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agathasangel · 4 years ago

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because you’re worth it (cordelia goode x fem!reader)

Hi this is a shitty vent fic because I’m sad

Warnings: mentions of past bullying/verbal abuse/mental abuse, implied eating issues, reader just has very low self esteem in general, some teacher/student stuff but reader is over 18. Angst and maybe hurt/comfort i guess.

Summary: You never thought you were anything exceptional. In fact, you never thought much of yourself at all, and your family and peers didn’t seem to either. But one day, after finally being able to access your telekinesis in a moment of fear for your life, you were sent to an academy for girls with exceptional powers. You found a home and a family, but still never felt quite at home until one meeting with the headmistress who seemed to understand your pain.

“Remember (y/n), intention! Your powers are innate, you still have it in you!”, Zoe told you during one of your lessons. You began to really believe it, and it worked! The candle glided right to your hand like it was nothing. Normally your telekinesis only showed up when you were angry or scared, and it was almost uncontrollable.

Your first time performing telekinesis was when you were in high school. One of the many boys who bullied and harassed you relentlessly tried to run you over with his car as a “joke” when you were walking home. In a moment of fear and shock, his car flipped over. He survived, but was badly injured and the incident made the news, and you were interviewed because you were the only witness. About a year or so later, after you graduated, your parents got a call from Cordelia Goode, asking to meet with you. Little did either of them know that in the past year, there have been more incidents. Things would fall when you were angry, explode or break when you were scared. You knew you were doing it with your mind somehow, but knew you’d just sound crazy if you tried to explain it to anyone.

When you met with Cordelia, she seemed impressed by how strong your powers were. It had been so long since anyone seemed impressed by you.

“Oh, it only happens when I’m feeling some strong emotion, like when I’m angry or scared. I don’t even know if I really belong here, my parents say I-”

“That often is how it starts, (y/n). But I think you’ll master it quickly. And you do belong here. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt.” The older woman walked around the table and touched your shoulder, closing her eyes for a moment. The touch felt nice, safe. You liked it.

“I’m sorry about what that boy did to you. Or I should say, tried to do. He got what he deserved.”

Cordelia seemed nice. Everyone often talked about how kind she was, how deeply she cared about all of her girls. But there was a part of you that, despite everything, made you doubt that her kindness would really extend to you. You were so used to seeing the worst sides of the people with the best reputations. You learned to not judge people based on how they treat you, because sometimes even the “kindest” people were mean to you, and you didn’t know why.

But that feeling seemed to fade away, as Cordelia was always kind to you. You still didn’t have any friends at the academy, as you were too scared to talk to anybody for very long. You didn’t think you deserved to be around the other girls. You were scared they would make fun of you if you talked to them for too long, so you often cut your conversations off quickly. Some of the other girls thought you were stuck up, but most of them understood you were just shy.

The day you learned to control your telekinesis was one of the best days. You felt like you were a real witch and knew that you did deserve to be there after all.

About a year after you were admitted, you still struggled with seeing yourself as a real part of the school, and the coven. You couldn’t believe any of them actually wanted you, especially not the Supreme. You knew you were a real witch, and that you belonged there, but you still saw yourself as less than everyone else. You always saw yourself that way, because of what everyone told you. They said you were ugly, they criticized your body, called you stupid, annoying, weird, a freak, even your parents told you that maybe you deserved to be bullied. You still felt bad for taking up space, even though this was supposed to be your home.

One day, you were in the greenhouse late at night, working on a potion for the project you had to do, when Cordelia came in.

You immediately started to apologize, “Cordelia, I’m so sorry, I’ll go now..” you said as you packed up and left.

“No, no, stay here and finish. You don’t need to apologize, you have every right to be here. We can share.”

“Thank you, Cordelia.”

“This is as much your home as it is mine, honey. Now what are you working on?”

“Oh, it’s just a potion I need for my incantation class tomorrow. I’m almost done, I’ll be out of your way soon-”

“(Y/n), you’re not in my way at all! Actually, I’d like you to stay if you don’t mind, I’ve been wanting to talk to you for quite some time now.”

Those weren’t good words. Were you in trouble? Was she kicking you out?

She clearly saw your face because she said “No, don’t worry, you’re not in any kind of trouble. I just want to make sure you’re alright,” said Cordelia as she checked on all of her plants.

“Why?”

“Because I care about my girls. You’re doing wonderfully in your classes, you’re becoming a talented witch. But you’ve been here over a year and you barely talk, you hide in your room, skip meals entirely or not eat when you do show up. I see all of that. I see how small you try to make yourself seem around everyone. I know you’re shy and that you’ve been hurt before, but you don’t need to hide from any of us. You especially don’t need to hide from me. Come here.”

You came closer to Cordelia, and, abandoning her plants, she hugged you tight. It had been so long since you felt affection like that.

“You don’t deserve that, (y/n), you don’t deserve any of that. I saw so much of your life just now. Every awful, untrue thing you’ve been made to believe about yourself, the horrible things people have said and done to you. You alone, here, terrified to speak to any of the girls, or even me.”

“You saw all of that?” You said as you started to cry.

“Yes. Shh, don’t cry. You’re okay... don’t worry, I’ve got you. Poor thing, you’re shaking,” she held you tighter, running her hand through your hair.

“You know, (y/n), I do understand how you feel.”

“You? But you’re-“

“I wasn’t always the Supreme, you know. In fact I was probably the last witch anyone expected to be the next Supreme. Before passing the Seven Wonders, I suffered loss after loss after loss. My mother hated me when all I wanted was her approval. My husband was secretly a witch hunter who only married me for ‘access’. Everyone told me I was weak and unworthy, and I believed it. I didn’t think I belonged here, or anywhere.”

“I’m so sorry Cordelia. I had no idea.”

“And when I stopped believing all of that, that was when my powers grew. I think your powers will grow as well once you start seeing yourself as a worthy part of our family, because you are.”

“You really think so?”

“You know, (y/n), I’ve always seen so much of myself in you.”

“Thank you, Cordelia. That means a lot.”

“And there’s one more thing...”

“What is it?”

“I love you, (y/n). I don’t know what kind of love it is yet but I know I love you. I thought at first I just cared for you like I would a little sister. But there’s a part of me that thinks I love you in another way.... of course I don’t really know yet. I would need some time. And I would never abuse my power over you. After all, my main concern is to protect you.”

“Cordelia... I think I love you too.” And you shyly kissed her on the cheek.

“You missed”, she said as she kissed you right on the lips, and you kissed back.

“Take some time and think about it. It’s been an emotional night. I won’t pressure you either way, and no matter what happens, I will always be by your side.”

You spent the rest of the night gardening with Cordelia and just feeling her presence until you both went to bed.

“Goodnight, (y/n). Remember everything I told you, my wonderful girl.”

“I will, Cordelia. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

#cordelia goode #cordelia goode x reader #sarah paulson #sarah paulson fics #sarah paulson x reader #this is just me imagining being comforted by Cordelia bc I’m sad because ppl are mean #my fics

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aaluminiumas · 3 years ago

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Die for Me

あなたこそが “ 海賊王 ” になる男

Lukewarm blood gushed out from the deep wounds. Ripping apart huge chunks of flesh and feeling the solidity of a bone inside, Monet genuinely relished her superiority savoring every note of the harrowing, blood-curdling shriek the woman in her deadly embrace emitted.

That Marine girl was no good at all; her tactics may not be exactly lame or useless, nor did she lack fervor or courage, but she turned out to be too modest and polite to attack – and also feeble. While the Marines claimed to have implemented a variety of brand-new top-notch techniques that would improve fighting skills of nearly any novice, they tended to send weaklings barely able to resist a simple scuffle, let alone serious combat with high ranks such as her or Caesar. This one wasn’t an exception to the rule: though promoted, Tashigi proved her disability to be on the offensive, thus confirming Monet’s expectations and dispelling the illusion of power Smoker had successfully created earlier.

“I adore it when you yell so desperately,” the Harpy muttered nonchalantly in the unctuous voice, her lips smeared with blood. “So I might break your scapula just for fun. My fangs can go through bone like butter. What a lovely day we are having, aren’t we?.. Care to brighten it further?”

Monet’s viselike grip tightened, and a bone cracked; Tashigi’s scream of utter anguish pierced the chaos and turmoil. In a moment, the woman limped in the Harpy’s wings. This last shrill seemed to have deserted her internally, leaving little to no stamina to stand up for herself and resist the throes shooting through her fragile body. The Harpy, though, felt no remorse or contrition. Quite on the contrary, she yielded into the perverse pleasure of being in charge – her well-nurtured sadistic inclinations and proclivities could finally splurge and flourish. Normally, it was Doflamingo whose hatred of the Marines came unwrapped. He was always in command; he was always aware of the potential threat and danger that could strike at any given moment, and now she could defend him from this invasion without an innuendo on his part. He had protected her in the past, bestowed a shelter, and took care of her younger sister—

“Enough.”

A low voice, hardly louder than Tashigi’s shallow breath muffled all the sounds, including explosions and the clash in the distant rooms. A swordsman with cold resolution in the single eye stood there, unmoving, his face serious, yet completely unreadable.

Monet’s fine features contorted in a lopsided smirk, her head withdrawing from Tashigi’s injured shoulder. Spoiled by pride, the swordsman didn’t seem to see a worthy opponent in her. Good for him, she thought. The Marine’s death would be on his hands – after all, he couldn’t compare to one of the best soldiers among the Donquixotes.

“I said enough,” he growled quietly, advancing and raising his katana, the silver eye narrowing. “Didn’t you hear?”

“She shouted too loudly. Should I shut her up?” Monet’s voice remained vaguely flirtatious, her antics jaunty, but the swordsman betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Instead, without a single warning, he pivoted forward, sword at the ready. Prancing at superhuman speed, the man neatly cut her in half – her logia powers weren’t a mere obstacle to him or his blade.

“I’m a Logia, you fool,” Monet spat with a haughty grin, “You think I’m scared?”

That fact alone contributed to her arrogance and hoity-toity attitude. While the majority of the Donquixote Family had to satisfy themselves with commonplace and hackneyed Paramecias, she got lucky – Doflamingo brought in a Logia fruit, the rarest type, and presented it to her. He might have intended to give it to Vergo, who hadn’t joined the number of the fruit-eaters and preferred to use his innate physical force. At any rate, such thoughts barely intruded on her mind: Doflamingo, the Young Master she worshipped, literally made her a gift desired by many. And what a scenery it was: he called in a meeting, ordered his favorite delicacies, thus forcing the whole city to cook for him, and sprawled across his improvised throne. Trebol, giggling under his breath, Diamante with his ever-lasting smirk, the imperturbable Pica, Vergo with the rigorous mien… Well, she was never part of the elite – nor did she plan to climb higher. The seat beside Doflamingo’s feet seemed comfortable enough to occupy – this position turned her into a valuable asset, who caught all the messages and orders intoned in a low, seductive voice. Despite that, the Young Master did not banish her – he remained seated, asking her to tell them all about her first murder – committed with a taste.

Logia powers made the bearer almost invincible, and Monet, a proficient user, trained by the best, especially by Vergo, knew what she was worth.

“I’m a Logia,” the Harpy repeated, the blizzard howling louder. “It doesn’t hurt me.”

“We’ll see,” came the answer.

Not even looking at her, the man grabbed the wounded woman and hurried to the exit, while Monet, absolutely dumbfounded, discovered that she could not get together. What appeared to be a single cut turned out to be a series of swift swishes in the air that slashed her snow-made body in a split second with the power that significantly surpassed her own. The result unfolded in slow motion: the more time went, the more it hurt; paralyzed, she listlessly perused the gashes opening in her skin – the man had inflicted much more damage than she had initially anticipated.

Furious, lacerated by what seemed to be a hundred blades, Monet yelled – and realized that it caused another wound to splay. The flesh got torn apart somewhere in her stomach and sent an impetus to the lungs prompting another incision to dehisce. The blood spurted up and flushed out from her mouth, staining the green shirt. Coughing, gagging, and covering her lips with a defective wing that had also been slit and now painted vermillion, the Harpy leaned over a gigantic machine with a red button on its panel. Half-conscious, she stared at it – it certainly was a way out. If she pushes it, the whole island will go up in flames. Nobody survived, case closed. Nobody discovers the dirty scheme Vergo had initiated in the Marine to abduct kids; nobody learns about the dubious experiments of the ambiguous nature performed by Caesar. Nobody connects Young Master – her Young Master – to the helter-skelter in the lab, nobody–

Her consciousness drifted away; small lacerations proved to be even worse than the deeper ones – blood didn’t stop from dripping, and she couldn’t control the amount she had lost. Falling to the ground, quivering, Monet twitched her wings in a fruitless attempt to maintain balance. It was overkill, anyway, at least she deemed so. Her wounds were fatal; she very well understood that she was a goner – but it was still in her power to prevent future events from happening.

Suddenly, Monet heard the quiet mumbling of a snail. Caesar, concerned about Joker’s supervision and unremitting control (the notion he strongly believed but which wasn’t true to the fact: Doflamingo, after Monet’s infiltration, called every once in a while, just to give the man heebie-jeebies, in case he felt lazy), installed snails everywhere, each equipped with a unique number. Only Joker could have access to them – no one else would be able to call here, the sanctum sanctorum of the lab.

The injured wing reached for the receiver, then twitched and fell. Trembling, the Harpy moaned in agony, choked on the blood, and made a feeble attempt to get up. Didn’t work; her face contorted in pure anguish. Invincible, trained, fortified by a number of experiments conducted under Doflamingo’s supervision, she never expected a failure. Especially a failure like this.

The snail kept grumbling, Monet whimpered; struggling to stand up, the Harpy felt a million needles skewering into her body, avulsing the thinnest and the tiniest blood vessels. She had to be slow not to disturb the veins that still remained intact. Making a superhuman effort, Monet propped herself up, her chest heaving, her wings jittered ever so slightly. Panting, leaning over the tremendous apparatus towering over her, the Harpy managed to answer the call.

“Monet?” called a low, mellifluous voice coming from a snail. “Monet, do you read?”

“Yes, Young Master,” she mustered her shattered self to respond.

“I do not have the slightest idea what is happening right now,” he drawled pensively, “But it is certainly far from the plan I have drawn up.”

“They– they snatched Caesar.”

Doflamingo paused, pondering over her words. That loudmouth fool, calling himself a genius, failed to kick the teenager’s ass and let himself get captured by a bunch of mere kids playing real pirates. It had been funny to hear that that Strawhat Luffy defeated Sir Crocodile, one of the most feared and infamous warlords; after all, Doflamingo shook hands with the man and knew exactly what his weaknesses were, but Caesar Clown was another thing. First off, he claimed himself to be a brilliant scientist, and, in fact, he had managed to synthesize a drug that made children comparable to giants in force and probably in size. Furthermore, he used his earlier formulae and calculations, retrieved the readouts of the past experiments to create artificial Devil Fruits. So, he clearly was not a complete idiot. However, he employed none of his ingenious tricks to kill the annoying brat on sight when he had the opportunity. Too bad the factory couldn’t work without his involvement – otherwise, Doflamingo himself would’ve got disposed of Caesar as well.

“Monet,” he finally spoke, his voice dropping down a notch. “You were loyal to me.”

“Till the end, Young Master,” she muttered, her voice not louder than a susurrus of wind.

“Die for me.” He commanded coolly, his eyes staring into space unwinkingly. “Monet, die for me and send this place to hell. Take them all along with you.”

“Yes, Young Master. I will do as you please.”

Her lips, covered with blood and gore, stretched in a gentle smile addressed to no one in particular. He cared about her. He wanted her to perform this last task for him, in the name of his future achievements and accomplishments, and she would not let him down.

She raised her wing, slightly quavering, preparing to hit the red button. Exuding a quiet hum, the Harpy lowered it – and gasped, immediately falling onto the ground with a loud, heavy thump.

“Monet?.. Monet, what’s happened? Monet, can you hear me?..”

She uttered a wheezing sound, and her visage froze in a rictus of death.

#one piece #doflamingo x monet #monet #doflamingo #donquixote doflamingo

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nothisis-ridiculous · 3 years ago

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Take Me Home Now: Chapter Three

Chapter Three: I Hear Her Voice in the Mornin' Hour

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

Shepard," the cold voice greeted her, the mechanic gravel unneeding of the visive tone, "or is it the fragment of your former self?"

Jane's head craned slowly, letting her eyes rake over the colossal figure of the derelict Reaper that sat before her. Should she be trembling? Why was she trembling?

"Brave words, for a dead roach," she murmured, wavering in her conviction.

"Your victory accomplished our end goal; your struggle was in vain."

Jane looked away from the synthetic, training her vision on the open sky above her. Lifting a hand above her face to shield it from the afternoon sun. The Citadel was a stark presence in the sky. It was a thing of awe. Now it was a wreck. While four of the arms remained, it wasn't without severe damage to the remaining limbs. The bright center of civilization flickered, struggling to sustain itself after the attacks that likely left millions dead. With the detonation she caused.

"Was the price to defeat your salvation truly worth it? You may think your species achieved enlightenment, but will it last to see those vain promises through?" The Reaper grew louder, a hint of yellow reflecting across the glass-like surface of the optic lenses, "In your hubris, you have destroyed everything that kept your species together! Witness the Citadel! How many died for nothing? How many more will die from starvation? Disease? Eachother? Will you watch your peace crumble?"

Trying to block out the voice, she focused on the rations half-eaten in front of her. Another task she no longer took pleasure from, another waste. Feeling this heaviness was quickly becoming unbearable; she was a beacon for passion and fire. A goddamned, fucking hero. One with a will that ignited others, not a tired soldier that snuck away to avoid eating a full meal. Not someone questioning why they remained. The goddamned bit was right, at least, there was no luck here. Just beating after beating.

