several years trying to ensure your future and the future of our house!”

She made as if to hit him again but Enjolras caught her wrist, staying her hand. “Madam, you may be the Dowager Marchioness but I am the Marquess of Enjolras, and I will not permit you to assault me in the streets, my mother or not.” He released her arm before adding sardonically, “Besides, think of the gossip.”

Again his mother gave him no warning to gird himself, but this time, she burst into tears, sobbing into his shirt. “Oh, for the love of—” Enjolras took her again by the elbow, gentler this time, and led her to where her carriage waited. “Get a hold of yourself,” he snapped. “You have already made enough of a scene this evening.”

“Perhaps a scene is what it will take!” she half-shouted in return. “For you to finally listen to me, to hear what I have been telling you!” Enjolras rolled his eyes, holding out his hand to help her into her carriage, but she stubbornly refused to move. “Since you clearly don’t listen to me when I make arrangements solely for your benefit.”

“I assure you, you have never once done anything solely for my benefit,” Enjolras said tiredly. “But if it will stop your screaming then please, tell me the latest way in which I have ruined your plans for my future.”

“The Thénardier ball!” his mother wailed, crying again. “All those eligible young ladies, and you could not even deign to show your face! How am I to get you married at this rate?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes so hard he half-feared he would pull a muscle. “Hang the bloody Thénardier ball,” he ground out, hesitating for only a moment before picking his mother up and placing her inside the carriage, swinging up after her before she could protest. 

“What are you doing?” she cried as the carriage moved off at double speed, and Enjolras thanked whatever higher power there was that his mother’s driver also clearly did not wish to linger.

Enjolras sighed. “You wanted me attention,” he said tiredly. “So you have it, albeit not in public where you clearly wanted it.”

For one long moment, his mother just glared at him, tears shining on her cheeks. Then she sighed and sat upright, her pose turning almost prim as she drew a linen handkerchief from her sleeve and delicately dabbed the tears from her cheeks. “Very well,” she said calmly, all traces of earlier hysteria gone in an instant, and Enjolras realized immediately that he had been duped, that he had played directly into her hands.

She had anticipated that making a scene would be the easiest way to get him to leave with her.

And now she had him as a captive audience for however long it took for her driver to reach her house. And while he was not a betting man, he would wager all his money and lands that she had directed her driver to take the long way.

His mother was smiling at him, a cold, unpleasant smile, and Enjolras groaned, tipping his head back against the pillowed cushions. “Please don’t tell me that you really pulled all of that because you wished to discuss the Thénardier ball.”

“Don’t be foolish,” she said before tapping his knee. “And sit upright, you will cause your clothes to wrinkle.” Enjolras groaned and reluctantly sat upright, glaring balefully at her as he waited for her to continue. “No, I merely wished to discuss something and this seemed the easiest way.”

“Then by all means, please tell me: what do you want to discuss?”

“Why, what else?” she asked, a small smirk lifting the corners of her mouth. “Your marriage.”

----------

There were few things that Enjolras loathed more than being hoodwinked by his own mother into a conversation he’d been spending the past several years avoiding, but as he stood staring up at the rather imposing façade of a house he had been to only perhaps a handful of times, he thought this just might rank.

Still, his options were decidedly limited, and he hesitated only a moment more before climbing the stairs to the front door, knocking briskly. In telling of a house less used to visits during the season, it took a moment for the butler to answer the door, and Enjolras shifted uncomfortably on the stoop as he waited. 

“May I help you?” the butler asked as he opened the door. 

“Yes,” Enjolras said. “I’m here to see Grantaire.”

The butler eyed him warily. “And who should I tell Mr. Grantaire is here to see him?”

It took everything in Enjolras not to roll his eyes. “Tell him that the Marquess of Enjolras requests his presence,” he said dryly, hating the way the butler’s eyes widened when he realized just who was standing in the doorway.

“Of– of course, m’lord,” the butler said, immediately opening the door wider to usher Enjolras indoors. “Beg your pardon, m’lord. I’ll just, ah, go fetch Mr, Grantaire.”

He retreated up the stairs and Enjolras finally did roll his eyes, sighing heavily as he wandered a little further indoors. He had spent half his life, it seemed, going from one grand house to another, so very little surprised him, but he was intrigued by what he might find in Grantaire’s house. While his own park-adjoining manor had been in his family for generations, and was decorated accordingly, Grantaire came from new money, and this house had belonged to a different family entirely not even a decade before. 

He paused to examine a small portrait of two young children, a boy and a girl, when he heard footsteps clattering on the stairs and he turned to look up as Grantaire joined him, a jacket rather hastily thrown on and buttoned incorrectly.

“My Lord.”

Grantaire’s voice was pitched just slightly higher than usual, in a way that indicated genuine surprise at finding Enjolras standing in his foyer, but somehow still retained the telltale lilt that Enjolras had long since realized meant Grantaire was making fun of him. 

He scowled automatically. “Enjolras,” he corrected with an exasperated half-sigh.

Grantaire inclined his head, a smirk twisting his lips. “My lord Enjolras,” he said, and Enjolras’s scowl deepened.

“Just Enjolras,” he said flatly, not waiting for Grantaire to escort him into the house, instead crossing the foyer to peer into the front sitting room. 

“By all means, make yourself at home,” Grantaire said, following him.

Enjolras twisted his head to give Grantaire a smirk of his own. “As you seem so keen to remind me, I outrank you,” he said. “And believe me when I say this is one time I will feel no guilt using the trappings of the nobility to my advantage.”

Grantaire just snorted, brushing past him into the sitting room, ignoring the tea that had been set on the table and instead making his way over to the drink cart against the far wall. “Forgive me, but I can think of many instances where you undoubtedly used your title and your family to your advantage without any guilt,” he said dryly, pouring himself half a glass full of amber liquid before pausing, considering it, and adding another finger. “But let’s save that particular fight for a different time.” He turned back to Enjolras and raised his glass in a mock toast. “For now, before I forget my manners any further, let me say welcome to my home, and please, allow me to pour you a cup of tea.”

“I am capable of pouring my own tea, thanks,” Enjolras said, a little stiffly, and he sat down on one armchair before leaning forward to rather stubbornly do just that.

Grantaire did not join him, as if he thought keeping physical distance between them might keep things civil. “Only you would think that hospitality was an insult.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “The way you said it, it was.”

“You underestimate my capacity for being genuinely polite,” Grantaire said dryly, taking a large sip of his whiskey.

“Do I?”

“Tell me, my Lord—” Enjolras gritted his teeth but chose not to interrupt him. “—if not to insult me to my face in my own home, what brings you here, and at tea time no less?”

His voice was calm, pleasant even, but Enjolras felt himself flush in realization that he had done exactly that. And no matter how frequently he might wish to throttle Grantaire with his own hands, that was offensive even for him. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking down at his tea as he stirred it. “I have been rude.

Grantaire looked briefly surprised, as if he had not expected an apology. But then his smirk was back in full force. “All is forgiven...my lord.” Enjolras really might shatter his teacup at this rate. “But you still didn’t answer my question as to why you are here.”

Enjolras set his teacup down and straightened, looking Grantaire in the eye. “I came to ask for your help.”

Grantaire laughed. “So you come to my home, uninvited, you insult me to my face, and you still have the audacity to ask for my help?” He drained half of his whiskey in one long gulp. “You are lucky you have been granted the face of a Greek god, Apollo.”

“Don’t call me that,” Enjolras sighed, though he knew it was a losing battle. Grantaire had called him that on the first day they met, when Grantaire was finishing college and Enjolras just beginning, and he had continued to call him that for all the years since. “Look, I am sorry, and not just because I need your help. I am ill suited to polite society and the longer the season drags on, the more foul my temper becomes.”

Grantaire made a small noise of agreement. “You and I both,” he murmured, draining his glass and pouring himself another before finally joining Enjolras, settling into the armchair across from him. “Very well. You have my attention.”

Enjolras leaned forward, sudden urgency in every line of his body. “Word has it that you were instrumental in helping Lord Joly and Mr. Lesgle avoid scandal last season when both were in love with Lady Musichetta.”

“Well, we avoided a big scandal at least,” Grantaire said, eyeing Enjolras carefully. “There must always be a little bit of a scandal or none would believe it.”

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand. “Either way, all three are happy, and living at Lord Joly’s estate, and not a word about them has been wasted in Lady Whistledown’s papers this season.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “I am astonished to learn you have read any of the newly-revived Lady Whistledown’s papers, let alone with enough frequency to speak with such authority on the subject.:

Enjolras flushed a mottled red and looked away. “It’s an easy conversation topic,” he muttered, “when I am forced to speak to those with whom I have nothing in common.”

“Such as the twittering nitwits your mother foists upon you at every turn?” Grantaire asked lightly.

Enjolras met his eyes evenly. “Exactly. And exactly why I am here.”

Grantaire’s eyes narrowed. “You’re here to better learn how to talk with women?” he asked, almost certainly purposefully obtuse. “I admit, I am an expert on the subject, but—”

“Of course not,” Enjolras snapped. “Not to mention if I did need help in that arena, you would be the last person I would turn to.”

