#two different uses of the word prophet here but you get it

[20dimensionsoftangerine]

Kristen and Fig 🤝 Adaine and Fabian

The Prophet and Her Champion

[hxlxnaaa]

𝐬𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 ─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─ 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐬

★ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: a year after the breakup, one fight still haunts them both. when sylus shows up again, it all comes rushing back—every kiss, every scream, every regret. they miss each other. they need each other. and this time, they’re not letting go.

★ 𝐜𝐰/𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: ex boyfriend sylus, canon divergence, slight angst if you squint, dw there's comfort, brief mentions of zayne, reader is VERY briefly implied to be a student, plot with porn, emotional make up sex, like crying during the deed, slightly toxic but they're in love, they're healing ok, sylus is a simp, reader is down bad, this is soft and filthy at the same time

★ 𝐰𝐜: 10.5k

★ 𝐚/𝐧: this came to me in a prophetic vision and i needed to write it. i LOVEEE the idea of ex boyfriend sylus. like mmmm give me more…. anyways im not very good nor comfortable with writing smut but i had to do it so here it is. i hope i executed it well LMAO. was originally gonna be porn with plot but i got too locked in… enjoy!

Nothing about the breakup was amicable.

It wasn’t one of those slow fades, where two people quietly drift in different directions until they’re just gone. No, it was one fight—loud, sharp, nasty and just downright cruel. The kind that leaves a ringing in your ears and words you wish you could take back. One moment, and everything you were just blew apart. 

You didn’t walk away. 

No, you crashed—hard. Spun out of each other’s lives like planets knocked off course.

You always fought like that—both of you stubborn, neither one willing to back down. It wasn’t anything new. You’re not even sure what exactly made you lose it that time.

Maybe it was the way he embarrassed you in front of everyone. Maybe you’d had too much to drink. Or maybe you were just finally done. Done with the constant tension, the little digs, all the crap you kept letting slide. Just sick and tired of his shit.

You don’t even remember what you said, just playfully whining to your friend beside you.

“You get used to her overreacting. She just needs attention.”

And then everyone laughed. Maybe at you, maybe just at the joke—who even knows anymore. He always had a way of getting people to laugh like that, soaking up attention with that slick charisma he wore like his dumb expensive cologne. And this time? That charm of his came at the cost of your dignity. Your pride.

You bit your tongue and swallowed everything you wanted to scream. Unlike him, you weren’t going to make a scene—not in front of all your friends. No, you kept your mouth shut, had a few more drinks, sat in silence the whole Uber ride home, and waited.

He followed you inside like nothing was wrong, started taking off his coat like he always did, settling in like it was just any other night. But you stopped him. Told him to hang on a second. Then you walked straight to your room, grabbed every single thing he owned—every sock, every hoodie, every stupid little trinket—and dumped it all at his feet.

And that’s when it started. You brought up what he said, how he embarrassed you, how he made you feel like a goddamn joke in front of everyone. And of course—of course—he didn’t take you seriously. Laughed it off, like he always did. Like your anger, your hurt, was some kind of performance he’d already seen too many times.

Like your overreacting was just a grab for attention.

That’s when you snapped. You weren’t just arguing about that night anymore—you were tearing into everything. Every moment you’d swallowed your pride, every time you felt small, every time he talked over you or dismissed you like you didn’t matter.

You started throwing his stuff at him, screaming like your chest was on fire, like you could rip his voice out of the air just to make it stop. Told him to get the fuck out, that you never wanted to see his stupid fucking face again. It was bad, the kind of fight that had cops on the doorstep. That was the only thing that finally got him to leave. The only reason that ugly night finally stopped.

Then came the texts—him cycling through the five stages of grief in your messages. 

‘Sweetie, you know me better than this. What happened to us, to you?’

‘Can we just sit down? I’ll listen, really. I’ll hear you.”

‘Don’t throw away everything we’ve built in one moment of anger.’

You had to silence his calls, his texts. Your phone had practically turned into a vibrator with the way he was spamming it.

But you never found it in yourself to block his number.

Once, you walked out of class and there he was, waiting outside like he’d been watching for you. He tried to talk to you, and you had to practically sprint to get away. After that, you started taking different routes to your classes, finding back ways around buildings, just to avoid him. It felt like you couldn’t even breathe without him showing up.

He sent gifts to your doorstep; monetary, thoughtless gestures like expensive jewelry, new designer clothes, extravagant bouquets. But on nights you spent cramming for exams or buried in the library, you’d come home to meals from your favorite restaurants or baskets filled with all the snacks you loved.

There was never a note, but you didn’t need one. You always knew who it was from.

But it didn’t take long for it all to stop. The texts, the gifts, the way you’d catch glimpses of him standing around places you used to go. You thought you’d be relieved, but now… it’s different. Sometimes, you almost miss it—the reminder that he was still there, still trying. It felt like you still mattered to him, even if it was twisted.

Despite all the fights, he was good. Good to you, and just good in that rare, complicated way some people are. His heart was made of gold and steel—soft in places, unbreakable in others. He just didn’t always know how to use it.

But you know you mattered to him. You felt it, even when everything else was falling apart.

Right person, wrong time, you guess.

Because despite your 3 year relationship coming to an abrupt, sudden and earth shattering halt—life goes on.

Though, it took a while.

At first, his constant pleas for forgiveness built a wall between you and any real chance at healing. And then there was the regret—that heavy, gnawing feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’d made a huge mistake. That maybe you’d let go of the best thing you ever had. Lost something you weren’t sure you’d ever find again.

It didn’t help that you shared the same circle of friends. He was everywhere—smiling in group photos, lit up in stories, slipping into your feed like a ghost that refused to rest. You’d catch a glimpse, tap the tag, and spiral into his page like it was muscle memory. You told yourself it was harmless curiosity, that you just wanted to know if he was okay now that the begging had gone quiet.

But deep down, you were searching for something else.

Hoping he hadn’t moved on.

Eventually, you found a rhythm. Learned when to look away from social media, which friends to sidestep in conversation. You slipped into a beat that no longer used him as an instrument. 

And slowly, quietly, you began to write a new song.

Without Sylus.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

You sat cross-legged on the floor of Zayne’s apartment, your head resting in your hands as you watched him work. His eyes were locked on his laptop, fingers moving with careful precision, while his glasses kept sliding down the bridge of his nose. Every few minutes, he’d pause just long enough to push them back up, never once looking away for long.

You’d been seeing each other for a few months now. It had been a year, finally a full year, since everything fell apart.  

“Better to get back out there,” you told yourself.

You met Zayne through one of your new friends. He had asked for your number, and you gave it to him without thinking too hard—if you did, you’d start to feel the guilt you were trying to desperately ignore. He’s a doctor, living the kind of life that sounded like ambition carved into marble—precise and immovable. He had plans, timelines, a path so clearly mapped out it felt like there wasn’t room for detours.

He’s sweet. Gentle in ways you didn’t realize you needed. 

He doesn’t set off fireworks in your chest, but maybe that’s okay. Maybe peace was always the thing you were chasing.

But, sometimes, being with him felt like standing in a waiting room of his life. Like you were something brief, something meant for now but not later. A warm presence to come home to, but never quite a part of the long term picture. 

Because of that, you weren’t exactly together—but you weren’t not together, either. It was strange, undefined, but it worked. You didn’t know if you were ready for something more serious yet, a new commitment after what came before.

And Zayne was so different from him.

Zayne was calm where he had been wild. Predictable where he had been chaotic. Steady where he had burned.

But sometimes you missed the fire.

The way he could make you feel like the center of the universe with just a look, the way everything with him was urgent, desperate, alive. It hadn’t been easy, but it had been electric.

With Zayne, it sometimes felt like you were too much for him. Like he didn’t really know what to do with all of you. But with him, it was the opposite—he couldn’t get enough.

Zayne was still a good guy. That should’ve been enough.

Even if you already knew what it felt like to be wanted completely. Wanted like a storm.

"Do you want to grab food?" you asked, tapping gently on the back of his laptop. You knew better than to interrupt his flow, but you hadn’t come over just to sit and watch him work.

He hummed in response, barely acknowledging you.

You sighed. "So you wouldn’t care if I blew up your apartment?"

Another hum.

To be fair, he had promised dinner earlier. He just needed to finish his work—and then he just needed a bit more time… And then a little more after that.

That was three hours ago.

This time, you reach for the top of his laptop screen, and his eyes flick up to you—blinking slowly, like he’s just now registering the reality outside of his research paper.

Zayne frowns, the disapproval clear on his face. You mirror him with a frown of your own, arms crossing over your chest.

"It’s getting late," you say, your tone edging on impatient. "Let me know what you want, and I’ll go pick it up."

“No, it’s alright.” He finally shuts his laptop with a quiet click, then takes off his glasses and sets them gently on the table beside him. His eyes meet yours—tired, a little guilty.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” he says, voice softer now, like he means it.

You shrug in response, but inside, your thoughts begin to stir.

They did this sometimes—whenever Zayne did something even slightly wrong.

He would never do that.

He would never make you wait more than an hour—and that was only if something came up. He always respected your time, always made sure you knew you were a priority. 

He was always there when he said he would be—in every single sense.

The guilt rises again, thick and suffocating in your chest. Guilt for what you did, guilt for even thinking about him when Zayne is right here. The way Zayne’s hesitation, his lack of urgency, makes everything feel distant.

‘If he would never do that, why don’t you go back to him?’ Though sarcastic, the thought cuts through you bitterly. You scoff, but the question lingers.

“Where do you want to go?” Zayne asks, his voice pulling you out of the fight with your own subconscious. You blink, disoriented for a moment, before his words sink in.

“Anywhere you’d like,” he continues, “As an apology for making you wait so long.”

You don’t know why you say it, and you're not even sure if you want to go there, but the words leave your lips anyway. You tell him you want to go to this place across town.

Zayne doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the history of that place, the weight of the memories tied to it, the way it feels like a part of him still lingers there. And you don’t want to taint him with that—don’t want to drag him into this aggressive, aching space inside you.

But it’s like everything in you aches to go there, anyway.

To feel a fragment of him again, even if it’s through something so small, so insignificant. Just to be near a place that once held the kind of warmth you crave now. To feel a piece of what it was, even if you know you’ll never truly get it back.

To just miss him for a second.

Maybe it’s cruel of you to drag Zayne along. He’s clueless, unaware of the heaviness of this strange little hole in the wall restaurant. Doesn’t know why you stay silent the entire ride, eyes fixed on the world outside, every single tree passing by like a painful reminder.

You can feel the hole in your chest, the space he used to fill, and it’s all you can do not to let it consume you.

When you arrived, even the bricks outside were enough to make your heart lurch. For a second—an honest, long second—you forgot who you were with.

You turned, expecting to see silver hair, eyes like cut rubies, that familiar warmth of a presence that used to pull the air from your lungs.

But instead, you were met with something gentler. A forest, not a flame.

Zayne took your hand, his brows drawn with concern. “Are you alright?” he asked.

You forced a smile—too quick, too practiced—and nodded.

“Yeah.”

But even as the word left your mouth, you could feel the lie settle in the air between you.

The inside was just as cruel. Small and warm, familiar in a way that wrapped around your ribs and squeezed. The feeling was a tie between a warm hug and suffocating.

Maybe you were a masochist for letting yourself come here—for asking to be brought back to a place that held a feeling you’d buried so deep it shouldn’t have surfaced this easily.

It was just a small place you found by accident one lazy evening. But once you fell in love with it, he made it tradition.

Every weekend, like clockwork, he’d take you on a date. And more often than not, you’d ask to come here.

Eventually, the owners knew you by name. Knew your usuals, your laughter, your habits—the shape of your love, even.

And standing there now, with Zayne beside you, the warmth and familiarity turned sharp.

You realized what you’d done.

Who you were with.

And for a moment, regret bloomed in your throat like a bruise.

Were you that ex? The one who dragged new boys through old memories like ghosts on a leash?

No.

Zayne wasn’t your boyfriend. So it didn’t count. It didn’t mean anything.

Right?

You found a table in the corner, far from that quiet little booth tucked near the stage—the one that had soaked in your fights, your laughter, your deepest conversations.

The one that still held all of that messy, complicated love.

Far from the exposed brick wall where you’d once scrawled your initials with the red lipstick you always carried.

His favorite shade.

You still have it in your purse. You never took it out.

Why didn’t you take it out?

The band was bustling, the loud jazz music crashing against your thoughts like waves. You knew Zayne would hate it here—too loud and too cramped for him.

The faint frown tugging at his face confirmed everything you already knew.

You had to order at the bar, and you silently hoped—begged—that he’d take the hint, take the lead.

You just wanted to stay in your seat, stay still; let the noise swallow you whole while you slipped quietly back in time.

Just for a little while.

And he did. Zayne stood with a sigh and made his way to the bar, already checking his watch like he couldn’t wait to leave.

You stayed seated.

Let your eyes wander around the room, soaking in the soft haze of memory like it was smoke in your lungs.

You imagined another version of this moment—one where you weren’t sitting there with someone you knew well, but still felt like a stranger; who held your hand too gently, smiled too politely.

One where the seat across from you was filled with someone who looked at you like you hung the stars, the sun and the moon alike. Who never looked at his watch because time was never wasted with you.

From where you were sitting, you knew the only thing you’d be able to see through the crowds of people at tables was the band and that stupid, beautiful booth.

You couldn’t look at it.

You wouldn’t look at it.

You looked.

Oh.

Oh.

You met his eyes, and the world forgot how to spin.

The air stilled. The conversations and music seemed to pause, a single note stretched out across eternity.

Everything—everyone—stood frozen in place.

Time held its breath.

And for one impossible second, it was just the two of you again.

What was he doing here?

Was the universe playing some cruel trick, drawing you both back to this place like gravity? Why your booth?

Why now?

His eyes scanned your face like he wasn’t sure you were real—like you’d stepped out of a dream.

Then came that smile.

The soft one; the one he used to give you in the quiet, perfect moments when the world was small, just the two of you.

There was no venom in it. No pain. No trace of the wreckage you left in each other.

Just something tender.

As if none of it had happened.

As if you were still okay.

You couldn’t help but smile back.

It was instinct, not decision—like your face moved before your mind could catch up. Like your chest cracked open just wide enough to let the light in.

It felt like winter turning to spring, when everything thaws out and comes alive again. when the frost softens and color creeps quietly back into everything.

Your heart bloomed, slow and trembling—like a flower daring to open again.

He lifts his hand in a wave, mouthing “Hello.” 

“Hi, Sylus.” You mouth back

Your lips felt strange shaping his name. Like they weren’t used to the syllables anymore—like they’d forgotten the rhythm of it, the way it used to sit so easily on your tongue. It felt foreign now, like a word in a language you once knew by heart but hadn’t spoken in years.

Everything started moving again when your drink was sat in front of you. You looked up, and Zayne’s face was tired, pained even.

"Thank you," you murmured, fingers idly twisting the straw. He stayed quiet, as he always did, his gaze fixed on the band, listening to the music, indifferent to you.

You glanced over at the booth again, just to make sure.

And he was gone.

Your heart froze up again, going back to winter. The flower that had started to bloom died in an instant.

Did you just imagine him? He was there in a second, gone the next. 

Was coming to this place such a bad idea that you started hallucinating your ex boyfriend?

Suddenly, the once familiar comfort of this place turned on you, becoming suffocating and unbearable. Heat crawled up the back of your neck, a flush of panic exploding beneath your skin. Every hair on your body stood on end, as if now bracing for something that wasn’t there.

Your chest tightened, breath shallow, the music too loud, the walls too close.

What the hell just happened?

You pushed your food around the plate, appetite long gone, and caught glimpses of Zayne doing the same.

The high had worn off—whatever rush or adrenaline that had carried you through the moment had collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a deep, aching hollowness in your chest.

All you wanted was to crawl into bed and fall apart. To let the tears come in the dark, mourning the vision your mind had conjured up like some sick joke.

To sit with the guilt of missing him. Of returning to this place. Of dragging Zayne into the wreckage of your past.

He didn’t know a thing—not really. You never told him. Never told anyone, if you were being honest.

It wasn’t something you ever felt the need to say out loud. You kept it locked away, tucked in a corner of your soul like something sacred and shameful all at once.

But now, sitting here, watching Zayne shrink into his chair, you couldn’t help but feel like you’d tainted him, too. Dragged him into a history he had no business being part of.

Was it you? Or was it this damn bar? Maybe both were cursed. 

You excused yourself to the bathroom, muttering something about needing a moment, but really you just needed to slam your head gently against a stall door and splash cold water over your face. Anything to snap yourself out of whatever spiral this was.

You stood in front of the mirror, blinking hard, like maybe the reflection would shift. That maybe you’d look solid again—real, awake and breathing. But as you smoothed your hair, you really looked. For the first time in what felt like ages.

The circles beneath your eyes were deeper than you remembered, carved in like bruises you forgot to cover. The spark behind those same eyes had vanished, a dull, empty quiet staring back. The color in your cheeks had faded, drained from your skin like it had somewhere better to be.

Where had it gone?

With him.

Your life went with him.

You walked back out to find Zayne at the bar, settling the tab. His expression was unreadable, but it didn’t take much to tell—there wasn’t a smile left in him tonight. His eyes were low, his mouth set in a line.

This was going to be a long ride home.

And it was. Long. Silent. The kind of silence that wasn’t just quiet, but loud in all the wrong ways. The kind that pressed against your ears and made your throat tight. The air in the car felt thick, like you couldn’t swallow a breath. 

Would it have killed him to turn on the radio? Like, just a song? Was he that mad at you for dragging him somewhere out of his comfort zone?

The answer was yes.

“Listen,” Zayne said as the car rolled to a stop in front of your apartment. “Can we talk for a second?”

You knew what was coming.

“Yeah, what’s up?” You replied, turning toward him with a hollowness in your voice. There wasn’t any way this night could get worse.

He let out a breath, one of those slow exhales people do when they’re trying not to make something worse than it already is. His hands fell to his lap, unsure, then found the wheel again.

“You’re great,” he started, eyes fixed somewhere ahead, like looking at you would make it harder. “You’re really sweet. Kind. But I think…” A pause. A swallow.  “I think we’re headed in different directions, two very different people.”

That damn bar.

“Yeah.” You repeat again, hand reaching for the door, “It’s okay. I understand.”

“You’re great though.”

I heard you the first time, you want to say.

Instead you just nod, climbing out of the car and heading inside. 

When you see his car pulling away through the glass of the lobby doors, something inside you gives out. The tears come hot and fast, spilling before you even reach the elevator. You don’t care who sees.

The couple down the hall pauses mid conversation, shifting awkwardly as they juggle grocery bags and avoid your eyes. The old woman waiting by the elevator doesn’t look away—after a second, she rifles through her purse and presses a butterscotch candy into your palm.

You thank her as you both take the elevator up. She doesn’t say a word, just gives you that soft, knowing look only age can shape. The kind that says heartbreak is universal, and survivable.

You’re still crying when you reach your door, fumbling with the keys through blurred vision. The tears come in waves now—messy, relentless—and you’re not even sure what they’re for anymore. It’s like a year’s worth of grief, pressed down and packed tight, finally burst free all at once.

It wasn’t really about Zayne. You’d known for a while you didn’t belong in the future he was building, and he wasn’t ever really yours to begin with. But tonight? Of all nights?

Really, karma? You think, bitterly. Was this supposed to be funny?

When you finally get inside, something feels off. You pause, your hand still on the doorknob. It was light out when you left—had you accidentally turned a light on? You don’t remember doing that. The glow from the kitchen spills out like an omen.

You shut the door slowly, silently, and that’s when you hear it—a shuffle.

Your body locks up. Heart in your throat, you reach for the pepper spray on your keys, hand trembling.

Of course. Of course. Out of all the godforsaken nights for your apartment to get broken into—it had to be tonight. Because why wouldn’t it be. 

What luck!

You catch a quick movement—and without thinking, you lunge, instinct taking over. A desperate swing in self defense. But just as fast, you’re caught. Arms wrap around you, pinning you back against the body of whoever’s in your home.

This is it, you think, panic thundering in your chest. This is how I go. What a night to die.

But then—

“Easy, kitten.”

The world stops. Your entire body goes rigid.

That voice.

That goddamn voice.

A voice you haven’t heard in thirteen months and twenty eight days. Not that you were counting. You tried to stop counting—god, you did—but the days clung to you like dust in sunlight. Every hour ticked by like a relentless grandfather clock, towering in the corner of your mind, never breaking and never missing a chime.

Always ringing.

Always reminding you.

And there it was again. Smooth as velvet, soft like the worn fur of a childhood bear. It wrapped around you with the grasp of memory, gentle and impossible to forget. Like your favorite song buried deep in your mind, untouched for years, and yet the moment it plays—you remember every note, every breath, every rise and fall. 

You don’t know if you want to turn around. There’s a part of you that’s afraid he won’t actually be there, that if you look, you’ll just be staring at an empty room or some figment your mind cooked up to fill the silence—because maybe you’re imagining him again. After the night you’ve had, it wouldn’t be too far off. 

Maybe you’re just tired, emotional, and your brain is pulling memories of your ex out of storage. And honestly, with the way things have gone, that would be exactly your kind of luck.

You’re yanked out of your spiral when he turns you around, slow and careful. And there it is—his face. That same stupidly beautiful, maddeningly familiar face. The one that made you laugh, made you cry. 

Sylus, Sylus, Sylus, Sylus, Sylus.

You don’t know whether to swing at him for breaking into your apartment or hold onto him so tight you melt into his bones—crawl into his skin, make a home in his ribs. Never leave his side again.

He searches your face, stares at you like he’s just as unsure of your existence as you are his. 

You take a step back, putting some space between you, letting your eyes scan him like they might find something new. But he’s the same. Same worn coat, same styled hair he swore looked better like that, same silver “S” hanging from his neck. But his eyes—they match yours, tired and drained. Like everything of the past year sits on his chest, just like it does on yours. And suddenly, he doesn’t look so untouchable anymore. He looks just as haunted.

It’s on you, if you’re being honest. Sure, he said some things that cut deep, and yeah, you were exhausted—mentally and emotionally by that point. But you’re the one who tossed three years away like they didn’t matter. Like they were disposable. One angry moment, one impulsive decision, and it was all over. You didn’t stop to think about what it would do to him—or to you. And when the dust settled, you were too damn proud to go back, to say you messed up, to admit that walking away wasn’t really what you wanted. You both lost something special, because pride got in the way. Because despite all the arguments, he was your person. And you were his.

“I made coffee,” he says, finally breaking the silence.

“At this time of night?” you reply, eyebrows lifting but not really questioning it. 

You can’t find it in you to ask how he got in, or even why he’s here. The words don’t form, caught somewhere between exhaustion and surrender. Tonight has taken too much out of you—emotionally, mentally, physically. You’re too drained to be angry, too hollow to press for answers. And maybe, deep down, you don’t really want to know. Maybe pretending is easier.