She was so alone.

Where were her friends? How long would she have to wait? After all they had been through, wouldn't they at least attempt to find her? She wasn't far from where she had made them leave her behind. Already, she had been back to the beacon several times over the fortnight since the LT had conscripted her into this ragtag community.

She needed the Normandy crew. Her mind whispered horrible things. Taunted and dogged her in each agonizing moment of calm. All she held was death, screaming, the weight of all the choices she made. Her soft place was nowhere to be found.

"This legacy you attempted will end in the spoiling of your name. Villanhood only matched by the word 'Reaper,'" The machine was rarely silent long, it was content to keep speaking filling the silence that Jane left, "a Shepard only heralding death and destruction, because your weakness was what you thought strength. Overconfidence always leads to downfall."

In a simmer of sudden rage, Jane gathered energy into herself, merging the familiar burn and tingle of dark matter and letting it stir just beneath the surface of her skin, pleasure, fury, and a twinge of pain. Just the way it should be. It released in a single burst.

"Pathetic."

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The Recruit caught herself before she toppled ass over tea kettle, fists grinding into the ground before her to stabilize. Her signature move from cocky grin to a deadened expression had yet to sit right with him, but as he was learning about his woman, forcing an issue wasn't going to move it aside any quicker. Reflexively adverting his gaze to allow her pride the room to readjust and soothe her attitude. Most in his company did not understand his patience with the newest recruit, but they couldn't empathize with the bittersweet familiarity it welled up inside his heart.

With any luck, he could one day reiterate to his son how proud he was of him.

"LT," the woman chirped, a hint of a smile crawling up the side of her mouth.

"Recruit," the old man was looser with his smile. With an admonishing raise of an eyebrow, he drew a finger across her philtrum, "I see you've met our lawn gnome. Still haven't named him yet."

Jane's eyes rolled and a smile she could not fight spread across her features, "Harbinger," but the utterance came out with surprising severity.

"I'd have gone with Harold, Pookie even," he mumbled, dragging a handkerchief across the underside of her nose.

Just as quickly the moment was gone, she pulled away from him. A token of gratitude left in the form of a gentle smile, "did you come out here to bother me, or did you need something?"

This was the prickly personality he didn't care for as fondly. Requiring a brief moment to placate a moment of hasty rebuke, his gaze moved to the half-empty can and the lid that lay a few meters downwind—twice ignoring the blood that peppered the ground beneath her seat. Perhaps he didn't have the patience to baby another mouthy soldier, and she seemed content to throw herself away. But in the same vein, he had regretted doing that years ago with his own child. Sure, this woman was a stranger, but she belonged to someone that worried about her. His innate integrity could hold him out a bit longer.

"You know, we don't have enough supplies to be wasting it," Roy found something to vent the heat building inside.

Jane's bright blue eyes that reflected the setting sun snapped to the can, a wince revealing the words did strike something, "you eat it then. I've been watching you pawn off your rations."

He accepted the can, plopping a hearty portion into his mouth, "still tastes like shit."

"I could really go for some steak fries and chutney," Jane mused gently.

"I'm thinking I could make that happen."

The woman's full attention turned to him, the fine fuzz of her returning eyebrows raised at him.

"Give or take a few weeks."

"I'm assuming you have a plan?"

"Yeah," the man paused, testing out the recruit, the hold on her patience proving to outlast him for the first time, "I'm hoping to test out your skills. And you need to start earning your keep."

"Ready and willing, sir!" She snapped to attention, a foreign energy oozing from her at this moment. Not that he doubted her willingness to come along, he was just surprised to see her motivated to do something.

"Hold your horses, Recruit. You may not be so excited when you find out what we are doing," not that he had much doubt about her grit, "it should be a standard supply run. With a large Krogan exception."

"Krogan, sir?"

He nodded, "before this mess all started, I had a small orchard; I knew a guy from London that shared the hobby. He was more into plants in general, but anyway, I couldn't recall his exact address but knew about the general area his warehouse was located. It should be a rapidly growing, resistant crop. The problem is the Krogan found it first."

"Are we trying diplomacy or just rushing in?"

"I want to try the former, the ladder only if things go south. Some big wig Clan Urgnut-"

"Urdnot."

Roy cleared his throat, that did sound right, "Urdnot was holed up there. Smart move on their part. But they don't have a protected area with access to sufficient sunlight to grow anything, and more importantly...hopefully, they aren't likely to know how to grow the crop."

"You're hoping to grow it within the atrium?" it seemed the recruit was astute enough to guess at the plan without it needing to be spelled out, "trading access for food and maybe protection?"

"If we are lucky."

He had already began to act hopefully, ordering the healthy refugees under guard to start collecting and tagging soil for growing crops. They had some luck, even if it meant desecrating the dead's gardens. The corporate offices he felt less guilty about robbing them of soil.

Finding power had been an easier ordeal; military generators were easily plugged into the grid to power the essentials like heat and some lighting. Water filters were easily found, and London's preference toward rain lent them an easy water source. They weren't foolish enough to rely on a regular storm pattern and already had begun to build a reserve of water. Communication was an entirely separate issue- they needed to find an engineer and fast. Or rely on another splinter group to fulfill that gap. On the subject of protection, he didn't want to let on how direly he needed the talks to go peacefully. Once word got around that they could produce food, the untold number of refugees and nefarious forces pounding on their doors would create unfathomable problems.

But all this conjecture was counting chickens before the eggs hatched.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Jane kept her assignment besides the Lieutenant with minimal complaint. They couldn't know that keeping watching along occupied territory was old news to her. While she was used to point, settling into the left flank was quickly done.

It was nice not being the center of attention, without the burden of anyone looking to her for guidance. Without the worry of making a wrong call, she could let down some of the instinctual guard associated with the position of leader. Luckily a hard call wasn't required for this part of the journey, the few-kilometer trip went by without incident.

"LT," she pressed once the first evidence of a perimeter came into view, "have you ever met a Krogan before?"

The male on her right smirked, rolling his eyes. Roy stopped, pulling a deep breath. Some of his stoic calm wearing at the edges. Jane knew this wasn't because of her, she had yet to do anything that would constitute annoying the man. He was nervous.

"No, but how different can they be?"

The man chuckled, "I heard they're almost mindless brutes."

Jane threw him a sharp glare, "they're the rough and tumble type, but not mindless. I'd suggest reminding him of home."

She could guarantee cooperation if Shepard wanted to come out. Shepard liked to remain locked away anymore.

While the man to her right heavily rolled his eyes, Roy seemed to take it under consideration. His gaze flickered back to the path before them, hesitation now more detectable in his manner.

"Maybe you-"

Roy's voice stopped with the interruptions of Jane's pistols suddenly unfurling to full length.

"Don't stop," a gruff Krogan voice called, "I'm looking for a fight."

A second voice was a little more reasonable, "what is your business? This is Krogan territory."

"Human territory," the man retorted with surprising gusto, "you overfeed iguana."

For his bravery, the man collided with the road the third but silent Krogan finding the insult not to his liking. The first Krogan spurred on by his comrade shoved Roy aside, the older man spun without resistance to the ground, "humans are so soft."

Jane was purely lucky that the more tolerable Krogan was nearest to her. It didn't make her less angry. Yes, pushing over the douche of a specimen was permitted but bringing the old man into it? She expected better of Clan Urdnot. Pissed off, the female stormed for the offending Krogan.

Now, she wasn't foolish enough to go in guns blazing, but she knew a better way to deal with the offending reptile. According to Zaeed the spot she had to hit corresponded with a weak spot on the species' frontal plate. If she had a knife and the gall to do so, she could rip that piece off and cause the Krogan to panic. But on the less violent and more in line with the peacekeeping mission she had a superior move: simple, elegant, and a returning item on her personal bucket list.

Headbutting another Krogan.

In retaliation, he glowed blue.

It never came to fruition as the reasonable member stepped between them, "you have offended her krant. Let it go." But his smirk didn't go unnoticed, "what do you want?"

"We're here to speak with Wrex."

The Krogan chuckled, "you have an impressive quad. But I don't think the clan leader is interested in what you have to say."

"You really want to test that? Would we really be here if wasn't important," Shepard's fire returned, "what other reason would we have to seek out the Krogan? Certainly not for the fight." She motioned toward the two with her.

The Krogan gave an exasperated sigh, "fine, but only one of you. The other two wait."

Jane pivoted and proffered an open hand to the LT, "this is your ball game, sir. Do us proud."

#shenko #mass effect fanfiction #femshep x kaidan #mass effect #mass effect spoilers #kaidan alenko #commander shepard #fanfic #take me home #mass effect andromeda

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khali-shabd · 4 years ago

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Gender Theory

Readers, let us begin with a simple question- what is gender?

The Biological Theory Of Gender, and a majority of society, would say that gender is defined by biological sex, namely hormones and chromosomes. If you release estrogen and have XX chromosomes, you are female, and if you release testosterone and have XY chromosomes, you are male. However, this is an extremely flawed vision of gender for two reasons: one, that whatever proof of hormones altering gendered behaviour has been found only in lab rats1, which possibly will not exhibit the same extreme change in behaviour if the hormones were administered to them naturally in their own environment- and rats are not human- we have far too many differences as species for this study to be considered valid for homosapiens as well. And two, chromosomes are not strictly XX or XY- around 1 percent of the world population is intersex (and a similar percentage is redheaded, so its not inherently ‘anomalous’ or ‘unnatural’) , which means that they can have chromosomal variations such as XXY, X, XXXY etc, all of whom develop differently as compared to people with the traditional chromosome combinations.

Further, there are far more things that define ‘biological sex’, namely:

chromosomes

gonads

sex hormones

internal reproductive anatomy (such as the uterus)

external genitalia.

Out of these, in humans, genitalia and internal reproductive anatomy can be changed without there being a significant change in gendered behavior. Sex hormones, when administered to bodies change secondary sex characteristics more than any sort of behavior; with the exception of testosterone increasing sex drive and sometimes increasing ‘ego’. Every single part of this definition of binary biological sex is challenged by the existence of intersex people, henceforth proving that sex is not binary and never has been, unfounding the existence of a sex-based gender binary in itself. Further, transgender individuals have a completely different gender identity as compared to their biological sex, and it has been scientifically proved that this is because their brains develop in the same way the brains of the children of the gender they identify with do. That essentially means that the brain of a transgender woman develops similarly to the brain of a cisgender woman, and the brain of a transgender man develops in the same way the brain of a cisgender man develops. All in all, there are far too many differences in the experience of biological sex to confine it to a binary, hence unfounding the theory that gender is based on biological sex.

Then how do we define gender?

There are a number of theories, but the most logical one at the moment would be Judith Butler’s Theory of Gender Performativity. Butler says that gender, as an abstract concept in itself, is nothing more than a performance. We ‘perform’ our gender by carrying out actions that we associate with it. They further say that this does not mean that it’s something we can stop altogether, rather something we’ve ingrained so deeply within us that it becomes a part of our identity, and it's the part of it we call gender identity. Gender, hence, is created by its own performance. Butler also implies that we do not base gender on sex, rather we define sex along the lines of established lines of binary gener, i.e. male and female- despite the fact that more than 10% of the population does not fall into this binary sex, and has some variation in their biological sex that does not ‘fit’ into either category. Gender in itself is so culturally constructed by western society that anyone who does not perform their assigned gender ‘correctly’ is punished- this applies to not only queer individuals but even men who do not ascribe to or criticise predefined ideals of masculinity. They are made social pariahs and excluded as outcasts, leaving them to find and create their own communities and safe spaces. This is shown in the way society ostracises queer-presenting individuals, makes fun of ‘soft’ men, and forcefully tries to ‘fix’ intersex children whose variations in biological sex cause no harm to them. I quote:

“Because there is neither an ‘essence’ that gender expresses or externalizes nor an objective ideal to which gender aspires; because gender is not a fact, the various acts of gender create the idea of gender, and without those acts, there would be no gender at all. Gender is, thus, a construction that regularly conceals its genesis. The tacit collective agreement to perform, produce, and sustain discrete and polar genders as cultural fictions is obscured by the credibility of its own production. The authors of gender become entranced by their own fictions whereby the construction compels one’s belief in its necessity and naturalness.”

One of the criticisms of Butler’s theories is that it does not seem to apply to transgender individuals, whose innate gender identity is not the one that they have been assigned to perform at birth; whose brains develop the same way that their cisgender counterparts’ brains do from birth. Butler themselves have responded to this, saying:

“I do know that some people believe that I see gender as a “choice” rather than as an essential and firmly fixed sense of self. My view is actually not that. No matter whether one feels one’s gendered and sexed reality to be firmly fixed or less so, every person should have the right to determine the legal and linguistic terms of their embodied lives. So whether one wants to be free to live out a “hard-wired” sense of sex or a more fluid sense of gender, is less important than the right to be free to live it out, without discrimination, harassment, injury, pathologization or criminalization – and with full institutional and community support.”

Later on, Butler goes on to say that the main point of their theory is that identity is constructed, which means that it allows us to change how we view it as a concept. It leaves room for us to subvert gender roles, challenging the status quo on what it means to identify as someone of a particular gender, and re-structuring society such that we rally for change not along gender lines, rather on the basis of what’s right.

Further, if we combine the work of the psychologist Sigmund Freud with Butler’s theories, the latter does actually apply to transgender individuals. Freudian theory states that we internalize concepts of gender based on our parental figures at birth. That is, if you are born female, you begin to look towards the person who closest resembles your gender identity; which in this case would be your mother, to be your role model for your behavior as to how women are meant to act. Your mother would be your guide to how you perform your gender. If she crosses her legs, you cross your legs. If she dresses in a particular way, you would too, until you were exposed to the exterior world and allowed to develop your own sense of style. As such, you create your own gender identity within your mind, and perform that identity the way you have been taught to by your maternal figure. When you are transgender, you view yourself as innately as the gender you identify with, hence you base your gender identity off the parental figure of that particular gender. This means, if you are female to male trans, you would base your gender identity on your father, and accordingly perform your gender in that way.

Now the question arises: How do we create gender identity outside of gender roles? How do we identify anywhere on the gender spectrum while abandoning the performance that comes with that identity? Why is it important?

Well, the answer isn’t simple. For its importance, I allude, once again, to gender performativity theory- Butler even uses some evolutionary stances to support her views, saying that gender performance stems from gender roles which stem from the fundamental differences between the prominent male and female sex at the very beginning of evolution. Now that 'evolutionary' behaviors don't matter at this stage of societal, cultural, and psychological development, it renders gender roles and hence the performance of gender redundant. However, we still perpetuate these ideas regardless of their importance, or rather their lack of such. And in this process, we end up defining and segregating far too much on the basis of gender- from small things like friendships to even the feminist movement, which is majorly perpetuated and held up by people who identify as female. Other groups like men end up purposely excluding themselves from a movement that can benefit them as well(through deconstructing and eradicating ideas of toxic masculinity) just because of how strongly it is divided on the basis of gender lines. And as for how we create gender identity outside of gender roles; it takes a lot of work, at first, to unlearn all the biases you have internalized about what it means to be a certain gender. You have to actively work towards deconstructing what gender and gender identity means to you, and how much of it comes from societally misguided stances about the ‘role’ of a gender is. It may mean ridding yourselves of the school of thought that women belong in the kitchen and men belong in workplaces or even identifying and removing hidden biases such as those of toxic masculinity and/or toxic femininity. Lastly, it takes an understanding that often, gender expression is not the same as gender identity; and also that most gender expression is how people show how they feel the most comfortable viewing themselves. Once you’ve managed to deconstruct your biases, it’s just a matter of how you feel comfortable viewing and expressing yourself; and what label, among the myriad, you identify with the most. That would be your unique self-expression and identity.

#gender theory #gender #trans #trangender #lgbtq #judith butler #writing #essay #article #write #writers on tumblr #gender identity #theory #sociology #psychology

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bulkyphrase · 3 years ago

Text

Everybody & the Avengers Team

I've got a new fic rec list for you!

The stories in the "X & the Avengers Team" tags focus on one person's relationship to the Avengers team as a whole. Courtesy of AO3's tag browse and Excel, here's a ranked list of the top 20 most popular pairings:

Tony Stark | 2470 total, 240 OTP

Peter Parker | 2255 total, 85 OTP

Steve Rogers | 602 total, 56 OTP

Loki | 387 total, 26 OTP

Natasha Romanov | 308 total, 35 OTP

Clint Barton | 268 total, 46 OTP

Bruce Banner | 244 total, 15 OTP

Thor | 209 total, 7 OTP

Avengers Team | 174 total, 24 OTP

James "Bucky" Barnes | 156 total, 7 OTP

Wanda Maximoff | 143 total, 4 OTP

Phil Coulson | 105 total, 9 OTP

Darcy Lewis | 91 total, 6 OTP

Matt Murdock | 60 total, 8 OTP

Sam Wilson | 53 total, 5 OTP

Nick Fury | 41 total, 5 OTP

Harry Potter | 40 total, 0 OTP

Pepper Potts | 31 total, 1 OTP

Vision | 29 total, 2 OTP

Stiles Stilinski | 25 total, 0 OTP

In chart form, if you like charts:

Notes:

The numbers after the names are the number of stories tagged with that ship. OTP means the number of stories where that is the only relationship tagged on the story. Numbers are accurate as of July 2021.

Story Recommendations

For your reading pleasure, included below is at least one fic rec for each pairing except the crossovers from non-Marvel fandoms (apologies to Mr. Potter & Mr. Stilinski). Most are gen fic, and even in the ones with a romantic pairing, romance is not the focus.