Grantaire laughed. “Your loss, he said cheerfully. After all, to have bedded as many women as I with a face like mine requires quite the expert hand at wooing.” Enjolras rolled his eyes and Grantaire smirked before taking another sip of whiskey. “Very well. If you are not here for my help in speaking to young ladies to finally secure a marriage match, then why are you here?”

“Because I do need to marry someone,” Enjolras said, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. “But I need it not to be real.” Again he met Grantaire’s eyes. “And you are the only person I can think of who can help me pull that off.”

[pollylynn]

Title: Unexcogitable WC: 2000 Episode: Watershed (5 x 24)

There’s a little mystery to solve when he emerges from the lost weekend—the lost . . . however many days it’s been since he slammed himself into the high gear necessary to not just finish Deadly Heat, but to finish finish it. And he has been determined to finish finish it: is crossed, ts dotted, and every sentence Gina-proofed.

He wants a summer with her. A normal-for-them, no suspension, no secret relationship, no . . . immediate threat of a Bracken-sent assassin. There’ll be book tour stuff, of course. He’ll be in and out of the city. But he’s gotten good at coaxing her away for two days her, three days there. He has high hopes for on-the-road summer adventures with Kate. 

But first there is a mystery to solve, almost right when he emerges. 

He is rank. He has jeans and a shirt with buttons that’s deeply unfamiliar to him. He’s clutching potential cover art, and he cannot imagine where it came from. So it’s definitely been more than a lost weekend. None of that is the mystery, though. That's all part of high gear. It’s part of him being head down and dedicated to finish finishing the book. 

The mystery is Kate related. There’s a text on his phone. When he pulls himself out of the Costa Rica funk—the funk of no one caring how many poisonous things and seasonally aggressive murder birds his daughter might encounter—he has a body drop text. It’s old, but not that old, and it’s not from her. He can tell at a glance from the random capitalization and arbitrarily missing letters that it’s from Esposito, and that’s odd enough to warrant calling her, even though he’s pretty sure he has already called . . . a lot. 

Some number of minutes ago—or could it have been hours?—he remembers that he called to leave an almost certainly incoherent victory message as he’d hit save on his final final draft. And then . . . didn’t he call her to ask if he’d already called her? He’s more or less certain he called again, or maybe again again, to confess that he still had acknowledgments to write. And then one more time to ask in one high-anxiety run-on sentence if he thought it was okay to change his book jacket bio to say that he lives in New York City with his daughter, his mother, and his lady love, who wishes to remain mysterious . 

But even though that’s all a lot, Esposito being the one to text definitely warrants one more call, doesn’t it? He decides it does. He’s stripping off his rank clothes and swapping the phone from hand to hand as it rings on speaker, as he tries to decide if a shower will suffice for detoxifying him, or if he might need some kind of industrial dunking combined with medical-grade abrasives. 

The phone juggling is unnecessary. It’s five rings to voicemail again. It’s sticking his head out of the shower every twenty-two seconds, because he’s pretty sure he heard it ring, and why has in’t rung? But it hasn’t rung. It doesn’t ring, even though he’s washed and dressed and on his way. And that’s a bit of mystery.

It’s a bit more of a mystery when she shows up late and disheveled, when she looks as if she’s been caught in the act. Of what, he doesn’t know, and that’s cause for consternation. It’s cause for his guilt reflex to kick in. He can be a beast when he’s kicked it into high gear. He can be a boor and a bore and all kinds of unpleasant things starting with all the letters of the alphabet, so he wonders if he’s done something or if he’s failed to do something. He wonders if he’s managed to get on her nerves to the point that the only thing for it, apparently, is for her to take one of her psychotically long runs, where time and space fall away. 

He looks her up and down. He takes in the blazer she’s still trying to button and the comparative disarray of her still-perfect hair. He is not getting psychotic-run vibe off her. He’s not sure what vibe he’s getting off her, and that calls for investigation 

Or maybe it doesn’t call for investigation? Maybe it calls for space. Maybe it calls for butting out. Maybe it’s him or not him, and maybe she’s been to see Burke. 

He wishes the prospect didn’t terrify him. It’s a problem that the prospect terrifies him, and he knows that.  He kicks himself for it every time the name comes up, every time he over-the-shoulder snoops an entry in the calendar on her phone. 

He wishes that he could get his brain to think of it as her going to her therapist, not him driving her to see a therapist. But he’s kind of not there. He’s kind of caught up in the little mysteries of what she’s thinking, feeling, considering at every second, and he’s kind of quite problematically caught up in the idea that she wouldn’t need a therapist if he didn’t occasionally disappear into his writing, if he weren’t more than occasionally a doofus who unwittingly hurts her, if he could be better across the board. 

It’s foolishness, he knows, and damaging foolishness at that. 

Moreover, it’s a lot for eleven in the morning. It’s a lot to read into a slightly wrinkle blazer and hair that only scores a fifteen on a scale of one to ten, so he consciously dials it down.  He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that this a lot and it’s unnecessary. It’s a text from Esposito, rather than her. It’s a few missed phone calls and her running the tiniest bit late. 

It’s trivial. It's a minor mystery at best. He reminds himself that he has the whole summer work on the first one hundred mysteries of Kate Beckett. 

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

There’s a little mystery to solve when he walks out on her into the welcome heat and riotous noise of New York in not-quite summer. Its solution might be beyond him. His meager powers might not be be up to solving the mystery of how he could have been so fucking stupid. 

She lied to him. She’s been lying to him and he’s going to need a calendar to figure out how long that’s been going on. Since Stack, he realizes he steps, unseeing, into an intersection and pounds a fist into the hood of the car that nearly mows him down. Since the moment he asked what the man had wanted to talk to her about. It goes back at least that far. 

And farther. He weaves like a drunk through traffic, human and not human, cars and not cars. He comes to the realization that her lies must stretch back so much farther, because she had that spin on this right at her fingertips. She had a ready-to-go narrative that he is the monster, he is the self-centered diva who would dare to be upset, he is the Neanderthal who would stand in the way of her career. He’ss the one who makes her lie, and that’s not something one comes up with on the fly.  

She’d gone to the It’s my life well again, and that’s a fucking annual celebration. And that means she’s been lying since last summer. It means she’s been lying since the moment she swore that it wasn’t the storm, it wasn’t the dramatic gesture of quitting the force, it wasn’t almost dying that had brought the two of them crashing together at last. 

She has been lying since day one. She has had one foot out the door all this time and deep down he fucking knew it.

He knew it when she ran off after Bracken solo the very morning after she’d sworn she was done. 

He knew it when she lied to him and everyone and hid the letter from Bracken’s patsy would-be assassin. 

He knew it when it was five rings to voice mail all morning. 

He knew it when the text was from Esposito. 

He knew it when she rushed in, disheveled, when she lied to his face about her phone being off, about Gates wanting to talk to her about nothing, when she crept out of his bed before dawn just this morning because she couldn’t stand lying there next to him for one second longer. 

There has never been a moment when he hasn’t known, deep down in his sad-sack romantic soul, that this has always been one-sided. He has always known that she is his soul mate and he is not hers, and he has prayed for time, for mercy, for change. The pain of it is paralyzing, but the only mystery her is how the hell he has managed to be this fucking stupid for so long.  

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

There's a mystery to solve when the rage breaks. It is not a little mystery and he may not have it in him to solve it. 

He is the mystery. Who he has been, what he has done, what he has failed to do. He is the mystery. 

She is not an innocent her. He does not—cannot—absolve her of the lies she’s told, the maneuvering she’s done to arrive at that outcome she’d already decided was inevitable. And if he loved her less, he wouldn’t want so badly to shake her for that, for all of the ways she has sold herself short, sold them short, counted what they are to one another short. 

She has lied to him. She has lied to herself. There’s little he can do about that, save solve the mystery of himself. 

He has held back. With her, he has always held back, the universe, with its whimsical sense of humor, has delivered that epiphany straight from the acid tongue of the least sympathetic mother in the world. 

He would like to crawl away and lick his wounds. He would like a day, an hour, goddamned minute to just think through this realization. He has held back. 

He has spent a year terrified that he’ll slip and tell her that he loves her, because they don’t say that, do they?. 

He has spent a year manufacturing weekends when he needs to write, needs quality time with Alexis, needs a gaming night with the boys. He has spent a year conjuring space from the ether—a break from him—because he’s spent a year believing this is what she needs, this is how he doesn’t drive her away by being too much, too soon, too often. 

He has spent a year not making a single comment on how stupid it is that there’s a his place and her place when they are together nearly every night

He has spent a year not letting himself wonder where they’ll be in another year. 

He has spent a year telling himself This is enough. This has to be enough. 

He has spent a year being a coward, letting the most damaged parts of himself insist on inertia, on silence, on asking nothing of the relationship that she was not actively, glaringly, eye-lollingly giving. 

He is not responsible for her lies—for the caricature of him that she has manufactured to justify them. But he is not innocent of them, either. He, with his black certainty that everything between them is one-sided is not innocent at all. 

He is a mystery he does not have time to solve right now. He is a mystery that he’ll have to wait to solve, he’ll have to work at solving. 