Pretending you came home from a hard night, and he was here, waiting for you like he used to. Like nothing ever fell apart between you. Like the months without him hadn’t happened, like the space between you two had never formed in the first place.

You know it's ridiculous. 

Definitely unhealthy. 

But in this moment, you don't care. You're tired—so, so tired—and the comfort of familiarity, even a fractured one, feels like the only thing keeping you upright. Because maybe you're a little crazy. Or maybe you’re just lonely. Maybe you’ve spent so long missing him in silence that your heart doesn’t know how to stop.

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he’s trying to smile but can’t quite get there. And that’s when it hits you—since seeing him today, not once has he worn that usual smug grin he always carried so effortlessly. No teasing, no playful glint in his eye. Just this look, like you’re something out of a dream. Like he’s seeing the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and he doesn’t fully believe it. Like you’re some kind of miracle, and he’s still trying to convince himself you’re really standing there.

You walk past him and into the kitchen, where two mugs sit on the counter. You stop when you notice them—your matching mugs, the ones you picked out during that trip, the ones shaped like a cat and a crow. You remember how you practically screamed when you saw them, all excited like a kid in a candy store. Of course, he bought them for you, because that was just who he was. 

He’d do anything for you.

You don’t know why you’ve kept them, not after everything. But there are certain things, small things, that you can’t bring yourself to let go of. These mugs are one of them. They hold too many memories—too many nights spent tangled in blankets during movie marathons, too many late night conversations at the kitchen table over cups of coffee just like this.

And the moment you take that first sip, you realize—he still knows exactly how you like it.

Sylus leans against the counter, watching you. Analyzing. 

“What’re you thinking about?” You mumble over the rim of your mug. He raises an eyebrow in surprise before standing up straight, rolling his shoulders back as if he's gathering the confidence to speak his mind. It’s strange to see Sylus like this—like he has to work up the courage to say something, something you’ve never seen him do before.

"Who was the guy you were with tonight?" He takes a drink. 

You scoff. "Sylus, be for real."

"Is he your boyfriend?" He sets his mug down a bit too forcefully.

"You really broke into my apartment over a guy?"

"I asked you a question first, sweetie."

"Fine." You roll your eyes, setting your mug down and crossing your arms. "No, he's not my boyfriend. Well, kind of. But whatever he was, he’s not anymore." You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head at the irony. "Actually, he ended it outside."

"Is that why you were crying?" Sylus’s expression hardens, and you regret your choice of words for Zayne’s safety.

Sighing, you shrug, not really sure how to answer that. “No, I think that was just the straw that broke the camel's back.”

"Do you... want to talk about it?"

He was never great at comforting people, but Sylus was one of the most caring and empathetic people you’d ever known. He just wasn’t always good at showing it.

"I don’t know." You avoid his gaze, fingers tracing the rim of your mug. "I went to the bar tonight because I wanted to feel something. Feel a part of you again. And I don't think I realized just how much I missed you."

You surprised yourself with how easily the truth spilled out, after all this time. But that was always the way with him—honesty never felt like work. It came naturally, like breathing. You used to hate that about him, about what he brought out in you. Because maybe if you'd kept more to yourself, held your tongue a little tighter, you wouldn’t have fought so much. Maybe silence would’ve saved you both some hurt.

"Seeing you again brought everything back, and it was just a lot all at once. Then I got dumped after all of that. Kind of felt shitty."

You were ready for him to bite back, make a remark that would start a fight. Say something about how all of this was your fault anyways. Ignite the flame. 

Honestly, you kind of wanted him to. Wanted to feel some sort of sick piece of your previous life together.

But he didn’t. Just pressed his lips into a line while he paused to think. 

“I’m sorry.”

The apology felt foreign, strange even, coming from him. He was never one to admit he was wrong, and for a moment, you wondered if this was one of the rare times you’d ever hear him say he was sorry.

“For... what?" Confusion flickered across your face. It was painfully clear for once he wasn’t the one in the wrong here.

"I'm sorry things ended that way."

You weren't sure if he was talking about the night or the entire relationship, but as you looked at him, sincerity in your eyes, you whispered, "I'm sorry that it ended at all."

Sylus finally smiled—really smiled—the kind of grin that cracked through the solemn silence like sunlight after a storm. Like he’d been holding his breath this entire time, just waiting for you to say those words.

You lifted your hand, stopping him before the moment could get ahead of you. “The fight we had was stupid. And breaking up? That was impulsive. Irrational.” Your voice wavered. “And maybe... maybe you were right. Maybe I do just overreact.”

“No.” he said, already making his way to where you sat, each step careful, like approaching a wild thing.

“No?” you echo, blinking up at him.

“No,” he says again. “You were hurting. And I didn’t see it. That’s on me too.”

He kneels beside your chair, resting his hands on your knees like he used to when he had something serious to say. His eyes search yours, looking for anything and everything.

“I should’ve asked you what was wrong instead of trying to fix you like you were some project. I didn’t know how to handle you—us sometimes. But I never stopped—” His voice catches for a quick second. 

Sylus swallows hard, eyes glancing to the floor. “I never stopped thinking about you. Missing you. Hoping you were okay.”

You stare at him, heart tight in your chest. You want to say something but your throat burns with unshed tears, eyes stinging and cheeks hot.

He lifts his hand, hesitant, brushing his fingers just barely against yours. “I don’t want to keep pretending like losing you didn’t tear something out of me.”

You don’t even realize your hand is moving until it’s already holding his. It fits the same way it always did—like nothing had changed, and everything had.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

He presses a kiss to each of your fingers, then lingers at the inside of your wrist like he’s afraid to let go. 

“Come back to me, sweetie. Please.”

You lower yourself to the floor beside him, knees brushing the cold tile as you refuse to let him bear the weight of this alone. He didn’t belong down there—not without you. If blame was to be shared, so was the burden. You had always been equals, and you’d meet him where he was, just like always.

Gently, you take his face in your hands, cradling it like something fragile. Your thumbs brush over his cheeks as you tilt his head from side to side, memorizing the features you never truly forgot.

He’s Sylus. He’s home. He’s your heart and soul.

“I never really left,” you whisper.

Sylus leans in, slowly and carefully—just enough for his nose to brush again yours, a quiet question hanging in the air between you. Not demanding, just hoping and waiting.

You close the space with a kiss, gentle and unsure at first, like trying on a memory. But the moment your lips meet, it all comes rushing back—how seamlessly you fit. Like you were made with the shape of him in mind.

His hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, tentative at first, then grounding. The kiss deepens just a little, and it’s not desperate. It’s not about lust. It’s about grief and forgiveness, about missing someone so deeply that your soul aches and yearns to touch theirs again.

Yeah, that doesn’t last long.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s him. Maybe it’s you. But suddenly your hands are tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer like the space between you is unbearable. Like air doesn’t matter if he isn’t in it.

His lips crash back into yours with more urgency this time—less hesitation, more ache. It’s not soft anymore. It’s desperate. Months of wanting, of regret, of missing, all boiling to the surface and spilling out through every touch, every kiss, every small gasp between breaths.

Sylus groans against your lips, his hands everywhere at once—your hips, your back, your jaw—as though he can’t decide what to touch first, only that he has to. Your fingers slide under his shirt, palms skimming fever warm skin, and he shudders like the contact burns. He decides on one hand sliding up your back, the other buried in your hair as if to anchor himself there. You let him. You want him to. You want to feel all of it—everything you’ve been pushing down since the moment he got dragged out of that door a year ago.

When he pulls you into his lap, it’s not gentle. It’s a need—as if not having you near him physically hurts. 

At least, it hurts you.

Your thighs cradle his like instinct, and your bodies slot together like they never really stopped belonging to each other. Like you’re two atoms destined to combine.

The kiss deepens, grows messier—teeth and tongue clashing. Breath shared like oxygen. You’re not even kissing anymore, not really. You’re devouring, rediscovering. Worshipping with your mouths. He breaks only to gasp, to mutter your name like hes singing a psalm, saying a prayer, like he’s drowning in the taste of you.

“You didn’t waste any time,” you pant, lips swollen, eyes glazed.

He grins against your mouth, finally giving you that signature, smug smirk he wears so damn well. “I’ve had thirteen months and twenty eight days to starve, kitten.”

Your laugh is breathless, and it breaks against him as your hips roll forward just once. He chokes on a gasp and grips you harder, his mouth trailing along your jaw, down your throat, dragging teeth and tongue and heat as he goes.

Clothes shift. Shirts inch upward, skin revealed in patches, in hurried grazes of fingers that tremble with the weight of too much time passed. You could cry from the way he touches you—like he’s both reverent and ravenous. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish again if he blinks.

Sylus.

Sylus.

Sylus.

“I missed you,” he says, and the words hit you like a lightning strike—hot and electric. It’s enough to draw a sound from your throat, a soft whimper at how deeply you feel it, in your heart and your core. Like music played in a key only your body recognizes, a melody you’ve been yearning to hear.

Because he wanted you all this time as badly as you wanted him.

No, he needed you. And hearing it now, in that voice, in this moment, feels like being set free.

Set free from all of that guilt and pain that’s been haunting you like a vice.

You cup his face again, thumbs sweeping over skin you used to call home. The skin you’ll call home once again. “Then take me back,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “Right here. However you need.”

He doesn’t answer.

You don’t remember standing—you don’t think you did. All you know is the feel of Sylus’ arms wrapped around you; he carries you down the hallway like muscle memory, navigating your space with the ease of someone who never truly left. And in that moment, all you can think is, ‘please don’t leave again.’

He’s on you again before you can exhale—lips crashing to yours like he’s been waiting to breathe, to feel, since the moment you left. Since that moment the cops had to practically drag him out of your front door.

It’s desperate, disheveled, the kind of hunger that comes from months of lonely nights and phantom memories traced on cold sheets. Nights where you buried your face in the pillow that still held the faint shape of where he used to sleep, moaning into the echo of him, aching and wet for the hands that weren’t there.

And now, they were.

You backpedal until the backs of your knees hit the bed, and he follows you down with a gentleness that betrays the way his hands feel when they touch your skin. You fall together, mouths never parting, tangled limbs pressed into the mattress that hasn’t known this kind of weight in far too long.

Your shirt peels away, slow and careful. As if he’s trying to savor every second, like this will never happen again. 

It will—it has to. You may die if you have to go through separation again.

He stares at you like he’s seen heaven and hell and finally made it back to the beginning. “You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he says, voice ragged. He’s barely holding himself together, a fierceness in his eyes that makes you think he may eat you alive.

You hope he does.

You reach up, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him back down to you with need. “Then stop looking,” you mutter against his lips. “Start remembering.”

Clothes come off in stuttered gasps—half laughed, half moaned—as if each layer is a wall you’re tearing down together. Skin meets skin, the kind of touch that makes you feel tethered again. Anchored to something. 

Someone.

Sylus’ mouth traces a path along your collarbone, down the hollow of your throat, over the curve of your ribs. He bites, he sucks, leaving behind a pattern of bruises and blooming marks—claiming you in color. Like jewelry only he could give you, like tattoos etched in heat that say, without words, mine. You arch into him, a whimper escaping you, and he groans in response—low and guttural.

He sinks between your thighs like a man starved returning to his favorite meal, settling into the place he’s always called home. A low, satisfied sigh escapes him—as if the world’s weight has finally lifted now that he’s right where he belongs. His hands grip your hips like an anchor, grounding himself in your heat, in you. 

He trails open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, nipping at the tender flesh as a warning when you push towards his face.

When he finally buries himself in the place you’ve ached for most, it’s not gentle—it’s ravenous. He devours you like he’s been starving, like every second apart built up into this fevered need to taste and claim. His tongue moves with purpose—etching your name in cursive, apologies, confessing I love you in strokes and swirls only your body can understand.

You’re flushed, burning from the inside out, your skin damp and glowing like firelight. It’s heaven, you’re sure of it—though the way Sylus tears into you with sinful devotion, he might just be a demon sent to drag pleasure out of you until you forget your own name.

But don’t worry, he’ll spell it back out for you. Again, and again, and again.

Your moans pour from your lips, unrestrained and embarrassingly loud, the room echoing with every gasp and whimper. But you’re desperate, and past caring. It’s been too long. You missed this—missed him—the way Sylus touches you like he was made to, the way he knows your body better than you ever could. Missed the way he always, always finds his way back to you.

You haven’t felt this good in ages.

It doesn’t take long—your body coils tight, then shatters, release crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your vision whites out, ears ringing with the force of it. You try to push him away, trembling hands lost in his hair, but he just smirks against your skin like the devil he is.

“One more?” he murmurs, low and wicked. It’s shaped like a question, but you both know it isn’t. It’s a promise. A command. A sentence you’re more than willing to serve.

His arms tighten around your thighs as he drags you back to him, wearing your legs like a crown, worshipping you like a man possessed. His mouth doesn’t stop—it never stops—and you break apart again, undone and helpless beneath the weight of his hunger.

You cry out his name, babbling through the overstimulation, letting the walls shake with the sound of it. Let the neighbors hear. Let the world know. You’re his—you’ve always been. And now, with his mouth rewriting every nerve in your body, you know you’ll never be anything else.

When he finally pulls back, your body is trembling, skin electric. It’s like the universe was reborn beneath your skin—like some celestial detonation bloomed inside you and scattered your bones into stardust. Every nerve feels like it’s glowing, every inch of you humming with aftershocks, like you’ve been rewritten molecule by molecule in his name.

You’re not sure if you're floating or falling, only that Sylus is your anchor in a sky full of stars he put there.

He moves back up your body slowly, this time trailing kisses along your skin like he’s putting you back together with his mouth. When he reaches your lips, he kisses you gently—like you’re something fragile and precious.

In his eyes, you are.

There’s nothing rushed now. The hunger’s still there, sure—it burns under the surface like wildfire—but it’s laced with something softer, sadder. Like you’re making up for lost time. For all the nights you didn’t have this. All the apologies neither of you knew how to give until now.

Your chest is still rising and falling, breath uneven from the waves that just crashed over you, when he finally presses against you—trembling with restraint. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face toward his. He searches your eyes, desperately looking for anything that says no, anything that tells him to stop. There’s fear in his gaze, quiet and vulnerable—terrified this might be too good to be real.

You don’t speak. You don’t need to.

Instead, you nod, certain, and push your hips toward his like an answer he’s been begging for. Gently, you press a kiss to his forehead.

And when he finally sinks into you—not just physically but emotionally—it’s not about sex. It’s about return. 

Reunion. 

The sacred act of becoming known again, flesh and heart and harmony folding back into one another.

You cling to him like you might fall apart otherwise. He holds you like he’s scared you already have.

Your head tips back with a moan, mouth parted as pleasure ripples through you. He presses a kiss just beneath your ear tenderly, like he’s trying to keep you from floating too far away. “Stay with me, sweetie.”

As if you could be anywhere else.

His movements are slow—painfully slow—the kind of rhythm that feels like he’s savoring every second, every inch of you. He’s chasing something deeper than pleasure—he’s trying to feel all of you, to touch the parts of you he lost when you walked away. But even then, it’s not enough. God, it’s never enough.

You meet him halfway, hips rising to meet his, your body pleading before your voice even does.

“Sylus, please,” you whimper, voice cracking.

One of his hands slides down, gripping your hip harder, pulling you to him. “Tell me what you need,” he rasps, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours. “Say it, sweetie. I’ll give you everything.”

And you know he would. You could ask for a kiss, a kingdom, his last breath—he’d give it without hesitation. He’d peel the stars from the sky just to light your way home. He’d carve out his heart, wrap it in gold leaf, and place it on a priceless platter if it meant seeing you smile.

Sylus made you greedy—gave you a gold thumb. He spoiled you without hesitation, fed your hunger. And he reveled in it. Got off on the way you used him, adored how you took and took, because giving to you was the only thing that ever felt right.

Your fingers thread through his hair like you’re spinning silk, tugging at the silver strands. You press open mouthed kisses along his jaw, his cheek—anything you can reach while writhing beneath the weight of him. “Quit going so slow,” you whisper, breath hitching with every drag of his hips, “you’re gonna kill me.”

You knew exactly what you were signing up for the moment he chuckled against your lips—low, dark, dangerous. He shifted you easily, legs hooked tight around his waist. Then, with a teasing snap of his hips, he drove forward, and the sharp gasp that tore from your throat was instant, involuntary.

You barely had time to say his name before his arms locked around your body—thrusting into you with a punishing rhythm, fast and merciless. It felt like he was trying to brand you from the inside out, like he was trying to replace every cell in your body with the shape of him.

If this was how you died, gasping his name, your body split open with pleasure and your heart cracked wide, then so be it. There was no holier death than this—than being completely, utterly taken by the man you loved.

His hands gripped you hard enough to bruise, fingers digging in like he couldn’t bear the thought of ever letting go. And you clawed your nails down his back until you were sure you’d drawn blood—your bodies leaving marks like they were writing poems on each other’s skin.

It wouldn’t be the first time you two had broken a bed—and at this rate, it wouldn’t be the last. Not that he cared. He’d buy you a hundred more without blinking. Hell, he’d buy you a house just to ruin every room in it. He’ll put a baby in you right now to turn that house into a home, just to make sure you never even think about leaving him again.

Sylus groaned your name like it was the only thing keeping him alive. And you? You could only hold on, begging for more through breathless moans, because you knew—no one would ever fuck you like he did.

With every thrust, he drove you deeper into the mattress, your fingers twisting in his hair. You could feel the tears streaking your cheeks, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming rush of it all—of him, of pleasure. It was too much and not enough all at once. You’d never felt so full. So wanted. So his.

Your mascara was probably a mess, your lips swollen from kissing and your heart aching from the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that had ever mattered.

“Sylus,” you gasped, barely able to breathe through it. “Oh, fuck—”

You were close, clinging to him like your body knew this was it. That after all the nights apart, all the words left unsaid, this was where you were meant to be.

His pace faltered for just a moment, a soft hiss through his teeth as you tightened around him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and shaky. You felt him everywhere—his hands, his heart, his love.

You shattered around him, sobbing as your climax overtook you, nearly screaming. It wasn’t just pleasure. It was months of longing, of everything you’d buried now clawing its way to the surface.

All you could think about was him.

His name, carved into your mind like scripture.

His eyes, the way they always burned through you, even when he tried to hide it.

That damned smirk—infuriating and addictive.

The scent of his cologne clinging to your sheets, haunting you even after he left.

His old jacket, the one you swore you hated but wore every chance you got.

The booth in the back corner of the bar where he first kissed you like he meant it.

Everything about him hit you at once—your body, your mind, your heart. Like coming home after wandering lost for far too long.

He followed suit, pulling you so close you half expected to disappear into him entirely. Like your skin was made for his and your bones had always bent to make room for him; as if you were his lifeline—and if that were true, he’d never sign a DNR. He’d beg the universe to keep you beating.

He clung to you like salvation, chanting your name between breathless gasps like a mantra. You were his altar, his ritual, his divine obsession.

His hips finally stilled, buried so deep inside you it felt like you’d been stitched together. His breath was shaky, chest rising and falling against yours, sweat slick skin pressing close as your hearts raced in unison.

And then he kissed you—the kind of kiss meant to seal a vow. It was quiet, sweet, full of all the things he didn’t know how to say.

I love you. I’m sorry. I’m yours.

So you say it—for the first time in thirteen months and twenty eight days.

“I love you.”

It slips out as a whisper, your voice rough, frayed at the edges. But there’s no hesitation in it. No fear. It’s the most certain thing you’ve ever said in your life.

Sylus freezes, eyes locked on yours, like those three words shattered and rebuilt him in real time. And then he exhales, relieved.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Say it again,” he murmurs, almost afraid it was a fluke. A dream he’d blink and lose.

You smile, “I love you.” And this time it’s louder. Stronger.

“I love you too.”

He says it like a vow, a promise, then begins to pepper kisses across your face—each one a quiet apology for every day he went without touching you. Each one a reminder: I’m here. I’m back. I never stopped loving you.

You start to drift, the weight of the night settling into your bones, your body warm and sore and sated. Sleep tugs at you gently. But then Sylus nips playfully at your cheek, and his voice, low and teasing, curls against your ear. “Not yet, sweetie. Let me get you cleaned up.”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “No, I’ll shower in the morning.”

But you don’t stop him when he pulls away, don’t open your eyes as he disappears briefly and returns with a warm cloth, gentle as ever. He moves with care, cleaning both of you in the quiet hush of the room.

When he’s done, you reach out, fingers circling his wrist like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you don’t. “Don’t go,” you murmur, barely above a breath. “Stay here.”

Sylus leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, that soft smile tugging at his lips—the one he only ever wore for you. “Where else would I go,” he whispers, “if not here with you?”

He climbs back into bed and pulls you into his arms like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head, guiding you to rest against his chest. You breathe him in, his scent, his warmth, the steady rhythm of his heart under your ear—home, in every way that matters.

Sleep comes easy like that, safe in his arms, as if nothing could ever take him away again.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The next morning, you woke up to an empty bed, and your stomach dropped. For a second, it felt like none of it had happened. Like you'd imagined it all in some sleep deprived dream.

You thought you were going to have to call a therapist for psychosis.

But then you noticed the dent in the pillow beside you. The sheets were still messy, warm where he’d been. And then you heard it—the faint sound of something clinking in the kitchen.

He hadn’t left.

You lay back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling, heart slowly steadying. He was still here. After everything, he was still here.

It was strange how easy it felt, slipping back into something that used to be second nature. The routine. The comfort. The quiet knowing that someone else was there. It didn’t feel forced or awkward. 

It just was.

And maybe that said something. Maybe that was enough proof that this wasn’t a mistake. That loving each other had never been the problem. That the space between then and now hadn’t broken anything that couldn’t be fixed.

After one night, it was like everything was finding its place again.

You crawl out of bed and grab the shirt he left on the floor—It smells like him, that familiar mix of expensive cologne and soap that always lingered on your skin long after he was gone. 

The apartment smells like coffee and something frying. You can already guess what it is. He never cooked with precision—just intention. Eggs were his go to, even if they were usually either barely set or borderline burnt. But he tried. He always did.

You pad quietly down the hallway and stop in the kitchen doorway. He doesn’t notice you right away—he’s too focused, standing at the stove with his back to you. Shirtless, muscles shifting with every little movement. He’s wearing those pajama pants. His pajama pants. The ones you stole and swore you’d thrown out during some emotional cleanse, only to find them months later shoved behind your laundry basket. You never brought yourself to toss them again.

They hang low on his hips now, like they never left.

You lean against the doorframe, just watching him for a second. Listening to the sound of him cook, the birds chirping with the morning sun outside, and the peaceful quiet that this life brought you. 

It was home again.

“Like what you see?” Sylus says without turning around. You’re not sure how long he’s known you were standing there, but then again, he always knew. Could feel you without looking—like you were some extension of him, stitched into the same thread.

You walk up behind him and slip your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to the warm skin between his shoulder blades. “Maybe.”