Tony Stark

As Subtle As Cognitive Recalibration by petroltogo (Teen, 8949) tumblr: @tonystarktogo

Standing inside his penthouse, listening to Rogers, Barton and Banner explain to Fury how they just happened to stumble over the Tesseract on a routine security check of Stark Tower’s roof and wouldn’t you know, they’ve managed to fight off the looming alien invasion before it could really start and secure the missing overpowered nightlight is one of the most surreal situations Tony has ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

Peter Parker

the worst field trip ever by shrill_fangirl_screaming (Teen, 3420) tumblr: @i-am-having-an-emotion

"We're on a field trip," Peter said. "To here. And Tony decided to be our tour guide and absolutely embarrass me, so can you please help get him under control?"

Which is how Peter Parker, architect of his own destruction, ended up with not one but two superhero pseudo-dads being annoying on his school field trip.

Steve Rogers

Do You Remember Being Happy? ('Cause I Sure Don't) by GalaxyThreads (Teen, 11022) tumblr: @galaxythreads

That seems about right. He doesn't know how he knows that, though. He does have vague memories of an annoyed fondness at finding peanut butter in some sort of jam. Thor's doing, because he doesn't see the point of using two knives when one works just as fine. He knows that. How does he know that? He knows all those little details, though, almost innately. How can he know these strangers so deeply?

Everyone else below the cut!

Loki

Proprietary by TheThirdMarauder (Teen, 7639)

No, Loki simply wants the Avengers conquered. The details of whom, how, and when matter not. Unless, of course, said details interfere with Loki's plans. Then, well, then none can fault him for protecting his own interests.

Loki has always been exceptionally good at lying to himself.

Natasha Romanov

What Girls Are Made Of by enigma731 (Teen, 4613) tumblr: @enigma731

She rolls her eyes but does as he’s indicated, using his shoulders to leverage herself up onto his back, her arms around his neck and her legs hugging his waist.

“You know,” he says blithely, “this isn’t really what I tend to picture when I think of a hot girl riding me.”

Natasha groans, deciding that if his sense of humor gets them arrested, she’ll kill him herself. “Just go.”

Clint Barton

Dear Clint Barton (circa age 7) by pollyrepeat (Teen, 4221)

With a normal person, this might count as blackmail material, but a) this is a case of mutually assured destruction if ever there was one, and b) Fury is immune to embarrassment. Not just in the regular, Tony Stark way, either, oh no. Things that could possibly end up being embarrassing to Fury get somehow warped and changed until they go from mortifying all the way over into useful and/or good for his image. It’s like a superpower.

Carrying Clint’s small child self around on his shoulders more than once has probably already hit the interagency rumour mill as an example of Fury’s innate awesomeness: good with rocket launchers and small children.

Also available as a podfic!

Bruce Banner

They're Not Wrong by Trumpeteer34 (Teen, 10163)

As Tony began to pace around the hole in the road to keep himself from shooting repulsors at the nearby buildings in a fit of rage, Thor began to study the nearby area. There was no sign of either the Hulk or Bruce Banner beyond the crater. The surrounding area, aside from the rubble of the fight, held no clue as to their friend’s location.

“Guys, he’s gone,” Tony growled into the communicator on their private line, drawing Thor out of his darkening thoughts. “Someone tranqed him and took him. He’s gone.”

Honorary mention goes to the Responsible Science series by @letteredlettered - the stories don’t have the "Avengers Team & Bruce Banner" tag, but they could, and they are amazing. The best Bruce Banner writing I've ever come across.

Thor

Fortunately, I Am Mighty by onward_came_the_meteors (General, 3062)

Steve was the first one to speak. “Are you okay?”

Thor nodded. Which was a bad idea, as it turned out, because now there were little gray lights flashing in front of his eyes. “I’m fine.” Absolutely everyone narrowed their eyes, and he added, “But, uh. Could we possibly not get back in the car just yet?”

Avengers Team

Civil Wasn't by onward_came_the_meteors (General, 7123)

"We're having an ideological conflict here," Tony stated with disbelief. "Are you telling me you still want to go out to dinner?"

"It's a standing engagement, Tony," Rhodey reminded him.

"Not you too—"

"We already had to reschedule from Friday when Natasha was..." Rhodey frowned. "What were you doing?"

The question was directed toward Natasha, who shrugged and said, "Spy stuff."

James "Bucky" Barnes

You Know How I Feel, aka, The Adventures of Bucky and Muffy the Dinosaur by ifeelbetter (Not Rated, 4511) tumblr: @ifeelbetterer

“As you may have heard, Bucky Barnes, a.k.a. The Winter Soldier, recently rescued a tiny part-robot dinosaur during the Avengers’ battle with Dr. Doom in Antarctica,” the other newscaster explained. “Pictures of Barnes and the dinosaur were posted on twitter by fellow Avenger, Clint Barton, a.k.a. Hawkeye, and immediately made Barnes’s new pet America’s sweetheart.”

“Her name’s Muffy,” said Steve."

Wanda Maximoff

and the woman was young again by Mira_Jade (General, 3669)

Tony Stark called them the Cap's Kooky Quintet, and sometimes the term amused her – causing her to lift a sardonic brow where someday a smile would truly smile. She enjoyed the presence of comrades – true comrades – and she enjoyed the way their minds wove and bound together about each other to fluctuate against her senses as one. There was something soothing about being in their midst, and even when their loud and brash ways – their painful Americaness - rubbed her raw and drained on her, it was ever the knitting of their minds that soothed those moments over, and made them inconsequential.

Phil Coulson

Coulson's First Day of School by storiesfortravellers (Teen, 3055)

Coulson looked up at him. “I like drawing pictures with Mr. Rogers. I like having tea parties with Ms. Potts. I like it when Dr. Banner reads me books, and I like it when Natasha teaches me things. And I like when you play with me. You do really good voices when we play action figures. And you’re the only one who lets me do stuff like jump off the high diving board at the pool or eat three cupcakes or play tackle with kids at the park.”

Clint didn’t realize that. He was pretty sure that meant that he was doing something wrong.

Darcy Lewis

Beginner Yoga for Dummies (Darcys) and Sad Hobos by chailover (Teen, 3434)

Darcy had a theory: crazy attracted crazy, working kind of like gravity. It was pretty much her explanation for her life after Thor. And if she had thought the type of crazy Thor attracted was bad, be it Loki or the Warrior Three and Sif, or the dark elves and the Convergence, it was still nothing against what the Avengers manage en masse.

Matt Murdock

Double Blind by smilebackwards (Teen, 2381) tumblr: @smilebackwards

Stark snaps his fingers. “You can’t see half of my inventions. This explains so much about you and why you’ve never been properly impressed by me.”

“Does it?” Matt says, ambiguously.

Sam Wilson

Bystander by scribblemetimbers (Teen, 52029)

“I just want you to know,” Sam says loudly, cautiously raising his hands, “That I’m very poor and very sleep-deprived and literally the only thing you can kill me for right now are my notes.” He pauses. Wait. On second thought: “Please don’t steal my notes.”

“I’m not—I’m not a mugger,” Not Mugger rasps out, and for all that he looks about to keel over and die, the man actually manages to sound offended.

Nick Fury

Bedtime Story by dixiehellcat (Teen, 2532) tumblr: @deehellcat

Fury snorted. “I have to check in with the duty officer. I’ll be back in, let’s say twenty minutes. I expect all of you to have whatever your pre-bedtime routines are completed, and be in here pajama’ed and ready to be read to.”

He tapped the book under his arm, then left with the usual dramatic swish of his long coat. Bruce scratched his head. “Did…he just say be ready to be read to?”

Pepper Potts

Pepper and the Avengers (Which She Knows Nothing About) by rebelmeg (General, 6696) tumblr: @rebelmeg

The Avengers, that mismatched group of hurt and heroism, was one of the most important things in Tony Stark’s life. So, naturally, Pepper had made them an important part of her life too.

Vision

039. Intoxicated by aimmyarrowshigh (Teen, 100) tumblr: @aimmyarrowshigh

It might be nice to fit in, just this once. To lose a bit of composure.

Vision floated over to the refrigerator and, with some timidity, pulled off a magnet. He stuck it to his forehead.

#marvel fic rec

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scriptaed · 5 years ago

Text

his side, her side | 5:13 P.M.

genre: angst/fluff/implied smut; (bold = genre for this particular drabble)

pairing: reader x jungkook;

length: 2.5k;

synopsis: a collective snapshots in time shared between two, whose fates were undeniably intertwined and futures would never come to be.

a/n: this is not a chronological series; more so, his side her side is a collection of drabbles in which each drabble helps paint the overall picture. each drabble can be read separately without having read the others. // alternatively: his side, her side pt. 3;

her side;

You [5:13 P.M.] hey… you coming?

The peering stares and deafening whispers scream at you in the confined space of your state of mind. Retreating into your seat, crouched and enclosed, you wait for their eyes to find another form of fleeting entertainment, but in reality, no one is staring and no one is whispering. The gossip that flies amongst your colleagues are nothing but your mind casting cruel spells upon your evident insecurity. So, instead, you sit there and you wait, knowing full well you are but an invisible individual with a gaping gap in the seat beside you.

You wait and you wait. Sometimes you even pretend to scan through the room of your paired colleagues hard at work, in a desperate hope that no one would catch glimpsing at a door that just never seems to swing wide open like the way he would always burst through.You can just envision him now with his gray water bottle and his arms bare of sleeves as he comes striding into the room fresh out of the gym, eyes swiftly landing on his target—you—with utter ease, as if it’s an innate reflex akin to that of two magnets. The night would proceed as it always has for the countless past weeks: you would tease him and he would chortle with that swoon-worthy half-grin of his, asking you “do you like teasing me that much?”

Sure, he’s always been fashionably late; but if anything these few months of collaborations have taught you of this peculiar enigma, Jungkook has always been a man of his words… or at least you thought.

Fate seems to have taken a drastic detour tonight in return for one you could not have foreseen with that tunnel vision of yours; because tonight, the absence of his quirky jokes and curt profanities that had you cackling amidst the relatively serious work environment and the rest of your colleagues pondering over your true relations are reverberating in the disappointment that settles in your chest. Have you been too hopeful of things just working themselves out? The worst part of it is, you’ve always been wary of the baring of your heart and boys has never been an exception; but somehow, through the elaborate works of fate that had ensured you of the end game time after time again, you had become reliant on the fragile red string that would bring him to you and you to him.

The both of you have made made it evident just how painful these overtime workshops were, but it was a heavy commitment alleviated by the thought that at least you two had each other in a room full of strangers. It was a mutual sense of relief, right? He was always a hard one to decipher, but you know he wouldn’t leave you here. Not on purpose. Would he…?

And maybe you aren’t the only one noticing the hole in tonight’s workshop, because even your supervisor begins counting every minute that passes by without his and your usual rambunctious chattering.

“Did you text Jungkook yet?” he asks with a pitiful look peering down at you, seeing how the two hours of workshop has nearly made its full course.

Jungkook had never been the type to text, so you two had always kept your messages short and to the point, with him unknowingly leaving you on read and you making sure to repay the favor; so you, being the prideful person yourself, texting Jungkook would have been your last resort.

“I did,” you reply, biting your bottom lip. “He hasn’t replied yet.”

That’s how desperate you are.

And as if on cue, your phone vibrates and your hands scramble for the pocketed device.

Jeon Jungkook [6:59 P.M.] Fuck

Jeon Jungkook [6:59 P.M.] I totally forgot we had workshop today

Jeon Jungkook [6:59 P.M.] I’m sorry

Jeon Jungkook [7:00 P.M.] Are you still there?

Forgot you two had workshop today? The thought strikes you with a breath of disbelief leaving your lips, laughing not at his delayed response and stupid question but rather at you and your pathetic self. You had always looked forward to Tuesday nights with him. It was the highlight of your week. Every night at the strike of 7:00 P.M., after a short albeit electric conversation under the starry night sky and along the lit lamp posts along the brick sidewalks, you would wait longingly for the next excuse of an opportunity to speak with him again.

You had always feared this outcome, but it had never occurred to you until his texts that it must have been one-sided after all.

You had waited an entire two hours for him, pathetically waiting and hoping he would come bursting through the doors and all you receive in return is a lack of an effort to conjure an excuse—because, really, you knew you would have accepted even the most unbelievable of excuses.

He could have said he had overslept, in fact, you would have much rather preferred to believe that; but instead, the sirens that go off as your heart armors itself with a familiar cold sheath tell your very guts to believe otherwise.

Because more likely than not, he’s spent the last two hours on things—or rather, a woman—much higher on his priority than you; and as much as you had braced your heart to face this seemingly inevitable dead end, the thought of him breaking an unspoken albeit undeniable promise in exchange for a woman elsewhere evokes a wrenching pain that far exceeds your estimates.

“What did he say?” your supervisor continues, even as the rest of your colleagues collect their things for the day.

“Oh,” you mutter under your breath as you gather your purse and stand to your feet, lifting your sights off the desk and meeting that of your supervisor’s head-on, “he said he isn’t feeling well and meant to call in sick.”

Why did you lie to cover his irresponsible self that had burdened you so? The answer sits by your chair and in his, abandoned and stilling the air as you left the room along with the night that remains buried into a distant memory with no map for recovery.

Even so, the lie of that one fateful night unravels the red string until the two fated souls were tethered no more and you choose to answer his texts with silence.

his side;

Partner [5:13 P.M.] hey… you coming?

Her text has his eyes popping and heart shooting bullets against his chest with each second that passes in baffled silence; and before he knows it, a string of curses fly through the air at a world record speed that even he could never exceed, kicking the blankets to the floor and nearly rolling off the bed and stumbling onto his feet. His knees almost buckle onto the wooden floor of his apartment, but his legs propel himself forward as he staggers into the jet-black kitchen.

The sun and its golden radiance earlier today had completely set, just like the horrifying realization that dawns upon him. Whirling aimlessly around in his kitchen and finally snapping around to sprint toward the glowing green digits of his microwave that shines through the dark, something drops in him along with his lips.

6:56 P.M.

What the fuck happened to his alarm?

The boy makes a beeline for his bedroom, nearly colliding into his drawer and stubbing a toe on his bed-frame before hastily rummaging through the sheets on the floor. Frantically tossing and turning through the mess, his dart-like eyes somehow manage to spot his treacherous phone through the curly curtains that were his bangs. His hands snatch the phone into a grip that turns his skin pale, as if to accuse the device for his own wrongdoings—because the second he fails to find the alarm he had sworn to have set up before his nap, his knees collapse onto the floor and a petrified look replaces his doe-like eyes akin to that of a deer caught in the headlights.

He would put his life on the line to swear he had set up an alarm. Fuck that, what has his chest stirring in further panic isn’t his lack of care but, rather, his naive belief in himself and his supposed ability to “power nap” just an hour before workshop. And now look at him, he shakes his head in utter disappointment, he had abandoned his partner to fend for herself in the past two hours while he was napping away.

He could just picture it now—her delicate self, cold, crouched and closed off from the rest of her colleagues just as he had found her on the first day of the workshop. Something stirs in him enough for the usually stoic boy to clutch at his chest, wincing at the pain evoked by the thought of her waiting patiently for his arrival, glancing at the doorway every so often only to be met with utter disappointed by now.

How the hell is he supposed to explain to her now?

It doesn’t really matter what she thinks of him at this point, because to the boy who is genuinely remorseful for having broken the unspoken trust between him and her, the first thing he’s set out to do is to let her know she is no longer alone.

You [6:59 P.M.] Fuck

He doesn’t really know how to continue from there. Should he make up some shitty excuse? It’s odd, he’s usually never been the type to contemplate over things like this nor had he ever cared about what others thought of him enough to falter his own integrity… so why is he holding his phone and staring at the glaring screen as if his very life depends on his next text? It isn’t that an excuse is difficult to conjure, but it’s the thought of lying to her that has him scratching his head, especially when he recalls her outspoken annoyance for lazy partners.

You [6:59 P.M.] I totally forgot we had workshop today

Shit, he curses to himself, that’s dumb.

You [6:59 P.M.] I’m sorry

He really is. The gut-wrenching regret is enough proof, even for an apathetic man like him. Now the problem is: what can he do to make it up?

You [7:00 P.M.] Are you still there?

It’s a pathetic question and he knows it. Anyone could tell how he would follow-up such a question, but only a fool would accept his long-expired offer. The workshop had just ended and there was no point in him speeding through the roads just to meet her empty-handed. He has absolutely nothing to offer her. Plus, knowing someone as diligent albeit impatient as Y/N, he knows for certain she would have left at least an hour ago.

She wouldn’t wait for someone like him, would she?

Tossing his arms wide open and collapsing backward onto the floor, he stares blankly upward at his ceiling with a chest heaving and heart racing that gradually settles into the terrifying abyss of the unknown.

What now?

A series of texts interrupts his daze and his once-slowing heart rate skyrockets once again as he clutches his phone and almost pulls a muscle to crane his neck.

Jennie [7:14 P.M.] Hey 😊😊 you free tonight? 💕

He doesn’t care to lie, really.

You [7:14 P.M.] Yeah.

His hands plopped back onto the floor when another vibration sets off in his grip.

Jennie [7:15 P.M.] Wanna come over? My roommate is gone for tonight 😜💦

Strangely, his reply comes to him without hesitation.

You [7:15 P.M.] No. Not really.

Jennie [7:15 P.M.] Why not?😣😣

Jennie [7:15 P.M.] I can come over if you want

Unbeknownst to him, a groan escaped his lips as he sends his final text and tosses his phone to the side before retreating to his lengthy daze.

You [7:16 P.M.] Not feeling it. Sorry.