He is a mystery with a ring in his pocket—a tiny weight that anchors him to what might be his one moment of bravery in the whole of the last year. He is a mystery on a mission. 

A/N: Alternating rage and boredom—asymptotic to morphousness. 

images via kissthemgoodbye

[avengershumanresources]

blood 9 - Strange/Stark!Reader

Relationship: Dr. Strange/Princess!Stark!Reader

Rating: M

Warnings: Adult Themes, smut, adult language, implied sexual violence, general violence

Synopsis: Reader is the daughter of the legendary King Anthony Stark, Uniter of Lands, The Iron Defender, and leader of the realm. When the king disappears during battle, hope is lost and he is presumed dead.

When the late king’s uncle, Obadiah, takes the throne until your brother Peter is of age, he quickly arranges a marriage for you with a wicked king in a neighboring kingdom.

With the realms politics in question, and rumors of an upcoming siege to overthrow Peter’s rule before it starts, you quickly learn who is loyal to the crown and who is not.

part 8 - part 10

Masterlist

Chapter Playlist

WARNING: Mention of violence/attempted assault from prior chapter

9 - a king’s arrival

Thank the gods Loki crossed Stephen’s path first, because things were happening far more quickly than the sorcerer had anticipated. He had heard a particularly chilling rumor upon his return to the castle from surveying the magical barriers with Amora and was in route to your quarters to check on you. 

Loki intercepted him and caught him up to what had happened.

Loki had told Peter the details of what he’d stumbled upon between you and Brock. Immediately inflamed, Peter started in motion the rebellion he’d been planning with Nat and the guard. With the Asgardian army’s support, Peter could easily usurp the throne from Obadiah by the end of the night. 

Especially now that the alliance between him and Brock was in question with the betrothal in a murky area. 

Less than twelve hours, Stephen calculated while Loki kept pace with him toward your room. That’s all it took for the plans to go into motion and the next steps to proceed.

“He didn’t-,” Stephen asked after they’d arrived, his anger simmering and threatening to boil based off of his companions response. He needed to keep control. He needed to kept his head or risk you falling into harm.

“No,” Loki stated clearly. “It was stopped before he finished his task. Her seidr did well to protect her. You acted in good judgment by not fully sealing it.”

“Amora?” he pressed and Loki smirked back at him. 

“She’s been tending to Brock the last hour, but I’m certain they won’t have time to rally a guard to their cause,” he explained quickly. “My men outnumber theirs two to one, and from what Natalia has told me, the majority of the guard will support Peter.” He paused and glanced around, lowering his voice.

“Besides, even if they mobilize troops, after you finish your part, Brock will have nothing else to gain from an alliance with Obadiah.”

“And the queen and younger princess?” Stephen’s hand rested on the knob of your door. Eyes shut while he listened to Loki’s report.

“James is with them now,” Loki nodded. “They’ll be moved once Peter makes the first move. I’m meeting with Thor before dinner to confirm some of the entry points to the castle in case Obadiah tries to deter us once things get.. chaotic.”

Perfect. Everything was falling into place, and you were none the wiser, which meant neither were your enemies. 

Loki disappeared once Stephen summoned a tray of stew and started through the door, unsure how he’d find you on the other side. 

Personally, Stephen wanted to rip Brock to shreds. He wanted to cut the skin off of him and sprinkle salts and other acids over open wounds and watch him scream. He wanted to gauge his eyes out, fling him from the tallest balcony, and listen to his cries for mercy. 

It wasn’t a pride thing. Stephen wasn’t the least bit upset that you’d been sullied or marked by another man, no, he was upset because he’d hurt you. 

And seeing the aftershocks for himself only further fueled Stephen’s rage. 

You were in a sleeping gown, hair pulled loose, legs curled into yourself, fully submerged in your bedding. When he set the tray of food down on a nearby table and stirred you, his heart broke at your swollen eyelids and red, glossy eyes. 

He should have been there sooner. 

“Stephen?” you asked sleepily. You clearly cried yourself into exhaustion, your cheeks still puffy from the ordeal.

“My love,” he sat on the edge of the bed and fully enveloped you in his arms. You were a bit tense at first, but immediately sank into him when he started rubbing soothing circles into your back. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

“It’s not your fault-,” you murmured with a small hiccup and a sigh. Pulling away, you looked up miserably toward him. “He’s a monster... we knew that. I shouldn’t have sent Steve to find you.”

Stephen stopped, taking your hand and pressing his lips to your palm, cradling the shaking digits tenderly. 

“You did nothing wrong,” he stated firmly. “A lady shouldn’t have to fear her company- her betrothed- would... dishonor her in such a horrendous manner. You were brave and defended yourself. I’m proud of you for being so strong.”

Your eyes watered again, your bottom lip trembling. A few tears snuck down your face and before you could wipe at them angrily, Stephen caught them with his thumb, his hands moving to cradle your cheeks. 

“Loki... he said he would fix it... is everything...?” you asked meekly and despite the gnawing feeling that lying to left him, he nodded. 

“All is under control,” he assured you softly. “Why don’t you have some stew and continue resting?”

“Will you stay?” you asked, gripe tightening around his hand. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead and helping you settle into bed, before handing off the tray. 

He sat next to you while you picked at your food, listening while you told him about what had transpired in the garden earlier and how your seidr had reacted when you’d fought Brock off. 

“Loki was right,” he noted, passing you a slice of bread from the tray. “It was lucky Amora was off the grounds when that happened. She would have noticed and retaliated immediately.”

You hummed to yourself, dipping the corner of the bread into the stew and taking a small nibble. 

He could tell you were still out of sorts, the fresh exchange with Brock having come so unexpectedly and traumatically. More than anything, he wished he didn’t have to do what happened next. 

“Here,” he finally relented when you barely touched your meal, pulling the tray aside and out of the way. “You should sleep.” 

“I’ve rested plenty,” you protested, but after a pause, gave in and snuggled deeper into your blankets. 

“I’ve got something that should help,” he pulled out the small glass vial, holding it between his fingers for you to examine. The liquid inside shimmered an almost stunning cobalt blue against the light from your fireplace.

“A sleeping draught?” you guessed, reaching for the vial and examining it for yourself. 

“Not quite a sleeping draught,” he explained, plucking the cork free and letting you give the scentless liquid a sniff. “It’ll relax you enough to let you ease into a full and restful sleep.”

“So, a sleeping draught?” you teased with a small grin, swirling the liquid in the bottle with a tilt of your hand.. 

“Call it what you’d like, but it’ll help. You just drink the whole vial,” he instructed, watching you consider it briefly. 

“Am I going to fall into an eternal enchanted sleep?” you asked, joking, but unaware of how close to the truth you were. “Like the old stories?” 

“It won’t be eternal,” he assured you with a forced chuckle, settling his hands at his side so you wouldn’t see him shaking. This was it. The most crucial part of the plan. “You’ll wake with a full night’s rest. It’ll help you feel a little better.”

“At least that’ll help me face him tomorrow,” you murmured, swallowing the contents of the vial in a single gulp. You let out a yawn. “Don’t leave until... sleep..?” 

Your eyes were already fluttering shut and he plucked the bottle out of your hand before it broke on the ground. 

“Stephen?” you asked again, voice laced with sleepiness. “I love you.”

“And I you, princess,” he choked out, standing and pressing a final kiss to your head. “Please know I do this all out of love.”

You mumbled something incoherent before your body fell unnaturally still, the potions effects quickly taking over. 

He had to work fast. Waving his hands over your body, he changed your night dress to the outfit you’d worn earlier with Brock. 

The image made him sick. Your skirt was covered in blood, the corset nearly ripped off your frame- fortunately, your recent tears had swollen your face and reddened it more.

He positioned you delicately above the blankets, draping your hand over the edge of the bed and wrapping the vial carefully in your slack fingers. 

He dug through your nearby desk for some parchment and enchanted a quill to mimic your handwriting. A final goodbye, as far as anyone was concerned.

After all, the events had been so traumatic to you, you’d raided Stephen’s observatory and crafted a deadly poison to kill yourself. 

And aside from him, Tony, Loki, and Wanda- everyone would think it was effective, in turn, removing you from harms way while the castle was reclaimed.

Not even Peter nor Natalia was privy to what he and his fellow magic users had planned. 

Once the coast was clear and your body was taken to the family tomb, Wanda would bring you back to his ancestral home, now occupied by your father’s rebel army. 

Stephen couldn’t imagine you were going to be pleased with his dishonesty, particularly after drugging you and keeping your father’s survival to himself, but at least you’d be safe. 

And in the end, that’s all that mattered. 

Satisfied with the scene he’d crafted, Stephen removed the dining tray with a wave of his hand and portaled outside of the kitchens where he intercepted your personal maid, Violet. 

“The princess is unwell,” he explained, letting the princess expression of solemn sympathy flash across her features. “Could you bring her a tray for dinner?”

No one would know he’d crossed your path, and Amora would be too focused on healing Brock to notice any non-seidr magical ongoings around the castle. 

Excusing himself to his own quarters, Stephen cleaned himself up for dinner... and a show. 

(—)

“The princess-!” he heard Clint call into the dining room that evening. Pepper had excused herself from the meal to tend to the suddenly ill with pox, Princess Morgan. 