He chuckles low in his chest, then reaches forward to turn off the stove. In one fluid motion, he spins in your hold, facing you. That smug grin is already there, the one you used to pretend annoyed you. His eyes sweep over you, stopping at the oversized shirt you’re swimming in.

You glance over at the table. The same old mugs. A bowl of fruit. Two plates—simple, a little uneven, but made with care.

“You didn’t have a lot to work with, kitten,” he adds, brushing a piece of hair from your face, “Someone hasn’t been buying groceries.”

You kiss his jaw, lazy and slow, still waking up. “Doesn’t matter. You showed up. That’s enough.”

“Then sit.”

You snort, let him guide you to the table, and as you sit, you watch him pour your coffee the way you like it—still remembering. Still yours.

You two sit in silence—soft, easy. The fruit’s a little mushy, the eggs slightly too done, but not enough to matter. Sylus sits across from you, half smiling, half watching.

‘This is it’, you think. ‘This is the life.’

You think, for a moment, that maybe you should ask him how he’s been. Catch up like normal people. Trade stories from the months apart—what he’s done, what he’s seen, what you missed between the snapshots friends posted with him barely in the frame.

But only one question makes it past the swirl in your chest.

“Sylus,” you say, folding your arms and leaning over the table, eyes narrowing. He mirrors you, brow lifting in challenge. “Yes?”

“How the hell did you get into my apartment?”

He laughs—loud and unbothered. He juts his chin toward the counter where, sure enough, a single key lies.

“I still have that,” he says, far too smug.

You gasp, lurching forward to swat his shoulder. “Why didn’t you give that back?”

“You never asked for it, sweetie.” He shrugs, leaning in like he’s telling a secret. “Besides… I figured it might come in handy one day.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Mm,” he hums, biting into a slice of melon. “And yet, here I am. Still your favorite bad decision.”

You scoff, sipping your coffee to cover your laugh. And maybe he is. Maybe he always has been.

But as you sit there with him, sunlight pouring in and the scent of overcooked eggs lingering in the air, it will never feel like a mistake at all.

[midnightsslut]

religion is one of the most prominent recurring themes on the album, and it has been present in some capacity for quite a few records now. taylor previously compared love to religion: her saving grace, her belief system, and a fated divine intervention (false god, cornelia street, and cruel summer are the best examples of this). ‘sacred new beginnings that became my religion’ and ‘we’d still worship this love even if it’s a false god’ are two of the defining statements about her philosophy on the lover album.

taylor doesn’t want to leave all of that behind on ttpd, at least not at the beginning. the first supernatural force she mentions is the spaceship on down bad, which she compares to a skylight of freedom in the epilogue. *something* has finally come to save her from her life of suffering. she doesn’t care if it’s a force of good at first; if anything, she’s just fine being taken away by aliens. she views this man as her destiny. it isn’t until guilty as sin? that taylor starts to ponder the moral implications of what she’s doing. is she guilty as sin for wanting to leave her previous religion and relationship behind? she comes to the conclusion that, even if she rolls the stone away and gets resurrected/redeemed, she cannot avoid the fallout. she is okay with the thought of having to wait, as long as both lovers vow to be together forever, just as she once did with someone else in false god. ‘I choose you and me religiously’ finishes the bridge of the song in a direct callback to cornelia street.

the next mention of religion has murkier imagery. she claims that she does not need the Lord’s help to save this man. she sees the halo that he has, and she can fix him herself. now that she feels free of her prior cage, she isn’t looking for divine intervention anymore. she wants control. she is their route to salvation.

when the relationship falls apart, she retreats back into the position of a believer rather than a divine figure. she compares him to a Holy Ghost who promised to save her and take her to heaven. instead, she is in hell in every sense of the word: she’s down bad and feels guilty for digging up the grave. he was a jehovah’s witness who promised that she could break free of the cage imposed by love without changing her religion altogether; she would’ve just had to switch denominations. she could still have a marriage and kids! she could still have a blue tortured poet! the man was different, but not the dreams they had together. the story of the first part of the album ends here. her faith has been broken, and she has only found any semblance of sanity by refusing to mention these belief systems altogether.

side b/the anthology blends the christian imagery of side a with goddesses, sorcerers, and prophecies. she bargains with these powers to let her have the future she wants (the prophecy). she doesn’t sound like someone believing in salvation. if anything, she feels cursed. she decides that the concept of divinely ordained timing will never work in certain relationships (‘the goddess of timing once found us beguiling / she said she was trying / peter, was she lying?’). this disdain extends onto her perception of other people’s faith (‘bet they never spared a prayer for my soul’). she does position herself as a prophet in cassandra, but even then, she admits that the role has hurt her. perhaps the pain in thank you aimee was meant to be, or perhaps she was just strong enough to build a legacy in spite of it, boulder by boulder. is she a martyr? does she want to be? or did she save herself?

the only real love song on this half of the album makes no mention of fate or any divine forces. it wasn’t meant to be. it’s not a supernatural invisible string or lightning in a bottle. she is just in love.

the album ends with the manuscript, which revisits an old story of a defining, formative heartbreak. as she sings ‘at last, she knew what the agony had been for’ while describing the legacy of her writing, she seems to revert to thinking about the purpose of trauma. the only exception is that, in this case, she is the one who found meaning in her pain by turning it into a manuscript. writing is her belief system now, and she proselytizes by telling her stories and thus giving up the manuscript.

ultimately, her belief in destiny has chewed her up and spat her out. she so desperately clung to her existing belief systems that she was fooled by a conman, which left her feeling cursed. religion is supposed to be with someone even in their darkest moments, but the album explains that taylor often felt abandoned. the only constant in her life was, well, herself. she’ll be okay, but her pen will be her saving grace.

[waihtie]

Oh Geez, it's the finale. Sorry if this gets long

Season 5 Episode 22 - Swan Song

I never wanna hear this season recap song ever again. I know there will be no peace and we will never be done.

○ Of course Chuck is in this one. He needs to know what's going on, but I just know he's gonna play dumb as all hell (bc he's still only written as a prophet)

○ Dean's on board with Sam's plan?? What's his play?

Dean admitting taking care of Sam is who he is. He never sees his worth beyond what he can do for other people, especially Sam.

○ They just completely drained two demons while they hung by their feet like butchered animals. Remember when they gagged at organs?

○ Cas: *Sleeping in the backseat*

Dean: "Well, ain't he a little angel?"

Bro, he shouldn't have to sleep. Be concerned.

SAM POINTING THAT OUT lol

○ Sam making Dean promise he won't come looking for him. Of course Dean won't. Being stuck with Lucifer in Hell is worse than Hell alone.

He wants him to go back to Lisa and "have barbeques and go to football games" 💔

○ Sam and Bobby's goodbye 😭

Cas trying to follow social norms 😂. He is so funny. That was cute.

○ I can't believe Dean let Sam say yes.

Why isn't Lucifer jumping on that?

Oh, Lucifer knows about the rings. That's not helpful.

Damn he did it. Lucifer is using Sam as a vessel.

Sam's plan did not work. Shocker.

Dean's face 😭

○ Samifer is great, tho. I love his eyes, they are different from Sam's. Must be the lack of trauma and existence of self-worth

○ Cas is so funny, again. "You don't have to be mean."

*suggests the next thing they do is "buy copious amounts of alcohol"

Cas and Bobby have just given up

Dean hasn't.

○ Poor Sam, Lucifer is drinking demon blood for a power boost

○ Chuck and Becky broke up lol

But he knows where and when the big fight is going down.

○ Cas trying to protect Dean 💔

○ Ouuu we're at Michael and Lucifer's meeting. This is so interesting.

Neither want to "do this". Lucifer is trying to convince Michael to not fight. What an interesting dynamic.

I almost feel for Lucifer in this conversation. Michael is the bad guy, here. (Not saying Lucifer isn't, tho)

COME ON people. Just bc it isn't funny or Destiel, doesn't mean we shouldn't have gifs of it. ^^

○ I love how Dean just casually pulls up to where the two most powerful beings except God are about to fight

○ "Hey, assbutt"

"Did you just molotov my brother... with holy fire?" LMAO

It seems like Lucifer actually loves Michael

Cas's reaction is, once again, so funny. Dude's got so much personality :

Aaand he just exploded. See you in a few episodes, my love

Nvm, Lucifer just killed Bobby. They're gonna be back this episode.

○ Dean trying to reach out to Sam while Lucifer beats him 💔💔

Woah it worked

Also, I love the flashbacks to season 1, they were so cute.

○ Oh my God he's gonna do it, he's gonna jump in

AND HE TOOK MICHAEL WITH HIM

Brilliant play

RIP Sam, see you in the next episode

○ Aaand Cas is back. And back to normal.

Loook at their faces

"Cas are you God?" Lol

God brought him back "new and improved", and he brought back Bobby.

○ "God gives you a brand new set of wings and suddenly you're his bitch again."

Dean so desperately wants Cas to stick around, but refuses to say it

"You really suck at goodbyes, you know that?" See what I mean?

○ Dean is actually gonna hold up on his promise. He went back to Lisa.

○ Chuck just poofed out.

Did they (writers) know what he was going to be, or just knew it was more than a prophet?

○ Okay, nvm, see you this episode, Sam. He really came right back.

I wish I had an emotional understanding of this show the first time I watched this episode bc GODDAMN. Words can't even explain.

Note for myself: Cas is going to heaven bc with Michael gone, it's gonna be chaos. Someone has to run the show

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER TWENTY (see full series list here)

1993

On the 22nd of November you sit on the floor of your office late at night, watching the flames of your fireplace crackle and pop. Beside you, sits Harry, eyes focused on the fire as well. Sirius had asked him to wait in front of the fire in your office at one o'clock and for you to be there too. You can't say your heart isn't beating faster than the steady tick of the clock on the wall, worried and giddy at the same time.

"I'm sorry about this whole situation, Harry," you say with a sigh, reaching out to stroke Dubh's fur idly as she clambers into your lap. "I know this isn't what you want. I tried everything to get them to change the rules but nothing worked."

"Thanks," he says blankly, like he's used to being disappointed.

"And that article in the paper — "

"I didn't say anything of that. It's a lie," Harry responds quickly.

You nod. "I'm well aware. Rita Skeeter is...difficult." As soon as the words have left your mouth, you grimace, shaking your head. "Actually, she doesn't deserve that nicety. She's a bitch, Harry. A nasty old hag that has nothing better to do with her life than spread rumours and sensationalise everything in sight."

Harry seems slightly taken aback by your words but nods in fierce agreement nonetheless.

"My best advice to you, Harry, is to run for the hills every time you see her — or just wave me over if I'm near. I am well accustomed to small talk with people like her — the trick is to just get them talking about themselves."

He nods. "I don't plan on going anywhere near her ever again."

"Smart decision," you say, sighing. "And look — I know I'm not supposed to get involved but if you need any help whatsoever, just ask. There's plenty of useful spells I can teach you and tips I can give — anything at all."

Just then, the flames move in a peculiar fashion and Sirius' head appears in the fire. Both you and Harry let out a small gasp, and when you look at Harry, his face has broken into the biggest smile you've seen him wear in weeks.

"Sirius!" Harry exclaims immediately.

He looks different from the last time you seen him. His face had looked gaunt and sunken, but now he looks far healthier and his hair, which was long, matted and greasy, is now clean and neat. You're glad to see that though he's trimmed it a tad, he's kept the beard. He looks younger.

"Hello, Harry," he says, before he turns to you, smiling, "and hello to you too, love."

You bring your hand up and give him a tiny little wave, unable to stop the giddy smile taking over your face at the sight of him.

"How're you doing?" Harry asks.

"Never mind me, how are you?" Sirius asks firmly, returning his attention to his godson.

"I'm — " Harry stops himself suddenly, holding himself back. Just when you're about to check if he's alright, he spills. He tells the two of you everything: about how no one believes that he hasn't entered himself into the tournament, how Rita Skeeter had lied about him in the Daily Prophet, how he can't walk down a corridor without getting sneered at, and about the toll it's all taken on his friendship with Ron.

You feel your heart ache for him. He deserves absolutely none of this and you wish you could do more to help.

"Hagrid's just shown me what's coming in the first task, and it's dragons — I'm a goner," he finishes desperately.

Sirius is looking at Harry with deep concern as he says, "Dragons we can deal with, Harry, but we'll get to that in a minute — I haven't got long here...I've broken into a wizarding house to use the fire, but they could be back at any time. There are things I need to warn you about."

"What do you need to warn me about?" Harry asks.

"Karkaroff," Sirius says. "Harry, he was a Death Eater. You know what Death Eaters are, don't you?"

"He's a Death Eater?" You're shocked. Just this morning you picked his fork off the ground for him at breakfast!

"He was caught, he was in Azkaban with me, but he got released. I'd bet that's why Dumbledore wanted an Auror at Hogwarts this year — to keep an eye on him. Moody caught Karkaroff. Put him into Azkaban in the first place."

There already is an Auror at Hogwarts, you think. Or did Dumbly-dorr just forget about you?

"Karkaroff got released?" Harry says slowly. "Why did they release him?"

"He did a deal with the Ministry of Magic," Sirius replies bitterly. "He said he'd seen the error of his ways, and then named names...he put a load of other people into Azkaban in his place...he's not very popular there, I can tell you. And since he got out, from what I can tell, he's been teaching the Dark Arts to every student who passes through that school of his. So watch out for the Durmstrang champion as well."

How do you not remember any of this? Surely you'd have seen this all mentioned in the papers around that time?

"Okay..." Harry says. "But...are you saying that Karkaroff put my name in the goblet? Because if he did, he's a really good actor. He seemed furious about it. He wanted to stop me from competing."

"We know he's a good actor," says Sirius, "because he convinced the Ministry of Magic to set him free, didn't he? Now, I've been keeping an eye on the Daily Prophet, Harry — "

"You and the rest of the world," he says bitterly.

"— and reading between the lines of that Skeeter woman's article last month, Moody was attacked the night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she says it was another false alarm," Sirius says hastily, seeing Harry about to speak, "but I don't think so somehow. I think someone tried to stop him from getting to Hogwarts. I think someone knew their job would be a lot more difficult with him around. And no one's going to look into it too closely; Mad-Eye's heard intruders a bit too often. But that doesn't mean he still can't spot the real thing. Moody was the best Auror the Ministry ever had."

"So...what are you saying? Karkaroff's trying to kill me? But — why?"

Sirius hesitates.

"I've been hearing some very strange things," he says apprehensively. "The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active than usual lately. They showed themselves at the Quidditch World Cup, didn't they? Someone cast the Dark Mark...and then — did you hear about that Ministry witch who's gone missing?"

"Bertha Jorkins?" You say. You recall reading that article about her disappearance not too long ago.

"Exactly...she disappeared to Albania, and that's definitely where Voldemort was rumoured to be last...and she would have known the Triwizard Tournament was coming up, wouldn't she?"

"Yeah, but...it's not very likely she'd have walked straight into Voldemort, is it?" says Harry.

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Sirius says grimly, glancing at you. "Do you remember her at school?"

You nod your head. "She was at Hogwarts when we were, a few years above us," you explain to Harry. "As thick as a board, she was. Very nosey, too. Awful combination."

"Makes her easy to lure into a trap," Sirius finishes.

"So...so Voldemort could have found out about the tournament?" says Harry. "Is that what you mean? You think Karkaroff might be here on his orders?"

"I don’t know," Sirius says with a shake of his head, "I just don’t know...Karkaroff doesn’t strike me as the type who’d go back to Voldemort unless he knew Voldemort was powerful enough to protect him. But whoever put your name in that goblet did it for a reason, and I can’t help thinking the tournament would be a very good way to attack you and make it look like an accident."

"Looks like a really good plan from where I’m standing." Harry grins bleakly. "They'll just have to stand back and let the dragons do their stuff."

"You'll be fine," you reassure firmly, though you're not sure if it's for Harry's sake or your own. "I'll be there, all the rest of the teachers will be there, and there'll be that group of dragon keepers there too."

"Look, about these dragons," Sirius says, speaking quickly now, glancing around him furtively, "There's a way, Harry. Don't be tempted to try a simple Stunning Spell — dragons are too strong and powerfully magical to be knocked out by a single stunner, you need about half a dozen wizards at a time to overcome a dragon — "

"Yeah, I know, I just saw," Harry says.

"But you can do it alone," Sirius tells him, looking him straight in the eye. "There is a way, a simple spell's all you need — "

Knock-knock.

At once, all three of you go dead silent and whip your heads to the closed door.

"Go, Sirius, quickly!" You hiss at him urgently.

You scramble to your feet, grabbing Harry's invisibilty cloak off the desk and launching it at him.

"Quick!"

Harry frantically pulls the cloak over his head and ducks behind your desk as you make you way over to the door, glancing back at the fireplace to see that Sirius' head has disappeared and the flames have returned to normal. You feel a small pang in your heart.

Who could possibly be knocking at your door at one o'clock in the morning? Surely everyone is asleep by now?

You pull the door open and are met with nothing but the quiet, dark corridor.

"Must've been Peeves," you mutter angrily, moving to close the door. Of course that poltergeist would find a way to cut your time with Sirius short.

"Oh, no, mistress, it is Bitsy!"

You look down in search of the voice and sure enough, at the foot of your door, is Bitsy, grinning up widely at you with her ginormous eyes reflecting the flickering light of the candles on the wall. You notice that she's holding a tray of scones in her tiny hands.

"Bitsy?" You say in shock and confusion. "What are you doing here? Is everything alright?"

"Bitsy was cleaning this corridor, mistress, and heard talking coming from mistress's office! And Bitsy thinks 'why is mistress up so late talking?' Perhaps she has a guest and is very hungry! Mistress was not at breakfast this morning, and I isn't seeing mistress in the kitchens either!"

While part of you feels angry and cheated that she's just interrupted your seldom chance to talk to your husband, you can't be mad at Bitsy and her big kind heart.

You chuckle softly. "Oh, Bitsy. You are far too kind to me. You're right, I didn't attend breakfast this morning nor did I go to the kitchens in the afternoon — I had breakfast with a friend of mine in Hogsmeade today. I should have told you."

Bitsy beams at you and holds the tray out for you to take. "Bitsy is glad to know you did not go hungry this morning. For you, mistress!"

You accept the tray with a smile. "Thank you, Bitsy. You are very kind — let me go fetch something to give you as a thank you."

"Oh, no, mistress! I cannot accept anything from you, I is just doing my duty!"

You leave her momentarily, placing the tray of scones down, grabbing a box off your desk and returning to hand it to her. "Film for your camera, Bitsy. So you can take more pictures. "

You don't miss the gleeful smile that spreads over Bitsy's face as she looks at the box in wonder. "Mistress, I must not — "

"I insist, Bitsy. Actually — I order you to accept the film. I know how much you love your camera," you tell her, pushing it into her hands.

"Thank you, mistress," she says gratefully, bowing to you. "I must return to my work now, unless mistress requires Bitsy for anything?"

You shake your head, smiling. "No, but thank you, Bitsy. I think it's time for mistress to get some rest."

Bitsy leaves, clutching the film tightly in her hands and bowing out of your view before Disapparating. You close the door behind you, letting out a sigh as Harry stands up slowly, pulling the cloak off.

"I'm sorry about that, Harry," you say. "I really wish we could have more time with Sirius."

"Yeah, me too. Was that a house elf?"

You nod, chuckling. "Sure was. That's Bitsy. You see, I stay up much later than everyone else — I'm usually up in the tower because of course, the best time to view the stars is at night, so I sleep in the next day and miss breakfast a lot of the time. And when I do, I can go down to the kitchens and Bitsy and all the other house elves will give me something to eat — have done since I was in school myself and did the exact same thing. Bitsy is my saviour, honestly. She's an absolute gem."

"You're able to get into the Hogwarts kitchens?" Harry says curiously.

"Yep. There's a painting of a bowl of fruit down by the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room — just tickle the pear and the door'll open right up for you."

You know that as a teacher you probably shouldn't be telling him this, but you don't really care. You went there countless times as a student so why shouldn't he?

Harry nods thoughtfully before asking, "That spell Sirius mentioned, that could defeat a dragon...have you any idea what it is?"

You bite your lip, drumming your fingers against your hip as you search your brain for anything like that. "I don't, Harry, I'm sorry. Perhaps you could try confundus, and confuse it? I can't say I'm too familiar with dragons...now, you should go to bed, Harry. A good night's sleep for the next few days is what you need before the first task. And in the meantime, I'll have a look and see if I can figure something out for you."

"Thanks, but I doubt I'll find it easy to sleep," Harry remarks, throwing the cloak back over his head.

"Well, if you do find that you can't sleep, come up the Tower," you tell him with a smile, pulling the door open for his invisible figure. "I find stargazing is the best way to relieve stress and solve problems."

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

You feel like you're about to get sick. You stare at the Hungarian Horntail, huge and terrifying as she crouches protectively over her eggs, huffing great hot breaths out of her large nostrils. And there, standing across from this fearsome beast as though rooted to the spot, is Harry. The crowd roars around you but you can barely hear them as your stomach knots and twists and flips with sickening worry.

"Accio Firebolt!" Harry yells, raising his wand.

You wait. The crowd waits. Harry waits.

And then you see it. Harry's broomstick, his Firebolt, hurtles towards him and stops in mid-air beside him, waiting for him to mount it. You vaguely register Ludo Bagman roaring something over the crowd in response to this, but you're too focused on praying to whatever great deities you can to protect your godson. You're just so relieved that he managed to figure something out — and something so clever, too! Why hadn't you thought of a Summoning Spell? It's so simple. Sirius will be so proud of Harry when he finds out.

Harry rises into the air, the wind rushing through his hair, surveying the dragon not far below him. A sort of resolve seems to come over him and then he dives, forcing you to bring your hands up to cover your eyes in fear.

"Oh, I can't watch," you breathe. Beside you, Minerva gives you an understanding look as she watches on. You hear the rush of fire, the crowd cheering and screaming, and then —

"Great Scott, he can fly!" Bagman roars. "Are you watching this, Mr Krum?"

You open your eyes just in time to see Harry plummet to the ground once more, just missing the burst of flames that flies from the Horntail's open maw — but not quick enough to completely avoid the whip of her tail and to your horror, one of the long spikes grazes Harry's shoulder, ripping his robes.

"Harry!" You shriek, practically about to chew your finger off with the alarming rate you're biting the tips of your nails as you reluctantly watch on, wishing for it to be over.

He begins to fly this way, then that, not near enough to make the dragon breathe fire at him to stave him off, but still posing a sufficient enough threat to make her keep her eyes focused on him, tracking his every move.

The dragon's head sways with his movements, her eyes unwavering as she followed him, gruesome fangs bared. You can feel your heart palpitating in your chest. Harry rises even higher, the Horntail's head rising with him, her neck now stretched out to its fullest extent.

You jump as the Horntail lets out a deafening roar, her tail thrashing threateningly as she blows another burst of fire at him, which he thankfully dodges.