Strange. Whether it be sex or Fortnite, the boy would usually indulge himself in whatever forms of leisure during stressful moments like these; so why does Jennie’s usually tempting offer irk him tonight? It isn’t her fault, but the constant vibrations of his phone across the floor has him just one text away from blocking her number. He wants to bury his concerns and confusion somewhere far away, yet he just can’t seem to get rid of it… he can’t seem to get rid of these thoughts… he just can’t rid himself of her.

And the dreadful hours that seem to pass by in the blink of an eye are enough proof to him that these thoughts are an irrevocable force that is here to stay; because despite how irritating it was to constantly check his phone every few vibrations and groan at the sight of a name other than the only one on his mind, he still does it in hopes of hearing from her.

But he doesn’t. She never returns his messages, leaving him on read since the very minute he had sent her his apology. Jungkook had become accustomed to the “left on read” pattern between the two, accepting it as something that most normal colleagues would do, but this time things are different. As prompt and to the point her replies have always been, he could always sense the tint of excitement that exudes from her quick responses and occasional emojis. She had never left him hanging on his question, however.

Therefore, this time, Jungkook knows with certainty that her silence is her answer.

Her irritation over his negligence and betrayal of a pact between the girl and boy who had promised to have each other’s backs amidst a room of strangers was radiating from the mere checkmark next to his text. And the worst part of it? He can’t even blame her. This is entirely his fault and he’s never felt so regretful before. In fact, such fervent feelings come so rarely to Jungkook that he doesn’t even know what to do next or how to express himself and this dreadful remorse to his partner.

The two of them had started off on rocky terms, somewhere on the borderline of acquaintances that occasionally acknowledged each other’s existence and strangers that passed by one another without a single glance over the shoulder. Even to Jungkook, a boy completely indifferent to the journeys that life has taken him on, it seemed like fate had planned their pairing at work since the moment they had locked eyes. They were gradually becoming friends that would tease each other’s hobbies, dislikes, and private life—and now, he’s ruined everything.

So, in a desperate attempt to salvage whatever this relationship or friendship—if he can even call it that—he sends a final text that, to him, is a spillage of his heart.

You [11:57 P.M.] Fuck I’m really so sorry I promise it won’t happen again

Her silence that ensues is enough of an answer to him and he can practically see it all falling apart in front of his eyes.

#bts x reader #bts scenarios #bts x you #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook smut #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #bts scenario #bts imagines #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction #bangtan scenarios

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stones-x-bones · 4 years ago

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A Mother’s Touch || Morgan and Bex

TIMING: Current (Don’t @ me timelines are weird) PARTIES: @mor-beck-more-problems and @inbextween SUMMARY: Bex has more questions about her place in the world, and finds that Morgan might understand more than she thinks. CONTENT: Domestic Abuse mentions, Child abuse mentions, Transphobia mentions

Curiosity was one of Bex’s more troublesome personality traits. It had gotten her into quite a bit of trouble as a kid-- sticking her hands in places they shouldn’t go, like under rocks and through fences; or asking questions that didn’t exactly have kid friendly answers to them-- and her mother had often chastised her for it, so it had become one of the things that she had hidden and locked away inside herself. Except, lately, she was finding it harder and harder to keep that part of herself from surfacing. It was happening more and more frequently in which she found herself unable to hold back the array of questions that filled her head and toppled from her lips. But, more and more, she was finding herself wanting to be curious. And after everything that had happened to her-- from the cockatrice, to the mutant in the alley, to the dream world, to Frank acting so strange-- she could no longer hold back the questions that had flooded her mind since Nell had first tried to tell her what she was: what was a witch, and what, then, was magic all about? Clutching one of the books Morgan had gotten for her chest, Bex made her way downstairs. She knew the older woman would be in the great room, because she was always either there, at work, or in her shed, and it was late enough at night that Bex figured she wouldn’t want to be outside in her shed. Luckily, neither Mina nor Deirdre was around, so Bex had found enough confidence within herself to sidled into the great room and clear her throat. “Morgan?” she called out tentatively, staring at the older woman with wide eyes, “Can I-- come sit with you?”

Morgan was trying to write. On an impulse, she could talk in circles, for hours maybe, especially with Deirdre to ask her things, but as March gave way to April, she found her thoughts shrinking around the question of her history, her self, and suddenly even something so simple as a lesson plan took hours. Her eyes drifted toward a spot on the wall, searching for a hint, a bone to excavate, something that wouldn’t fade in the turn of another miserable year in this place.

She set down her stationary with relief when she heard Bex come in and shoved it all onto the coffee table. “Of course, honey,” she said. She craned her head around and saw her, a little brighter, a little more bursting with some secret thought or other she couldn't keep down. But her bruises were starting to fade and she didn’t look half as scared as when she’d first shown up at the door. “Grab a pillow and get cozy,” Morgan urged, refreshing her smile. “And tell me what’s on your mind.”

Bex hurried over to the couch, as if Morgan might rescind her offer. Still clutching the book to her chest, she pondered how to start the questions off. She didn’t want to burst with them, to offer too many and overwhelm her-- but she didn’t want to ask too little and end up regretting not asking more. “Well, I--” she started, shuffling the book from her chest to her lap as she settled into the couch next to her, “guess I was just curious.” Ran her hands over the cover of it. “What was it like?” she asked, looking up at her. “Growing up-- this way.” Tapped the cover, which was revealed to be about magic and the essence of God through Jewish faith. One of the Zohar texts, but it was obvious Bex meant more of the magic part and not the Kabbalah part. “Knowing that you were, you know--” she still hesitated to say the word-- “special?”

It took Morgan several seconds to understand what Bex was asking, and when she did, no answers rose immediately to her mind. “Well it was…” Fine? Except for her mother, which made up what percent of her memories? “It wasn’t any one particular thing all the time. It was still growing up with my parents.” She shifted position to face Bex better and beckoned the girl closer. “But it was wonderful, when they first told me. I was four, maybe five? My dad had been reading Matilda to me, out loud before bedtime. And it was just around my birthday when he finished. And then the next morning, he and my mother sat me down for a very serious grown up talk, and they explained that they knew what I had been getting up to on my own, floating toys, rotting vegetables, breaking glasses. At the time, I wasn’t totally sure if those things were me, or if I had a ghost--” She paused to snigger but waved it away, not wanting to bog Bex down with the depressing context. “And I still wasn’t sure what to make of what my parents were telling me, until my dad explained it. It was like Matilda, only it was real. And I loved that story so much and wanted it to be true so badly, I was ready for them to show me everything. And they did. I got a little kid friendly demonstration of what they could do, and then a very stern lecture from my mother about how magic was not a toy or a game or anything fun, and even if it was a part of me, a sacred, fundamental, inextricable part, it was still going to be a lot of work. But the lessons and everything else she had in store for me came after. That day was just for being happy, and for feeling...special. Like a girl in a book.”

Bex listened intently and wondered how her life would’ve been different had she known she had this power. Her mind hesitated to use the same words Nell and Morgan did. Magic was reserved for something unexplainable and mysterious, and this power seemed anything but. At the moment, it seemed frightening. Even as her curiosity piqued, she couldn’t help but remember only the pain it had caused her. The small joys she found in things like fixing a pot or making a plant grow slightly didn’t outweigh any of the fear that she felt. But she wanted to feel the way Morgan and Nell seemed to feel about it. She wanted it to be something more than an innate fear inside of her. But she didn’t know how to get there yet. “And you-- you said you’re Pagan. Is that-- did you grow up that way? With stories about m-magic and...stuff?” She wasn’t really sure what she was asking at this point, but she needed to work through the confusing questions before she could get to the ones she really wanted to ask. Her mind didn’t work any other way. She needed to process the small steps before the big ones.

Morgan squinted, trying to figure out where Bex was going with this. The girl was Jewish and proudly so, enough to start reading the Zohar rather than consider another faith. So where did Morgan’s religion come into anything? “Stories?” She repeated, trying to process. “The kind of paganism my family practiced had more to do with living in tandem with the flow of the earth, and the flow of the universe. There are, in other sects, deities, like the horned god and the morrigan, but we didn’t see them as beings with minds and wills that need to be appeased, but old, special names for broader forces, at best. But, there were rituals, the holy days follow the solstices and equinoxes, aligning the mind and spirit according to the seasons, growth, life, harvest, death. And we would use our magic, our power, to perform these rituals. And there were principals within this set of beliefs for how we should engage with our power. But the stories...the prayers we gave were to the earth, the stars, the elements. The story is just that...we belong here, and we should act like it. And it’s our job to remember that we have a will and an agency in our life, as a fundamental part of our existence. And we have to use that agency and work that will in a way that bends toward our highest and greatest good. But working your will isn’t always spellcasting. Sometimes it’s just being kind, or sticking up for yourself, or intervening when you see something wrong.” She sighed, unsure if this was the news Bex was hoping for or not. “I have some books on Celtic and Norse folklore and religion, if that’s something you were hoping to learn. I’m sorry if this isn’t...is there something you’re fishing for in particular, Bex?”

Bex recognized a lot of what Morgan was saying from the very text she had in her lap. Just...different. Connecting to the earth, to the flow of the universe, to the energy inside of it all. “I’ve always...struggled, to connect to my faith. I mean, I’ve been going to Temple every Sunday for as long as I can remember-- probably longer. But there was always this disconnect. I couldn’t understand what it was, I still don’t. And Judaism doesn’t really-- at least not Orthodox-- it’s not really erm, fond of...what I have. Or what...I am.” And perhaps they both knew she meant more than just magic. Her hands dug into each other, nervous peeling of nail beds. “And it’s not that our holy book doesn’t make room for people like me, or even people like you. Our God is about forgiveness and kindness and passing that on, and I always thought that, maybe, there was something inside of me that was wrong or bad, because how could I not relate to something like that? How could I not connect with something like that? And I guess I just wanted to know, if-if it was just me. If it’s just me. If-- if you ever struggled with it. With being that way while still staying faithful.” She chanced a tentative look up at Morgan. “But you...it was always a part of you. How does it work? How do you-- how do you do those things you said? Connect to the earth with your power?”

“Oh, Bex…” Morgan sighed. She had struggled, a lot. But not for any of those reasons. It was so much more awful than that, and went on for so much longer than anything she could bear to wish on Bex. She hung her head, sifting through her memories for some other excuse or rationale that wouldn’t feel dishonest. “There’s nothing inside you that’s wrong or bad, honey. How could there be? And feeling estranged or unwelcome or just disconnected--I feel like that’s more common than people realize. I believe that more people feel that than are willing to admit it. Honestly, I think it’s better to say so, than to do something you don’t mean.” But none of these assurances answered Bex’s question.

Morgan dug her hands into her skirt, tight enough that one of her fingers bent out of place. “The way I connect to everything now is different to how I did over a year ago,” she said quietly. “And even before then, I would struggle, yes. Left out. Left behind. Like everyone got a number and a place in line except for me, and whatever I did was squeezing in where I wasn’t wanted or taking something I wasn’t meant for. But I can’t…” she let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if that’s something I can talk about without knowing you’re going to believe me. I know you’ve been reading about--my family. The things that they did. That happened to them. But do you...believe in it, Bex? Do you understand what’s in there?”

Bex gave a confused look. It hurt her heart to hear how Morgan had suffered, and how she could relate to some of the ways Morgan said she’d struggled. Left behind, left out. Placed in a line you didn’t belong in but had to stay in. She was confused because she didn’t understand what Morgan was asking her. Hadn’t Morgan herself told her her family thought they were cursed? And if magic was real, then, by extension, so were curses. The Zohar talked about curses. It was forbidden. She put her hands back on the cover and tapped her fingers on it. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly, “I think I’m still-- trying to figure it all out. I mean, I believe that your family was cursed. It’s kinda hard not to when you read...all of that. But I don’t think what I think of as a curse is maybe what...you think of as a curse. It’s--” she looked back down at her book, “I don’t understand any of it. I’m just trying to wrap my head around the idea that I’m--that I have-- I don’t even know how to do that. I don’t know how to be this way. Even reading this, I don’t know what part of the world I fit into. I-- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I just want to know how it all works. I’m tired of being in the dark about all of this,” she said, curling her knees up to her chest, the book pressed between. “You said if I wanted to get a handle on all of this, that I needed to stop lying to myself. But I...what if I don’t know what I’m lying to myself about? I don’t know what’s my truth anymore.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Morgan said, quieter still. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve told you before, I’d rather have your honesty than anything else.” She sniffled and offered a smile, though it came out sad. “And I could--” she paused to steady her voice and sighed. “I could tell you about all the things that happened to me, every three years, because of a nineteen-year-old girl’s curse of eternal suffering. And the things I ran away from, and the things I ruined, and the people I hurt, and the fear I carried, and all the times I wondered if I had done something to deserve it, and if it would make things better or worse if I had. And I could tell you about how the girl cast the spell, the Norse and Celtic sigils she cobbled together to make something more cruel than anything she had in her books. And if that is what you want, I will. Everything I know how to talk about is yours. But there is so much in this world, Bex. More than anyone can digest at once or even in two or three talks. It takes time…” She scratched at the corner of her eye, trying to check for tears leaking over the side without making a thing of it. “But I don’t know if that will give you what you want. I can tell you that it’s no more mysterious to be someone with your magic than it is to be any other part of yourself. That it’s just patience, acceptance, nurture. I can tell you that you know, your soul knows what’s true and what isn’t, but you have to bring that in, honey.” Slowly, hesitating, she reached out a hand, hovering by her hair in a silent request. “What is it that you’re afraid of being a lie? Or is there something you’re afraid of being true…?”

Bex put her chin on her knees as she listened. It wasn’t fair, everything Morgan was saying. It wasn’t fair, that Bex couldn’t understand. It wasn’t fair that the world was cruel to people who didn’t deserve it. How could she believe in a God, a power, that did that to others? She buried her face in her arms. She didn’t move when Morgan reached out to her, but she didn’t flinch away either. The fading bruises on her arms hurt. “Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?” she asked into her own skin. “Why are there so many parts of me that feel so wrong? You keep telling me there’s nothing wrong with me, but I feel-- I feel so wrong. And I just wanna know how to not feel that way. How did you do it? Did you ever think it was bad? This power? The way you-- the way we are? How come I have to be this way? I don’t want to be this way.” She sucked in a breath. They were going in circles. She was going in circles. “I’m afraid-- I’m afraid letting myself be this is going to change me.”

Morgan combed her fingers through Bex’s hair when she didn’t flinch away and shifted closer, so she didn’t have to reach so far. She stayed like that, finger combing Bex’s hair in slow, steady strokes while she spoke. “But what parts, Bex? There is nothing about you that deserves any shame. I’ve known you this long, and I’m only more proud to know you than I was before.” She brushed the tip of her finger along the shell of the girl’s ear. “You are only and ever you, Bex. Unless you’re breaking yourself into a different shape to please someone else. But something that’s in you, that’s as much a part of you as your bones, can’t do that.” She wished that there was a way, from all her talks with Deirdre over the last year she had learned something more useful than simply denying the false story and trying to make her own more persuasive. She didn’t know how to compel someone to change their mind, or how to lift the self loathing out of a heart. “You can only become more yourself through this. And no bad came from an accessible education. It’s ignorance that hurts. But can you tell me-- maybe I could assure you better, if I knew what you were afraid of changing.” She touched her knuckles to her cheek, realizing only at the fuzzy, nothing sensation that she wouldn’t be able to tell if the girl was burning up with anxiety, or anger. With a mournful sigh, she went back to combing Bex’s hair. “I want to help,” she murmured. “Explain it to me, as best you can. It doesn’t have to be perfect or anything. Maybe I can piece it together if you tell me a little more…”

Bex couldn’t tell yet if Morgan’s touch was comforting. She felt her fingers brushing gently through her hair and wondered if there was ever a time her mother had done this for her without the malice that had usually preceded it. She couldn’t remember. Her childhood felt like a movie that she could only observe from the outside. She could remember thinking, even as young as five, that something was wrong with her. Because lightbulbs exploded or lamps toppled over or windows broke and her parents would tell her it was bad. With their words, with their hands. And if it was bad, and it was part of her, then she, too, was bad. It wasn’t something she could think her way through, not when she’d been conditioned in the opposite direction. “I’m afraid I-- what if I can’t do it? What if I’m not good enough? I-- I already failed my parents. I can’t-- if I do what you want me to, if I accept what I am, I can’t go back. They won’t let me come back. And I-- I don’t even know what kind of person I really am. My parents shaped me as a child, and then my school shaped me as a teenager, and now it feels like this place is trying to shape me into something else and I don’t know who I am or if I ever was anything, or if I can take much more. And what if I’m not enough? What if I’m not good? Where will I go then? Who will I be then? If I change again, I lose again. I’m afraid if I change again I’m just going to be alone, and I don’t want...I can’t take that again.” She decided, then, that it was comforting. She leaned into Morgan, still curled up in herself. “I want to know how me being...magic is going to make anything better.”

Morgan eased an arm around Bex’s shoulders and tucked her in with a loose grip before turning her attention back to her hair. It was easier to focus on that than anything else. “Hey, hey--” she cooed. “I don’t want you to be anyone but yourself, Bex,” she said. “Not some performance you’re putting on out of fear, not some set of made up rules to fit someone else’s idea. That’s not living. I just want to know you. And who you are, the amazing, incredible things you are capable of--” she sighed. “I don’t really believe in good and bad. But if there is anyone who might be truly good at heart, it would be you. And it is your choices, the kindness you decide to give to others, to yourself, the levity you bring to try and cheer your friends, the risks you take in the hopes of something better, that is what defines you more than anything you’re born with or born as. The choices you make that are your own, not pressured or beaten or intimidated into you. But you will always have a place here, if you want it. And the reason why accepting yourself, being kind to yourself, is going to make anything better is that you will have so much more peace, and so much more control in every other area of your life. All that energy you spend hiding and shaming yourself and repressing your light can go to good things, fun things, neutral things, whatever you want. You will have so many more choices, better choices, ones that can help other people, help the world, because you will have cleared out all the ones that are consuming and breaking and killing you. And getting to do cool stuff, live-saving stuff, just by wanting to is just as awesome as it sounds. But that’s just my two cents, Bex. I’m not going to make you do anything while you’re here.” She pulled back just far enough to look at the girl. “Am I making any sense…?”