Brock had the audacity to actually join the group, with Amora smiling dutifully at his side while he and Obadiah discussed trade routes. 

Loki and Thor had graciously accepted the kings invitation, and as usual, Stephen was in his place next to Peter. 

“What is it?” Obadiah demanded sharply. 

“She’s-,” he paused looking to Brock with unease. “Your majesty, the princess has killed herself.”

Stephen waited until someone else reacted first, putting on the most confused and dismayed expression he could manage. 

“Take me to her,” he demanded with Peter hot on his footsteps.

Sure enough, you were still laying in bed. Someone (probably Violet) had folded your hands over your chest delicately, and placed the empty vial next to your note. 

Stephen made a show of checking you for signs of life, even offering Amora a chance to give a second opinion. 

Fortunately, he was that good at what he did. 

The potion mimicked the effects of death so well, even the enchantress was shocked by the sudden turn of events. He could tell she was trying to feel out any signs of your seidr, but after a brief pause, turned to confirm the truth to her king. 

Loki hissed a curse under his breath and turned on Brock, knife in hand, pressing the cowering king against the wall, demanding justice for the premature death of his bride. 

Peter, for his part remained composed. He ordered that he be the one to inform the queen, and parted with his fists clenched at his sides and his eyes filled with fire. 

“This is... a tragedy,” Obadiah knelt by your bedside, nudging Stephen aside and taking your hand into his. “So young and just before her wedding. A cruel circumstance of the fates!”

Stephen could have sworn he heard Loki snort at the dramatic scene the king was putting forth. 

Thor had managed to pry the prince and king apart, demanding Amora  “remove the villain from his sight before he changed his mind”, leaving the two Asgardian princes, Stephen, and Obadiah alone in the chamber.

“Is there no saving her?” the king asked quietly, looking up to Stephen with a desperate frown. “I know what she was to you. Tell me, is there truly no hope?”

Stephen cleared his throat, letting a slight break in his voice crackle as he spoke. 

“My grace, I’m familiar with the poison, and Enchantress Amora will confirm my words,” he looked down at you with a heartbroken sigh. “The princess was well aware of the potion she was consuming. There is no return. My most sincere apologies for your loss, your highness.”

Obadiah nodded to himself, standing back up. 

“Then the kingdom goes into mourning,” he stated decidedly. “Alert the priests, and have the maids prepare her for viewing.”

He looked at the Odinson brothers, a small sneer tugging at his expression. 

“Perhaps we can renegotiate our trade deal,” he suggested, earning a snarl of insults from Thor. 

The room now empty and the door closed while maids and servants scurried about with the news outside, the two sorcerers exchanged a look. 

“You did well, the effects are convincing,” Loki lifted your arm and let it drop to the bed. “You’ve accounted for rigor mortis?” 

“Brother?” Thor stepped forward, lips pressed together tightly as he took in the exchange. “Surely this isn’t another of your tricks?”

“Of course not,” Stephen waved a glowing hand over your body, a small spell that would mimic the effects of rigor mortis, and eventually wear off as the natural sensation would in time. “This trick is mine.”

He repositioned your hand delicately over your chest. 

“Is the princess... asleep?” Thor lowered his voice. 

“In a sense,” Loki patted his brothers arm. “Keep it to yourself, brother. We need Peter’s fury if this is to go as planned.”

“But she’ll be moved to the crypt-,” Thor started and paused, a knowing smile on his face. “I see. Let me know if I can be of assistance.”

The door swung open and Pepper swept inside with a quiet, red haired, maid behind her. 

“The loss is truly a tragedy of our time,” Thor continued, putting on a better performance than Loki and Stephen combined. “The beast that pushed this beautiful maid to an early grave must face justice!” 

He slammed a fist against your armoire, meeting Peter’s gaze with a passionate nod when the prince reappeared to comfort his mother. 

“Morgan can’t know until the morning,” Pepper stated, her eyes were wide in horro, her voice wavering. “I want that man out of my home.”

She looked between Thor, Loki, and Peter, the men nodding curtly and excusing themselves from the space. 

“Stephen, dear Stephen,” Pepper took his hand. “I’m sorry.”

It was a genuine reaction that, admittedly, startled the sorcerer. He’d had suspicions that the queen had known about the two of you- and you’d as much confirmed them earlier in the evening- but the way she looked to him with such earnest sympathy made him realize something. 

The queen had stood in his very place not even a few months prior. 

She too, had lost the love of her life to senseless violence at the hands of King Brock Rumlow. 

It was no wonder she wanted the king out of her sight. 

“If it’s comfort to know, it was painless and peaceful,” he mumbled with a nod toward the vial. “She fell asleep and felt nothing.”

“That will bring me some peace,” Pepper murmured, eyes returning to your still form. “Thank you.”

She reached for his hand and gave it a tight squeeze before asking that she be left alone with you for a few moments to mourn. 

“Take the time you need,” he stated softly, managing to blink back tears in his own eyes. 

Leaving the room, the countdown began. 

You’d be awake in four days, and he needed to ensure you were out in the family crypt and removed to safety in that time. 

Loki would prod Peter to remove Brock by force, and depending on how the king responded, would likely expedite any funeral plans for you. 

Who would have time to mourn when the castle descended into chaos? 

The queen and younger princess would be removed for their safety and then the real challenge began. 

Getting Peter onto the throne.

“Did you know she would do this?” Natalia asked, pulling Stephen aside after leaving the queen. She caught tugged on his arm furiously. “Stephen, look at me!”

Natalia would be the most difficult to convince. He knew it from the beginning. She was your oldest friend and most trusted confidant. 

“I... she assured me she was going to be fine,” he kept his eyes low, guilty even, if she looked at him too carefully. “We spoke briefly after Loki had informed me... I shouldn’t have let her out of my sight. She’s said she’d wanted to rest.”

“And then you asked Violet to bring her a meal?” Natalia questioned, eyes narrowing. “It’s not like you to leave the princess behind when she’s distressed.”

“I don’t think she was particularly pleased with my gender at the time,” he shot back. “Please excuse me, I’d like some time alone with my thoughts.”

He parted abruptly, praying to himself that Natalia wouldn’t dig around too deeply and ruin this whole charade. 

(—)

Across the kingdom, just outside of the House Strange keep, Wanda lightly touched Tony’s shoulder, eyes glowing bright crimson. 

“It’s happened,” she informed him. “The dawn truly brings a new day.”

“And a new king,” Tony grunted. “I just hope Peter is ready.”

(--)

10 - a trick

TAG LIST (message to be added!):

@ayamenimthiriel @ladynothing​ @im-a-bi-disaster-help​ @idkwhatthisislol

[warlordgab]

OJ LuNa stuff: What's the appeal of LuNa as a potent pairing?

This is the first entry in a new series of “analyses.” The difference is, these aren’t mine. The original posts were made by other LuNa fans I “secretly” met in the OJ forums before things went a little out of hand there.

I merely rescued their posts, while trying my best to update them. Well, without further ado, let’s get into the meat and potatoes!

Sometimes semi-canon pairings are far more compelling that relationships that already became canon. Part of the reason being that growth and development catch the attention of the audience more effectively than a pairing that already got a relationship upgrade with relative ease.

Of course, the expectations surrounding a genre has an effect on whether or not the audience gets invested on any particular relationship. But, when it comes to the shonen demographic, a significant amount of readers may end up supporting bonds that take time to evolve without resorting to clichés, cheap jokes, or off-screening development.

And that leads me to the main subject of this post: the appeal of LuNa

Some may feel drawn to how comfortable and safe Nami feels with Luffy. We already mention how Luffy is her "rock," someone who gives Nami emotional stability and strength during difficult times.

One notable moment being Nami seeking comfort and relief in Luffy's arms...

She contained herself and didn't start crying until she saw Luffy.

Another aspect of their bond that makes it more compelling, is that they're both "equals." It's not like a master-servant relationship, where one drools or idealize the other. They're actual partners who, while seeing both the virtues and flaws in their respective characters, developed a strong companionship.

Nami not only trust Luffy with her life, like other characters do. He is one of the most important person to her, and Luffy himself promised Genzo back at Cocoyasi village that he’d never let Nami lose her smile. And there's the iconic "pass of the hat," a gesture meant to provide comfort and inspire both trust and confidence.

Luffy conveys a silent and deep message through this particular gesture.

A third aspect  of their relationship is how Nami confronts Luffy when he acts in a stupid or reckless manner, but still puts her faith on him. Instead of idealizing him as a flawless being, or turning a blind eye to his faults, she sees Luffy for who he is. It might not sound big, but one good book decribes the purest form of love as the capability of seeing the faults in someone you care about, and still valuing them as a person dear to you.

And Nami has seen him at his worst: his obsession with food, his lack of manners, and so on, but she's also seen his best: his courage, his steadfast loyalty, his leadership... While Luffy has seen her crying, he’s seen her sick, he’s seen her fail, and he’s seen her determination...

If their do end up together; it would be a culmination of feelings. From strangers (Nami the pirate-hater, Luffy the adventurist), to friends, to heroes, to lovers.

Their dynamic, while sometimes overshadowed by arc fatigue or a faulty adaptation, is another aspect that adds to the overall appeal of their bond.