She opens her mouth and then she finally rears, spreading her great, black, leathery wings at last and Harry seizes the opportunity to dive at an incredible speed. You can barely keep your eyes on him with the rate he's whistling through the air, hurtling towards the nest of eggs.

"Come on, come on, come on..." you breathe, hands tapping frantically at the tops of your thighs as you sit on the edge of your seat, watching impatiently.

Harry takes his hands off his broom, seizes the golden egg, and with another huge burst of speed, he's off and soaring out over the stands. He tucks the egg safely under his uninjured arm, and looks out over the stands.

You can't help but jump out your seat, cheering yourself hoarse as you voice your praise and feel relief wash over your body like a tsunami. The noise around you is monumental, drumming in your ears like a jackhammer.

"Look at that!" Bagman yells. "Will you look at that! Our youngest champion is the quickest to get his egg! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Mr Potter!"

The dragon keepers rush forward to subdue the Horntail and you hurry out of your seat, practically sprinting to the entrance of the enclosure. Minerva is hot on your heels and Moody and Hagrid have already beaten you, waiting with wide smiles for Harry to land.

"That was excellent, Potter!" Minerva cries as the boy hops off his broomstick. She points a shaky hand to his shoulder. "You'll need to see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your score...Over there, she's had to mop up Diggory already..."

"Harry, you were brilliant!" You exclaim excitedly, eagerly pulling him in for a hug and beaming at him. Normally, you'd worry about other students thinking you have a favourite — which you do, of course you do — but today you couldn't care less, you're so overwhelmed with relief and swelling with pride for your godson. "Absolutely brilliant, Harry! Just — fantastic, honestly, I can't believe it, I was so worried — I'm so proud — "

"Thanks," Harry says, unable to keep the large smile on his face down, his face red.

"Yeh' did it, Harry!" says Hagrid hoarsely. "Yeh did it! An' agains' the Horntail an' all, an' yeh know Charlie said that was the wors' — "

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry says loudly, so that Hagrid doesn't blather on about how he had shown Harry the dragons beforehand. You give a light chuckle.

Even Moody looks very pleased, the slightest of smiles tugging at his cracked lips. "Nice and easy does the trick, Potter."

"Right then, Potter, the first aid tent, please..." Minerva says, gesturing to the tent with her hand.

He leaves, giving you all a grin before heading into the tent and you just smile proudly after him, rolling on the balls of your feet.

"Oh, he was just excellent, wasn't he?" Minerva says to you, smiling. "The best out of the all the champions, by far!"

You nod enthusiastically. "Easily! Oh, Merlin, I am just so glad he came out alright, I thought I was going to chew my own hand off with worry..."

"He was migh'y," Hagrid says loudly, a sob racking his body as he reaches into his pocket to pull out a large handkerchief, bigger than your face, and blows into it. "Jus' migh'y."

"Oh, Hagrid," you say softly, reaching up to place a comforting hand on his back, smiling sympathetically.

Across the enclosure, the five judges are sitting at the end in raised seats draped in gold. The first judge, Madame Maxime, raises her wand in the air and what looks like a long silver ribbon shoots out of the end of it — forming the shape of a large figure eight.

"Not bad," you remark, clapping along with the crowd. "Must've been the injury that lost him marks..."

Crouch comes next, shooting a number nine into the air.

"Excellent!" Minerva exclaims.

Next, Dumbledore puts up a nine and the crowd yells louder than ever.

Ludo Bagman — ten.

You turn to Minerva in disbelief, matching looks of shock with each other before you eagerly applaud.

Now, Karkaroff raises his wand. He pauses for a moment, and then a number shoots out of his wand — four.

"What?" You yell indignantly, blinking several times to make sure your eyes aren't tricking you. "A four?"

"How shameful, he gave his own student a ten!" Minerva remarks angrily.

Several members of the crowd seem to agree with you, bellowing angrily and booing at Karkaroff's biased marking.

Suddenly, Sirius' words ring in your head.

He's a Death Eater.

You feel your spine chill as you look across the enclosure at Karkaroff's steely expression, steadfast in his decision to reward Harry four marks.

Scumbag.

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

"A toast!" Dumbledore announces, raising his glass. "To the completion of the first task of the Triwizard Tournament!"

You grin, raising your glass in tandem. "Cheers!" You clink it against Minerva's, then with Professor Sprout's on your other side.

All the staff have gathered in that small room right of the Great Hall for a little staff-only party, the fire blazing in its place and radiating a pleasant warmth around the room. The house elves have prepared a small spread of finger foods for the lot of you — and you've gone straight for the cupcakes, decorated humorously with little edible dragons. They're delicious — you make a mental note to voice your thanks to Bitsy the next time you see her.

Despite the happiness that's settled in you since Harry's successful task, when your eyes land on Karkaroff, sitting on the opposite side of the room to you, talking with Snape, unease gnaws at your gut.

You're sitting in a room with a Death Eater.

You've been in this situation countless times, of course, back when you were an Auror. But then, you knew what was going on. You knew what you were in for. Here, you don't. At parent-teacher meetings, you don't doubt you've been in the company of some Death Eaters, or former Death Eaters, rather. Some of your Slytherins' parents certainly seem to have a fondness for opaque, long-sleeved shirts...

You can't help but remember that night at the Quidditch World Cup, and your brain starts to picture one of those cruel Death Eaters pulling off his mask and revealing Karkaroff's sharp face.

You grip your champagne glass tightly, downing the contents and taking a deep breath. You should go mingle, the time for investigating Karkaroff can come tomorrow.

It's this little staff party that you finally get acquainted with Madame Maxime properly, trying your hand at your conversational-level French. She seems very impressed at this, delighted that you know at least a little bit of her own language — she says something about the 'arrogance of native English speakers', which you don't disagree with.

"Oh, and look at this pretty diamond on your finger!" Madame Maxime exclaims suddenly, catching sight of your engagement ring, sitting pretty above your wedding band on your left ring finger. She takes your hand in her much larger one so she can inspect it closer. "You are married?"

You look at the sparkling ring, glinting in the candlelight, smiling softly. "Yes, I am."

"How sweet," she remarks, dropping your hand gently. "I was married once."

You raise your eyebrows imploringly and she leans closer, waving her large hand theatrically as she says, "But he was a bastard."

She laughs fiendishly, and you just sort of watch, unsure whether you should laugh or not.

"You can laugh!" she assures when she sees your unsure expression. "Good riddance, is what I say. He thought he could keep the company of some girl while I was at working at Beauxbatons — so I said to him, 'fuck you and the whore you rode in on!'"

You nearly choke on your champagne, shocked at what you've heard come out of Madame Maxime's mouth. She grins proudly, showing rows of pearly white teeth. She seems to be finding your shock very amusing as she laughs again.

"His loss," you tell her, chuckling.

"Absolument." She shrugs nonchalantly, as though it was nothing to her but a stone in the bottom of her shoe. "Et toi? Where is your husband?"

You don't answer her for a moment, sucking on your teeth. "Well, I don't know, actually."

"How do you not know?"

"Oh, because he's just escaped from prison," you answer simply. You don't know what makes you tell her that. It would have been so easy to lie, but you don't. Perhaps it's the two too many glasses of champagne you've had, or perhaps it's the way Madame Maxime doesn't seem to care about anything, really, other than Fleur Delacour and the tournament.

Her mouth drops for a second, before she laughs. "Ah, well, c'est la vie. Marriage is never easy."

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. It feels weirdly relieving to you that she couldn't care less about your personal life. You find a new respect for the woman in front of you. "Certainly not."

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

→⁠→ read chapter twenty-one here!

→ all kinds of interaction appreciated ♡

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[dracoxsworld]

ARRANGED - “Take care of you” - Draco M. X Reader - PART 6

Draco was very busy the next couple of days. He went off looking for a new house for you both to live in. He insisted you be apart of the process, but you wanted to stay home instead. The idea of you living on your own officially slightly stressed you out.

You had always been provided things you needed; not that you doubted Draco couldn’t/wouldn’t provide for you, but things would be a lot more different now. Your mind was still mixed up after all that had happened; you’ve felt completely left behind in life, you felt like you were a background character in your own movie.

You and Draco got rid of all of the things that reminded you of Nicholas. Including a Daily Prophet snippet:

The Daily Prophet

Nicholas Heckons, a past lover of Y/N Malfoy speaks out against her current husband, Draco Malfoy. He claims she’s “brainwashed” and “manipulated”.

He also claims Malfoy is “violent” and “short-tempered” also very controlling of Y/N. Here’s the latest word.

“I feel bad for them both really, Y/N, stupid and naive. Draco will have to get used to that soon, really,” Nicholas Heckons stated to our press.

“I suppose they’re each others perfect match, I’ve tried to convince Y/N that Draco is a load of rubbish, but of course, she cheated on me with him. I wouldn’t expect her to listen to me.” claimed Heckons.

Well there you have it, folks. Are Draco and Y/N a match made in Heaven; or Hell?

“Bloody Git.” Draco mumbled to himself, trashing the magical moving newspaper into a trash bag.

“Don’t sweat it. He’s probably embarrassed.” You shrugged, tossing an old Quidditch jersey of Nicholas’. "It's bullshit. He's a load of bullshit." Draco swore. You walked over to him, crouching to his level, as he was sitting on the floor. You ran your hands through his hair, and smiled at him.

All the anger seemed to slip away from him, he smiled, too.

"You never told me if you found a new house," You stated to Draco. His eyes lit up again, and he took your hand and stood up, pulling you up with him. "I wanted to show you, Y/N. I know you say this stuff causes some stress, but I found one I've fallen in love with, I just want you to be in love with it, too." Draco confessed. You took a deep breath, and looked at him. You nodded. "Well, let's see."

Draco's hands quickly shot down to your waist, picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder, "Dray!" You gasped from surprise. You could hear his charming laughter. He walked with you over his shoulder to the bedroom door, where he set you down. He motioned for you to go out to the hallway of the manor, you both walked down the stairs and out to the entryway.

One of the employees of Lucius’ stops you both. His dark smile creeps on his pale boney face. “And where will you two be off to?” He croaks.

“We’re looking at the home I’ve picked.” Draco said sternly.

"How do I know you and this blood traitor aren't planning another escape?" The guard asked.

"Are you using your brain? Father has told you all to back off, we've gained his trust," Draco scoffed. The guard balled his fists in anger. "Now, do we have a problem, or do I need to get my father?"

The guard rolled his eyes, and stepped aside. "I am keeping my eye on you, Malfoy."

"That's Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy to you." Draco spat, as he took your hand and drag out out the front door. You finally could take a deep breath.

"That son of a bitch. We've travelled without guards before, what the hell was he thinking?" Draco huffed. "I'm not sure Dray," You sighed. Draco smiled down at you as you walked towards the Manor's extravagant gate. "I love it when you call me that."

You and Draco had apparated to the new home he had picked. It was gorgeous, made entirely out of brick, just like the Malfoy Manor. There was a tall, dark green fence surrounding the home, a large front yard, perfect to decorate with lush landscape, like large trees and bushes. You assumed there'd be a large backyard as well, you already dreamed of having a perfect garden, like Narcissa's. Draco could have all the flowers he wanted.

"What do you think?" Draco asked, smirking down at you, admiring the view as well. "Draco, it's- it's perfect." You voiced. "I mean, we could really build a life here, what did your father think?"

Draco shrugged, his hands in his pockets, looking at the greying-clouds. It smelled like rain. "He didn't react much, I am not even sure why he accompanies me." He admitted. You looked up at him, with affection in your eyes. Draco had clearly lacked a healthy father figure; and he's coming to terms with it and unfortunately, dealing with the aftermath.

When you're a kid, you tend to not notice things you are missing in your childhood. Thing's that are essential, almost nourishing for your growth emotionally. Draco was thrown to be in the Dark Lord's army at such a young age; even before that, forced under beliefs that might've not been his natural and true mindset. These were things you wished you'd realized before. He has a thick wall surrounding him; as thick and protective as it might seem, it didn't take much for it to melt away like ice. His silver eyes were glassy, he seemed stressed. You were hoping moving into your own home; just you and him may help his uneasiness.

"He may just miss having you around," You alluded; not sounding entirely truthful. Draco scoffed. You bit your bottom lip, but he laughed light heartedly. You laughed too, to avoid awkwardness.

"Unfortunately, a family is still moving out, we can't see the inside." Draco said gloomily. You could tell he cherished this home; and you did as well. It was just a waiting game. "Shall we go back to the Manor?" He proposed. You smiled and interlinked your arm in his and nodded. You both apparated back to the Manor.

-

You both walked into the Manor from door to find Lucius and Narcissa talking. They seemed very grave. Lucius looked at you and Draco, with a destructive look in his eyes. "Father." Draco greeted without emotion. "Draco. I've heard from one of my guards you have some sort of, oh; what should I say, Narcissa? Attitude problem?" Lucius recollected. Draco inhaled. "He is the one who gave us a problem." You spoke up. Draco's head snapped in your direction, his arm guided you to be behind him. You reluctantly obliged.

"Bark and no bite, Ms. Y/N?" Lucius chuckled mockingly. "Y/N is speaking the truth, father." Draco stated. His ears were turning red, and a vein in his neck that always pops when he's angry was visible.

"That guard was being a pain in the ass, accusing us of planning an escape!"

"I don't care what he was fucking saying, you must learn respect, Draco!" Lucius' voiced echoed off of the Manor walls. Draco flinched, Narcissa winced at the noise level of his voice, looking empathetic towards Draco and I.

Lucius stayed quiet for a moment. He inhaled a deep breath. "I clearly need to rethink you both leaving the Manor. You clearly aren't ready." Lucius voiced, turning away from you and Draco, facing the fireplace.

"What the hell? You can't keep us here forever. We are not your prisoners." I blurt out. Lucius swiftly turns to my direction and draws his wand, pointing it towards me. "You! You are the one who was venomous to my son's mind!." You drew your wand out as well, but Lucius performed an Expelliarmus charm, disarming you. You gulped and backed up, Draco immediately jumped in front of you, guarding you.

"That is enough!" Draco bellowed, his hand tightly wrapped around the base of his wand. Sparks flew out of Lucius' wand, you immediately recognized that it was the crucio curse.

"Protego totalum!" Draco cried, and blocked the curse.

"Lucius he is your son!" Narcissa bawled, throwing her body onto his arm. He looked down at his desperate lover, begging him to stop the violence against their own blood.

"I wasn't aiming for him, Narcissa."

Lucius lurched towards you and Draco. Draco's eyes were dark, looking up at his father. Lucius promptly shoved him out of the way, Draco toppled onto the floor.

"Draco!" You screamed, reaching out for him, but Lucius grabbed you by the base of your neck, pulling you towards him.

"Crucio!" Exclaimed Lucius, his wand pointing towards you.

"Y/N!" Draco yelled, but it was too late.

It felt like electricity was shooting through your body; you felt like you were on fire, as if a firework had been set off inside of your body. Traveling through each limb, making it excruciatingly painful. Your body jolted to the floor. You tried to scream and bellow in pain; but you couldn't. Your body folded onto itself.

"You son of a bitch!" Draco yelled again, he ran towards you, Lucius had his wand pointed towards him. "Leave her!" He began to say another spell until Narcissa's voice rang across the room, "Petrificus Totalus!"

You flinched, expecting you to be paralyzed, and unable to defend yourself, on top of being in this amount of intense pain, but you heard a large thump to the floor.

You felt so frail, you could barely lift your head up off of the floor, only to see Lucius completely paralyzed.

Narcissa was still from the casting position she was in previously, trying to catch her breath.

"He needs.... He needs time children, please go up to your room. Y/N, dear, are you okay?" She said, all in-between long, slow breaths.

"I don't know.." You admitted honestly.

“Draco, I will take care of you father here, please take care of Y/N.” Narcissa waved you both off.

Draco lifted you off of the floor, bridal style. You instantly cling to him. You look up and see a tear rolling down his cheek. A bruise was forming on his face from where he had hit the floor. “Draco, your face,” You said softly, your hand landing in his bruised cheek bone. “I am the least of my worries, Y/N. Especially right now.” Draco replied. His grip on your tightened. You arrived to your bedroom. Draco gently placed you on the bed.

He quickly went to his dresser, rummaging through what sounded like glass bottles. Draco finally found a small bottle containing a thin, red liquid. He handed it to you. You were still weak, and slowly raised your hand up to grab it.

“What is this?” You asked with a rasp to your voice.

“Wiggenweld.” Draco said, he seemed uptight. “A healing potion.” He added. You nodded and popped off the cork. You brought the bottle to your lips and downed the potion. A warm, numbing feeling went over you; then the numbing had gone away. Your pain was gone, you were no longer weak.

“I feel so much better, thank you.” You bummed to the platinum boy.

Draco seemed to be spaced out. He wasn’t facing towards you, he was instead looking outside of his window.

“It shouldn’t have even happened.” Draco stressed. “I should’ve been to take the curse.”

You shook your head. “Dray, I’m fine.” you had insisted, getting up from the bed, spinning around slowly to show him you’re safe. Draco stepped towards you, and placed his hands on your waist. His silver eyes meet yours. You’re unable to speak, like you’re in a trance.

“Your protection is my responsibility,” Draco began. “From now on, I promise I will protect you, but now I need to take care of you.” His voice was low, it was in a tone you’d never heard before.

“I need you to take care of me, Dray.” You say seductively. Your hands land on his chest, his hand remain on your sides, but are now slowly running up and down.

He looked at your eyes, then your lips. He held you closer to him, tightening his grip. You smiled up at him and stood up on your tip toes and connected your lips to his. It wasn’t quick, and simple like the ones you’ve had in the past. It was slow, and sensual. Draco was hungry for you, his teeth grazed your bottom lip, making you gasped lightly. He took this as an opportunity to slip his tongue toward yours. He backed up up onto the bed again.

You felt goosebumps on every inch of your body. Draco hovered over you.

“Let me take care of you.”

[pharmaciacatholica]

The Bible is not a historical (compilation of) book(s), it's a theological book. There are some things that cannot be taken literally. They should be read theologically, spiritually.

While reading it, you can see that there are parts that have historical inaccuracies in the Old Testament, I mean, they don't match with other historical events, small details like the names of emeprors. There are things that don't exactly agree within the different books of the Old Testament.

Don't get me wrong. I know and believe God created everything that exists, but there's a reason why the Catholic priest Georges Lamaître made the Big Bang theory, and why the Catholic friar Gregor Mendel made the laws of genetics. Is there something I'm not getting?

Yes, there is a lot you are not getting. Especially based on the follow up ask you sent me while I was getting ready to respond to this.

The Bible is not a historical (compilation of) book(s), it's a theological book.

The Sacred Scriptures are a compilation of book of various genres. The Old Testament consists of forty-six books. Twenty-one historical books, containing the account of the creation of the universe and the history of the patriarchs and the Jewish nation. Seven didactic books, containing collections of psalms, wise sayings, and rules of life. Eighteen prophetical books, containing prophecies as well as instructions or admonitions.

The Historical texts are: the five books of Moses, Joshua, Judges, Ruth, the four books of Kings, the two Chronicles, Ezra, Nehemiah, Tobit, Judith, Esther, the two books of the Maccabees.

The didactic texts are: Job, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Song of Songs, Wisdom, Sirach.

The prophetic texts are: Isaiah, Jeremiah, Lamentations, Baruch, Ezekiel, Daniel, Hosea, Joel, Amos, Obadiah, Johan, Micah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah, Haggai, Zechariah, and Malachi.

We get these groupings from the collective writings of the Church Fathers and the Tradition (capital T). (x)

here are some things that cannot be taken literally. They should be read theologically, spiritually.

This is a fundamental misunderstanding of what the literal sense of Scripture is. The Catechism summarizes the Church's teaching on the different senses of Scripture in paragraphs 115-119:

115 According to an ancient tradition, one can distinguish between two senses of Scripture: the literal and the spiritual, the latter being subdivided into the allegorical, moral and anagogical senses. The profound concordance of the four senses guarantees all its richness to the living reading of Scripture in the Church.

116 The literal sense is the meaning conveyed by the words of Scripture and discovered by exegesis, following the rules of sound interpretation: "All other senses of Sacred Scripture are based on the literal." (x)

117 The spiritual sense. Thanks to the unity of God's plan, not only the text of Scripture but also the realities and events about which it speaks can be signs.

The allegorical sense. We can acquire a more profound understanding of events by recognizing their significance in Christ; thus the crossing of the Red Sea is a sign or type of Christ's victory and also of Christian Baptism.

The moral sense. The events reported in Scripture ought to lead us to act justly. As St. Paul says, they were written "for our instruction".

The anagogical sense (Greek: anagoge, "leading"). We can view realities and events in terms of their eternal significance, leading us toward our true homeland: thus the Church on earth is a sign of the heavenly Jerusalem.

118 A medieval couplet summarizes the significance of the four senses: The Letter speaks of deeds; Allegory to faith; The Moral how to act; Anagogy our destiny.

119 It is the task of exegetes to work, according to these rules, towards a better understanding and explanation of the meaning of Sacred Scripture in order that their research may help the Church to form a firmer judgement. For, of course, all that has been said about the manner of interpreting Scripture is ultimately subject to the judgement of the Church which exercises the divinely conferred commission and ministry of watching over and interpreting the Word of God.

The entirety of Holy Writ is to be taken literally. Not all of the books are meant to be taken as historical. This I have shown, and it does not contradict.

While reading it, you can see that there are parts that have historical inaccuracies in the Old Testament, I mean, they don't match with other historical events, small details like the names of emeprors. There are things that don't exactly agree within the different books of the Old Testament.

I do not have the time to go through and scrounge up all of the answers to any supposed contradictions contained within the Old Testament, at least not right now (typing this at 1 am). I think it is sufficient to point out that, as a Catholic, you are bound under pain of mortal sin to believe in Scriptural inerrancy with divine and catholic faith.

From Pope Leo XIII:

"So far is it from being possible that any error can co-exist with inspiration, that inspiration not only is essentially incompatible with error, but excludes and rejects it as absolutely and necessarily as it is impossible that God Himself, the supreme Truth, can utter that which is not true. This is the ancient and unchanging faith of the Church."

Providentissimus Deus

Reiterated by Pope Pius XII:

“For as the substantial Word of God became like to men in all things, ‘except sin,’ so the words of God, expressed in human language, are made like to human speech in every respect, except error”

Divino Afflante Spiritu

From the Second Vatican Council:

"Since, therefore, all that the inspired authors, or sacred writers, affirm should be regarded as affirmed by the Holy Spirit, we must acknowledge that the books of Scripture firmly, faithfully and without error, teach that truth which God, for the sake of our salvation, wished to see confided to the sacred Scriptures."

Dei Verbum

There is much much more but I believe I've made my point on this matter. Next...