It wasn’t fair, Bex thought. None of this was fair. Nothing she’d been born with or as was fair. She wished it would all just...go away. She wished she’d never been born the way she was. She wished she’d never found out she had magic. But wishes only went so far. And Morgan was right, because fucking hell, Morgan was always right. That also didn’t feel fair, but Bex knew that was because she was just being childish. She wanted to believe everything Morgan was saying-- really, she did!-- but those parts of her that ached so deep inside it felt like a part of her kept from accepting the reality that yes, she could choose who she wanted to be. She’d never had the choice before. She felt a silence settling over herself. Tomato, she thought. But that also wasn’t fair. She’d been the one to come down here and ask Morgan to talk. The book felt suddenly heavy in her lap. Somehow, she’d thought reading it, understanding it, would make her feel better. It didn’t. Because it wasn’t that she didn’t believe in magic, or that she didn’t believe she was-- it was that she believed her magic was bad. And no book would change that. She lifted her head enough to look over at Morgan. “Yeah,” she answered quietly. She let out a long puff of air, looking away again and resting her chin on her knees. “I need to tell you something. And I know you already know, but I need to say it out loud. So that I can make it...feel real.”

There were a lot of ‘secrets’ Bex held that Morgan had already figured out, but she wasn’t about to guess which one. She soothed Bex’s shoulders with a brush of her fingers and shifted so she could meet her eyes. “Of course. Whatever you need, honey. Okay? You’re cared about just the same.” She offered another smile, brighter now. “What is it, Bex?”

Bex wished someone else had said that to her. Why hadn’t her own parents ever told her that? Whatever she needed. She wondered if she could ever call this place home. Wondered how a woman with ice cold hands could make her feel warmer than a woman with warm hands and an ice cold heart. She met Morgan’s eyes for a brief moment before looking away. “I’m trans,” she mumbled, “and I-- I know it doesn’t change anything, obviously, but I wanted to be the one to tell you.” She shifted and held out the book to her. “None of these books tell me anything about myself. Not about being trans or a witch, or anything else. I just wanted answers.”

Morgan’s smile widened, showing only kindness. “I wanted you to be the one to tell me too,” she said. “Thank you, Bex, for trusting me with this. I hope, so very much, that you give the rest of yourself the same ease, the--relief you must have had when you looked in the mirror and finally saw someone you recognized. Someday.” She looked down at the book and set it aside on the coffee table. It had been a well-meant idea, at least. “No one can tell you how to be yourself except for you,” she said. “But there are plenty of books and media resources for trans girls that we can track down, if you want, and no shortage of material on magic and being a witch. Maybe with the right materials, when you’re ready, you’ll be able to cast your transmutation yourself.I am sorry, though, that it can’t be any easier. Truly, Bex.”

“You know,” Bex started, “I knew I was a girl when I was, like, five? Six? I remember because I saw all the other girls in my class wearing dresses and I wanted nothing more than to wear a dress, too. I also remember telling my parents and I guess, at the time, things weren’t so bad, because they just said okay. And the next thing I knew, my closet was full of dresses and skirts and I got to grow my hair out. They pulled me out of school and put me in a new one. I wasn’t allowed to start hormones until I was older, but even then, they were on top of it.” It sounded like a dream come true, really. “Except...I realize now it was because they were afraid. They told me never to tell anyone, that it was our secret, and that if anyone tried to find out, to tell them and they’d take care of it.” She looked over at Morgan. “They gave me a good life. I got to grow up as a girl because of them. Do you know how many trans kids never get anything close to that?” Her eyes fell back to the book. “I’ve been blowing things up since I was about that age, too. They never said a word about it.” If they had that much shame for her being trans but still had the gall to pretend, then what did it say about her abilities? “Books are nice. But I think I need something more. I just don’t know what that is.”

“The absence of cruelty isn’t the same thing as the presence of kindness,” Morgan muttered. Maybe it would be smarter to play along with Bex’s deluded affection for her parents. She certainly understood it, and maybe there was even something good she couldn’t perceive and understand about holding onto those scraps of ‘love’ and pouring affection and apologism on them like water, hoping they’d grow into something. But her fear that Bex would think she agreed with her parents was much stronger. If she was going to fuck this up, maybe it could at least be for trying to be a voice of reason. “...It could be that they didn’t understand what they were seeing, when you were doing what every other child witch in the world does. Or they were in denial. You’d think people would realize that willful ignorance just hurts everyone, but I’ve known at least one person who holds onto it like it’s the only thing worth keeping. Maybe it’s easier to do that, than admit you’re miles out of your depth. I don’t know. Only they do.” And she certainly wasn’t going to encourage Bex to dial them up to ask. “If you figure it out, I’ll do everything I can to bring it to you. I want that for you. Okay?”

This wasn’t the way Bex had wanted things to go tonight at all. She’d wanted to talk to Morgan and get answers to her question and maybe figure out how to feel at least a little better about herself. It wasn’t that Morgan’s reassurances weren’t helpful or nice to hear, but she felt like she was going in circles. “I don’t think my parents like being wrong about anything,” she muttered in response. She shifted, then, and laid her head on Morgan’s shoulder, arms still tight around her legs. She looked at the bruises on her arms and the bandages that were finally starting to become less and less. “I wish my mom had been more like you,” she said without thinking too much on it. She didn’t want to think anymore, she’d thought about so much today. “Do you think I’m wrong, for still loving them?”

Morgan closed her eyes at Bex’s words and held her just a little tighter. She wanted that too. Horribly. Impossibly. And what could she say in response that wouldn’t tell on herself and ruin everything? “...I’m here,” she said at last, wavering. “And you’re not wrong, no.” She brought some of Bex’s hair over her shoulder and twirled it around her finger. “Maybe it hurts us more in the end, or leads to some kind of trouble, but I don’t know how many kids can help loving their parents, even when they’re cruel. Maybe we think if we hold on, they’ll learn to love us the way we want. Maybe it’s just...how it is,for better or worse. But whatever it is, I don’t think it says anything bad about you, that you want to love and forgive them so much. I just hope… that part of you doesn’t get hurt so much that you become afraid to use it at all.”

Bex stayed quiet. She listened to Morgan and felt the truth in her words and understood that it came from experience. How else could she know so well, the way Bex longed for her mother to one day hold her gently and tell her she really did love her, and she really was proud of her? How else would she understand the pain of not having that love? Of desperately wanting a sign, any sign, that it was possible? Bex finally uncurled herself and let herself be held. It still took conscious effort to remind herself that the hands holding her would not hurt her, but she allowed enough of that part of herself to quiet, and she relaxed in Morgan’s arms. “Do you love your mom still?”

Morgan sagged with relief as Bex uncurled and wrapped her up the way she’d been aching to. She let her head come down to rest on the girl and closed her eyes and let herself be still save for the slow, steady breathing she measured out in her head. She tried to think of Ruth Beck as seldom as possible, but she was hard to forget, living in close quarters with so many haunted women. It hurt, always, but thinking about the things her mother had done was easier than answering Bex’s question. She’d had four years to get over it. She’d turned the ghost of the woman away, when the answers she got weren’t what she wanted. What was she still holding onto, if she’d already rejected her? And yet she had left the door open, for something, anything to change for so long as her mother’s soul lingered. And what the hell for?

“Yes,” she admitted at last. “Very much still. I think I’d stop if I knew how, but I don’t.”

In some strange way, it was relieving to know that Morgan still loved her mother, too. Bex knew that her mother was a cruel woman, but she also knew that her mother could be gentle. She had been the one to buy her dresses as a child, and tell her that she could be a girl if she wanted. Bex even remembered falling asleep in her lap by the fire some nights, or sitting with her on the couch while they watched movies. She remembered bedtime stories and forehead kisses and burying herself in her mother’s arms when another parent had tried to scream at her for going in the women’s bathroom. Her mother’s cruelty wasn’t always towards Bex, but when she did turn it that way, Bex always forgave her. Time and time again. Because she loved her, and all she wanted was for her mother to love her back. “Does it still hurt? To love her?”

“Yes,” Morgan said. “Sometimes it feels worse than what she did. Or didn't do. I have every reason in the world not to love her anymore, and now that she’s--gone, mostly, there’s not much chance of a better ‘someday.’ But even when I remember everything, I uh--” She hiccuped a wet laugh. “I’m still just the little girl she didn’t want, wanting her to save me from my hurt.” She swiped at the tear rolling down her cheek before it could land on Bex’s hair. “And it wasn’t all bad, which makes it worse, in a way. Maybe. I tell myself if it was all bad, I’d let her go easier, but maybe it would be more of the same.” She shrugged. “She’s the one who taught me how to cook. Made the best birthday cakes. Probably the alchemy.”

The familiarity of Morgan’s words hit Bex like a punch to the gut. Not that she’d ever been punched in the gut, but she assumed this was what it felt like. It felt a little bit like her future was being told to her, laid out in front of her. She didn’t have to hear it or see it to know there was probably a tear in Morgan’s eye. She’d pretend she didn’t know. Instead, she settled in closer and put her arm around Morgan. “Will you teach me how to cook?” she asked into the quiet.

Morgan’s next tearful laugh came out more freely and she didn’t even bother to hide her sniffles, understanding that Bex knew. This was her present. Her wounds were still raw and infected. “Absolutely, Bex.” She gave her a quick squeeze. “Besides, Deirdre’s too easily distracted to ever let me teach her, and we need to save the rest of the pots from burnt water somehow, right?”

#chatzy #wickedswriting #chatzy: morgan #a mother's touch #domestic abuse mention tw #child abuse mention tw #transphobia tw

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keelywolfe · 5 years ago

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

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

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

Sequel to:

Showtime

Secret Garden

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Read it on AO3

Read it here!

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

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

Except on Judgment days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not a question and Edge did not answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-fin

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#fontcest #keelywolfe #underfell papyrus #underfell sans #underswap papyrus #underswap #underfell #lemony goodness #papcest #spicyhoney #honeymustard #spicyhoneymustard #bodyguard au

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words-writ-in-starlight · 5 years ago

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🍪 take a cookie because you deserve it :),, also please tell me about geralt and yennifer and also is the witcher easy to watch without knowing much about the source material ???

I watched three episodes of Witcher with zero context whatsoever, understood everything, enjoyed it hugely, read about 200K of fic, watched three more episodes, read the first book in the series, and finished the show. As long as you are prepared for the fact that, A, the timelines of the three main characters converge, they are not concurrent, and, B, it’s not Game of Thrones and it’s not trying to be Game of Thrones, you will be ABSOLUTELY fine.

(Do critics just…not use critical thinking skills? Half of everyone I’ve talked to said that this show was impossible to follow. It is not impossible to follow. Yennefer and Geralt are just really old. Also, everyone and their cousin is like “well it’s not GoT” yeah???? Obviously???? “This isn’t chili” “No, it’s chicken pot pie” “I wanted chili” “Then go have some chili I guess??? This is chicken pot pie. Still a food, just not that food.” It’s not Game of Thrones. If you want Game of Thrones, go watch that instead, or read the books, or maybe watch some Avatar and calm down. Stop crucifying every fantasy product for not being Game of Thrones II.)

TL;DR: Yeah dude you’ll be totally fine, watch this show. And then if you don’t mind spoilers for the rest of the (book and game) series, read Astolat’s Witcher fic.

ANYWAY

Geralt and Yennefer. This got…very long.

Here’s the fairly unique emotion I’m feeling about this relationship: I think it’s absolutely in-character and believable, I’m completely convinced that Geralt and Yennefer would end up together, and I am equally convinced that their relationship has a pretty hard expiration date on it. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually been interested in a relationship dynamic that I took one look at and went “oh, wow, this is going to break down hard the second your need to help people even when they hate you and her need to get revenge on people who hate her are in conflict.” That’s very novel for me, because normally I like endgame relationships. I find breakup drama exhausting. I have dumped two people ever and both times I was very nice for ten minutes and then very short-tempered for the rest of the conversation.

But I’m really invested in the breakdown here. And I’m really invested in how completely inevitable the relationship is, despite what I consider to be the equally inevitable calamitous breakup.

The thing is, Geralt has lived his entire life as a witcher, which means that the world is divided into two groups for him: people who are dependent on him as a witcher, and people who hate and fear him as a witcher. (There are also Other Witchers, but with so few of them left that they fall pretty heavily into the ‘people who depend on him’ category.) There is a not-inconsiderable amount of overlap in that Venn diagram, but that’s pretty much how it is on this bitch of a Continent. The people who Geralt is drawn to, in whatever context, tend to be the rare handful who fall outside that binary metric in some way.

Renfri could use help from him, but she’s more than able to handle herself. In fact, when the chips are down, her final gamble is to just remove him from the field of play, and try to resolve the situation alone.

Triss needs him in a professional capacity, but she brings just as much to the table as he does, both in terms of political knowledge about the striga situation and in terms of dragging his battered ass out of the castle before he can quietly bleed out. She’s not looking for a rescuer, she’s looking for a tank to complement her glass cannon.

Jaskier needs Geralt to save him (in the show)…but only because he was usually the one to get them into trouble in the first place. And he sticks around once he’s been saved, once he isn’t depending on Geralt to get him out alive anymore.

Even Ciri, who is absolutely dependent on him in a very literal and legal sense, is distinctly different from the general populace, who need a witcher to pull them out of trouble. She’s one of probably very few people who’s ever been dependent on Geralt as a person, rather than a hired killer. Sure, it’s helpful that he can kill anyone who looks crooked at her, but she also needs to eat, and to learn to use a sword, and to be trained in things like magic and languages, and all the things that a kid needs from a parent. That’s radically different from Geralt’s experience of being depended on as a witcher.

But Yennefer…Yennefer doesn’t need Geralt. She’s not dependent on Geralt. She’s not afraid of Geralt in any way, let alone just because he’s a witcher–in fact, she barely seems to notice that he’s a witcher, except in the way that it makes them alike. Geralt’s taste in partners is obviously “people who are not afraid of him” with very few other requirements, and Yennefer is a powerful mage, someone who would be able to take down a witcher without difficulty. She’s also well-educated, very clever, and completely fearless about the world in general. That’s everything Geralt finds compelling, all with the added bonus of an extremely pretty face. It makes complete narrative sense that Geralt is in love with her.

Incidentally I do not believe that Geralt wished for Yennefer to be in love with him, because it wouldn’t track with the rest of his character and would be a level of vulnerability he works hard to avoid. I do believe that he might have said something rash like “I wish I wouldn’t lose her” and now they are here. It’s important to think your wishes through when dealing with an angry wish-granting being.

On Yennefer’s end of things, she has only ever wanted two things: to be respected and to be wanted. In any capacity that might be available to her. I think this is really the major driving force of her desire to have children–she’s not overwhelmingly interested in children as a phenomenon, and I think that in another life she wouldn’t want them. But she said it herself, she wants a child because she always wanted to be important to someone. It’s not about the kid. She’s obsessed with the idea that she will always be important to a child. A child would be completely dependent on her, completely devoted to her, no matter what.

(Side note: this is a bad reason to have kids! Geralt is right and she would be a bad mother. She’s also obsessed with having kids because she can’t handle the revelation that she’s not happy with the deal she made, and she’s focused all that discontent into the literal, tangible loss of being able to carry a child. But “Yennefer actually probably does not want a child and is rampantly projecting all her issues onto the most readily available problem she can find” is a separate post. Probably the first pregnancy-centric plotline I’ve ever been able to handle without feeling violently dysphoric, though.)

The thing is, when she meets Geralt during the djinn fiasco, he needs her. He’s dependent on her. She’s important to him because of what she can do for him, which is how she’s set up her life. When he comes back to save her, though, he’s not doing it for payment, or for a favor, or for any of the other clean, linear exchanges that Yennefer is used to. He just…comes back. For her. Because she’s a person.

Yennerfer has never been important just as…a person, before. She’s important as a mage, she’s important as a student, she’s important as a project or a protector. But from the second Geralt comes back for her, she’s important to him as a person. The fact that almost any person would be on the level of “important enough to save from a rampaging djinn and their own stupidity” to Geralt is completely superfluous to how hard that hits Yennefer. Of course she’s in love with him. Of course she keeps looking for him, keeps pouring on the charm whenever she’s with him–she wants him to keep wanting her. Because that’s how she knows to make herself important to someone, is to make them want her.

(This is also where it gets interesting with Ciri, because…well, if Yennefer really just wanted kids, she could do worse than the news of the girl who’s Geralt’s daughter in the eyes of the law. But she’s furious, because her views of family are intensely skewed and limited by her experiences. Also a separate post that I will probably make after reading some more of the books.)