Aside from the huge moments, the story offers little details that get readers invested. Which is why we can tell this relationship shows multiple facets:

Many of their interactions offer something fun that feels natural. Their misunderstandings, Luffy’s incoherent personality, Nami’s obsession for money, their roles as captain-navigator and their love-hate relationship. Despite the fact that Nami’s patience is growing thin for his captain’s dumbness, and Luffy having to put up with Nami’s money obsession as well as her bossy personality, both of them tolerated each other’s unique self. They could have just rid themselves with each other yet they didn’t that’s why the longer they stayed, the stronger the bond became. It just sums up to a really beautiful relationship.

Arlong Park, Skypiea, Strong World, and Water 7 all gave us a bit of drama that takes advatange of their potent bond. True chemistry occurs when both of the characters involved can affect each other in meaningful way

There are many other points we could address, but they've been mentioned in previous analyses.

The conclusion is that these two share such a deep and unique relationship that no other character can take the place each hold for the other. Even if some people say Luffy’s bond with the each of her crewmates is equally strong, we know that isn’t the case. E.g. he’s not as close to Brook as he is to Zoro

This emotional connection between Luffy and Nami only exist between them, and it’s incredibly difficult for anything or anyone to connect with them on such a level.

[shiroganeryo]

ah, if you're still doin the character thing, how about Lenalee? (I didn't see anybody asking about her, but if sb did, sorry! maybe Johnny then?)

I’m sorry for the delay on replying to this one! This is probably the last ask thingy I’ll be doing for the Character Questions, as they take me some time to type and I’ve been busy 💓 But thank you all very much for the interest in these, I really love writing for stuff like this! I’ll be covering both Lenalee and Johnny in this one - so, a two character reply again! I was hoping someone would give me Lena so the OT4 was complete, but I also really love Johnny... 😭 

Lenalee

My otp for them: With Lavi! I had never paid much attention to the two of them as a couple, but after I reread the series last year, they have grown on me. Lavi has been Lenalee’s emotional support many times and it’s clear he cares about her. People would consider that the time he snapped at her for grieving over “losing Allen” was bad, but I quite don’t think he meant harm; rather, I think he kinda acted on impulse because he wanted her to feel better. He marvelously made up for that during the following arcs (”I didn’t come here to stop you; this is your decision to make. Just let me come along.” - 150th Night). Those interactions made me like them a lot as a pairing. My brotp for them: Miranda! She played a big part in Miranda’s life, and I’m sure they got really close thanks to that. Imagining them doing all the girly things together without a care in the world makes me so happy 🥺 It’s like getting to see the happy girl Lenalee could have been, if she weren’t another victim of the war. I also used to ship them because I have no self-control apparently, so. XD Any other ships: Have you all ever considered her and Emilia? 💦 Both share guts and very strong legs, it seems. I can picture them bonding easily over shared interests and it makes me weak. I also love Lenalee and Kanda’s relationship, so they also get the cake here. As for Allen, they make a beautiful pairing, but only when it comes to appearance to me; imo they would need to work many things out, personally speaking, to work in a healthy way for both. Their best friend: Miranda, Jeryy and Kanda! Miranda, for the reasons stated above; Jeryy, because he was her “motherly figure” when she was growing up and needed a feminine, understanding input from someone she could feel comfortable around. And Kanda, due to their relationship as “childhood friends”, in a way. Lenalee loves everyone close to her, but I see these three being the ones she’s the closest to. My favorite nickname for them: “Lena”, given by Kanda. It just sounds so cute and delicate; it suits her. My favorite AU headcanon of them: People often say they would like to see Lenalee abandon the Order and join Allen’s side. I say the opposite; she should stay. She could be a big helping hand on throwing a rebellion of sorts that could benefit him from the inside. That way she wouldn’t need to abandon the people she loves for Allen’s sake, but would still be on his side, on her own way. My favorite outfit they wear: Lenalee has the cutest chinese themed outfits! The ones I love the most are the one she used during the Zombie arc, and this one I saw her wearing on Gray Log. She looks so darn cute, too precious for this world. *gross sobbing* Defining color: When I think of her, I think of several shades of green, namely Fern (#4F7942) and Pine (#01796F). I also think of deep red (#D30000), because of the ribbons she uses on her hair and the shapes of her Crystal Type Innocence. Would I date them: Lenalee is a strong, amazing girl! However, I wouldn’t date her. She can also be headstrong, and so am I hahah At times, I find myself thinking we’re similar in the way we’re insistent (at the risk of being unreasonable) about some things and I quite don’t see that working out at all 😅 First impression: Bland. Nice character, but her design didn’t interest or stand out at all to me. Dark Boots are an awesome Innocence though! Current impression: I really like her. Not one of my favorite characters, and I have a lot of criticism when it comes to Lenalee, but I love her design and the development she got so far. I started taking her more seriously after the fight against Eshi; it was one heck of an awesome fight! The way she put everything on the line on that suicidal move was impressive; so badass. Hogwarts House: As much as I would love to assign her to Gryffindor for her commendable courage, Lenalee’s home is in Hufflepuff! Before anything else, she cares deeply for the people she loves, and will sacrifice herself for them without thinking twice. Loyalty and kindness are her most prominent trait, but that doesn’t make her a pushover in the slightest. Which Pokemon starter they’d be: Torchic! According to the Pokédex entries, Torchic feels warm to the touch and this makes it very huggable. I have this type of impression about her, warm and welcoming. It also develops a fighting type upon evolving, and Blaziken are well known for their strong legs and jumping capacity!

Johnny

My otp for them: With Cache! I’m very weak for couples where the woman looks (and is) stronger than the guy, and we’ve seen her carrying Johnny to the medical wing before - an occurence that, according to her, happens a lot. He seems to have a crush on her, seeing his reaction (fidgety, blushing) when he was saying goodbye to his science friends. According to Vol. 27′s Discussion Room, the scrunchy he’s using to tie his hair used to be hers, and I love how Allen went “hmm, I see...” when he told them she had given it to him hahah (it’s alright, Allen; I ship it too 👌) My brotp for them: Allen, hands down. Differently from what people say, Johnny has always supported and cherished Allen, what he’s doing for him now isn’t out of the blue. It was actually what Johnny told him that started to change his perception on things and realize that his heart longed to be with the ones he loves despite the hardships (”As Johnny Gill and your friend, I’m going to help you!”, - 215th Night). He loves him, and I can tell how important he is for Allen too; he was able to come back from Nea’s inner world thanks to Johnny’s calling that reminded him of his ties with everyone in “Home”. This part has some of my favorite scenes from the entire series; Johnny didn’t even bat an eye, he simply jumped for Allen. I called it Allen would avoid their fall, but Johnny patting his head in happiness and relief and then hugging him, to which Allen returned, as relieved and happy for having come back... It was so sweet and hopeful. It brings good tears to my eyes!  Any other ships: I don’t have any~ Their best friend: I think Johnny is friends with pretty much all of his buddies from the Science Division, but I notice him being closer to Reever. I would like to mention Suman as well; despite him being deceased, Johnny still seems to hold a fond memory of him. And then comes Allen who’s clearly someone important to him, and it doesn’t seem to be one-sided, judging by the time they (used to) spend together having fun. My favorite nickname for them: I don’t have one! But Johnny deserves cute nicknames, let’s give him some, Hoshino-sensei? 👀 My favorite AU headcanon of them: I don’t have one because Johnny is already perfect as a character and for the plot as he already is imho. All I wish is for him to survive until the ending. Hang in there, Johnny! Allen needs you, but for all you’ve been doing, you deserve to make it out alive and earn your own happiness! My favorite outfit they wear: Out of all the characters, I feel like Johnny is the one that has the most “stripped-down” style, quite modern looking. But I love his current outfit the most! He looks great in vests and the long coat definitely reminds me of the lab coats he used to wear while in the Order. I also like a lot more how his hairdo is atm, it looked a little painful to have tied for too long in the previous style (similar to pigtails). His new frame glasses are also pretty! Gives him a more serious look. Defining color: Curiously enough, I think of an array of varied colors when I think of Johnny? I can’t seem to be able to pick one. There is black, yellow like Mustard (#FEDC56), brown like Cherrywood (#CB6F36) and blue like Maya (#73C2FB), to name some. Would I date them: But of course! Johnny is the sweetest guy I’ve ever seen. He gives off all the geek vibes, but not on the annoying way; he looks like the type of person that would talk lots about things that make him happy, excitedly, while you’d look at him go, feeling blessed with all the bright energy vibes emanating from him. He’s also shown to be extremely supportive, and honestly, everyone deserves someone like him 🥺 First impression: Regular geek scientist guy? Current impression: *incoherent sobbing* I love him so much! Why does Johnny not have more appreciation?! Why do people think he’s annoying??? Anyone who loves Allen gotta admit this guy is the MVP. He’s the trope you’d expect for a smartsy science guy, and at the same time, he’s not only that. I’ve babbled enough on that in the reply under this question. Hogwarts House: I’m in a tie between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, but I think I would give him Gryffindor. People would be quick to place him in Ravenclaw for his smarts and his love for learning, but this guy is extremely courageous. Despite being seen as “weak” and fragile, he was the one to stand up for Allen in multiple occasions throughout the series. He’s also the one who confronted the Earl to ask him what he wanted with the 14th (196th Night), while no one had really questioned or directly talked to him. He left the Order to go after Allen, knowing he was awakening as a Noah (which is already dangerous on its own) and would be in constant situations of peril because of Akuma and other Noah. Johnny, the “regular guy”, did all that, having no care as to what could happen to him. So, Gryffindor for his extreme courage, but maybe Hufflepuff for his honest loyalty and goodness. Which Pokemon starter they’d be: Grookey! The way Grookey and its evolutions handle wood makes me think they’re skilled Pokémon that can craft things and know how to use them as instruments, just like Johnny does with his scientific creations. The tied “hair” also reminds me of him!