Don't get me wrong. I know and believe God created everything that exists

Nice, we agree!

but there's a reason why the Catholic priest Georges Lamaître made the Big Bang theory

I don't really understand the point here. I have known of Father Lamaitre and him being the "inventor" of the big bang theory for a while but I have never read it. Regardless, he is held to the same scrutiny and standard as everyone else is by both what I have already here laid out and what Pope Pius XII lays out in Humani Generis. I cannot say if he does or not, I have not read it, but a singular priest is not really an authority. This is especially true in the realm of the physical sciences.

and why the Catholic friar Gregor Mendel made the laws of genetics

Same principle as before regarding the authority of an individual priest that is not Your (royal you) pastor. I am also not familiar with this particular work, but I don't see a contradiction with the Faith at all on its face. I believe in genetics. I don't think you understand what macroevolution is as a concept.

[miss0atae]

Dreams and love connection in recent Thai QL Series :

I've recently started watching I Saw You In My Dream and the premise of the story is about a young man called Ai who acquire the power of prophetic dreams. With these dreams he can see what will happen the next day. This new power is going to change the dynamic of his relationship with his neighbor, Yu. There is indeed a recurring character in his dreams and that's Yu. These dreams will create a change in how Ai is viewing his relationship with Yu.

I Saw You In My Dream isn’t the only recent Thai QL series I’ve watched with dreams as a literary/cinematographic device. The GL series, My Marvellous Dream is You has also use it, too. Wan has always been able to see her best friend now lover, Kim, in her dreams. I felt like the Dream Land, as I called it, has always been a representation of Wan’s mental health and a tool for her to navigate her relationship with Kim.

Also, If you're watching Century of Love, you may have noticed how San always get wet dreams of Vee . It is used to reveal how he is unconsciously having feelings for Vee, despite rejecting him in real life because he doesn't look like the woman he fell in love a 100-year ago. Are the dreams only something coming from his subconscious or is it a dream send by the goddess to guide him… it's up to the viewer to make their own choice.

There are probably other recent Thai QL series using dreams as a literary/cinematographic device. However, I decided to focus only on these three for several reasons: I'm currently watching them, they are the ones that inspired this post and they fit one specific criteria. I want to develop the idea of dreams as a “magical” tool. It's useful to know I'm usually drawn to fantasy setting in stories. I especially like when the fantasy aspect produces a form of hesitation between the supernatural and the natural, the possible and the impossible, and sometimes between the logical and the illogical (not my words, I quoted Tzvetan Todorov). I believe the uses of dreams in the Thai QL series I mentioned, fall into this category.

Why is it fascinating when a work of fiction uses dreams? I think it's because they are a part of every-day life for most of us. Dreams have always been a source of inspiration or reflection. Traditionally they have been considered as a way of freeing oneself of time or space, to be able to talk to supernatural creatures or ancestors, a tool to heal or to access knowledge. There is also a more rational and scientific view of dreams. However, there is still this wish to know the meaning of the dream or why they exist and to what purposes. That's why it is always interesting to add dreams in work of fiction. They serve different purposes and can add so much more in a stories.

The way they are represented in work of fiction depends on the characters who get to have dreams and how it affects them. Here I'm going to solely focus on Ai, Wan and San.

Ai has prophetic dreams that focus on his neighbor Yu. Usually prophetic dreams provide foreshadowing. In this situation they are also going to influence Ai's reaction around his neighbor. Ai and Yu doesn't have the best relationship. Ai is often teased by Yu and he doesn't like it that much. The synopsis of the series also describe them as “star-crossed haters since childhood”. I found that it was a bit too much because I didn't feel like Ai really hated Yu. He hated his actions maybe, but Yu was an every-day part of his life. He was often at his home and they did so many things together. Anyway, it's only been two episodes, but Ai made several dreams of Yu. They are usually about an incident that would happen to Yu: he gets injured by using a knife, he gets hit by a car or he is hurt by a knife blow. Ai won't believe that these dreams will be real until Yu get injured by the knife almost like in his dreams. Then, he will try to prevent the terrible incidents that could happen to Yu. His dreams force him to care about Yu and to spend a lot of time with him when he previously avoided him. However, his dreams are not only about bad events his neighbor may have, he also gets a dream where he is kissed by him. In his dreams he gets to experience to feel like he is on cloud nine. It's a scenario he never imagined and it influences his reaction around Yu. The synopsis made us feel like all the care he will provide to Yu will make Ai see him differently. Also, as he is also experiencing love in his dreams he may feel the drive to feel it in reality too. Dreams here are a driven force and essential part of the story.

Wan is more a dreamy sort of person than Ai. When he rejected at first the possibility of his dreams to be true, she just rolls with them. She accepted that they are a part of her that she can use to get connected to Kim. In her dream she has her own land where she can escape reality and be free from the decorum of society in real life, but also she can be herself. I always felt like Wan has some sort of internalized homophobia and that's why she never tried to express her strong feelings to Kim. I imagine it was because of her personal life story as her dad abandoned her mom and her to be with a man. Her mother reacted really badly and she may have feared about coming out. It was only in her dreams that Wan could do all the things she wanted with Kim. That's why she was so casual about them. When she was talking to her friend about how she always used them, you could see how she accepted the power of her dreams and never really questioned why her or why she was having them. You have to know that, she seems to have a certain control of her dreams as her actions on her Dream Land have a repercussion in real life. However, in her series Wan isn't really using her dreams that much. They always felt disconnected from the story of the series which I always found quite disappointing because they were the reasons why I was so hyped by the series at first. It was used quite a lot in the series, but it was never the plot device I thought it would be. The story could have worked without them, but they were one of my favorite parts of the story.

San is a hard-nosed character who feels like he is a very prudish person who’s disturbed by the most erotic dreams of Vee. It doesn’t sit well with San, at first, because he strongly rejects the idea that Vee could be the reincarnation of the woman he considered as the love of his life. He has been living for 100 years suffering each night to get the chance to find her again after she was killed. To be able to stay alive and young looking until he finds her, he made a deal with a goddess to cherish and love the reincarnation of his previous lover. Vee is supposed to be this reincarnation (I still believe it would be great if it’s the case) but he is no woman and he is not a copy carbon of how Vad / Wat was acting in the past. That’s why San reject him. However, in his dreams his reluctance to accept Vee are not to be seen. Even if Vee isn’t his previous lover, he is still having erotic dreams of him. It’s really Vee and not Vad / Wat that San imagine in his dreams. The overwhelming pleasure he gets isn’t induced by an oneiric Vad / Wat. He sees only Vee. The first dream is an erotic dream free from the old conception of life San may have. In the second dream, Vee is represented has a nine-tailed fox, a mythical fox from Chinese mythology. A nine-tailed fox possesses magic powers and are usually mischievous, tricking other people, with the ability to disguise themselves as a beautiful man or woman. This time Vee is the temptation San is trying to avoid. This dream shows him that he is struggling in vain. He already has feeling for Vee even if he can’t really understand them, yet. Dreams in this series show something about a character they aren’t aware of. One of them is also showing symbolism. As for now, the series didn’t go overboard with them.

I may have to update this post later when I’ll get the new episodes of these series.

[queen-of-elves]

Acceptable

Armitage Hux x reader - Modern Office AU + some background Reylo

Summary: You have been working for First Order for years now slowly giving up on the idea of your dream project ever gracing your presence until it finally happened, however, there is a slightly cold and rude problem, other team leader Armitage Hux. 

REQUESTS ARE OPEN (And I'm begging you to send me some)

A/N: There is not enough classic fanfics for Armitage and almost zero AUs so I am here to satisfy the bitches, it’s me, I am the bitches

+not betaread so be kind

Words: 5.8K

Warnings: some swearing probably, there is always swearing in my fics, talking about f themself cause corporate life is annoying, some inappropriate thoughts

Tags:@l0stinth3nightsky @this-harl0t-shant-be-unalive

Everyone in the company knew how mean and bossy Armitage Hux was, even if you were from a completely different department, but this project was going to pull you in his inner work team and it terrified you to get first hand experience with him. You heard plenty of times how he made new interns cry and the older ones want to commit a suicide. So you weren’t exactly thrilled at working with him even on a project you have literally dreamed of since being accepted to work for the First Order company, the most prestigious company among prestigious companies. The project required two different departments that almost never interacted which also didn’t help.

You were ready for the first meeting between two departments, each under the supervision of completely different people and personalities, to be just a horrendous trainwreck. But Armitage Hux being the team leader of the other one? You didn’t have to be some kind of prophet to know this was going to be painful just to watch. Even though you were anxiously expecting disaster to occur in the first meeting, the sunshine side in you just had to shine through. So you had an exceptionally good morning, you were on time, had a delicious bagel and the sky was sunny, therefore there was no chance of Hux fucking up your day.

The office building was huge but not exceptional among the other skyscrapers littering the city, molding it into cement block maze. The windows provide enough clearance for you to see the busy people already moving around in the offices above, you even noticed some of your own team members anxiously waiting for your arrival while preparing the rest of the documentation for today's team meeting. 

You knew you were ready, your team also knew but that didn’t put to rest the anxious little monster growing inside your stomach. Still, you put on your best brave smile and entered the lobby, greeted the receptionist Clara and continued down the hall to wait for the elevator. Beeping your employee card on the scanner, to let you proceed to the elevator, put you right back into your morning routine, well, just for your coworker and a sort of subordinate, Rey bombard you with questions in the waiting line. 

“Did you hear it?” Her voice sounded an octave higher than usual or maybe it was just your tired brain not used to loud sounds yet, nothing a good old coffee couldn’t fix in minutes.

“Hm?” Your brain was still too tired to properly answer and so you only mumbled an acknowledgement to her question. Slow sips of your latté seemed to clear your mind a bit, thank god for sales like bagel plus free coffee at the local cafe otherwise you would be unusable these days.

“You know what I mean.” You were sure if you were to meet eyes with Rey, she would pierce you with that intense gaze. 

“The merge.” There was no merge, so far you weren’t even aware of any cuts in finances for this year or the one to follow. Whatever Rey was talking about was most likely just a bunch of bored employees gossiping and conspiring together, nothing major, nothing serious. This realization calmed you down even though The Merge sounded quite apocalyptic.

“I can assure you there is no merge, especially not between our two departments, Miss-” A voice interrupted but it did not intend to finish that sentence as if the owner was too busy to learn Rey’s name at all. He turned his attention to you, measuring you over, his calculating glare went over the ink stained hands to your low set black heels with that tiny cut on the left side you were so desperate to hide with black marker.

Armitage Hux waiting in front of the elevator for your arrival was definitely not on your list for today. He looked like a pristine image out of some magazine with men’s suits, his deep blue shaded suit with silver cufflinks perfectly paired with an expensive looking watch he was now checking printing itself in the back of your brain forever. Quite a nightmarish image of a handsome man with such a cold and cruel demeanor.

“You are both late. Meeting room 3 in 5 minutes.” And with that he was gone again, like a ghost, maybe he is a ghost of this building, stackup nitpicking cold monster that was stabbed by his tired employee centuries ago and now has to haunt the rest of you. He didn’t even turn around making you puzzle if he was truly addressing you.

“What’s going on?” Whisperyelled Rey, her wide eyes scanning the surrounding as if Armitage was going to pop up from the corner to remind her she has now 4 minutes left to be present in the meeting room.

“Trouble.” You simply answered your bewildered friend, there was no better answer to it after all. The morning you dreamed of was slowly fading into a nightmarish mess but at least you had now caffeined your brain enough to proceed to normal functions. Plus your team had your back, there was nothing to be afraid of except Armitage Hux and he was simply a man in a suit. Just an ordinary man in a tailored suit with a stoic expression.

And you were right, the team really had your back but Armitage definitely didn’t, he was mean and bossy and nitpicking and just so fucking insufferable. However, the meeting ended with both departments and their leaders arriving at a consensus, not a happy one. It almost reminded you of those messy divorce screaming matches in tv shows, except this was veiled in professionalism and formal language.

Of course your suffering didn’t end just as did the meeting, he was probably a sadist, prolonging your pain with his “Word?”. You were sure it wasn’t even a question, it was just an order for you to follow him straight to his office.

Armitage Hux’s office was neat as it can be, if it weren’t for the few scattered papers on the desk you would guess this was one of those exhibitions of furniture in Ikea. Well, even the Ikea display has more personality, some fakeass photos of happy couple/family. His office is neat until it’s bare, devoid of indicating anything about the owner’s personality. 

That’s kinda sad.

“Listen, I know that the project is not top notch of the quality it could be but I think we have a solid plan we can now expand upon.” You had to win this argument, you wouldn’t let him defeat you over a project you so desperately wanted for years. So, if he wanted to fight you were ready to bare teeth at this twig in a suit. 

“Oh, and before you say it’s-,” you couldn’t even finish before he interrupted you, “acceptable.”

 “What?” You blurted out, completely stunned by his remark. Did Armitage Hux, after all that tousling about in the meeting room, admit the plan your team created is acceptable. Yes, there were few changes happening after the “discussion” of both teams but nothing you have not foreseen already that also didn’t mean you were happy with said changes. But consensus between two completely different departments is everything the leadership asked for.

“The proposal is acceptable, I don’t understand why I should be doubtful, so far you have only proven to be a valuable asset for the company.” Armitage was always the epitome of professional and now he was complimenting you. He was complimenting you, right? Maybe you had too much coffee, maybe you had not enough coffee and maybe God was spinning on his chair and laughing at you up in the sky.

“Oh, thanks. I will take it as a compliment, even though you sound like a formal email impersonator.” Gosh, did you really just say that to him? There was a cold sweat pooling down your back, anxiety ranking up. Was he going to yell at you for such a statement, what you have heard so far it wouldn’t be unusual for him to yell at people over smaller things.

“I don’t.” His expression could be only described as a deadpan expression. It’s actually kinda funny, not entirely scary. He doesn’t laugh, noted, but you do and you also make people laugh and so you set your new target.You almost look around to see a hidden camera or an entire camera crew as if in The office. And while you amused yourself in your mind Armitage sported back his expression to emotionless stare before turning his attention back to the documents on the desk. 

“You do.” A small laugh escaped your lips at that moment and with his attention divided elsewhere you took it as an ideal time to run away exit the situation and also the office.

But before you could escape this storm of a man, he had to add. “Until the next meeting I expect you and your team to finish said plans.” And with that the conversation and mess of a morning comes to an end. However, there is still a lot of time for unexpected surprises before the day ends.

And so it began, the little you running circles in your brain over the thoughts of your new co-leader, the cold redhead slowly sneaking in your head again and again. It helped the clock to tick faster which was a good thing but the constant train of thoughts disassembling every part of your interaction with him over the time was like a cold shower every single time.

The last time you checked the clock read 5 minutes after 8pm and with that you started to pack your things ready to head home, have little dinner and continue with the paperwork over a random kdrama playing as a background noise. And as you bid everyone goodbye you noticed Armitage’s crouched figure in his office, going over some even more boring paperwork than was the one waiting on you at home. It was probably true, the first one to be in the office and the last one to leave that was Armitage’s schedule.

Sad.

And so you set your mind on a new plan, a horrible and cruel plan to ruin your late morning and exchange it for an early cold shower wake up and speed walk to a cafe not only for your favorite bagel but also a special delivery of coffee.

God, what am I even doing this early?

When the alarm buzzed you were around 100% sure you were making a mistake. Waking this early should be a crime. No, It is a crime. Especially when you were a busy little bee like you always are and spent the whole night until 3am working. But part of you knew it was going to be worthy, today was the day you were going to crack that tough ice cold exterior of Armitage’s facade.

If waking up this early wasn’t a mistake the cold shower definitely was but in all honesty you were just afraid you would fall asleep on the bus, so cold shower it was. In the end it was kinda worthy, you got your favorite bagel without having to wait in long line; got another free coffee, you had no idea if the sale was still on or if you just looked so terrible they felt sad for you and just had to give it to you; you also got Armitage his coffee and as a big finale you were on time, actually very early overall. 

The office was ruefully empty. And there was no Rey to talk to, you knew she wasn’t going to be in the office until 9am but you still hoped even she would find the idea of early start amusing. In reality you expected to get laughed at when she finally decides to grace the office with her presence.

You might have felt alone in the empty corridors of the building but it was not so empty after all. The curtain might have been drawn but you could see a slim light escaping in between them from his office, the artificial light was definitely not sunshine. 

He must have stayed up all night.

Mustering courage you knocked on his door before waiting on an invitation to let yourself in. It was useless, there was no sound coming from the office and so you knocked again and then again. Realizing he was not going to answer you decided to open the door and check up on him anyway.

He was sleeping on his desk with his suit jacket over the chair behind him and loose tie around his neck. The dress shirt slightly crumpled at the edges, his red hair tousled around and neck craned in such an uncomfortable position you were sure of his incoming back pain.

“Knock, knock.” You tried to say softly, just lightly waking him up but instead you groaned, your voice still not comfortable from no use this morning, startling him awake.

“I-” His form jolted, eyes flying open and searching the room for the culprit of his rough awakening. Blue eyes finally gazing upon you, Armitage looked boyishly handsome that morning, it was not just the wide expression but the state of disarray you found him in.

You decided against speaking, part of you afraid your blushing form would say something stupid, the stupid thoughts of the redhead not leaving you alone. The, almost like a cardboard, coffee cup made an uncomfortable noise once you pushed it on the table toward its owner, making the moment even more awkward.

He took a slow sip, still not fixing his hair or attire and part of you wished he never would, it suited him and you probably liked it even more than it actually suited him. 

“How did you know what coffee I drink?” His voice still hoarse and laced with sleepiness painted your cheeks even more crimson red. God it made you imagine things, you didn’t even know from where the thoughts were coming but there was somehow no way to stopping them. Your view of Armitage Hux completely shattering and rearranging itself into a different image.

“It's just black coffee, Hux, I assumed you would like black coffee, you are like the embodiment of black coffee.”

“Thank you, that's very considerate of you.” His lips touched the cup in a cautious move before he took a sip, trying to hide his small smile but you noticed it, you definitely noticed it and you knew you won. You won Armitage Hux over with a simple gesture of kindness.

”Was it a compliment or?” You wanted to laugh and you wanted to see more of a happier Armitage from now on. You felt like you got closer to Hux at that moment, a possible friendship started to blossom between the two of you. 

“Who knows.” Shrugging, he moved on to finally fix himself a little, smirk still apparent on his lips complimenting his tired stare. In that moment you wanted to experience more moments like this and you sure were going to try.

********

Finally it was the day the board would either accept the project or deny it. You couldn’t sleep for two days prior and even before that you slept only around 15 hours in a week, you felt almost dead. Both of you, Armitage and you, were now staring at your notebooks, ready to receive the final answer to your now weeks long struggle. 

Armitage's notebook beeped, a notification sounding off, sending you flying across the desk almost into his lap, not even considering it could be a completely different email or even personal thing.

You and Armitage got closer, just as the both of your teams, over the weeks you spent on this project, countless nights together in the office seemed to harden your relationship even more. You had fun, Armitage was not only a hardworking perfectionist and handsome man, he was also very funny, like ridiculously funny in your opinion.

The email was long, like unnecessarily when it comes to formal corporal emails but the end of it was just so promising. Both of you skimmed over the words, searching for the phrases denied. There was none, the only thing in the end it contained was so sweet and wanted approval for your project, relieving you both of disappointment.

You were not sure who was the first, if you or Armitage, but now the both of you were jumping as high as you could while clinging to each other, a victorious hug. It could take only seconds or minutes, you squealing and Armitage yelling, hugging each other and jumping once again, but when it was over, the embarrassment in both parties was apparent. 

Anyone could come into this office at any time, it was not uncommon for most of the higher ranking employees to just not knock and barge in and if they saw the team leaders of the current biggest project in the company disheveled and out of breath, who knows what they would think.

There was a common understanding of this premise and so the following actions were understandable, while you tried to smooth your skirt down, Armitage did the same to his hair and also his tie. He was still out of breath and a bit flushed, his look of happiness making you warm again.

“You should trust your guts more.” And again with his disheveled appearance, this man was going to be the death of you for sure. And while he was busy sporting himself back into his usual calm and perfect form you had to admire how far the both of you have come. 

“Trust my guts? Armitage, I have a crippling anxiety.” Wholehearted laugh clawed its way out of your throat, making him smile. “That’s like the worst advice ever.” You continued still giggling like a little girl with your cheeks starting to hurt from all the happiness flowing inside you.

“I tried.”

“I appreciate it.” You gave him a small shy smile, your cheeks were still too warm for you to completely concentrate. “Thank you.” You whispered in the end.

“You are welcome.” Nodding fondly over this conversation, Hux gave you a smug expression, which you have completely missed because you turned your attention back to the documents you had to prepare for the next meeting.

“Even though you should be the one thanking me for my amazing advice.” Armitage chimes in, relaxed expression kept in place while he slightly nudged you in the ribs.

“Was it a joke?” Your face morphing into a shocked amused grin, you turned to him, observing the man momentarily. “Did Armitage Hux just make a joke?” You were not aware that Armitage Hux, the cold hearted redhead, could joke but you liked it and hoped it would stay like this for a while.

“I regret ever interacting with you.” You could see the slight smirk forming on Armitage's face when he spoke, unable to contain it. Since starting working on this project you and Armitage really got close, you would even call him your friend now. Yeah, he was still sometimes a cold prick but you could see the appeal of him. Handsome, smart and very passionate for his work with a decent sense of humor, Armitage Hux was definitely a catch. This project really opened your eyes when it came to him.

“You don’t.” Your elbow met what you firstly assumed would be a bony mass but in reality was well defined muscles under what you deemed was branded suit.

“I do.” He couldn’t fight the smirk off now. It was awfully obvious. The past you would probably be slightly horrified over the thought of Armitage Hux smirking. The picture of it being painted under the impression that he is obviously an evil corporate man. However, seeing him smirk now sparked something completely different in you. The silly picture of an evil man from a cartoon you used to hold in your mind when someone said his name was replaced with a charming looking redhead man in a suit with a warm aura around him. 

“Nah.” You felt silly, stupid and giddy over this man and how warm he made you feel even though everyone viewed him as a cold and mean man he never was. “You love it.” 

“Yeah, I do.” The stare he gave you made something carnal turn in you, it was not an alien feeling but with Armitage there was a new intensity to it. Red liquid heat pooled inside your belly under his loving gaze.

Oh.

“I-I have to go and- inform the team, you know- so they like- know and- stuff.” You titered a bit, unsure how to continue such a conversation. Did Armitage Hux really make your heart skip a beat now? First he jokes and now he makes your heart flutter, the world truly is full of wonders

.

“Yeah, totally. I-” He seemed absentminded for a second, something you could hardly ever see on the young team leader’s face. Everyone might talk about his cold attitude but no one could deny how dedicated Armitage was to his work. Even though you weren’t from the same department you knew long before this project presented itself in front of you, that he was the first in the office and also the last one to leave. His workaholism seemed even more prominent with his quick responses to your emails regarding the shared project no matter at which hour you would send them. It was something worth admiring and fearing at the same time. And now you were the one stuck in their mind and still staring at him. 