Regarding the inevitably dramatic breakdown of their relationship (beyond the falling out over the djinn thing, which, see above), I think they’re under the impression that if they do it right, they could stand the test of time. They’re both extremely long-lived, so the test of time has the potential to be a while, but I frankly don’t think they’d make it outside of a conflict-heavy environment (like, say, a war). When they have a mutual goal, or at least a mutual enemy, Geralt and Yennefer work together like a right and left hand. When they do not, they fall apart something fierce, because they’re driven by intrinsically different motives. Geralt, for all that he tries to be as cynical as possible, has been trained his entire life to protect people, and considers it a worthwhile goal in and of itself. Yennefer, on the other hand, is as innately self-motivated as Geralt pretends to be, which means that she’s driven heavily by what feels best for her in the moment. Sometimes that means healing a wounded bard and talking quietly with a witcher about their mutual scars! Sometimes that means leaving a woman to die for calling her a worthless bitch! This is a morally neutral statement that I’m making, there’s a generous and an ungenerous way to read Yen’s decisions, but I think we can agree that she’s not exactly following a rulebook here. Yennefer has her goals and she’s going to achieve them, and fuck you for getting in her way.

Including Geralt.

I think that, virtually without question, Yennefer’s self-oriented hedonistic drive and Geralt’s protection-based code will clash, and their relationship will break down in spectacular fireworks. Having to self-determine, during peace time, is practically guaranteed to bring those two motivating factors into conflict eventually. Because during peace time, Geralt will be back to being the hated witcher and Yennefer won’t have a better enemy to focus on than the civilians he risks his life for on the regular. And Geralt demonstrably does not respond well to that.

#the witcher #witcher #netflix witcher #geralt of rivia #yennefer of vengerberg #geralt x yennefer #...sort of #starlight writes stuff #anyway yes i am fascinated and also absolutely convinced of the fact that their relationship will eventually go supernova #this is actually only a fraction of my thoughts on the subject as evidenced by my plethora of parentheticals #but it got so long that i had to shut up and go to bed #i didn't even get into my weird emotional state on yennefer #i don't like her much! ...MOST of the time!#when she's around geralt i really genuinely like her as a person #and that GLARING difference is really interesting to me #because it doesn't scan as completely manipulative i think she really does care for him #but she's also showing him SUCH an incredibly different side of herself that he would be denounced as a liar if he ever mentioned it #i think she's really latched onto their shared magical mutation with the assumption that he's as angry as she is #and it causes her to show him a whooooole other self #i'm fascinated #i do not believe they would work out and i don't think it would be good for them (esp geralt) if they tried #but i am fascinated #my gf bought me witcher 3 and i've been reading the books so it's safe to say that i have more comments #jothjimbo #asked and answered #a queue we shall keep and our honor someday avenge

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fanficsaremylifeline · 5 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Ben Parker & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Dum-E, Peter Parker & Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Peter Parker & Tony Stark Characters: Peter Parker, Ben Parker, Dummy (Iron Man movies), Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe), Tony Stark Additional Tags: he likes to talk, who cares if nobody answers, Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV) References, whump warning: fire, ironfam, Irondad, IronDaughter, spiderson Series: Part 12 of Ironfam Summary:

Not everybody Peter enjoys talking to always answers. Doesn't mean that Peter can't talk to them though.

“Hi, Uncle Ben”, Peter smiled, somewhat awkwardly. “Happy birthday!” He toyed around with the card he held in his hand. “Unfortunately, they didn't have any 'For the awesome Uncle, who is practically your father' , so I went straight with 'For the world's best Dad'. I mean it's true on any level except genetically. Though I'm not sure how human my genes are any more, so I guess that's even true of my parents... Sorry, I'm digressing.”

Gently, he placed the card just by the bouquet of daisies, Uncle Ben's favourite flowers. They were somewhat wilted, but Aunt May was sure to come by later, and get him a fresh one for his birthday.

“Don't tell Aunt May that I skipped school, though”, he pleaded as he sat himself down, just by the head stone. “She'll ground me from Ned, or Spidermanning, or the Avengers and that's not cool... Oh yeah, that's right, I'm an official Avenger now!”, he beamed proudly, after having made sure that nobody was around to listen in on Peter talking to his Uncle's grave. “I know, it's so cool, right? And woah, you should have seen Aunt May, when she took on Tony Stark, and made very clear that every little thing that'll happen to me, she'll make sure he'll suffer too.” Peter couldn't help but giggle at Tony's grimace. A man who didn't seem to be afraid of anything was seriously scared of Aunt May. Not that Peter could blame him for that; he'd rather go up against the Vulture again, than Aunt May when she was angry with him.

“She's alright. I know I don't have to, because she's like the most badass woman out there, but I'm still looking out for her. And she is doing good.”

There was just this big, burning thing, looming in Peter's mind. “So, this might be a little awkward, but she's seeing someone again. He works for Tony, he's a really good guy, actually. And yeah, it's plenty weird. But Aunt May says, that he's not here to replace you, or anything like that, so I guess that's something...”

Fidgeting nervously with his fingers, Peter looked down on his hands. “I'm not gonna do that, I promise”, he vowed, “I'll never forget you, and I'll always love you and as good of a guy Happy is, you'll always be my Uncle, and you'll always have that place in my heart that nobody ever can have.”

At this point, Peter wasn't sure if he assured Uncle Ben or himself. Him it definitely helped; things were sort of out in the open. It'd be so much easier though, to hear some sort of answer, get some kind of reaction. But that wasn't gonna happen, was it?

“What? No!”, Peter groaned and dropped to the ground. “Why, WHY?”

At his outburst, Dum-E wheeled over, looking at Peter with a somewhat tilted head. Not that he really had one, but he definitely seemed to be curious what had Peter so frustrated.

“It's not working Dum-E. Nothing is! So, you see, that thing here is supposed to light up.” He pointed at the robot he built for the science fair.

It was slightly embarrassing, Peter had worked on far more advanced projects in here, mostly with Mr Stark, but also when by himself. “And I can't just ask Mr Stark, it's way to easy.”

Dum-E followed him around the table, curiously inspecting everything Peter explained to him. “So you see, with these cables connected, it should react to my commands! Ugh.” He rolled his eyes at his own idiocy and turned to Dum-E looking at him somewhat dubiously. Great, even the robot thought Peter was an idiot.

“Don't look at me like that”, Peter made clear, pointing at him.

The way Dum-E looked up at him, with his head somewhat tilted to one side, it reminded Peter of a puppy dog, realizing that something was wrong, but not really understanding what it was.

“I'm sorry”, Peter sighed and patted the little head, “I'm just stressed and annoyed and...” He just let out a deep sigh. But, all moping wouldn't help him, so he went back to disassembling the circuitry.

“I know you're not gonna answer”, Peter eventually remarked, “but I think I'm gonna keep on talking to you.”

The beep that came from Dum-E sounded to Peter like the robot consenting to be talked to.

“Great. Alright, so the idea is that the robot can walk and follow a few simple commands. It's not like I'm creating an AI here, so it shouldn't be too complicated. I know, I know”, he hurried to say, when he felt Dum-E looking at him all funnily. “I shouldn't give too much thought to the aesthetics, but it's a damn science fair, so I'll just have to bother with that, even if the rest suffers for it.”

“Beep.”

“Come on”, Peter rolled his eyes, “that was really uncalled for.”

“Beep, beep.”

“Wow, Dum-E, there is no need for name-calling”, Peter shot back, staring the robot down, who eventually dropped his head.

“Beep.”

“Yes, of course you're forgiven.”

“Beep. Beep, beep.”

“Omigod, yes, that's it!”, Peter cried out, leaned over to press a kiss on Dum-E's head, before turning back to his own robot, where – whether by himself or with help from Dum-E – Peter had finally found the mistake.. “Thanks so much, Dum-E, you're a genius!”

“You full?”, Peter asked, looking down on the six months old girl, who dejectedly threw the biscuit through the room. “I guess that's a yes”, Peter snorted and repositioned her on his lap.

“So, Morgan, as your honorary older brother, it's my duty to teach you the important things in life”, he explained. “And one of these things I need to introduce you to is Brooklyn Nine Nine.”

Peter didn't even have to ask FRI to play it, Netflix opened automatically on the big TV screen. He was on his umpteenth rewatch, currently somewhere in season 1 again.

“So, that's Jake”, he explained.

“Shdkpf.”

“Yeah, he's pretty smart”, Peter agreed with her. “That's Amy.”

“Giggidgsh.”

“Exactly!”, he grinned, “he's totally into her. But he plays over it, because, well, he's a little awkward.”

“Pfffrm.”

“I'm not awkward!”

“Gskgsk.”

“Oh, that is so unfair of you to bring up”, Peter complained. “And it's totally not the same! I kept on lying to MJ to keep her safe!”

“Mmmhpff.”

“I can't believe that you would say that to me, when we both know what your Dad did for you Mum.” He looked down on Morgan who beamed up with wide eyes. “He got her an oversized stuffed bunny. I got MJ a necklace.”

“Brrrrrrrrm.”

“Thank you, Morgan. But now let's get back here. See, that's Teddy.”

“Pshhhmmm.”

“Mo! I know he's not the greatest, but we don't say words like this! Anyways, he's also into Amy. And she's kinda into him. And Jake doesn't find that so great.”

“Gshkshsga.”

“No, it's nothing like me, MJ and Brad. I don't even know where you'd get that idea. Besides, Brad doesn't even matter any more. And Teddy won't matter for too long, either.”

“Gashmmmm”

“Sorry, spoiler alert”, Peter apologized and tapped his finger on her hand, prompting her to grab it, squeeze and pull on it. “Dude, we can be happy I got superpowers, otherwise that'd probably hurt. Like a lot. You're really fierce, hey?”

“Hmmmmpf.”

“Yeah”, he beamed, “exactly like your Mummy.”

The first thing Peter realized, was something or someone holding onto his hand, and a soft voice talking to him.

“How often have I told you to call me when things go pear-shaped? I'm a genius and I can't even count how high.”

That sounded a lot like Mr Stark. Why was he holding Peter's hand, and why were his eyes so heavy?

“You really are an absolute pain in my ass, Parker”, Mr Stark continued. “I mean, I'm absolutely impressed by how smart you are, by your innate desire to help people, but do you have to be so damn self-sacrificial? Remember, I got a heart condition and that shit just ain't good for me!”

A calloused thumb gently stroked the back of his hand. “Fuck”, he mumbled, “I guess I should probably tell you how awesomely you did, how you saved all the people from that burning building, but did you have to breathe in that much smoke? You're lucky you got your spider-healing, things could have looked very differently.”

Slowly, things came back to him. KAREN directed him to some office building, where a fire had broke out, trapping a bunch of people on the top floors. Peter didn't even think twice before climbing up the wall to get everybody out.

“And by the way, I'm not the only one who thinks that”, Tony made clear. “Your lovely girlfriend said something along the lines of her going to kill you if you end up dead. And Aunt Hottie... Damnit, I really should stop calling her that, especially in front of you, it's just all shades of wrong... Well, she definitely agrees with Michelle, as does Morgan. In summary, you've got three of the fiercest women on this planet on your ass.”

“That being said, I am still so proud of you. And I really am one lucky son of a bitch to have such an exasperating, snarky, pain-in-the-ass Spiderling in my life. So please, to all that's holy and good in this world, please, just please...” A deep sigh followed, before Mr Stark continued to speak: “Kid, I love you. Which means I worry so damn much. And as good as I look with grey hair, there's no need for you to give me any more of those, you got that?”

“Yeah”, Peter mumbled and squeezed the hand that was holding onto his.

“Wha...” Mr Stark jumped, clearly having thought Peter was asleep. “And how long have you been awake, mister?”

“Long enough”, he sighed, feeling himself already drifting off again. “I love you, too, Mr Stark.”

#avengers #ironfam #peter parker #uncle ben #dum-e #morgan stark #tony stark

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qunot · 5 years ago

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Lolicon’s Impact on Me

Oh, how I loathe to write this post, but write I must, I don't know if this will sink to the depths of darkness, but I'd like to think that at-least one soul might benefit from it.

I am what society would call a monster or aberration. A being who has no attraction to adults but does have it to kids. Some as young as 9.

Contrary to popular belief, I did not get bored some day and decide, "I am feeling really masochistic today, why don't I do something that is bound to really backfire on me and completely destroy my life, just to spice things up."

No one thinks like that, it is innate. From the very moment you're born to the very moment you die, it is a part of you forever and ever and it sucks. A lot. Having sex? Never. Having a relationship with someone? Never. Looking at porn? Only if you want to go to prison for forty years.

Also contrary to popular belief, I don't have the desire to jump on random people in fits of lust or to seek out sexual encounters just to relieve the pressure. This is similar to how you don't really see hordes of virgin men scouring the streets for every random woman they can forcefully abduct into their homes.

This is not to say that we are completely stable. Societal pressures involved (being called a monster constantly), having nowhere to turn to, etc. conspire to make us a fair bit more unstable than the national average.

I myself am actually fairly well-adjusted compared to many more unfortunate people like me.

Some go insane.

Some just give into temptation and eventually end up in a dark part of the web filled with things which shouldn't be allowed to exist.

Some get all self-loathing and punish themselves every-day to make themselves feel how much of a monster they are.

I on the other-hand manage to stay relatively stable, albeit having to deal with bouts of depression and mood instability. This wasn't always the case, and I attribute much of it to lolicon hentai, which is a sort of cartoon porn.

Unlike real pornography, every character is entirely fictitious and there is no person to horribly traumatize or to soil the reputation of by being associated with naked pictures of kids. Everyone wins. Society gets well-adjusted productive members of society and I get to be sane.

Except, is this really case? You would think that society would rally behind something with such great benefits, right? Sadly, politics is a huge part of anything to do with this, and more often than not, facts are optional.

At this point in the game, not only are the facilities to help support people woefully lacking, but governments have been carrying the flawed mindset that "this is a slippery slope which leads to children getting abused" when every law they pass actually achieves the opposite.

To really understand how this is so however, I am going to have to take you through a little story about myself and how I came to get to the point I'm at now.

Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I never really thought about sex, it was just something which never really crossed my mind. Other kids would mention a thing or two from time to time, but I would be content to leave that be.

That did end up changing, but not in the ways one might expect, I grew more and more curious towards kids who were far under my age, but were all but present. I would sometimes look at fully clothed images on the internet with a weird feeling.

And one day, I saw perhaps one of the youngest people there who looked a fair bit younger than they actually were, although still a fair bit younger than me who I found extremely cute unlike all of the so called "attractive girls" who the other teenagers would always talk about.

She was far, far less developed than them and that was very enticing.

I very awkwardly tried to make friends with her, and while it very slightly worked, my social awkwardness was off the charts and making it difficult to get much further and eventually it crashed and burned like many unrequited loves too.

During this process, I had a slight feeling that something was wrong, especially with the low age involved, but no one seemed to notice a thing as we were all well within the legal boundaries.

Those were the first encounters with this unique sexuality, although certainly not the last.

At some point, I'm not even sure exactly, , but I drifted away from looking at clothed images of real girls and started looking at random anime (cartoons of sorts which are produced in Japan) ones as I found them particularly cute.

I flicked through lots of them, being pulled more and more towards the young ones who I adored and contained the qualities I loved. I even childishly wanted to leave this world behind entirely.

This continued for a number of years, even past school, although I became more and more conscious of cute school kids roaming by. I didn't have any particularly bad intentions for them, but I did find myself looking whenever they happened to be nearby.

I gradually became more and more disillusioned with reality, especially with this taboo attraction which society all but called the devil and eventually all alone in the depths of depression and repressed self-loathing and after the deaths of several loved ones, I decided to deal with it once and for all.

Through a great deal of research, I discovered that sexual desire had a connection to several hormones within the body, so I thought that if I get rid of those, then I can become normal, right? It's not like these desires are good for anything, right?

Unfortunately, the methods to deal with this involved prescription drugs and getting a hold of them would require going through the right medical channels, but I didn't let this stop me.

I knew that if I let the information about me loose to those professional, then I might well be locked up for the rest of my days in some sort of mental hospital, unable to die. This is how deep the stigma regarding this condition runs, even what may be perfectly reasonable professionals in other times will go crazy at the thought, and I could not take this risk.

I managed to get the pills through sketchy yet perfectly legal channels and began to rid myself of this condition, discarding my former self and being reborn as a normal productive member of society... Except, this did not work, even slightly.

It is true that it somewhat reduced my sex drive, but the romantic attractions, protective instincts for them, etc. simply refused to disappear, so I channeled all my willpower to suppress those and tried to seek relationships with normal adults like any other human being.

As the chief symbol of my depravity, I also cut myself off from all cartoon porn and strived to maintain a porn free life as regular porn could do nothing but conjure up feelings of revulsion in me, as part of this, I slowly brainwashed myself into thinking that all sexual thoughts are evil and clamped down on them viciously.

This too failed as my distorted mental state and already irregular sexuality made it impossible to really get anywhere further than permanent friend zone. They eventually left and looked at me with disgust, or so the distorted feelings said.

As the hormones vanished, my body grew weaker and weaker to the point I would easily run out of breath even for short walks, my bones grew rickety, and I found myself staring listlessly at the wall for many hours at a time, my mind an empty void and occasionally thinking about throwing myself off the tallest building and researching the best way of committing suicide.

I also began to hear faint voices which weren't really there whispering and sometimes saying my name, calling for me and I grew steadily more paranoid about people watching me from outside the window or from behind me, even though there was no one there.

I drifted further and further from the world, continuing the courses of pills like a mindless zombie, and when I was out and about, I felt as if everyone around me was looking at me with the utmost disgust. I even ate a bit of bleach, while thinking about just ending it.

At some point, the pills ran out and I couldn't muster up the will to get more of them at that point, so I continued my suppression exercises and my mindset bit by bit still remained in a weird way, almost like that of an alien and yet I pressed forward convinced by that letting my repressed self out would be a terrible idea.

Eventually, a few more friends abandoned me due to my distorted mind, I pleaded with them to stay, but they took the rational choice. I can hardly fault them for that.