[incurablehumanist]

Humanism and SPN: the Supernatural Elephant in the Room

so you’ve heard about Humanism as a philosophy. maybe you’ve googled it. maybe you’ve seen it briefly described in contrast to theistic beliefs. maybe you’ve just made some assumptions based on the name. either way, you’ve probably come to understand that it’s not exactly a fan of the supernatural. i mean it’s right there in the dictionary definition:

other quotes describe it as “free of supernaturalism”, “not [accepting] supernatural views of reality”, or “without belief in deities, transcendental entities, miracles, life after death, and the supernatural”. so how then can I claim a television show called Supernatural is humanistic? i mean the show is riddled with the aforementioned deities, transendental entities, miracles, life after death, and, of course, the supernatural. what gives?

for an answer, look no further than the American Humanist Association’s very own Humanist Manifesto (the third and most recent one, in this case, but they all agree), specifically the very first tenet:

Knowledge of the world is derived by observation, experimentation, and rational analysis.

they go on to explain it a bit more, but suffice it to say humanists believe in what can be observed, or what can be explained by science. in our world, this does not include the supernatural (or its inclusion is highly debatable), but in the world of Supernatural? where the characters have seen these monsters/gods/miracles/afterlives/whatever? where they obey the laws of the universe (though theirs comes with a few extra thrown in for good measure)? that’s observable reality, baby!

here’s a quote from 1.12 Faith which perfectly exemplifies this fact:

SAM Maybe it's time to have a little faith, Dean.

DEAN You know what I've got faith in? Reality. Knowing what's really going on.

SAM How can you be a skeptic? With the things we see everyday?

DEAN Exactly. We see them, we know they’re real.

Dean doesn’t care whether something is widely believed in or accepted by society. he cares about what he can see with his own two eyes. this is absolutely in line with a humanistic lifestance, and in fact, Dean reasserts this stance several times over the course of the series (Faith is just as far as I’ve gotten in my rewatch). If a humanist in our world had an honest to goodness supernatural encounter (one that couldn’t be explained via any existing scientific theory) then I’m sure they would happily accept it as fact, or would at least be open to the idea, pending further research.

the point of describing humanism as a philosophy that “rejects the supernatural” isn’t to say that humanists don’t believe in vampires, it’s to say that humanists reject the blind belief in that which has not been observed and cannot be explained using the scientific method. we reject the very concept of beings, planes, or occurances that defy natural laws, thought we accept the possibility that there might be things out there that just haven’t been properly explained/examined yet.

i’m still a ways away from the actual introduction of angels in my rewatch so i’ll hold off on talking about that moment for now, but let me just say that the way Dean (and Sam, and Bobby, and pretty much everyone in the SPNverse) reacts to the news that angels are real is pretty much exactly how a humanist would react. they seek to understand them, they seek to reconcile them with their current worldview, but (in the case of non-believers like Dean) they don’t dismiss them out of hand just because they hadn’t previously believed them to exist. i mean okay, Dean does kind of dismiss Cas out of hand at first, but give the guy a break! he literally just came back from the dead, and Cas is Kind of A Lot. he comes around eventually.

ultimately, humanism as a philosophy is interested in human experiences, human concerns, and human ideals, over those of any ~supernatural (meaning, beyond the realm of natural laws) beings or planes. and, as i am all too excited to begin laying out in great detail, that is exactly what Supernatural the show endeavoured to do during its 15 year run. tbh i think the name is a bit of a misnomer; it may have been set in a world where the supernatural is real, but it has always, at its core, been a show about humanity.

###

well, here it is, the first official entry in my “Humanism and SPN” meta project! though it’s moreso a proof of concept than an actual analysis of the text. it does serves as a bit of an introduction to Humanism for anyone following along who’s unfamiliar with it, though, so that’s good at least! i might do some more of these “proof of concepts” as i make my way through the first few seasons of the show, since there isn’t much to point to in the text just yet. or i might just dive right in and start yelling incoherently about whatever comes to mind while i watch. stay tuned to find out 😊

[capricornus-rex]

Stronger Than Blood (7)

Chapter 7: Unlikely Prize | Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: Meeting another Force-sensitive was one thing, but having them related to one of the most formidable known duelers was a whole other story to tell. While being stranded in another planet after barely escaping the Haxion Brood, Cal crosses paths with someone who’s at a crossroads with their own identity and lineage.

Also tagging @ayamenimthiriel​

Also posted in AO3

Tags: Force-User! Reader, Force-Sensitive Reader, Sith-Related! Reader

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4  – 5 | Previous: Part 6 | Next: Part 8 | Masterlist

7 of ?

Cal charted a course back to Zeffo.

“Why’d you wanna go back there?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly have a good look of the place,” Cal shifts in his seat as he reasons out, sneaking a side glance at Greez to watch out for his reaction. “Because I blacked out after being caught into a stasis detonator.”

“Oh…” Greez moaned with guilt in stringing along his words.

You made yourself comfortable while the newly-patched up ship zooms through hyperspace. From the couch at the holotable, you watch the crew busy themselves with their dashboards and computers, while you’re stuck to staring at the planet’s map projection, though you didn’t mind—it felt nice to have everything staying still and quiet for a change.

The silence, the engine hum, and the faint chirps of the dashboard computers—altogether, it was nostalgic.

You were so used to the sparks of welding guns and blaster fire that the silence was completely foreign yet comforting. You allowed your back to slump against the smooth leather cushion, the engine hum lulled you to sleep like a lullaby, and the blue light glared back at your eyes, making it feel heavier by the second.

However, the latter was immediately cut off by Cal stepping into the room with you.

“Hey, how you holding up?”

“I’m okay, just exhausted from all of… this.” you gestured at everything, referring to the skirmish back at Nalima and even repairing the Mantis did a number on your strength.

Cal sat down next to you, but he didn’t initiate a conversation. Unmoving, you examined his features: his freckles gave him a certain charm, your eyes trailed along the waving locks of his hair—the blue glow oddly mixed well with his ginger head—but what really catches you is the awkward motions he does with himself such as slouching against the couch, shaking his knee, or fiddling with the chipping of his glove.

Both of you know perfectly well that there is that one topic that’s been crawling at the back of your minds. Either of you were just waiting for the other to bring it up. Cal was too shy to bring it up. As for you, the topic was an odd conversation starter—especially if you’ve only known the guy for only a few hours.

“Back at Melgu’s place,” Cal finally started. “He called you a Serennian.”

“Yeah, I am one,”

“How’d you end up in Nalima?”

“It’s long a story,” you sighed, lightly combing your scalp with your fingers, staring at the holotable with blank eyes to avoid looking back into Cal.

Sensing that it was a bit of a hard topic for you to open up. He decided on another question.

“Were you…” he trailed off, that was enough to draw your attention back to him. “Were you ever a Jedi?”

You shake your head, “No, but… they tell me that I’m strong with the Force. I’ve only known so little about it that I honestly don’t grasp the concept in full, really.”

“Who taught you about it?”

“My mother, but she wasn’t like me. I was told that I was more sensitive, for some reason that I don’t know or can’t explain or don’t understand at all. I only knew one other person who was like me… but I don’t want to be associated with him.”

The voices, the exchanges, the words—they all rang back into your head. The conversations of your parents that you overheard, they were mostly about politics—a subject you couldn’t comprehend for your age that time.

“Apparently, that one person who is like me is a Separatist leader,” you scoffed, resenting him. Fully remembering his name from the hushed, private whispers of your mother; never has she said his first name, only his title in full—with the original family name—or simply the title alone. “And he’s no ordinary Separatist leader. He wielded a weapon like yours. A lightsaber, as you call it.”

In an instant, he put two and two together.

Cal reminisces way back to the Clone Wars, he had heard of the name from various conferences where he tagged along with his master back in the Jedi Temple. Although he and Master Tapal never had the opportunity to face him whether in combat or in a diplomatic negotiation, this particular lightsaber-wielding Separatist leader often found himself the talk of the town amongst the Senate and Jedi Council alike.

The mere recitation of his name stoked the embers of hate and anger that you have always carried for him. Your conviction that he was the one behind the murder of your mother remained unwavering all these years—her death may not be by his blade, but her blood spilled into his hands anyway.