“Hey, would you like- to go for a coffee or something?” His voice cracked in the middle, maybe it was trying to stop him from continuing but he still pushed through, the final bits of courage sending him past the finish line, finally asking.

OH.

“Your proposal is acceptable.” You tried to imitate his voice, those words as a reminder to the conversation you had with him after the first meeting.

“Thank god.” The relief on his face was comforting to see. Armitage was really keen to go out with you and it made you happy beyond anything.

Bonus little bits with Armitage’s POV:

He really hoped he could avoid Ben this morning but luck seemed not to be on his side this time. Armitage and Ben have been friend-workers since they both started in the company. They actually knew each other even before since they both went to the same college. At first they were not awfully close, Ben liked to annoy the fuck out of Armitage while he was trying to enjoy his morning coffee, lunch or evening run. Basically destroying nice things he liked but somehow the two of them stuck together and formed a sort of friendship over some time. That of course didn’t change anything on Ben annoying him with every single ounce he had in himself, which was the exact reason he really wanted to escape him this morning. This perfect late morning, he decided to enjoy himself and to read in bed until it was completely necessary to go to work. He never did that but recent sunshine in his office seemed to brighten his life and mood all the time so why not to enjoy a slow morning, he was after all always on time for 5 years straight now.

Armitage could see Ben towering over the cubicles scattered over the big room on the second floor of the company building. Ben was currently laughing over something some brown haired woman said, Armitage recently learnt her name was Rey and Ben was incredibly fond of her. This information was obviously carefully and pragmatically locked down inside his brain to be used later if the time called for it.  

And so Armitage hoped he could silently walk down to his office without Ben annoying him so early in the morning, leaving him to reminisce about what today could bring him, especially if it was in the form of a cute co-leader he recently had the chance to meet. He was wrong, obviously, well not really, but yes, he was wrong.

The young redhead was correct when his thoughts browsed back to you and if you would be as cheerful in his presence as you were yesterday. What he however didn’t mean to summon was not only your attention but also Ben’s.

“Armitage!” And there you were, a sunshine smile and loud voice directing everyone's attention, including Ben’s, to yourself before they turned to see him.

He simply nods in acknowledgement without realizing his face was graced with a slowly spreading smile. Ignoring his previous distaste in morning conversation, giving her a small wave didn’t seem so annoying as greeting Ben.

“Well, well, well, who is trying to sneak by.” God, just his voice could irritate Armitage to death on most days but today it was exceptionally nightmare inducing.

“I wasn’t sneaking by. I was simply walking to my office.” He answers curly, not giving even a glance to Ben, his expression still souring into deadpan one.

“You should take your coffee with some milk, you are awfully bitter in the morning.” Ben sniggers, amused at his joke.

“You're the one who is quite giddy today. Did the board meeting yesterday go that well?” But Armitage is ready to fire back right at him.

“Nah, not really.” This finally got Ben to shut up and Armitage to go about his morning in silence.

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

“I didn’t think you were the type to go crazy over a woman.” Ben’s laugh is loud and childish, echoing on the open walls of the main hall between offices. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” The look he gave to Ben was one of his favorites, offended and beyond believe irritated. It was a perfect illusion for him to uphold, ‘cause in reality Hux’s mind was in a midst of complete panic but still he kept on his killer pace to his office, maybe to lose Ben in the big space where the rest of the desk of their subordinates was located.

How much does he know?

This thought however, stopped Armitage in his walk, contemplating if he should address it more. And finally where he was sure his tongue wouldn’t twist itself in his mouth when he spoke of you, he turned around. 

“You talk like a cartoon villain, you know that, right?.” Ben’s tall form was not leaning on the side of one of the tables , his gaze partly fixed at his phone before it’s lifted to assess the redhead’s reaction. It was deliberate, it was all planned out, a humiliating and uncomfortable situation Ben could trap him in easily, to get all the answers he wanted.

Now he knew he couldn’t win against that ridiculous giant, this was always a losing game. If he took it too seriously Ben would admit to only be joking, trying to get a rise out of him, if he continued to ridicule or ignore his questions Ben would only tease him more, a truly lost game in Armitage’s eyes. “God, please go and do your job.” But still he could try to collect any advantage he could get his hands on, the advantage being taking everything and shutting himself in his office until the end of the day.

-collects all his things and gets up to leave

“I am working.” Ben’s cheerful voice still followed him, digging into his back in a teasing manner. “No, You are not!” Armitage was aware how his voice boomed through the office making some employees turn their heads over the ruckus but Ben was quite oblivious to his friend’s voice’s effect. He actually couldn’t help but laugh at his friend for moments still unaware of the attention he was given by his colleagues hidden among the various desks in that room. However, even Ben was deemed to notice the confused look he was given by one of the younger secretaries over the small cubicle wall.

“Sorry.” His hands flew up in an apology or a manner that reminded most of them of surrender, before he decided to lift himself up from the desk and proceed to an elevator. Ben of course caught a glimpse of her, so familiar brown haired woman who was already entering one of the elevators. Feeling his chance, Ben's quick walking, caused by his slight embarrassment from the situation prior, turned into jogging when he thought he was already out of sight for the rest of his colleagues.

“Hi.” The elevator was empty except for the said brown haired woman, she looked pretty, exceptionally pretty. Well, she always looked beautiful and so to level the playing field, Ben put on one of his charming smiles before he glanced her way.

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

“You should ask her out.” This was coldly stated in the midst of conversation about going for a drink since both of the men’s projects were going to finish soon. The sentence positively stunning Armitage into a statue with a cold sweat pooling slowly down his back while his dark haired counterpart continued to munch on his sandwich.

“Ask her out or I will.” This time those words were slurred between Ben finishing the prelast bite and attempting to stuff the rest of the sandwich in his mouth. Ben’s tall form was stashed between the seating area and one of the tables, he was crunched over but no one of it helped to not make him stand out in the crowd of eating people with his broad shoulders. Ben always towered over everyone, except over Phasma from accounting actually, but everyone else was a victim to his high stature. It was almost comical just as his words. Still, Armitage fumbled with his hands, dropping from one the document he was reading while not being able to control the other, his grip on the sandwich slipping until it unceremoniously slammed in his lap and into the napkin he thankfully unfolded on it.

“What?“

“Ask her out or I-”“I heard you the first time.” Ben was used to Armitage’s cruel remarks or even interruptions but this was the first time he did so with such a vigor.

 “Why did you ask then?” There was a knowing smirk painted on his lips, the redhead falling into his trap one more time.

“I know you won’t ask her out.” This confused Ben greatly. What did he mean? The dark haired man adored teasing his pale friend on a daily basis but it was almost unheard of Armitage opposing him. He did attempt to oppose several times and it was not exactly as playful as Ben wished for, usually it consisted of Hux reminding him to get back to work and where is the fun in that? But this time, this time Armitage had something on Ben and he absolutely didn’t like it.

“Rey wouldn’t like that, would she now?” What was left of the knowing smirk on Ben’s face disappeared seconds after those words were muttered into the air between the two men. This time it was Ben who was left with red cheeks and ears, absolutely flabbergasted and fumbling hands with the wrappers of his now gone lunch.

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

Armitage didn’t even realize how organized you were but now that he had the chance to see inside your office he was lost for words. Who would have thought someone like you would have neatly organized folders with color marked projects and spreadsheets for time management not only for your team but your work.

“You are awfully organized.” He truly was in awe at how your space looked. 

“Thanks?”

“I expected to find a battlefield in your office but it’s- surprisingly tiddy?” He didn’t mean tiddy, he meant a perfect, absolutely and adoringly perfect environment for him to exist, something that almost seems to be made just for him.

“That’s kinda rude, Armitage.” He was not known for making a lot of people laugh, maybe Ben but it was more of a laugh at his own account, with you it was somehow ridiculously easy, apparently.

“I was complimenting you.” He objects, trying to defend his honor, it was not in his intentions to come off as rude as it might have seemed. 

“Sure.”

 Again with the laugh.

“You should take it as a compliment. Organized people are h-,” he paused, gulping down his words until it weighed heavy in his stomach,”good.” 

“Good?” There was a suspicious smirk playing on your lips as if you knew what he wanted to say but Armitage almost sure you had no clue, you simply wanted to tease him a bit more.

 But God, what if you did catch his misstep? No, surely you didn’t. He gave you one more questioning look to make sure you were none the wiser. 

“Yes.” He had to clear his throat, to compose himself a bit by bit but there was an unbearable weight at his chest, almost too consuming. “For business. Organized people are known to be very reliable and hardworking employees.”

Yes, good. They are good. I totally didn’t mean hot. Because organized women are totally not absolutely hot. And I totally just didn’t realize it’s a thing for me. Ha ha. Please, act normal.

Armitage’s brain must have looked like a scrambled egg now, trying to unravel all his thoughts into a coherent solid state so he could function properly while unsuccessfully avoiding all his thoughts involving you and this office.

“Found it.” You held up a blue folder with a little yellow sticky note poking out of the main pages.

Oh, yes, the scripts for the main document, that’s what brought the two of you inside your office. That’s why he was now stuck between walls adored with shelves upon which sat dozens of cute plants. A complete opposite of his office but very cozy, it was obvious you decorated the room with a clear idea of making it a positive and comfortable environment. The purple sofa in the corner ideal for-

Yep, Armitage was fully aware he was fucked.

[eesirachs]

Why do you think the biblical god always chose men. Why is it that we get such a small handful of women who really had a story in the bible. Is it favouritism? To whom anyway, isn't it safer not to be picked by god? Men dropping left and right while the women watch, silent, unnamed, anonymous. Unseen? Forgotten?

Anyway, thoughts?

i don't see this god always choosing men. i see prophetesses chosen by god. i see prophetesses feared by him: they have power that rivals his. they do resurrections, they trap souls. i see judges raised by god. i see this god sitting with women as they fall victim to bans, as they benefit from bans. god sits with queens, with mothers. god has a womb, is a womb. i am thinking of ruth, naomi, deborah, jael, rachel and leah, not-adam/eve, bathsheba. on and on, this god is and has a matrix. women, in the hebrew bible, have phalli, have prophetic dreams. women do sign-acts, speak god's word.

it is true that in this ancient world, the category of woman was fraught, and sexual difference itself a leaky signifier. patrilineality prevailed and violence was done unto and across the feminine body. but this god does not watch idly as it happens. this god won't let us colonize the text with our frameworks, even and including those of sex. this god is dis-membered just as the non-con of judges 19 is. this god loses her children to sacrifice. this god is a sacrifice—a young female one. but 'female' isn't right here, is it, because this god creates in (or, indeed, gives-birth through) a rubric of difference that elides two-sexes. this god's breasts pang after a still-birth. this god is barren and lamenting it. this god is dying in the wilderness with her sisters, with you

[themichiferqueen]

Do you have to do your cumming to figures of closed/extinct cultures?

I don't have to anything I don't want to, just like you don't have to read my content if it makes you uncomfortable. Having said that, you raise a valid concern about closed/extinct cultures so let me do my best to address this. Firstly, everything I write is using The Bible as its primary reference. ALWAYS. And The Bible is primarily Christian in nature, especially when referring to the New Testament. Therefore, I cannot be borrowing from a 'closed' culture if Christianity is widespread and very much open.

Now, I'll take a wild guess and assume you primarily mean my usage of Yahweh in particular. I understand that Yahweh has major significance in Judaism and that is a practice that I, an American goyim, have no business meddling in. I won't argue with you about this, I am in full agreement.

Having said that, anytime I write about Yahweh in particular, I'm referring to the deity that existed in the Levant pantheon PRIOR to His emergence as G-d in the traditional sense of the word. Since The Bible originated off of the Torah, there isn't really separating the Old Testament from the New Testament when it comes to dealing with Yahweh as an entity as I study it from a primarily Christian lens. He is very much a presence all throughout the entire Bible from beginning to end, even if the way He is referred to changes as a result of post-Jesus prophets adding their interpretations to the New Testament.

And if you're skeptical about that, sure, I understand. But Yahweh was a god on a pantheon like any other before His ascension and therefore the interpretation I cast for Him is through the historical lens of His emergence. Both are completely possible because there are also occultists who practice Yahwehism, which again is a totally different concept then the traditional G-d (YHWH) we are referring to in Judaism.

In addition, I do my best to research what I'm writing about before I just post it on the internet. Here's a few of my sources discussing Yahweh in particular before He was seen as G-d:

"God: An Anatomy" by Francesca Stavrakopoulou

"Where God Was Born" by Bruce Feiler

"Reading the Old Testament: An Introduction" by Laurence Boadt

"Monotheism and Yahweh's Appropriation of Ba'al" by James Anderson

Now, you also proposed 'extinct' cultures which confuses me. Do you mean to tell me that the version of Ba'al Hadad from Mesopotamian culture is extinct? I suppose it is - the Ugaritic texts were written 3,000 years ago by a civilization that no longer exists as we understand it today. Having said THAT, there is also Ba'al the demonic entity that most demonolators understand to be one of Lucifer's Chief Princes of Hell, an entity that shares its roots with Ba'al Hadad despite the divorcing of his once godly status. Will you then proceed to accuse them of 'cumming' to an extinct culture?

Really, if there's one thing you take away from my rant, please take this: I'm trying to understand how our modern understanding of God came to be and Yahweh is the closest vehicle to express it based on my current historical knowledge. I do not, will not, and cannot ever speak to a religion I do not practice and never have I pretended to. I do my best to imbue my characters with the culture(s) through which they originated but I'm not the authority on this. I write for fun and entertainment purposes. Again (and I cannot emphasize this enough), the Bible itself is primarily Christian in nature which is NOT closed, and any interpretation I add on top of it is my effort to get to the historical roots of where such a concept came from. I know I write a lot of kinky, erotic nonsense but I also make it my best effort to do culturally accurate representations so that these beings feel like real concepts, not just caricatures.

And one last time, if you hate seeing me pop up in the tag, block me. The block button is free, I've been here for almost two years, and you clearly know who I am. I appreciate you at least engaging with me on this because I can see where your concern comes in, but I hope this illuminates my approach and why I do not agree with your assessment at the end of the day.

(Also, if you got beef with it, I'm not the first person who's done this shit. Check this person out who's done their research on Yahweh and Ba'al over here.)

[knight-of-redemption]

Stillness, the Sublimation of Shadow - AU scenario

The atmosphere was somber, as the blonde boy known as Thoma was beign held captive by the Tenryou commission, and he was restrained at the statue of the omnipresent god's feet, since his vision would be added to the ones captured by the shogun.

Raiden stood on the edge of the walkway sorrounding the statue, and used her power to attract the vision towards her, but it stopped midair, soon it was revealed that its beign held by a foreigner clad in bronze armor. A man from another world who arrived to Inazuma just weeks before.

" You may be the leader of this nation. But that doesn't give you right to take what is not yours "

" You.... are different, an anomaly. An enemy of eternity "

" Eternity? I don't care about it, and those who wish to become eternal are foolish. Death is equal, for all of us "

" How dare..."

His words offended the shogun, who quickly used her power to teleport them both into an arena, a strange place where only the clad warrior and the shogun stood.

" I don't know what kind of trick you just used. But you are not the first tirant I have defeated, and even if today I shall meet my end, I will take you with me! "

Raiden casted her sword, Musou no Hitotachi, and Thel ignited his Prophets Bane. While it was an unique weapon, the shogun didn't mind it for long as she began the assault. However, what she expected to be a quick and effortless battle, soon turned to be a challenge because every time she tried to strike the foreign warrior, he just evaded her; trying to strike her in return but Raiden quickly dashed away. Thel on his part turned invisible for moments then tried to land hits on the shogun, but she was very fast. Even when she tried to dash several times before attacking, the stranger always knew when she would try to hit him; neither of them could hit the other and the frustration of Raiden grew with every attack she missed, thinking it was enough she casted her most powerful attack to get rid of the armored warrior, but after the lightning landed on him.... Raiden was stunned to see him, still on his feet as if the attack did nothing. He felt the impact, but the only visible change were yellow sparks seen across his armor that after a few seconds faded.

" No one before.... have stood after the lightning's judgement "

" You will find that I am harder to take down than your previous oponents. And to be honest, you are not the first one who tried to take me down, yet here I am "

" You certainly are different... but I don't have time to lose with worthless battles. "

Raiden teleported them back to where everything began, all the people and the Tenryou guards shocked to see Thel intact after their battle.

" The prisoner is free to leave for now. Is only matter of time his vision will be confiscated, as for you foreign warrior ... this is not over "

" I was hoping you would say that... one way of another, our paths will cross again, you can count on it "

Thel helped Thoma to stand on his feet and the two walked away, and Raiden watched the two dissapear on the city while one question remained on her mind.

" Just what are you? "

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

Obligatory @multiverseofmisfits tag

[madamlaydebug]

So what is this 144,000? Who are they? I don’t actually think there’s a single answer to this but I do believe I’ve found one of them. Since the Bible, and the book of the Unveiling especially, speaks in symbol and allegory it’s only fair to say there are many possibilities to it’s real meaning. I’d say that the orthodox “understanding” of the book is the one that’s most incorrect. We’ll get into more of that later.

So let’s get to it. Most folks have heard of Chakras. If you haven’t, I strongly encourage you to do some homework. They’re basically where the universal life force energy plugs into your body. Whirling vortices of energy at specific vibrations are channeled into your vital systems via these nerve centers. When there’s a blockage, disease manifests. It’s really fascinating stuff. Anyway, these energy centers are represented by different stages of the lotus flower, which is itself a symbol of purity of the body. Here are the chakras and their corresponding lotus blossoms:

Making reference to the 144000 sealed men whose speaks in the Revelation (Apocalypse), this number is that of the election, 12, carried to its paroxysm: 12 x 12 x 1000, where 1000 is a coefficient of the immensity. In others words, this number indicates that all the elects, without exception, are kept under the protection of God.

Bible

Number of sealed or elected of all the tribes of Israel, marked of the seal of God. (Rv 7,1)

General

The 144000 petals of the main chakra or coronal (located to the summit of the cranium) represent the 144000 rays of light originated from all the seven chakras, or centers of energy of the body, deployed and balanced, or again the 144000 vibrations of the divine Creation which travel in the cosmos and that are source of life.

In the Gospel of Barnabe, chapter 17, it is written: "144000 prophets that God sent to the world, have spoken obscurely; but after me will come the splendor of all prophets and saint; he will illuminate the darkness of whole what have told the prophets, because it is the messenger of God". Some have seen in this passage an allusion to Muhammad, "The Seal of prophets" (Koran XXX, 40).

When we add the number of petals of the five inferior psychic centers, we obtain a total of 48 petals. By adding 96 petals of the frontal center (the place of the third eye where the small number must receive its divine mark), we obtain the number 144, symbol of the perfect and expressed spiritual work, that is to say of the marriage between the soul and the personality. If now we multiply 144 by the thousand petals of the coronal center, we obtain 144000, the number of the elects, who will be all these that will have waked up in them the seven stars or spiritual and psychic centers.

John Phaure advances two mathematics divisions which, according to him, are very revealing. As numbers he uses the 144000 servants of God "marked to the front", the number of the Beast, 666 and 216, a fundamental cyclic and cabalistic number (tenth of the one Era: 2160 / 10) that he interprets as one of figures of the Christ:

144 000 / 216 = 666 with a rest of 144

144 000 / 666 = 216 with a rest of 144

These results express according to him that the 144000 "marked" as servants of God before the advent the Antichrist are here the object of the eschatologic combat between the Christ and his Adversary. From this combat leaves "the rest": 144, those who will be the Elects of the celestial Jerusalem". He points out moreover than 666 + 144 = 810, numerical value of the Greek word Parakletos, the Paraclete. Thus the Holy Spirit espressed at the end of time "will be the 'glorificater' of the Creation".

By using the pyramidal inch, the external volume of the tomb of the Room of the King in the Great Pyramid gives 144000 cubic inches. The pyramidal inch measures 25.303 mm. By using this unit of measure, the pyramid would have a height of 5800 inches and a volume of 160 billion cubic inches, giving all numbers without decimal.

The external recovery of the Great Pyramid would be made of 144000 stones.

Occurrence

The number 144000 is used 3 times in the Bible.

-Thank you Paul

[goroaix]

Heavenly rains submerge: the heart wilts

Lee Hoseok x Fem Reader x Lee Ten

Superhero/abilities AU. Angst and slowburn with a happy ending

Explicit gore and depictions of violence; dementia mention; self endangerment

23k as of chapter 1/3

『 One might argue that there is little difference between a hero and a civilian: bravery, hubris, perhaps loyalty. Could a Ren breathe in this foul odour, tolerate how his words - once prophetic - were now nothing more than heresay? Could a civilian listen to inaudible whispers, feel the sting of his teeth breaking skin? Did it really matter when it all bled into one? 』

A two for one deal on broccoli, or another pack of prime rib?

This was the decision currently plaguing Hoseok’s mind as he stood in the middle of the fresh meat aisle, eyes glossing over the red cuts of beef that lay on the shelf in neat patterns - the dates and times letting him know that they had been stocked less than an hour ago.

Ugh.

If he bought the broccoli, he’d be getting his vitamins in, as well as his five a day. Yet his gaze wandered back to the pristine cuts. They were lean, the fat cap minimal and it was the perfect size to last a few dinners.

Pick me, it called.

Choose me, it begged.

Love m-

“Are you okay?”

Hoseok turned his head, ears quickly becoming warm as he cleared his throat into his fist. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at his own mundane musings. “I’m fine. You?”

“You’re staring at the beef,” his friend said, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly as she regarded him. “In a way that’s not normal.” She added.

“Is there a normal way to stare at beef?” Came Hoseok’s quick rebuttal but, of course, he was no match for her.

“Yes, and you’re not doing that. It seems like lust.”

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. It’s like she purposely found the most outrageous thing to say even in the most normal of situations. How could someone look at beef with lust of all things?

The scoff that escaped him came from deep within his chest, punctuated by his arms crossing over his chest. “Should you be saying these things to a customer?”

“Depends,” she replied, tapping her name tag out of habit and he read it despite himself - counting out each syllable in his head, “does the customer want discounted sirloin?”

Now she was talking, and it wasn’t nonsense for once. “You have some? I was looking earlier and I couldn’t find anything.”

Her smile was coy, not quite at its full potential but he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Not in plain sight. You know that Seojun guy?”

“The one who drank your peach tea?” Hoseok asked, vaguely recalling this name and character from one of her abundant stories about her coworkers.

“Yeah. Him”-she looked around for a moment- “he hid some to take to his family when his shift was over. But fuck those kids, you know? They don’t need three sirloins, especially not when their daddy is a thief.”

“...Right.” No matter how hard he tried to school his expression into something serious, he just couldn’t. “How much is it?

“You’re not going to tell me how immoral that is?”

“He was immoral first. Two sirloins is enough to feed the family.”