Completely distraught and unable to muster up the energy to continue, I ended up looking at the cartoon porn again and bit by bit reconnected with various people and continued trotting along until I learned that several people near me were arrested for doing the same thing and had their lives destroyed for it.

I freaked out and started looking into various laws and regulations and drifted towards the forums of the various sites which produced my favorite content. I pored over each page and even noticed a few people who were somewhat like me there, and even more surprisingly, they didn't seem to be the evil sadistic monsters which society taught me they were.

I ended up talking to them in a slightly liberating experience and learned a number of things. I also branched out into various other communities.

One of the things I learned is that looking at child abuse images is more of an addiction than being a complete sadistic monster, and that safer content is extremely scarce with people having to dig deeper and deeper into the darkness to find more of what they need.

According to them, it can allow one to vent more effectively than anything else, in practice, a lot of the content is so horrible that it ends up driving you to near suicide.

They also commented that it would have been impossible to escape from that content, if not for the fact that they had an alternate outlet to switch to. This reaffirmed my beliefs that an outlet is vital for dealing with your natural urges and to stay away from that horrible yet addictive content.

Fate tends to make fools of us all, however as while browsing, I stumbled upon a couple of blurry images. I looked in closer and each one was a naked child standing on her own completely naked, I was really surprised that something like this could actually exist on the surface web.

It had a stronger sexual attraction than usual and as I had never seen a naked child (of the right sex) before, I looked curiously at their body structure. Shortly after, I dragged myself away from those images, deciding to stay away from them and just focus on cartoon porn instead.

Several weeks later, I stumbled upon an article about the ban in Japan and discovered that those images in particular were commercially produced thirty years ago back when when it was legal, which made sense considering that the quality of the images was fairly poor by today's standards.

After all these events, I sat down and thought about the poor state of information regarding us.

For instance, there is a misconception that mere thoughts lead to cartoon porn which lead to real porn which lead to rape. Or the very common assumption that we are all crazy rapists by default, I used to think that too after hearing it so many times.

In truth, I have yet to see anyone who has actually abused someone, they seem vanishingly rare and I'm happy for it as-well as I would be very uncomfortable to be in the same space as someone who abused someone against their will.

This led me to think of ways to try to get information out to people that a lot of things have been massively misunderstood and I decided to write a short post. It won't quite be the most effective thing in the world, but every little bit helps in the grand scheme of things.

In the end, even though I am attracted to them and can fantasize about doing all manner of erotic things with them, I wouldn't actually be able to force them to do things against their will, even thinking of it would weigh too heavily on my conscience.

I don't know what you will make of this post, but I hope it's of use to at-least someone.

#society #life #art

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rylie-barton · 5 years ago

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⌜ CIS FEMALE, SHE / HER | the hearse by matt maeson, gryffindor, infp ⌟ ⏤ meet RYLIE NATALIA BARTON ; a TWENTY TWO year old who kind of resembles WILLA HOLLAND, don’t you think? she originally hailed from NEW YORK CITY where she lived with her parents, CLINT BARTON & NATASHA ROMANOFF ( MARVEL ), but word is that she’s been making strides to rejoin shield and finish her law degree this past year. she’s always been pretty AUDACIOUS & COMPASSIONATE, but has gotten way more CODEPENDENT & PRIDEFUL since she woke up. maybe her ability of WEAPON PROFICIENCY and power of INNATE COMBAT can help in taking down the dome. you can check out her stat page HERE& her pinterest board HERE.

i was a woman who thought only of dead things ( all the time ). i couldn’t HELP it.

part one of two : the backstory. ( trigger warnings for talk of death, drug / alcohol abuse.

born on july 21st, 1996, to clint barton & barbara morse. the youngest of three children, lewis and callum were five and nine respectively at the time of her birth.

her mother and brothers died in a house fire when she was just three months old ; the files concerning the accident are blacked out and encrypted, and the story given to rylie amounts to ‘your mother went missing in action.’

understandably, she’s always wanted to know more ; unfortunately, she’s never had the means in which to find anything out.

raised by clint. really loved, but vaguely overprotected. ‘aunt nat’ was in her life from minute one, essentially, a shoulder for clint to lean on and a motherly presence that rylie found she craved. in time, they got married. it never felt anything but natural.

she was raised alongside the rest of the next gen ; troy banner, dan rogers, calder thorson & phoebe stark. they were and remain the closest thing to siblings that rylie has ever had, and as the youngest, she got to annoy them endlessly and still be assured that whatever may have happened down the line, they would always have her back.

as a little girl, rylie’s dreams amounted to little more than being the prima balllerina of her company. if she couldn’t be that, she would have settled for being an award winning pianist. she was a remarkably ordinary little girl, the only thing completely out of the norm about her being the fact that her father had her trained from the time she could walk to use a weapon, and her stepmother had her taught well how to fight.

her time in school was... tough, to put it mildly. she was homeschooled at certain points, and moved around a lot for others. kids could be cruel, and rylie’s self esteem was never destined to be that good.

rylie’s lift changing can be pinpointed as the moment that shield enlisted her, along with the rest of the next gen. she was just a LITTLE KID - playing dress up in between recitals, saving the world before she’d ever really even lived in it. they were kids trained for war. how could any of them have ever been well adjusted?

she dropped out of ballet. she stopped attending her piano lessons. the only thing that mattered was working with her team. how stupid she feels, now, to have been so caught up in trying to be an adult that she forgot to have a childhood.

her friends meant EVERYTHING to her.

she started attending the same school as phoebe because the other girl made a strong case to clint for rylie, so she wouldn’t have to go through another year of torment. she didn’t just LOVE her. she wanted to be her. to compare to the beautiful and intelligent and utterly flawless phoebe stark was something that she always knew would be impossible, but tried to do, anyway.

troy was her BIG BROTHER. he still is. when she was scared of storms, he would stay awake and hold her through the night to help her through. they teased one another mercilessly, but at the end of the day, they always knew just how much they loved one another - it was all in good spirit, and at points, it was what both of them needed.

daniel, the voice of reason - not just for rylie, but for everyone. she always looked up to him, both as a leader and as a friend. he made good calls. he tried to do right by everyone. it wasn’t easy to do - and looking back, rylie hates how it all rested on his shoulders when he was just a KID - but he did it anyway.

and calder...- she’s always loved him, even when it was difficult. back then, it wasn’t. he was always a stoic, but how much he loved them all was evident. he was her training partner and best friend, always present, even when he didn’t know what to say, or do.

the five of them were like some kind of mismatched breakfast club, but no one in the world understood what it was like to grow up with heroes for parents as well as they did.

and then PHOEBE died. rylie was sixteen years old. the rest of them weren’t much older. loki attacked avengers tower while their parents were away on a mission, and she tried to protect calder ; it wasn’t anybody’s fault except loki’s that she fell that day, but they all shouldered the guilt regardless. rylie never was the same.

in the months after, rylie tried to numb the pain, the responsibility. she couldn’t sleep, so she took pills that were meant to help. when they didn’t, she took more. the subsequent overdose was swept under the carpet, the choice to send her to wda alongside the rest of the guys their way of trying to bring some life back to her, after. it was phoebe’s dream they were living, after all. maybe being there with them would help.

believe it or not : it DIDN’T. walt disney academy was living under the threat of the darkness at the time, and rylie was one of many students who fell victim. while on a mission with shield in late 2014, she was shot ; it was a horrible event that weakened rylie more than just in her resolve, and months later, the darkness took hold. under its influence, she hurt people that she didn’t know, and she hurt one’s that she did, too. her freedom was temporary, she and many other students were taken over once more, and troy saved the day by drawing out the good ; but enough had been enough.

rylie turned to alcohol. the rest was history. she drank to sleep. she drank to get herself through the day. she drank when she was happy, when she was achingly sad, when she was just trying to feel something. she would go on weekend benders that bled into the weeknights when the littlest inconvenience happened, and drunk, she made some truly horrible decisions with some truly terrible people. she kept hurting the people she loved. she kept ruining her relationships. it became a cycle, wash and repeat.

whatever she might have had with emmett wicks, a rock she leant on during the early darkness saga, was gone as quick as it came. rylie got too involved too quick with alexander kaligaris, with disastrous results. we know how unhealthy that particular relationship turned out.

shield suspended her from active duty in early 2017. she was over the legal limit to drive and still thought she could go on a mission for them, and she could have gotten her whole team killed. she didn’t, but it didn’t matter. they were right to do what they did, but rylie took it personally ; she lashed out. she made bad choices. she had lost the ONLY thing she really had left. her father wanted to pull her from school to try and help, and she point blank refused. it caused a rift between them, for understandable reasons. without her dad, without her family, without many of her friends - rylie just got worse.

in the summer of ‘17, the school suffered from an earthquake during prom. rylie took a hard fall, and the resulting head trauma damaged her eardrum. it wasn’t her father coming back to support her during the subsequent operation to try and fix it that gave rylie a wake up call. it was her pregnancy, discovered a few weeks later ; rylie always loved, and alex always left. one mistake from the two of them caused a bigger one that spooked her. rylie made the choice to have an abortion. she took control of her own life, for once, instead of allowing it spin even more out of control - and she started attending alcoholics anonymous, almost immediately after.

part two of two : what u missed on glee.

rylie has been sober for 21 months and counting. it’s as hard for me to believe it as it is for you all, i’m sure ; but she’s been doing BETTER. she’s been back training, brushing up on some old skills that she let get rusty. she’s healthy, too, the sallow look to her skin that everyone got accustomed to long gone. to say it was easy for her, or that she didn’t have moments of doubts, would be... totally incorrect. she’s just been fighting through.

she was one more bad month away from flunking out of her law degree, the last time y’all saw her ; but she’s picked up in the past year, really knuckling down to try and catch up, for one, and do better, for another. she’s still worried that she’s going to have to do an extra year, to finish, but she’s dedicated to doing so if she’s GOTTA.

her relationship with her father? fixed. clint has always put rylie above all else, and never would have even required the apologies she gave, really. likewise with the relationship she has with natasha. both of them forgive her for her weakness, though it’s unlikely that rylie ever will. we love on ( 1 ) girl with a guilt complex.

the one thing that ISN’T fixed is her hearing, at least not 100%. she has a loss of fifty nine db in her right ear, and that’s probably never going to change. it makes her and her father even more alike, though i’m sure clint would have rathered the similarities not be so much.

as of right now, she’s prepping for a hearing with the board of directors at shield on whether she should be reinstated as an active agent. she’s passed all of the physicals, and she’s been in therapy for about as long as she’s been sober, working through her issues. she’s still got miles to go, but they’re certainly optimistic. rylie moved past feeling hard done by a long time ago, and now she just... wants to be a part of the agency, again, in a way where she can actually be of help.

#wda: intro #do u know how hard it is to abridge rylie's life #it's so unfortunate #about rylie

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phosphorescent-naidheachd · 6 years ago

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Evaluating Sansa’s Betrayal in AGOT

@ John Hodgman, I cordially invite you to fight me over these comments in your 2016 intro to A Game of Thrones: The Illustrated Edition: “After all, it’s Sansa’s escapist addiction to the old tales and the romantic pablum of Florian and Jonquil that fuels her great, catastrophic betrayal of the actual humans around her.”

Although I’m a huge Sansa fan, I’m not one of those people who believes that she bears no culpability for the consequences of having told Cersei about her father’s intention to take them away from King’s Landing. BUT. To call her actions not merely a betrayal or even a catastrophic betrayal, but a “great, catastrophic betrayal” is utter bullshit, and by focusing solely on Sansa’s “escapist addiction” to romances, you’re flattening the factors behind her (admittedly poor) decision to trust Cersei, and indeed the factors behind her willingness to buy into those romantic songs in the first place. I understand the point you’re making, but I also think you’re rather overstating it.

Let’s break this claim down piece by piece, shall we?

1. Sansa’s “escapist addiction” to romances

There’s no denying that Sansa loves romantic tales and ballads, nor that---thanks to a sheltered childhood---she mistakenly believes them to be unalloyed truth. However, look at the context of her upbringing. Sansa has been raised in a patriarchal society that encourages her to believe in these songs, largely because they reinforce existing social roles and make her easier to control. Moreover, it’s clear that as of the beginning of AGOT, no authority figure has seriously tried to teach Sansa otherwise. I don’t believe this was done maliciously---I think that her parents and Septa Mordane don’t want to disillusion her quite yet, and assume that there’s still plenty of time left to teach her the realities of the world before she leaves Winterfell. (And if it weren’t for the death of Jon Arryn, they might even have been right! Though I also think there’s an element of self-delusion at work in this line of thinking, as I’ll get into later in #2.) I also get the sense that Sansa sometimes slips through the cracks a bit because she isn’t a ‘problem child’; Sansa is far from perfect, but she’s generally well-behaved and she naturally fits into the idealized Westerosi conception of a noblewoman. The gaps in her education and emotional maturity aren’t as immediately glaringly obvious as, say, Arya’s are, and that makes it easy for a busy adult to put those gaps on a back burner to deal with some nebulous time ‘later’. (Arya slips through the cracks too, but it’s a different set of cracks, if that makes any sense. Despite their differences, both Sansa and Arya are failed by prescribed Westerosi gender roles, but that’s a discussion for another day.)

Also, anyone who is reading ASOIAF for pleasure doesn’t really have a foot to stand on regarding enjoying escapist fantasies, IMO. The world of ASOIAF may be “brutal”, as you say, but that doesn’t mean visiting it isn’t a form of escapism. Fiction of any form is inherently escapist, even as it often acts as a mirror that forces us to confront aspects of our own reality. (I don’t know if I’d entirely agree that GRRM has “captured the authentic meanness of the medieval world” either, by the way---he notoriously makes certain aspects of life in Westeros worse than they were in RL medieval Europe---but that’s also a conversation for another day.)

To be certain, Sansa internalizes fictional narratives more than your average reader of the series, but that’s partially because, at least on a surface level, her life easily could become one that belongs in the songs she loves. For instance, long before King Robert suggests betrothing Sansa to Joffrey, it’s not wholly in the realm of fantasy for her to dream of marrying a prince; considering her position in life, it’s a solid potential actuality. (Once again, more on this later in #2.) Sansa doesn’t fully understand what being part of a song would mean for her---that is to say, high romance generally necessitates high tragedy---nor does she fully appreciate the responsibilities and costs associated with becoming royalty, but considering she’s eleven/twelve years old in AGOT? That’s perfectly normal for a noble girl her age, even within the context of the universe of ASOIAF. (Are there exceptions to this? Absolutely. But that’s what they are: exceptions.) Just look at Alla and Elinor and Megga Tyrell!

Furthermore, while there’s an element of escapism to Sansa’s love of songs---when we first meet her, Sansa can’t wait to go South and have her ‘real’ life begin---I would argue that Sansa doesn’t actively indulge in much escapism or self-delusion until after the Baratheons arrive at Winterfell. Even after seeing Joffrey’s cruelty at Ruby Ford, she forces herself---and him---into the narratives that she loves and has been implicitly taught that she should emulate right up to the point where denial becomes impossible (i.e. her father’s execution). This is because one of Sansa’s innate survival/coping mechanisms is her ability to lie to herself as much as to others; we see this most clearly in AGOT and in AFFC.* So when the events at the Ruby Ford occur in AGOT, Sansa’s initial instinct is to ‘forget’ what actually happened. (This is aided by the fact that Joffrey had been plying her with wine---far more, we’re explicitly told, than she’s ever been allowed to drink before.) It isn’t just that she doesn’t want her golden prince and fairytale future to have been a lie---though that’s certainly a key motivator!---or callousness towards a peasant boy or frustration with her sister’s refusal to play according to societal rules (though these are both certainly present), but it’s also that she’s being questioned about events in front of an audience... in front of individuals with tremendous power over her, both because they’re royalty and because they’re her future family members.

As Sansa has undoubtedly been taught, once a woman is married, her first loyalty must be to her husband and his family over the family of her birth. And while it’s true that betrothed is not the same thing as married, betrothals seem to be taken relatively seriously in Westeros. You can certainly argue that had Eddard Stark been aware of Joffrey’s true nature earlier, he would have broken the betrothal, but A. Sansa has no way to know that, B. breaking a betrothal is much easier said than done when dealing with royalty, especially when you’re going to be in close quarters with them for the foreseeable future, and C. as we’ll realize later, Ned is perfectly willing to let the (pretense of a?) betrothal stand if it will allow him to further investigate Jon Arryn’s death. What happened on the banks of the Trident was terrifying, it happened quickly, Sansa was tipsy, and if she speaks out one way or the other she’ll have to make a choice between her sister or the man who is going to be her husband... with deeply unpleasant consequences for herself (and likely Arya as well) regardless of which version of events she chooses to support. With all of this in mind, it’s easy enough for her to convince herself that it’s all a blur. So while Sansa’s (likely subconscious) decision to ‘forget’ what happened on the banks of the Trident isn’t admirable, it is understandable.

Ultimately, it isn’t Sansa’s fascination with romantic songs that fuels her poor decisions so much as it is the society that encourages her to believe in them. If notions like ‘baseborn < trueborn’, ‘outer beauty = inner goodness’, and ‘proper behavior = rewards’ weren’t given weight in real life---even if only on the surface---it would be much harder for her to cling to the version of reality that the songs are peddling.

Once again, none of this is to say that Sansa lacks all culpability for her actions due to her socialization. Sansa’s decisions are her own. My point is merely that her “escapist addiction” to romances isn’t the true root of the problem... it’s the society that created and perpetuated those songs to begin with.