“All my life, the only name I knew and carried was [Y/N] Moorken. I believed it to be my family’s name, but when he said our name was altered, I realized that my mother was dissociating us—my father and I—from him. I remember her telling him that I was better off never knowing him at all. I’ve heard everything—what he’s done, especially back in the Clone Wars, and I promised myself that I won’t turn out like him.”

You pull your legs to your chest, hugging your shins with your arms and resting your chin over your knees; you couldn’t maintain eye contact with Cal, your mind dwelled on the memories of those heated exchanges, the spitting of words, until it reached to the point where the sight of the shuttle exploding—with your mother in it and perhaps the assassin as well—forced you to conclude your flashbacks.

Cal noticed your flinching, but both of you sat in silence. For one, he was relieved that you had told him sooner; you had your reasons—one of them being that you sensed Cal that he was trustworthy enough, it was a combination of intuition and the Force trying to guide you in baby steps.

“Does this change anything on how you think of me?”

Your straightforwardness took Cal aback. It took a lot of guts from you to speak so bluntly like that, despite it being quite a heavy topic for you to disclose. He couldn’t imagine why you would think that he—or any of the crew—would shun you for who you are… or were, at least.

That was the only time you looked back into his eyes, playing into a turquoise to teal hue from the illumination of the holotable. You hate yourself for bringing up more detail, although you couldn’t help it; you have been looking for an outlet—such as someone to open up to—and you simply let loose. A sigh concluded your piece, half-expecting Cal to react and the other half expecting him to say nothing.

He shakes his head, “No, it doesn’t. Though, it just… rather adds up to my perspective of you.”

“Right…”

The two of you remained in your seats, a quake that signaled the Mantis’s landing, it prompted the two of you to stride towards the door. The entry ramp opened and a cold gust of wind greeted you. A few droplets of the rain carried by the clouds riddled your cheeks, as if that’s the planet’s way of kissing you welcome. Goosebumps pelted your skin due to the abrupt change of temperature—from Nalima’s warm and temperate climate to the gusty windstorm of Zeffo.

“I’ll be away in a few minutes, this shouldn’t take long,”

“Where will you go?”

Cal points to his north.

“I won’t be long there, unless of course I end up winding into the wrong way,”

You chuckle, “I doubt it.”

“Are you coming with?”

You stammered at the beginning, “I just might take a look around this part. I wouldn’t wanna end up too far away.”

Cal ended the exchange with a curt “Alright then” and headed off. When he was gone, you had the space of the hangar to yourself. You walk to the west part of the platform and you had a full view of the waterfalls cascading with one another, their water black yet their foam white as clouds—as if the night sky had become the floor of this planet until the true evening falls.

Your shoulders jumped when a roaring TIE Fighter zooms past the horizon above the waterfall plateau. You watched it come and go like a comet in the gray skies until it disappeared into the mountain’s backside.

“Huh, no surprise there,” you thought out loud.

You turned around and sprinted towards the derelict hangar. It was devoid of life, but for a scavenger this may as well have been a gold mine! Crates upon crates towered over your height, some were flimsily blanketed with tarps that weren’t long enough to fully conceal them, exposing the Empire’s sigil tattooed in white paint on the boxes’ faces beside the label of its contents.

Using the hem of a tarp to wipe off the dust that’s collected on one side of a crate, you reveal the white Aurebesh label beneath the grime, the label reads: PROJECT AUGUR – RESOURCES.

The first two words were intriguing. You pulled away the tarp that covers its lid, you opened to find a medley of parts that were of great variety. Picking each one up to examine them and then returning them when they didn’t attract you that much, you went on rummaging through the crates for something that you could use. After all, it’s not like the Stormtroopers will notice.

“Do they even keep a track list of these stuff?” you scoffed, examining an odd-looking part that somehow resembled a piston but you knew full well that it wasn’t.

You didn’t notice the rust-colored blast door at the other end of the hangar until it resounded loud enough for its echoes to bounce across the natural stone walls. You jolted in response. The feeling of the unknown behind that door made your heart wild.

Out of the blue, it would’ve appeared that the wind had gained a voice—an incoherent yet audible sound fluttered with the stale wind. The air hummed—hollow and foreboding—but something about that door gravitated you to it, luring you closer until your fingertips touch the controls. The pads of your first two fingers rested on the button, you hesitate, that is until the air whispered to you again—you could’ve sworn you heard your name.

“Darling…? My darling [y/n]?”

You abruptly twirled to your back, eyes wide and frantic as they search the empty hangar. The voice uttered your name again, this time you turned to the door, hoping to find the face of that voice.

“Mom?”

You pawed the blast door, hoping that she’d call again; you finally pressed the button, the door whizzes open but you’re met with an empty corridor. Unbeknownst to you, the path and hallway laid out to you was not the real one. It was the Force testing your senses and perhaps your mental willpower.

“Darling, where are you?” Jezria’s melodic voice sounded almost too ghostly, but you didn’t notice. You’re too caught up with the idea of reuniting with your mother—even if she had been dead for years.

The illusion was so surreal, too enticing even, that you lost track of things—perhaps even your senses as well—in the expense of seeing your mother another time. You spot her, but she continued to go ahead of you, a gaping distance divided mother and child.

“Wait! Mom, wait for me!” you cracked. Chasing her through the long hallway that doesn’t seem to cease in length.

Jezria, of the shell of her anyway, kept on walking. Her back to you as she continued forward.

“I’m almost there!” you announced, though unsure whether you’re announcing it for your mother or coaxing yourself to keep on.

You came upon another door, thankfully the end of the tunnel, but as you opened the second door, the next place that you reached made your small yet eager smile dissolve.

You stand in the midst of a manor’s hallway. In a single glance, you easily identified that the architecture was of Serennian make. The gray marble floors, the finely embroidered drapes along the tall windows, and the expensive-looking deep purple wallpaper with light wooden paneling that was glossy to the touch. You know this interior even with your eyes closed.

It’s your house.

“Home?” your eyebrows furrowed so much that your forehead wrinkled. You surveyed the area, and then behind your back, the same rust-colored door remained. “I don’t get it…”

Nevertheless, you strode through the hallway, following your mother’s trail.

“Foolish child…” a faceless voice hummed along the walls.

“Who’s there?!” you violently spun.

“What weak resolve,” it continued.

“Where are you!?”

“Like mother… like daughter,”

You clenched your jaw and fists, slowly turning around while surveying the entirety of the hallway.

“Show yourself!” you snarled.

“Had you been surrendered to me, then things would have been significantly different. Your mother and father would still be alive. You’d have so much power in your hands that—not even in your current age—could fathom its real meaning down to its last fiber.”

“No, you’re wrong!”

A figure appeared from the curb around the end of the hallway. It was him.

“Count Dooku.”

Even for an apparition, he seemed satisfied to hear you utter his name. He took it as a greeting and bowed curtly with a smile making his white beard more angular.

“So, you finally decided to speak my name. No matter how many times my idiot sister tried to eradicate my very existence from your life.”

You reached for your staff and immediately drew it out to its full length. Count Dooku’s apparition chuckled, amused by your naïve courage.

“Oh, child, you do not understand what is right in front of you, don’t you?”

“Does it matter? I’ll destroy you either way. You had my mother killed!”

“Puh!” Dooku harrumphed, the aristocratic air loomed around him that it’s basically his aura. “Jezria was weak. Always trying to put a façade that she can never hold up! Incapable of protecting herself and ultimately her own daughter!”

“Stop it! Shut up! You don’t know anything about her—neither do you know anything about me!”

“I don’t need to. Once the Emperor has you in his grasp, with my mission complete, I have granted him a prize: my own niece, strong and powerful in the Dark Side of the Force!”

“I am nothing like you!” you roared. “I WILL NEVER BE LIKE YOU!!!”

——————————————————–

In the middle of his roaming, something piqued within Cal enough to stop him in his tracks. From the cliffside, the cold gale muffled out the abrupt, rhythmic thunder of the pulverizers, but that windstorm didn’t do much to stunt Cal’s senses with the Force. Peering over the black waterfalls below, he tried to reach out, albeit briefly, just so he could pinpoint whatever’s troubling him.

“Bee-chirp?”

“Yeah, I’m okay, just… had a feeling. Got worried for a second,”

Cal continued his way to the Imperial headquarters, upon his entry, all of the Stormtropers had their backs turned to him—whether facing the way ahead or keeping their noses stuck to their computers. He slipped into the elevator and slammed the up button. He got to the upper level, he prowled through the ventilation shafts. The Stormtrooper’s idle banter revolved around the subject of complaining that they got nothing to do in the planet and wanted to be assigned to another, where there ought to be action.

“Did you hear that?”

Both Stormtroopers’ heads panned across the room, searching for the source of the sound—which was Cal landing on the balls of his feet against the metal grates.

“Probably just those typical exhaust bursts from the fans,”

“Shouldn’t we report that? I mean, won’t that blow up?”

“Nah.”

Cal continued to stalk in the shadows, away from the enemies’ sight, just when he had his chance to strike, their hands immediately jerked up and pressed against the ear area of their helmets. He thought he had been spotted, but he stood corrected.

“Still, it’s better if we—wait, I’m getting a radio call here!”

“Me too! What the… Jedi?!”

The young redhead’s eyes widened upon hearing the words. He knew whom they’re talking about.