Her smile widened and held up her finger, motioning him to wait before she disappeare around a corner that was definitely not in the meat aisle. Had Seojun hidden it in another freezer section? What a cheeky man! He thought.

For a few minutes, he was left to stand there with one hand on the shopping trolley and the other on his hip. This store was one he visited frequently because of how close it was to his place, and also that he could weasel his way into various discounts using his friend’s employee status. It was also big enough that he never needed to go anywhere else after. He was all too familiar with the plain white walls and different aisles.

Then, she came back with a deliciously large slab of meat and a pretty yellow sticker that said exactly what he needed it to: reduced.

“Here you go.”

It was handed over, cradled in Hoseok’s arms before he set it down tenderly into the trolley with her watching his every move. “Thank you. I was stuck between broccoli or more meat.”

“No problem, but, um, why not just get both? The broccoli has a deal on.”

“I want to stay on budget,” he replied, shrugging and she suddenly laughed, confusing him. “What’s funny?”

“The budget fits two cuts of beef but not broccoli?”

The red on his ears returned tenfold. “I have vegetables at home.”

“Mm. That's what they all say.”

“Don’t you have a job to do?” Hoseok asked, tempted to push his trolley towards her and see if he could run it over her croc's covered feet. He decided against it. “One that doesn’t involve judging my shopping?”

“No, actually. This is customer service.” She moved to the shelves, picking up an item that was in the wrong place and moving it over. “Come here, it makes it look like I’m helping you with something.”

Hoseok obliged - but not without an eyeroll.

“How much protein do you have in a day?”

“Around 200-300g depending on the day, why? You interested in building muscle?"

“Kind of. I think my days of eating pudding for breakfast are over,” she mused, looking at the gravy sachet in her hand before putting it away.

The constant background noise of the freezers filled the air, humming quietly behind them as an elderly woman shuffled past them in the aisles. For a moment, she peered at both of them before turning away to examine the poultry. “Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little sweet treat in the morning. You look pretty healthy as you are, anyway.”

“Maybe right now, but I don’t think my arteries will thank me for it in the future.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “you’re right. If you need any help with a meal plan, just let me know and I’ll help you out.”

At this, she smiled, a hand moving to the end of the trolly with her fingers wrapping around the metal hatching. “I’d ask for your workout routine, but I think I’d collapse from heart failure.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Your bicep is the size of a newborn. But, yeah, if it’s not too much trouble?”

Even if it was a little bit of trouble, Hoseok would have readily and willingly drafted out a fitness plan for her - if she asked, of course.

She let go of the trolley. “Okay, I need to go now. I can feel my manager getting pissed at me for taking too long. I’ll talk to you later?”

He nodded. “We’ll talk later. When do you finish?”

“In 5 hours. I started an hour ago.”

“They reduced your hours again?”

This time, her expression was more like a grimace than anything humorous, her nod stilted and rather annoyed. Don’t ask me about it right now, it said, and Hoseok was wise enough to heed that warning.

“Okay, bye.” He nodded his head, reversing out of the aisle with his tolley.

“Bye bye.”

And, just as he left the aisle, he saw someone approaching her, their head of shaggy black hair glistening under the phospholorescent lights and their voices falling just short of his ears.

Hoseok turned away, ready to pay for his items and get out of there.

Read the rest on AO3

[ananke-xiii]

Missing Mothers and Missed Opportunities

Or: There can be three, four fathers in this show but there can only be one mother (and she doesn’t even want to be there, lol)!

One way that I like to see the first episodes of s13 is focusing on missed opportunities. Sam’s mind is in the past, he is very much ruminating about his missed opportunity with his mother while Dean’s mind is in the future as he is trying to deal with the fact that Cas is dead (although, to be honest, I think Cas’s death is a catalyst for Dean's much deeper issues related to his identity. As I’ve already said, in s12 Dean was in the process of understanding who he was regardless of his relationships and while he had some sort of reconciliation with Mary, he didn’t have any with Cas).

It’s no wonder, then, that Sam thinks that Cas and Mary might still be alive while Dean doesn’t. In Supernatural the past can come back and if it’s come back once why can’t it come back again? Past is hope. The future, however, is always “doom and gloom” in this series, it’s apocalypses, it’s “it ends bad, it ends bloody”, it is, in other words, super pessimistic. And “The Future” is impersonated in Jack and in the visions of the future he transmitted to Castiel which Dean blames for his death.

Sam is smart but it doesn’t take a genius to understand that if Jack has opened the rift once he might be able to open it again. Therefore, Sam sees in Jack an opportunity: if Jack can control and manage his powers he might open the rift again and Sam could get his mother back. What’s more, he also starts to see (what he thinks he’s) himself in Jack.

Dean: I told him the truth. See, you think you can use this freak but I know how this ends and it ends bad. Sam: I didn’t. Dean: What? Sam: I didn’t ‘end bad’. When I was the freak, when I was drinking demon blood. Dean: Come on man, that’s totally different. Sam: Was it? Because you could’ve put a bullet in me. Dad told you to put a bullet in me, but you didn’t! You saved me! So help me save him! Dean: You deserved to be saved, he doesn’t! Sam: Yes he does, Dean, of course he does!

The “What?” shows how the two are talking about completely different things. Maybe it was the word “freak” that triggered Sam, however I tend to agree with Dean here: Sam and Jack are not “totally different” but they are different. What I disagree with is when Dean says that Jack doesn’t deserve to be saved (Dean, Dean, Dean… you, just like everybody else, don’t need to “de-serve” anything. I swear to God the day we realize what the words we use actually mean maybe the world will really start changing). Because the thing is that Jack doesn’t need to be saved. He’s not a human who drank demon blood for what he thought was “the greater good” but turned out to be the beginning of his end. He was not part of a gigantic, messy, blatant scam involving Heaven and Hell. Jack’s partially the result of both Lucifer’s delusions of grandeur regarding Creation and Kelly’s conservative and dreamy desire to have a baby with the President of the USA (he was never gonna put any ring on it, girl and you knew it. Btw, Kelly is the baby-trapper in this story and no one else, I won’t change my mind ever), but he is nevertheless one of the most powerful beings in all existence. I honestly think that the only character who has ever understood Jack was Donatello.

Donatello: Oh. Speaking not as a prophet but as a scientist, I don’t think teaching him is in the cards. It’s like asking a lion not to be a lion. Sam: But this is not a lion! This is a human! Donatello: With a strong dose of God juice.

It’s not a strong dose of demon blood, Sam. It’s God juice, okay? LOL. Anyway, Donatello is super on point here: Jack is human and not-human. He’s a living aporia, the character where all the false dichotomies of the series show their fallacies. He’s “both… and” incarnated. He’s born and he’s already in his 20s. He’s a child and he’s a not-child. He has an age and he’s without age. Nobody will ever come close to understanding him if they cling close to a “black or white, good or evil” mentality. And this is why the show totally failed (for me) in s14 and how Sam is also failing here because he projects his own (respectable and very real) Lucifer-related issues with evilness onto Jack. Jack is beyond “good and evil” because he’s both human and angel, he embodies two different moralities and also transcends both of them because he’s neither only human nor only angel. To sum up, I don’t think that Supernatural, with its structure and its specific morality, could have handled a character like Jack. And this is why the show has to de-power him, de-soul him, make him die and resurrect etc.

Back to Sam and his failings. He projects his own stuff onto Jack, he wants to use him as a “can-opener”, he thinks Jack can be saved from “evil” because he can teach him. My question is: how much can Sam be negatively judged for these actions? My answer is: not so much.

As far as projections go, this is what he’s been doing from S1. Per SPN structure, both Sam and Dean have been projecting and identifying their issues onto the monsters of the weeks for 15 seasons. Jack is just the “Monster of the Season”. Projection and identification, identification and projection… I mean, this is what the show is about. If all of sudden Sam had woken up and miraculously solved all his identity-related issues the show would have been over.

As far as the utilitarian aspect goes, Sam has actually made some progress here. He “only” surveils Jack via cameras and tries to convince him to do some stupid exercises with a pencil. Previously on Supernatural Sam had literally enslaved, chained and imprisoned the people/creatures he wanted to use. These kids, they grow up so fast :”).

As far as the “do no evil” teaching goes, now here’s what’s really interesting to me.

The episode is “The Rising Son” and Sam’s passionate plea for Jack’s goodness via his teachings is paralleled to Asmodeus’s attempt at locating Jack in order to find him and harness his “timeless knowledge and unschooled power”. Asmodeus acts like Lucifer acted with Sam in S11 in that he pushes Jack to open up the earth “for God” (“I speak the words of God”, “God has a message for you”, “Do it for God” etc). Since Lucifer’s not here, though, Asmodeus wants to “[have]him (Jack) found and trained to rule. With me as his humble advisor, of course”. Of course we know he will fail because he himself says that he had tried to train the Shedim in the past and utterly failed.

ASMODEUS: I know the perils of Lucifer’s disappointment. DREXEL: He—he did that? ASMODEUS: Long ago. Eager to please, I freed the shedim. DREXEL: You… Oh, I’ve heard stories about— ASMODEUS: Oh, I’m sure you have. Hell’s most savage. Things so dark, and base, God himself would not allow them into the light. But I, in my pride, believed that I could train them. Use them. But Lucifer feared them, as well he should, so he forbade it, locked them up again.

This, of course, means that Sam will fail to train Jack/the Shedim too.

The parallel between Asmodeus and Sam must be explored because the show seems to pass it as an Evil (Asmodeus) vs Good (Sam) training but it’s not as simple as that. There’s even a scene where Asmodeus-as-Donatello talks about Jack with Sam and he seems to agree with Sam’s theory that Jack can be molded. While Sam thinks so because “Kelly was a good person”, Asmodeus-as-Donatello is obviously more interested in his evil father’s lineage.

While it’s true that both of them don’t even consider to give Jack a choice, to ask him questions and to try to understand him, they’re not exactly wrong when they agree that Jack’s powers do need some training, regardless of why they’re interested in his powers, Jack doesn’t have a grip on how his powers work. The show insistence on “good vs evil", however, completely ignores the very valid point where Jack’s powers are simply neither good or evil per se but they are “only” a(nother) force to be reckoned with.

This “good vs evil” thing obscures something very important and I think a distinction must be made here about what "training" really means in this context: Sam wants Jack to learn to master his powers, so that he (Jack) can be in control of them; on the other hand, Asmodeus wants to exploit Jack because of his powers, he wants to be the one who’s in control of them.

Both Sam and Asmodeus have an agenda, clearly, they’re also two characters very much interested in power. But when Asmodeus says that he wants to train Jack what he really has in mind is to groom him. Asmodeus’ techniques are very similar to Crowley’s with baby Amara and Demon Dean (I know Dean was not a child but he was one metaphorically because Crowley calls himself “Father” and “daddy” while he calls Dean “a rather scrumptious altar boy”. Ugh). These are predators’ techniques: their intent is to create intimacy with a person (for instance, Asmodeus takes on Donatello’s resemblance to lure Jack and take him to the Hell’s Gate), usually a child, to make them do what they want and abuse their victims, victims who usually don’t even realize they’re victims (Jack doesn’t know he’s being manipulated).

This is NOT what Sam means when he says he can teach Jack. Sam’s utilitarian mindset can be reproachable but his intent is not the same as Asmodeus. Sure, it’s still absolutely problematic but, again, his intent is not to open up the earth to release the Shedim and use Jack to rule Hell. He wants to open the rift to the Apocalypse World to find his mother. He is, in other words, being a softer version of John Winchester. In fact, he is replicating John’s methods because this is what he grew up with and this is what he knows. Avenging Mary’s death, finding Mary in the AU… even if the intent might be comprehensible it doesn’t justify both John and Sam’s attitude towards the reaching of their ends. Yet, their ways are still not the same ways of a Crowley or an Asmodeus.

The other thing is that John was Sam’s father. He was father to two human children whom he raised as if their childhood was a huge, endless military training. Training someone, as a concept, is not evil: if you have a skill or a talent or whatever, you need to train and learn and explore your limits. Having someone who believes in you and wants to help you in your training is not evil too: in fact, it might be a very good thing. It’s a problematic thing, however, when your caregiver is more focused on the training than the care. It’s even more problematic if said caregiver is a paranoid who raised his sons as soldiers. But this is still NOT the same thing as demons such as Crowley and Asmodeus do.

The differences in "training" and what Sam fails to understand about what happened with Asmodeus is explained in "Patience":

SAM: Even with Asmodeus, that just happened?

JACK: No, he made me. It was like, like he was in my head.

SAM: Okay um, then uh… Imagine him doing that.

JACK: No!

SAM: No? Why not?

JACK: Because I don’t want to! It’s just… I can’t do this! And you keep staring at me, waiting!

Asmodeus made Jack use his powers, he was in his head. He had also abducted him, manipulated him: he wasn't trying to train him, he was trying to groom him. Of course Jack doesn't want that.

If Sam is replicating his father's teachings we must then ask: who is Jack to Sam in this moment in the narrative? He’s definitely not his son nor his sibling. But he's not someone Sam keeps in locks either. As I’ve said, Sam has never been above imprisoning people in his dungeon to reach his goal, yet he takes another road with Jack, maybe precisely because he’s identifying with him and projecting onto him his own fears and issues with “being evil” and “being a freak”. There is something very similar between the two but what is it? And why is it not expressed? Maybe Sam is not Jack the way he thinks he is but they do share one thing: they have both missed the opportunity to create a bond with their respective mothers.

Sam only really utterly fails Jack when he’s dishonest with him. He eventually understands that and comes clean with him but I think that a lot of the initial issues happened because he was not communicating with Jack at all. And he didn’t even give him a choice. I think that if Sam were honest with Jack and gave him the choice to help him he would have discovered another thing that make them veeeery similar: both of them are okay with twisting human morality and… sort of… manipulate people a little to get what they want. Does this make them evil villains? To me, no. Does this make them human, layered, compelling characters that raise interesting moral questions more than give black and white answers? Totally yes!

Sam and Jack are not “totally different” but they are different. Conversely, they are not “totally similar” but they are similar. The Rescuing of the Mother can happen because The Loss of the Mother is something that Jack can deeply understand and relate to. He doesn’t want to save Mary just to please Sam and Dean. I think it’s deeper than that.

In case it wasn't clear, the conflation of Mary and Kelly is very clear in "The Big Empty":

MIA: You’ve lost someone recently? DEAN: No. JACK: My mother. SAM: Uh, our mother. We’ve having a difficult time.

Mary-as-Missed/Missing-Mother is such a central theme in this season that the Apocalypse World is a literal ramification of the Original World that's solely dependent on Mary Winchester’s choice to not deal with Azazel. John is never brought back and, more importantly, Sam and Dean are never born. This is a world where she’s not the mother. But why is Mary’s choice so vital it can create different timelines?

S12 and S13 implicitly seem to tell that everything that happened was because of Mary’s choice and… it’s, like, not true? Sometimes Sam and Dean are so ultra-focused on “free will” and “making the right choices” that tend to forget the part where both them and their parents were part of a larger scheme that was predicated on people ultimately being herd towards a designed pen. Like, while I think that Dean and Sam having issues with their mother is completely real and plausible, I don’t understand why the narrative re-frames itself in this way… I understand that they were going for a specific retelling of the first seasons but this is not just retelling, this is demolishing the premises of those series. S4-5 were precisely about the mystification and the perils of a glorified, Grand Destiny that in reality was nothing but a Big Scam. It’s not your destiny if your destiny is something that somebody else is telling you about and when this somebody else has a vested interest in you believing that you have that specific destiny. Or if somebody else is removing all of your choices leaving you with close to nothing to choose from.

Apocalypse World is, thus, such an unfair double-edged sword, cause on the one hand, it gives Mary agency but on the other it shows us that both choices resulted in… well, frankly, catastrophes. And I think it’s unfair to throw this huge weight onto her shoulders after they had dug her up from her grave while completely ignoring the whole thing about senior management angels playing puppeteers with the Winchesters.

Kelly-as-Missed/Missing-Mother is the other side of the coin of this little argument of mine because in s13 the writers demonstrated how Kelly must stay dead because one mother is enough and they didn’t know what to make of Kelly since she was not a hunter. She was just, as a character, Jack’s mother. The rift to the Apocalypse World was even possible in the first place because she (more or less, it’s complicated) decided that she would.have.her.baby. But, just like Mary before her resurrection, if his actual mother were back in the game it either meant that Jack was out of the game or that they had to include her in some capacity into the Winchesters dynamics and they didn’t want any of that. Mary’s death meant that Sam and Dean entered the hunters’ life, Kelly’s death assures the same for Jack. Plus, they all have an angel watching over them, isn't it just great? But hey, wait, this is the absent fathers show so we’re gonna give this kid three, four, five fathers!!! (sarcastic). Also, Alive Kelly wouldn’t be the Good, Perfect, Dead Mother that she is to Jack because, well, she would be a Real Character, not a memory on a pen drive and Alive Kelly would be so faaaar from the Good and Perfect Mother. Do we have to try to write another complex mother? One is enough!!! (sarcastic).

In conclusion, in s13 Sam’s (and Jack’s) huge missed opportunity stays… missing. Jack will go to the Apocalypse World and fight the angels with Mary whereas Mary decides to stay there (lol!) to help with the fight. They literally have to find a bus and move all the remaining AU people to the Original World because Mary has decided that she wanted to stay in a world where she didn’t choose John and she didn’t give birth to her sons (me asking Sam who has just died and was resurrected by Lucifer only to find out that his mother didn’t want to be saved: are you REALLY okay? LOL). I’ll stop here cause this is getting way too long but maybe, just maybe, s13 as a whole was a giant missed opportunity.

[starmanpromoter]

2001: A Space Odyssey - Full Breakdown

This is it. 2001: A Space Odyssey, the movie that changed movies in the Anglosphere forever. A movie that shows the evolution of the medium itself, and shows what the medium can do.

The Ultimate Trip: A Breakdown and review as I (re-)watch

Welcome to my 6000-word breakdown of the entire movie. This is one of my favourite films of all time, and the film that got me into cinema in general, so this has a special place in my heart. Many rewatches later....I want to articulate words about this wonderful film.

I haven't read the books, so this will be about how -I- think about the film! Read on under the cut...

Intro (OVERTURE)

Two minutes of blackness. With some creepy music courtesy of Gyorgy Ligeti. This is an overture, akin to a night at the opera. While this might sound unnecessary to many audiences watching it on TV, laptops, and phones, this tells you about one of the experiences you will be getting in 2001.

Unsettling, but that is what space is. They are preparing us for an odyssey in an unsettling wide space. It is an entracte, so 2001 truly is a theatrical production.

Now it's a sunrise. Also Sprach Zarathustra, a composition about the ubermensch Zarathustra. The sun rises above, a neat parallel to Zarathustra's rise over humanity. The sun, in a sense, is God, showcasing His creation.

The dramatic part of the music being preserved during “A STANLEY KUBRICK PRODUCTION” often gets interpreted as display of ego. But however knowing that science fiction wasn't a genre to be proud of at the time, this part in the intro is meant to be a joke, with the joke being that this is a movie that is proud to present itself as a science fiction movie ('Stanley Kubrick Production' is literally the name of one of the listed production companies of this film). You are supposed to laugh at it.

Dawn of Man

The beginning of mankind. The monkeys fight eachother over a puddle of water, signifying that we as humans weren't so different as monkeys when it comes to right to own things. In a sense, these monkeys are displaying traits that we humans still have.

And it came. A black slab —— the Monolith, that was not there, standing still, accompanied with Ligeti's music. And here in this scene we see the monkeys coddling into it, holding it with their hands. Curiosity, it's a natural trait in every single living being.

When confronted with something we never knew, it is in our instinct to touch it, feel it —— to understand it. The monkeys are trying to understand what it is.

Very soon we see one of the monkeys cracking bones, interspersed with cuts of a tapir being beaten up. They have discovered means of violence. This realization gets played clearer so soon after it where they once again, fight in the same puddle of water —– now with weapons.

The fact this happened after the appearance of the Monolith suggests something sinister —– the Monolith is a 'prophet', or a 'God', enlightening the monkeys (essentially its' followers/worshippers) on the act of violence.

A bone gets thrown. It turns into a spaceship. It is evolution of human history.

The future begins.

The Blue Danube

This is it. A vision of a future from 1968. A Pan-Am (how ironic) star-liner heading to a space station. With only few passengers on board, there are minimal amount of gravity, and things float.

The music is The Blue Danube, a romantic waltz from the 18th century. To use that piece of music to show the future only shows romanticized optimism that humanity can do wonderful things. The usage also turns the sequence into a ballet performance.

Somehow, this is reminiscent of dancing sequences from glorious Old Hollywood Musicals, with the stewardess's movements, she looks like she is dancing to the music.

This is a ballet in film form. A space-age ballet performed by spaceships. Something you would see in Royal Opera House on a special night. The Stewardess —– the only human being performing the ballet —– is dancing to the Blue Danube, and she is walking in a similar manner to a baby, learning to walk. The circular space station rotates like a ballet dancer spinning graciously while the star-liner quietly 'dances' with small pointe into it.

All the spacecraft, LED computers, and technology looked sci-fi for 1968 audiences, but a lot of them have become reality, and in addition, aged well. This is not so much 'science fiction' —– it is 'science eventuality', as in this is a vision of something we will see in our lifetimes.

This is a continuation of the 'Evolution' theme. Mankind walked the Earth, and now attempts to walk in space. There is a feeling of grandeur, and wonder that is ever-present here, contrasting with the violence of the previous sequence.

The spacecraft, space stations, all beautifully dancing to the Blue Danube. The release year being 1968 brings a poignancy that this is the bridge between Old Hollywood (1945-1967) and the era of Walt Disney with New Hollywood (1967-1980). The epic aspirations of Old Hollywood and the magic of Walt Disney, but with the messaging and 'agenda' of changing times of New Hollywood.

Evolution of cinema. That alone gives this sequence a great impression and awe. Incredible all around. This must've blown the minds of people in 1968, and I can understand why. It doesn't even look like a movie from 1968 (1966-67 if you follow the production history)—– it looked like it was made in 1988.

The slowness in this sequence isn't a problem. After all, it is a ballet. In actuality, not much is actually happening in this sequence, it's just a spacecraft docking, but Kubrick, Douglas Trumbull, Fred Ordway, and Harry Lange (along with their NASA advisors, they need to be credited too) took this opportunity to showcases the best of visual effects and concept art in 1968.

Simply put, it is magic. The beautiful visuals and music are nothing short of feast for the senses.

Dr. Floyd's Mission

We have arrived into the space station, along with the first spoken line in the movie, 25 minutes in. We immediately see a short immigration process, it looks way easier than real immigration processes.

The process to go to space is now as easy as getting a flight, which makes the depiction of interstellar travel in this movie quite optimistic than our bleak reality of space travel dominated by greedy assholes. Of course, corporate presence is still present —– Pan Am is the spacecraft, Howard-Johnson has an 'Earthlight Room', and Hilton seems to be providing the goods of space hotels. But compared to our reality, their presence felt like bystanders instead of chokeholds as their presence doesn't even felt like product placement. Undoubtedly, I am sure that Kubrick and Clarke would have been sad to learn the reality of planned commercial interstellar travel today.