“She doesn’t have a saber though!”

“So, she isn’t Jedi?! Then what?”

“It’s the fugitive from Nalima! But we’re being called as reinforcements at the caves,”

“Ugh hate that place!”

Cal watched the enemies depart via elevator, en route to the ice caves.

“[y/n]…!” he exclaimed under his breath.

Luckily for him, Cal knew the shortcut—he just needed to pass through that Purge Trooper with a rifle.

Meanwhile you were facing off the swarms of Stormtroopers coming wave after wave on you. Thanks to that delusion, you didn’t realize that you’ve wandered off into the abandoned village. But your outburst at the end has caused another energy wave exploding out of you, disorienting and alarming the stationed Stormtroopers in that very area.

So far, you were able to fare quite well against them even with just your techstaff; with the adrenaline of the outburst, you felt like you could do this all day, not once did you feel tired. The voice of Dooku in your head—as much as you hated it to hear him—coaxed you with every move, distortedly affirming and encouraging your every attack.

“That anger is your best weapon. Show no mercy! Let the Dark Side of the Force give you the power you so deserve!”

“Get out of my head!” you snarled as you fought, not caring whether or not the Stormtroopers heard you.

As for those troopers with blasters, you evaded them—utilizing both the self-defense skills you’ve learned through the years, amplified by the Force with which you couldn’t harmoniously bend to your will yet.

Eventually, the soldiers in white armor have stopped pouring in, but their horde was replaced by a singular Purge Trooper wielding twin batons. This enemy’s body may be lithe, but here was a lethality that he imposed upon the way he projects himself to his victim.

“Well,” he snarled. “You’re no Jedi, but you are a prize for the Emperor!”

You didn’t exactly grasp what he meant by that, though it didn’t matter—your survival did.

[nomolosk]

Snapshots (AU Yeah August 2020)

read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25655623/chapters/62678428

Day 9- University

Gabriel looked up as his atelier melted away until he was standing in the center of the Dean’s office at ESMOD. He recognized the office, it was even decorated the same as when he had attended- which likely meant the akuma- he had named her Universal- was taking the easy way and creating her landscape from the memories and imaginings of the people affected. Given the setting, she had probably thrust everyone in Paris into some kind of University life. Apparently, he was to be the stern and forbidding Dean whom all the students feared.

He sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He hadn’t really counted on this akuma being so… quiet. It had been nearly two full days already and there was still no indication that Ladybug or Chat Noir had caught on that something was going on. Of course, that was probably due to the powerset he’d given her- the ability to rewrite the memories of everyone affected to reflect their current reality. Ladybug and Chat Noir couldn’t spend all their time transformed, just as he couldn’t. In fact, he was counting on that a little, since her given task was to try and discover who they were in their normal everyday lives if possible.

In a way it was a personal victory- he’d finally hit on something that could trip them up… if only they would betray themselves. Sighing again, he went in search of Nathalie. He’d made them both immune to the akuma’s memory-changing power, so both of them remembered everything so far, including the rather odd transformation of his own powers during that elemental-magic setting. Not that he had complained at the time- it had made it possible for an additional attack to occur while his original akuma was still in play.

Yes, Universal was having a great time, but perhaps it was time for Mayura to come out to play and tempt the young heroes out into the open again. Perhaps Universal would catch the power surge when they transformed. Adrien was tucked safely away at that Small Business Convention- which had probably been transformed into a Student Union, or something similar. Yes. He’d be having the time of his life, and he’d be safe from the coming fight.

----

One moment Nathalie was scheduling phone calls with suppliers and meetings with Gabriel’s design team, and the next she found herself in an office she didn’t recognize, staring at a distraught young man as he sobbed to her about how he’d been framed, and it hadn’t really been him that was caught sabotaging someone else’s project.

It was times like this that Nathalie cursed Hawkmoth. Sure, he’d assured her that he and she were both protected from the mind-bending powers of his latest akuma, but that also meant that she currently had no clue what her current role was. She fell back on professional coldness. The fact that this individual was in an office that was hers, begging for mercy and trying to shift blame onto someone- anyone- else, meant that she was likely either the enforcer of rules, or the precursor to the enforcer of rules. So… not all that different from her actual real life job, though she was thankfully no longer so involved in Adrien’s schedule.

She glanced down at her desk, hoping to see a report on a tablet, or even a stack of papers with the complaint to review. She was in luck. No tablet, but there were three pages and the topmost was a single sheet detailing the complaint and the evidence against the young man in front of her. An eyebrow twitched when among the evidence listed was “security video footage.” The recommendation at the bottom of the page was to kick it up to the Dean. Also helpfully listed was the name of the individual.

“I’ve heard enough,” she finally said, in her usual expressionless voice. “There is plenty of evidence against you Mr. Virago. I’m saddened that once again ambition, or perhaps envy or spite, has misled someone talented enough to gain entry to this institution into ruining their chances. However, integrity is something we demand from all our students. You should expect a meeting with the Dean, although given what is listed here, it’s quite possible he’ll merely review the evidence and come to a conclusion in your absence.”

If the Dean were Gabriel Agreste, he certainly would, but unfortunately the Dean’s name wasn’t listed. Naturally, Nathalie would be expected to already know it. Mr. Virago collapsed into incoherent tears, and Nathalie grimaced in distaste. Artists were so very temperamental. Well, except for Gabriel. And even he has his moments, she thought, remembering quite a few overheard villain monologues, not to mention his sudden and inexplicable need to compose a rap song of all things to serve as his own personal theme a few months ago. 

Nathalie sighed and pushed the button on her old-fashioned office phone that was the most likely candidate for an intercom. “Please have security come and escort Mr. Virago out, thank you,” she said to the person on the other end.

A few moments later, there was a knock on her office door, and two uniformed women escorted the limp and cooperative (likely former) student out of her presence. A moment later there was another knock, and Gabriel walked in.

“I’m the Dean, who are you?” he asked, with no preamble whatsoever, but Nathalie was used to that. Except in moments of extreme stress or worry, Gabriel was nothing if not to the point.

“Someone just under the Dean, I believe. That young man you saw exiting a moment ago won’t be a student here for much longer if the evidence against him holds up.”

“That’s assuming he was ever a student here in the first place, and Universal didn’t make up a scenario he is being forced to play out, or simply transfer his misconduct from one place to another. Perhaps he always dreamed of being a student here, yet his life went another direction.”

Nathalie rubbed her temples. “This akuma is giving me a headache.”

“Don’t think about it too much, then. His life is his own, and unless Universal grants me another universe in which I’m able to create another akuma apart from her, his current mental anguish is irrelevant.”

A small voice in the back of Nathalie’s mind whispered traitorously: when did Gabriel become so cold? Surely he used to care more about the feelings of others… now he seems to see them as nothing more than opportunities to exploit.

“Of course, sir.”

“Meanwhile, since the heroes have yet to show themselves, perhaps Mayura ought to make an appearance.”

That brought a malicious smile to her face. Since Gabriel had succeeded in repairing the peacock miraculous a few years ago, her pulmonary issues had almost cleared up, and she was much stronger and faster in a fight. Of course, it seemed Ladybug and Chat Noir had finally reached whatever threshold it had been that kept them from using their powers more than once before being forced out of their transformations, and as a result they were also much more formidable opponents. Privately, Nathalie was starting to wonder if they would ever reach their ultimate goal, but she enjoyed being Mayura and flying about the city. As Mayura she could take out some of her frustrations with a reasonable assumption that they would be just fine in the end. She was loathe to give that up.

“I’ll have to check my schedule as soon as I can find it,” she said, “but I’m sure I can find some spare time somewhere. Will you be doing any designing while we’re stuck here?”

“No, it would be pointless. My own schedule is packed with meetings, or so my secretary- who is not nearly as competent as you- tells me. I had to beg for the few minutes it would take to walk from my office to yours as it is.”

“Then you should get going. Oh, by the by… have you run into anyone you recognize yet?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “No one, but the day is young.”

Nathalie returned the smirk. “It seems my current score stands, then.”

“I never agreed to this, you know.”

“And yet, you were so triumphant yesterday when you briefly surpassed my score.”

“You sound like you think this little wager of yours is going to change things.”

“I know you still miss Emilie,” Nathalie said, her tone softening. “But you really need to get out more, and not just as a hologram. You weren’t there all those years when Adrien’s expression would go flat every time you refused to show up for some event. And now that he is grown and out of the house, he is more distant than ever. If you don’t want to lose him entirely, something needs to change.”

Gabriel sighed. “Yes, but… oh, if only I could be as self-centered as Audrey Bourgeois, and simply attempt to fire anyone who annoys me.”

“Everyone feels that way, Gabriel,” Nathalie stated firmly. “Consider the fact that most of the people you meet are feeling exactly the same way you are… and strive to treat them with the same consideration and respect you would demand for yourself.”

Gabriel made a skeptical noise. “If you say so. But it does seem pointless to bother at this point when we’re so close.” He sighed. “I really must get back. Try to inform me of when you’re going out, please?”

“Of course sir,” Nathalie said, and started pulling out the drawers of her desk looking for a schedule even as he left the room.

@auyeahaugust