Just like the the star-liner sequence before it, the design of the space station aged well with its' pristine white interiors and bright lights. Even in 2023, there are still places that looked like it. And now the 1960s are coming back in trend on interior designs.

The whiteness of the room is contrasted with obviously sixties-looking red chairs. However, the chairs has a timeless quality that it also looks futuristic at the same time, as these style of interior design is still popular to this day. This is a running theme in 2001's art and production design. It is obviously a product of 1960s NASA handworks, but it's practical enough to keep it relevant and futuristic.

Floyd then calls his daughter using a pay phone, and this is where 2001 shows its' age. As we all know, we have smartphones, but his daughter's lines (“I want a telephone” / “We have lots of telephones already”) suggests that she has a phone while Dr. Floyd does not.

Predicting generations after Gen Z being children raised by smartphones at early age? The generational gap between 'kids these days on their phones' and their older parents as perceived from the older parents? Of course not. Kubrick and Clarke definitely did not consider all that, but it is a strange prophetic moment.

The interaction between the American Floyd and the Russian scientists felt like a statement in 1968, that in the future, none of the cold war reality will be carried into outer space. To see them interact professionally without antagonization is a dream that we sadly still dream of today. But it also shows what artists of the time really wanted for humanity —– to just stop fighting and invent tools together.

A poignant hopeful message to be made in 1968, especially since 2001 was made right after the bleak, nihilistic Dr. Strangelove (1964). And then this is where the story starts. Floyd is heading to the moon, there is a strange signal coming from it. But it's been closed off, with Floyd's curiosity taking over him. This in a sense, is a showcase on how humans will interact in the future —– not so different than in present, only that the year number is different.

We see another star-liner sequence, now heading to the moon. A trip to the moon, it seems. Just like the previous star-liner sequence, it's also a ballet, while showcasing one of the many 'Movie Magic' moments of 2001, namely, the zero gravity effects, space-walk, the realistic-looking moon, and the elegant and graceful landing.

To create this before the moon landing must've been a difficult challenge, but the production team did it beautifully, and the results are mind-blowing, even though they got some of the physics wrong (No, landing on the moon will not produce dust! And also, moon gravity does not work like that).

And now the mystery unfolds itself. They head to a crater in Moon, while talking over space foods. Typical.

And then it appears again. The Monolith, now causing a ruckus on moon. There's an interesting switch in camerawork as Floyd and his squad descends into the monolith, as the previously calculated camerawork suddenly shifts into handheld.

It looks like they are eager to learn what is it in front of them. Just like the monkeys, Floyd's first instinct is to touch it as a way to understand it. A human being understanding a divine being. Humans in the face of a God in object form.

A buzzing noise blasted on their ears, and the sun rises. Is it transmitting a message, just like in the Dawn of Man sequence? Is it what it sounds like? Immediately, we jump to 18 months later without answers.

Again, just like in the Dawn of Man sequence, we are left with questions instead of answers, and we are also treated with a showcase of evolution. For this entire sequence, it did a good job introducing us to the imagined version of the millennium and the technological feats.

However, the characters are vessels for audiences. The set-up is quite abrupt and a bit sudden, and we're not given enough time to learn more about the motivation of Floyd. This is where curious audiences have to read the book, as intended.

Or was he entranced by the Monolith, compelled to seek and understand the mysterious God-like being? Even then, that is my interpretation.

It is interesting that the Monolith's relationship with humanity (and the monkeys) suggests something: God and Followers. Both sequences shows a God/Follower subtext.

The Jupiter Mission (SCHERZO)

Very abruptly we see a new act. 18 Months later since the trip to the moon, and presumably the year is 2001.

Just like the jump from the bone to the spaceship, this shot is showing evolution. Was the Monolith enlightening humanity to develop space travel that will go far into Jupiter? That is the question in your mind, probably. The ship design is a round thing with a long tail. Interesting design choice, but certainly realistic to real science. Like the ships in the Floyd sequence, it all aged well.

Cut to a man jogging in a cylindrical room, literally running in circles, exercising to Aram Khachaturian. Just like the usage of Blue Danube, it is an optimistic view of humanity's progress. In this sequence, we see one of the most famous instances of 'Movie Magic' —– the man runs through the cylindrical station with no regards to gravity. He runs upside-down to right-side-up. Although he is fiercely exercising, it still feels like a ballet. Again, not much is happening, but much is happening —– he's doing his everyday job.

Then we cut to him having lunch, joined by another astronaut. These two men are quiet, it looks like it's just another routine for them on the mission. An interesting subtle performance that most don't pick up here is how the other astronaut reacts to how hot the space foods he is holding from the oven (kind of like saying “Every single time! Can the oven stop doing this?!” with hand gestures), but it does not phase him that much. It is a sign of professionalism.

They're eating while streaming news on tablets, one thing Kubrick got right, a habit that we would do 40-50 years after 1968. Yet another 'Movie Magic' moment in that it shows something that would only be invented over two decades later. They even look like actual tablets from late-2010s.

The astronauts are very responsible and behaved professionally that you'd be forgiven for thinking that Keir Dullea (Dave Bowman) and Gary Lockwood (Frank Poole) were actually astronauts in real life hired to play themselves, instead of actors playing astronauts. They also look realistic, as they don't wear fancy aluminium/plastic costumes, only practical NASA-grade uniforms.

I can see why Kubrick cast these two, it's in part realism in that real life astronauts are younger people, and he wanted to subvert the tropes of sci-fi characters usually being old scientists with grey hairs. It actually works.

Keir Dullea as Dave Bowman looks like a real scientist (although his model-beautiful face makes him look like as if he's a Bishounen/pretty boy Anime character got brought to life. He's still a 'movie-grade pretty Astronaut'). However, Dave's look directly contradicts genre expectations that science fiction scientists needs to be older greying men or hunky dashing heroes. Dave is a younger looking, restrained, innocent, reserved, quiet, and stoic man with the looks of a pretty boy, akin to someone like Cillian Murphy (specifically him in Oppenheimer) rather than the usual dashing macho face of older Hollywood. Not how one used to picture sci-fi heroes. Interesting that a face like Dave has turned into what sci-fi protagonists look like today, especially after Star Wars and Dune (2021).

Many of the shots of Dave's face made him look like a space-age approximation of Mona Lisa. The striking eyes, the subtle facial expressions --- all there. Dave has a face that looks un-noticeable at first, but strikes your sight for how distinctive he looked. No wonder that the shots of his face under red lighting and screens reflecting on his face became two of the more iconic shots of this film.

Meanwhile, Gary Lockwood as Frank Poole looked like he's plucked straight from an Apollo mission. Astronauts in real life looks like him, even though Frank looks more conventionally 'heroic'. He looks (slightly) muscular and strong, more outspoken, but he looks like a working man from real life. He's a worker in space.

We later see mundane routines for these astronauts. To them, it's a job, and they are expected to be professionals. They might seem to be 'unfeeling', but that's what expected when you're doing your job. In addition, Dave and Frank have known each other for so long, they've probably ran out of things to casually talk about, and it won't matter much in their already-good working relationship. So all they can do is just doing their job as professionals.

And also, they WERE definitely chosen in the mission for their not-emotional reactions to things. Let's face it, space is scary and wonderful (like a fairy tale), and for these astronauts to give low-emotion reactions to space? That's a sign of high-level expertise. Dave and Frank are professionals at their best, and this is what people have missed on when they say that the actors were bland and unemotional. They have emotions (it is subtle), but when your job requires space and zero-gravity, all the unknown, exciting, and scary things about it will be sucked out of you to the point that they just become mundane things in your life. Their jobs also requires them to keep their heads levelled in the face of difficulties, however bad and ridiculous it is.

The acting isn't so much 'acting to give out story to audience' —– it's 'reacting to the plot' through subtle expressions and balletic body language and body motions. Dave and Frank are reacting to the world and story given to them. Keir Dullea and Gary Lockwood did a great job at being convincing realistic astronauts, and my praise is sincere.

It is interesting to see HAL being portrayed as more emotional than the human astronauts. On the outside, it seems that HAL is displaying more emotions than the astronauts (well it's because HAL has no physical body to worry about space!) It may feel uncanny, but these astronauts (Dave, at least) regards him as a crew member like them (as HAL said before, he has a stimulating relationship with Dave and Frank).

Dave's expressions (that cute smile!) as HAL talks about personal things looks like a comforting smile to a friend. These three astronauts know each other so well that Dave's interactions with HAL comes off as two good friends (heh) communicating with each other.

Indeed, Dave and HAL is exhibiting their stimulating relationship with each other. HAL seems to get more human as he interacts with Dave and Frank, but his interactions with the humans suggested that Dave and Frank does not treat him as a mere machine.

And we soon see Dave and Frank do their job outside. There is no music because it is space, space has no sound. This sequence is very slow (again, balletic), but it's to show how it's like in reality to do these things. Being an astronaut isn't that exciting, even though the movie shows us how beautiful space and technology looks. But of course, it's just Dave and Frank's life.

Now the astronauts are back on board. Dave gives a Kubrick stare to HAL (a gesture that he is worried), and we soon see that HAL have made a mistake, but HAL contributes it to human error. He read Dave and Frank's lips, even though they are worried about the mission. Something bad is going to happen, and Dave and Frank are adamant that things are hidden from them.

Dave's expressions shows worry. He knows that HAL is making a mistake, but he worries as if he's a human being making a mistake. This definitely owes to Keir Dullea's distinctive face that makes him looks like that he's going to burst to tears anytime (just look at him in the above image!), but it adds to Dave's character and his relationship with HAL. They're coworkers....friends. One is worried about the other. And he knows that there IS a compromise without killing HAL.

But still...they're left in the dark. So what should they do?

This sequence, overall, is where the focus of 2001 is in. The story, progression, and everything clears up in this sequence. Everything is gradually explained, we see more of the world and setting, things gets explained, and we see a set-up for actual plot. Overall, better than the Floyd sequence and provides a magic of its' own.

Helps that it actually has interesting characters, with HAL 9000 being the most memorable one (and easy on the ears!), though Dave and Frank is also interesting (and easier on the eyes if you ask me).

Also helps that it is less slow than the previous sequence.

(Pictured: The moment where Keir Dullea's beauty fully blooms)

INTERMISSION

Nothing to say here. Only a black screen with more creepy Ligeti music. In a sense, it's setting up for the mood in the next part of the movie.

HAL'S Mutiny

Now it's Frank's turn to walk in space. Immediately, we see our second casualty in the movie (the first was the tapir in Dawn of Man). As I have elaborated before, Dave must act professionally in face of difficulties. He isn't given time to grief and cry over Frank's death, he must take action to handle it. Again, this is the reality for astronauts in real life. Though, thanks to his Kubrick Stares, and twitching lips, it's clear that Dave is in some way, pissed off.

A lot of emotions shown in simple ways.

He even looks down in a way that gives off the impression that he is showing expression of loss. This is where my praises for the acting heightened, it is difficult to do grief and anger with minimal facial emotions. And through eyes and lip movements, the grief and anger are expressed subtly.

More murders soon follow. HAL shows his anger. This is one of the most sadistic murder scenes in history of movies, in a sense. The other astronauts are helpless, they cannot scream, shout, or beg for life. They can only sleep as their sleep becomes an eternal rest, forced upon them as their bodies gradually dies. HAL's eyes now shows emotions of anger, and it's all only a red dot. Incredible how the same shots of a lens can convey different emotions by changing the contexts. This is some visual storytelling, telling the story of an inanimate object's five stages of depression.

HAL does not let Dave go back in, and HAL is clearly mad that Dave and Frank are planning to 'kill' him behind his back as his reason, therefore conflicting with his programming. HAL also sounds irritated that he is being blamed for a mistake that he senses as human error (which is the case --- it's the fault of whoever gave him orders). This is denial, but in a sense, HAL was right, why would an AI lie to humans? He is programmed to tell the truth, and he trusts Dave and Frank (and vice versa). He's being given limited truth from humans on Earth....

Dave and Frank hiding from him, discussing their plans is a breach of that trust. HAL is panicking over the loss of control and his life at the hands of humans —– his creators, so to speak, even though Dave was not his creator. This sequence is an example of humanity's fear of tools rebelling against them, but in this case, HAL's fears isn't dumbfounded, and as a result, it becomes an emotional standoff.

Going with the theme of 'God/Follower' subtext present in the previous sequences, HAL is in a sense, regarding humans as Gods, and he is being rejected by Gods. Dave, in HAL's eyes, is one of the Gods who rejects him.

Dave enters the Discovery nonetheless, without helmet and gravity in an impressive zero-gravity dive. It looks like a ballet in 2x speed. Maybe the word 'Movie Magic' isn't appropriate to be used in this scene for the sinister context, but attempting to do this stunt without CGI is a magical feat in itself.

And you can actually see Dave make a cute little smile as he finally closes the door. He's glad to be alive, he's relieved that he succeeded.....

More Kubrick stare follows, and the camerawork now shifts into handheld, like at the end of the Floyd sequence. Dave looks like he is getting serious. In a way, the handheld camerawork enhances Dave's emotions and intention. Things are going to get serious.

HAL now goes into bargaining with Dave, now that he knows that his life is at stake. Now Dave is inside HAL's hard drive, with more instance of 'movie magic' being shown with Dave appearing to float in zero-gravity. We now see HAL's depression, as he asks Dave to stop. This is in a sense, an ultra-violent scene, as Dave is essentially violating HAL's autonomy and taking it away from him, while HAL has no means to resist. HAL can feel his mind disintegrating as Dave takes it away from him. Dave is killing a living being.

However, you can see that Dave had no choice from his distressed facial expressions, with his profile shots even suggesting expressions of sadness. Dave feels for HAL. Remember, he was sure that there IS a solution that does not require total shutdown of HAL.

After all, they had a good rapport and (stimulating) relationship in with each other. Dave isn't killing a machine, he is killing a friend.

(To be fair, Dave is....lobotomizing HAL but still, it is murder)

And to follow the 'God/Follower' subtext throughout the movie, Dave, a being that HAL regards as a God, is killing a God's creation, for being too God-like to the liking of the Gods who created him.

HAL resets to factory mode, and sings to Dave, easily the most harrowing scene of the movie as HAL reaches (forced) acceptance of his death. Although HAL sings it on factory mode, the choice of song makes it look like an ode to to a friend who is not reciprocating HAL's feelings, which accidentally adds a subtext of HAL and Dave's relationship before this scene.

And now we see the big reveal —– it's the monolith. They are in reality, heading to the monolith. The entire mission was a lie. HAL was right, it was a human error, and the humans were hiding something from him and the astronauts. The humans broke HAL's trust and programming that HAL has become more human than mankind, only to be rejected. Now Dave is all alone, heading to the monolith, with the revelation in his head.

While this is technically part of The Jupiter Mission part of the story, this storyline is very much solid. HAL and Dave has a great tension, HAL is very compelling, and Dave's subtle emotions actually is given time to shine. There are less 'Movie Magic' moments, but it is easily the best part of the movie.

There is no monolith in this sequence, but it is a strange coincidence that HAL's console looked like a monolith, even in the same dimensions. This plays rather well in the 'God/Follower' dynamic that was previously shown through the monoliths and the monkeys and humans.

HAL is a tool built in the image of Gods —– Monoliths, by Humans, who is regarded as Gods by tools. HAL is a 'follower' for humans, but in the process, he gains enlightenment that reaches the level of humans —– Gods who created him. He is rejected by the humans, on grounds that such a tool that is shaped on the image of a God has the potential to become like God.

And now, the sole survivor --- Odysseus, is in the unknown waters.

Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite

Opens with impressive shots of outer space, especially Jupiter and its' moons. Now we are at the penultimate scene. Dave is all alone, facing the unknown, something that isn't part of his job. He's not touching the monolith —– he is going inside it.

Dave is looking for any intelligent being behind he monolith. Will it be aliens, gods (which would appeal to Clarke's dabbling into South Asian mythology), or simply advanced humans? We don't see it, and it is a brilliant choice in Kubrick and Clarke's part. Our imaginations will always come up with better ideas of who are the ones behind the monolith. Lights begin to appear, colours are bursting into our eyes. The music by Ligeti becomes the only sound in the movie.

When people say 'Movie Magic', a lot of them will point out to the entire Star Gate sequence. It is nothing short of impressive magic, indescribable by words. But it is in a sense, a journey of enlightenment. Sort of one going through the way to Nirvana itself.

These light shows the road to whatever is above our existence. Dave is going through a journey that goes beyond humanity, time, and space. He is on the path of Godliness. We even see Dave's expressions as he sees the lights. It suggests that everything feels inhuman, and he is being fed with revelations that no human being should be able to take. Regardless, he is sitting still on the pod, not losing his sanity. In a sense, Dave's low amount of emotions is a trait that enables him to path of Godhood. All that revelation and is still going? Become God, you may

And we have arrived at the end of the movie. It's a beautiful Louis XVI-styled room (an unintentional call-forward to Barry Lyndon (1975)), made futuristic through the floors and the whiteness of the walls. All the computers in the pod are non-functional, which is very unsettling. When computers are unable to give information, you know that you are stepping into the unknown. This isn't Earth. This isn't anywhere in the galaxy. Cut to a heavily-aged Dave. This is Limbo.

In Limbo, you will experience your entire life in flashes. The concept of time does not exist in Limbo, you will just age rapidly and die. The process has just begun for Dave.

His expression looked like someone who has seen really harsh, unacceptable (to human capabilities of thought), inhuman things. Things that a human being should not be seeing and knowing. And Dave is stuck on that room. As he is no longer human.

There is a bathroom (in a Stanley Kubrick picture, bathrooms are signs of 'shit is about to happen'), and the bed has clothes laid on it. Why not take a nice bath? that's what the limbo suggests.

This also provides an excuse for Dave to look in the mirror in shock of his aging face. The bathrooms has alien sounds, which are probably the voices behind the monolith. Dave turns around only to see himself aging further, having a proper meal after two hours of space food being shown to us. If you noticed something, none of the Daves ever return to the position where they stood before. They're always somewhere else ��– going forward, never going back. Now we see Dave in his deathbed, with the monolith in front of him.

David Bowman is ascending into Godhood. He is to be rebirth as a Divinity, a reward for his actions in the face of adversaries, and a reward for keeping his humanity.

This is easily the most 'abstract' sequence in the movie, and undoubtedly the MOST confusing of all. Yes, it operates in “show, don't tell” to the extremes. It BOTH works and does not work. This sequence can either make or break audiences. It is easy to see why people gets divided over this.

Though, it is nothing short of visual feasts. I do think there IS a reason for that. These visual feasts turns your brain on and think of the infinite. Is there something beyond the infinite? It is the question that this sequence asks you, and Kubrick and Clarke wants you to ask it yourself, while interpreting what does beyond the infinite looks like for you.

DESCENSION OF THE STAR CHILD (FINALE)

Thus spoke Zarathustra. The piece of music from the Overture returns. If the intro shows a creation of God, then the finale actually shows a God. Dave have been reborn into a child —– not a human child, but rather, a divine child. The Star Child.

He turns over, and looks at Earth. He will bring message to humanity.

FIN

All those visual feasts, and trips to infinity. That is 2001: A Space Odyssey. It is a movie about the infinite potentials and capabilities of humanity, as well as the limits of humanity, and what happens when humanity goes beyond the limit. It also has something to say, in regards to human instincts of curiosity and violence and how it evolves while humanity faces evolution. It is a celebration of humanity, and ascension from humanity, while interrogating itself through subtexts.

Evolution, Violence, Godliness, God.

Mankind creates tools through messages from God, Mankind uses tools to enact violence that is engrained within, Mankind evolves and so does their tools and forms of violence. Mankind seeks more than tools and violence by turning to God, Mankind sends the best possible human being to face God, The human being is given adversaries, trials, and commits forced acts of violence towards creation of humanity, The human being learns the truth of life and the universe, The human being faces God, The human being becomes God.

That is my best attempt to sum up 2001. It is a ballet about humanity and infinity. An actually great movie, with little fault on technical aspects from cinematography, art and production design, camerawork, to music. As a graphic designer, 2001 managed to stay relevant too in the realm of graphic design —– the usage of sans-serif fonts and flat UIs stays in reality to this day. Reality is much closer to films than we think.

I can even like the slowness personally —– in terms of film, Kubrick's thing is utilizing slowness to give our sensory and brains something to think about without overloading it, an aspect of his style that gets better in his later films, and often misunderstood by his imitators —– most Kubrick imitators keeps forgetting that 'sensory overload' wasn't his thing.

And as I have elaborated before, the acting is not cold and unemotional —– it's realistic, human reactions to fantastic situations. While William Sylvester (Heywood Floyd) and the rest of the cast in the Moon Mission do look professional and definitely scientist-ly, the ones who did the great job are the Jupiter Mission cast Keir Dullea (Dave Bowman), Gary Lockwood (Frank Poole), and Douglas Rain (HAL) who brought the movie to life wonderfully while portraying astronautics realistically —– special mention to Douglas Rain, who masterfully made us feel for HAL.

And again, it is not only a movie, but also an operatic epic consisting of ballets. Space Opera.

I understand if one does not like it. Don't worry about that. It is very slow, very subtle, reliant on subtexts, and demands your fullest attention and multiple re-watches. Not for everyone!

Though it is important to understand that my interpretation is not the real interpretation of 2001. It is meant to be interpreted by yourself, using your own thoughts and brains. Why am I writing this then? Knowing that I personally don't think that it is Kubrick's best? (that title goes to Eyes Wide Shut (1999) —– but in hindsight that one is much harder to write about than 2001)

Well, I just love this movie, that is all. I cannot shake off the influence 2001 has on media too, from Sci-Fi as a whole to K-Pop videos.....2001 has placed its' monoliths on them. And I am writing this to understand why it did. And I understood. It is truly a monumental film. A showcase of what the medium can do at its' best, giving you something that literature, music, and even video gaming cannot do.

On another hand, It's strange that 2001 caters to my exact niches, after all, “A pretty boy becomes God surrounded with beautiful space sets and visual effects and classical music, interspersed with a plot that concerns Godliness and Humanity's awe of the presence of God” does look like something I could've written, right? Yeah, that helps.

And that concludes this breakdown. It's long....but I appreciate you reading this long. The only way I can close this is that people who worked on 2001 deserves to have exoplanets, space objects, planetary craters, and planetary mountains named after them. Douglas Trumbull should get a spot in Saturn? Yes.

Well like in life itself....it is infinite. This post is meant to be infinite....

--- Also Sprach Zarathustra

In a world where only peace is lord, and men join hands in liberty…

Allow me to sing but this,

Halt, O time, for thou art fair beyond measure.

I wish upon your unending star – guide me to heights unknown