*In AFFC, Sansa has consciously begun the process of being Alayne all the time as per Littlefinger’s words. (How well she’ll succeed in this---at least in the short term---is impossible to predict until we get TWOW.) She also has subconsciously transformed the memory of her encounter with Sandor Clegane during the traumatic Battle of Blackwater Bay into one that fits better in one of her beloved romances; in this altered memory, rather than threaten her in a sexually-tinged manner while holding a dagger to her throat, Sandor merely steals a kiss and a song.

Note that Sansa began this subconscious transformation of her memory in ASOS by adding in a kiss and taking away the dagger: “He'd come to her the night of the battle stinking of wine and blood. He kissed me and threatened to kill me, and made me sing him a song”. By the time AFFC has rolled around, however, she has seemingly eliminated the memory of his threats altogether, while still keeping in the kiss and using language vaguely reminiscent of a wedding’s cloaking and bedding: “She could still remember how it felt, when his cruel mouth pressed down on her own. He had come to Sansa in the darkness as green fire filled the sky. He took a song and a kiss, and left me nothing but a bloody cloak”.

2. Sansa’s betrayal of her family in King’s Landing

Sansa and Arya are both criminally unprepared for life at court in AGOT. This is somewhat excusable in that if Jon Arryn hadn’t died, they wouldn’t have needed to be prepared yet. However, anyone with a particle of political sense could have seen that there was a solid 90% possibility of Sansa becoming betrothed to Joffrey someday. There just aren’t that many daughters from the Great Houses of the right age in the Seven Kingdoms at this point in time. Add in the fact that the current king considers Eddard Stark his brother and was once betrothed to a Stark himself, and the likelihood of Sansa being chosen doubles or even triples.

So why haven’t Sansa’s parents and septa furthered her political education beyond knowing her sigils and courtesies? (Both of which are certainly important, but there’s only so far Sansa can go on them alone.) Sansa’s a tad young for a betrothal, but she’s not so young that her parents shouldn’t be making plans in that direction... Catelyn, after all, wasn’t much older than AGOT!Sansa when she was first betrothed to Brandon Stark. And even if they haven’t started making plans for Sansa, it’s very odd that Robb, the heir, is still unbetrothed at fourteen/fifteen.

The real reason, of course, is the Doylist one: GRRM needed to write it that way for the plot to work, just as he needed both Stark girls to be poorly chaperoned and without a proper retinue of ladies-in-waiting. From a Watsonian perspective, however, the primary answer is that both of the Stark parents---but particularly Ned---are suffering from PTSD from the events surrounding Robert’s Rebellion and subconsciously don’t want to teach their children these things or to plan too far ahead into their futures; to do so would mean acknowledging that their children are growing up and will eventually have to leave their circle of protection. This is especially true for their treatment of Sansa and Arya, since according to chivalric sexism, noble girls are ‘innocent’ and in need of protection longer than their male counterparts. Ned Stark in particular seems to feel the urge to shelter and indulge Sansa and Arya, likely due to the trauma of having watched his 16-year-old sister’s death. Besides, there’s always something more immediately urgent, which makes it easy for both parents to procrastinate. This isn’t to say that the Starks didn’t impart valuable lessons to their children, but at the end of the day, they still neglected certain key areas of their children’s education.

Unfortunately, not only are the Stark children unprepared for court politics, but no adult takes any steps to fix this problem once they know that the King is riding to Winterfell. No ‘onscreen’ steps are taken to prepare the Stark girls after Sansa’s betrothal to Joffrey is fixed, nor while traveling on the King’s Road, nor even during their time at King’s Landing. In fact, the closest we see to Sansa getting an education on what ruling might mean is when her septa takes her to watch her father acting as Hand in the throne room, and he is less than pleased about it: “He caught a glimpse of Septa Mordane in the gallery, with his daughter Sansa beside her. Ned felt a flash of anger; this was no place for a girl. But the septa could not have known that today's court would be anything but the usual tedious business of hearing petitions, settling disputes between rival holdfasts, and adjudicating the placement of boundary stones”. On one hand, Ned does have a point in wanting to protect his eleven-year-old daughter from hearing about the Mountain’s deeds; talk about nightmare fuel! On the other hand, he can’t protect her forever, and he brought a seven-year-old boy to watch an execution; there’s clearly a bit of a gender-based double-standard going on here.

Instead, the girls are poorly chaperoned by a single elderly septa, which is just begging for trouble... and trouble indeed arrives, starting with the events on the banks of the Ruby Ford. If Arya had been properly chaperoned, she never would have been able to run off to play with Mycah (the butcher’s boy), and if Sansa had been properly chaperoned, she wouldn’t have been placed in a position where she was the sole eyewitness to the incident with Joffrey, Arya, and Mycah. But that’s just one incident, you say? Don’t worry, there are plenty of others, the clearest one being the time that Septa Mordane gets drunk and falls asleep at a feast, leaving Sansa entirely at the mercy of Joffrey, Sandor, and anyone else who might walk by.

Moreover, Ned knows that the Lannisters aren’t trustworthy. He knows that something is rotten in King’s Landing. Arya gets a very vague warning (“We have come to a dark dangerous place, child. This is not Winterfell. We have enemies who mean us ill. We cannot fight a war among ourselves”) from him, but Sansa doesn’t even get that. I’m not saying that he necessarily should have told Sansa about his investigation, mind you---that’s a large burden to place on any child, AGOT!Sansa is not good at intentional deception yet, and she likely wouldn’t have initially believed him anyway. This doesn’t change the fact that Ned should have told her something to help prepare her for the very real dangers of King’s Landing. He should have known better than to believe that keeping Sansa ignorant would keep her safe; just look at the brutal murders of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen for a start...

Yes, the Queen and Prince are directly responsible for Lady’s death, and yes the king is indirectly responsible for not stopping it, but once again: Sansa is a preteen girl. Of course she doesn’t want to believe that the family she’s going to marry into is truly at fault for the loss of her direwolf or that all of her long-held dreams are just illusions. It’s easy as a reader to say that that event and the murder of Mycah should have been warning enough for Sansa, but from Sansa’s perspective it’s not nearly so clear, especially since Joffrey framed his torture of Mycah as traditional courtly behavior (i.e. ‘defending’ Arya, who is a highborn maiden and the sister of his betrothed). For one thing, Sansa doesn’t have all the clues we as readers do to let us know that the Baratheon-Lannisters are Bad News(TM). (In fact, unlike the rest of the Stark children, Sansa has no notion that there might be serious enmity between the houses of Lannister and Stark---as opposed to just between Jaime Lannister and her father---until it’s too late.) For another, while her father might have protested Lady’s execution, he still went along with it in the end without much of a fight, so it’s not as though the royal family are the only ones to have ‘betrayed’ her. Besides, her father is still friends with Robert and she’s still betrothed to Joffrey... that wouldn’t be the case if the royal family was untrustworthy or cruel, would it? Of course not.

When Ned tells the girls that they’re leaving King’s Landing, he never actually explains why and he refuses to let them so much as say goodbye to anyone. It’s only natural that Sansa is confused and upset by this! From her perspective, this drastic action came out of nowhere. She certainly doesn’t understand that going to Cersei is dangerous or a betrayal. She sees it as ‘my father’s being unreasonable, so I’m going to go to my mother(in-law-to-be) and ask her to talk some sense into him and fix everything’.

While Cersei was the one to push for Lady’s death, Sansa has otherwise only ever gotten a sympathetic impression of Cersei; when around Sansa, Cersei has appeared solely as a courteous queen and the dignified victim of her husband’s drunken abuse. If Sansa wants to stay in King’s Landing, who else can she go to? Her father refuses to listen to her protestations or to explain anything to her, her septa only says that she shouldn’t question her father, and most of her other acquaintances don’t have any sway over her father’s decisions. That only leaves the Royal family, but Sansa finds King Robert too intimidating to approach alone. (“The king could command Father to let her stay in King's Landing and marry Prince Joffrey, Sansa knew he could, but the king had always frightened her. He was loud and rough-voiced and drunk as often as not, and he would probably have just sent her back to Lord Eddard, if they even let her see him.”) And although Sansa believes herself in love with her “gallant prince” Joffrey, she seems to find him intimidating too, if this quote of hers from a feast is any indication: “Sansa looked at him and trembled, afraid that he might ignore her or, worse, turn hateful again”. Ultimately, that leaves Cersei as Sansa’s only real choice.

Sansa is short-sighted and selfish when she tells Cersei what little she knows of her father’s plans, but she isn’t actively trying to choose sides in a war, let alone betray anyone. She’s a preteen who just wants her life to go back to what it’s ‘supposed’ to be according to what she’s been taught; what, up until now, it more or less has been. Right now, the worst thing she can imagine happening is what’s already happening---her father forcing her away from the glittering court, from her beloved Joffrey, and from her future as Queen. She knows her father will be angry with her for disobeying him, but it will all work out for the best this way, right?

3. How “great” and “catastrophic” Sansa’s betrayal actually was

Finally, let’s tackle the “great, catastrophic” part of Sansa’s betrayal. When Sansa goes to Cersei, she’s largely only confirming what Cersei already knew. And how did Cersei know this information? Because Eddard Stark himself told her as part of his warning. (In fact, if we go by the calculations by the brilliant people who put this exhaustive ASOIAF spreadsheet together, there were 3-4 days in between when Ned confronted Cersei and when Sansa went to her.) The only new information Sansa provided Cersei with was that her father wanted to get herself and Arya away--something that Cersei had likely already surmised--as well as the date, time, and location for that departure, thus giving Cersei a more complete and specific understanding of Ned’s plans.

In practical terms, this means that the primary consequence of Sansa informing Cersei was to negate Ned’s ability to get Sansa, Arya, and other members of the Stark household safely out of King’s Landing before shit started to go down. (Of course, keep in mind that even if Sansa hadn’t gone to Cersei, the success of that plan wasn’t a forgone conclusion.) Now don’t get me wrong, if Ned’s plan to get his household out of the city had worked, that would have been a tremendous improvement over what happened in the original canon timeline, not only for Sansa and Arya, but also for the many innocent Stark retainers who were killed by guards at the Red Keep and for poor Jeyne Poole. That said, it wouldn’t necessarily have changed all of the catastrophic things that happened to the Stark family as a whole. Chances are good that Ned still would have been executed for his ‘treason’ or been quietly offed in his cell. And once Ned was killed, the North’s involvement in the war became pretty much inevitable. Any consequences beyond that are difficult to accurately predict due to the butterfly effect, but I highly doubt the Starks’ lives would have been all rainbows and butterflies. There’s a war ahead, and their enemies include people like Petyr Baelish, Tywin Lannister, and---unless they end up allying with (f)Aegon in this AU---eventually Varys and Illyrio Mopatis. The remaining Starks’ lives probably would have been less traumatic than in canon, but that’s not exactly a high bar to clear, y’know?

Conclusion:

What happens to the Starks in ASOIAF in general and in AGOT in particular is catastrophic... but Sansa’s actions in AGOT are not the primary cause. Petyr Baelish, Lysa Arryn, the Lannisters, the Boltons, the Freys, Varys... even Ned and Catelyn Stark themselves are more immediately at fault for what befalls the Stark family than Sansa. (Which isn’t to say that all of the above parties are even remotely equally culpable!)

One of Sansa’s tragedies is that she embodies and does everything her society has told her she ought to be and do as a Westerosi noblewoman and she still gets screwed over. Everyone gets screwed over by the Westerosi patriarchy, highborn and low, man and woman; even girls who naturally fit into the mold of Westerosi womanhood and possess almost every possible societal advantage aren’t safe. As many of our protagonists of ASOIAF learn, following the chivalric rules of the songs will aid you to a certain degree, but it will only protect you as long as everyone else is playing by those rules too; and, as Petyr Baelish warns Sansa---though admittedly not without external motives---“life is not a song”.

That said, a portion of the ASOIAF fanbase has misunderstood part of the point of this series. Yes, unalloyed belief in the romantic songs is stupid and will only lead to self-delusion and disaster and heartbreak, but that doesn’t mean that we should discount the songs altogether either. Don’t get me wrong: many of the messages propagated by Sansa’s songs are bullshit. The good are not always beautiful, and the beautiful are not always good. Most people aren’t entirely ‘good’ or ‘bad’. ‘Moral’ choices are not always rewarded and ‘immoral’ choices are not always punished. In fact, there isn’t always a clearcut ‘right’ moral decision available, just different gradients of bad ones. Heroism isn’t always sallying forth with a sword, and sallying forth with a sword is not always heroism. A person’s social status or adherence to social ideals is no indicator of their quality as a person. And so on.

However, it is in romantic songs like the ones that Sansa so loves that we also find ideals worth striving towards... ideals like selfless love, loyalty, justice, kindness, duty, and mercy. Just because those ideals may not reflect reality or may be warped by an imperfect society is no excuse not to try to make them reality when and where we can, whether we are successful in it or not. In fact, it is because reality does not always reflect or reward these ideals that they are so important. Without hope for something better and a willingness to work towards it, we’re left with a world filled with only Tywin Lannisters, Petyr Baelishes, Cersei Lannisters, and Gregor Cleganes... and that would be a sad world indeed.

When Sandor Clegane says the following to Sansa in ACOK, we aren’t supposed to agree with him: “There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. If you can't protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don't ever believe any different". The truth lies somewhere in between the brutality of so much of the world and the perfection of the songs. Most knights may not be ‘true’ knights and the ‘truest' of knights may not be actual knights at all, but that doesn’t mean that the concept is without value. That doesn’t mean that the purpose of ‘true’ knights is worthless. You shouldn’t count on being saved by the actions a ‘true’ knight or by acting like a ‘true’ lady, but you should evince the best qualities of those roles yourself.

ASOIAF is absolutely about death and betrayal and despair, but it’s also about love and loyalty and hope. It’s about existential romanticism and existential triumph. It’s about looking the abyss in the eye, but refusing to let yourself become it.

I think you understand this, at least in part, because you yourself say in the introduction that “This [the fact that so many of the characters suffer, often pointlessly, and fail] may sound very bleak and cynical, but it ends up being the glory of the novel. Because it makes the triumphs, when they come, more earned, human, and exciting. It reminds us of and honors our own victories, helps us make sense of our own reversals, and warns us against our vanities.”

A Game of Thrones may not be “very kind to fantasy”, but I would argue that GRRM is quite fond of fantasy; he just wants us to remember that neither the trappings of high fantasy (crowns, tourneys, magic, wars, etc.) nor true heroism ever come without a cost.

In conclusion: I understand where you’re coming from, and I understand that you didn’t have the necessary amount of space in your introduction to go into this level of detail, but... (ง'̀-'́)ง

#am i overreacting here due to YEARS of fans saying that sansa is The Worst Ever(TM) for making this mistake? quite possibly lol #but this is a meta that's been percolating in my head for quite a while & was going to be written even before i read hodgman's intro #sansa stark #asoiaf meta #sansa stark meta #a game of thrones meta #asoiaf #a game of thrones #meta #asoiaf women #things done by phos #long post #team sansa #cersei lannister #eddard stark #arya stark #septa mordane #joffrey baratheon #sandor clegane

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stillthewordgirl · 6 years ago

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LOT/CC fic: Somewhere on Your Road Tonight

Sara and Leonard made a life for themselves, together in 1958, after the Waverider left them, Ray and Kendra behind. But now they're back on the ship, Mick has been twisted into Chronos, Kendra is pregnant, and Savage is still out there. They'll deal--together. (Sequel to "Chances Are.")

Third one for "Last Refuge." With an added scene by popular demand. ;) Many thanks to LarielRomeniel for the beta. Can also be read here at AO3 and here at FF.net.

Leonard isn’t there when Sara wakes. A glance at the console nearby shows her that it’s quite late, nearly noon by ship’s time, but given how late she got in, she’s going to refuse to feel bad about it.

Still, time to get up now and see what’s going on. And check on the newest little Legend.

Gideon reports that everyone else is over at the house. Mary Xavier—whom Sara has come to respect a great deal over the past 24 hours—had moved Kendra and Ray, with little Alex in a bassinette, into a more normal bedroom next to the infirmary/medbay. Sara actually doesn’t run into any of her other teammates on the way there, but as she raps cautiously on the slightly ajar door and then sticks her head in at Kendra’s quiet “come in,” she finds one of them.

Kendra is sitting up, looking weary, but smiling, and Leonard is standing next to her, next to the bassinette. The empty bassinette.

Because the crook is holding the baby.

Sara stops in her tracks. Leonard glances up and nods to her before looking back down at the bundle in his arms. He’s holding little Alex rather expertly, if Sara’s any judge, the baby’s head supported in the crook of one arm, his other arm cradling the little one’s body, and he’s moving a little as if to soothe the child. It’s completely incongruous, the thief in his black leather jacket holding the baby in his pale blue blanket so calmly.

After a minute, though, Kendra actually giggles and Sara blinks, recalled to the moment.

“Did your ovaries just explode?” her friend asks shrewdly as Leonard smirks at her and tiny Alexander waves a fist in the air.

Sara just gives her a look. “How are you?” she says, moving a little closer. “And where is Ray?”

Kendra stretches a little. “I’m good,” she says. “Sore. Tired. Par for the course, from what I remember, and a lot better than it could be.” She sighs. “I have any more kids, I want to be sure to have a medbay setup nearby.”

“All that and you can make yourself think about more?”

“You’d be surprised how quickly it fades. Even without the pain blockers.” Kendra shakes her head. “Probably a survival-of-the-species thing. But as far as Ray, Mick and Stein, of all the strange pairs, dragged him off to get something to eat.” She laughs a little. “He wouldn’t put the baby down. And when he finally did, Mr. ‘Mind If I Hold Him?’ over there showed up.” She waves a hand at Leonard. “This kid is going to be spoiled.”

“Ah, but you can’t truly spoil a newborn.” They all look around as Mary Xavier, Rip on her heels, strolls briskly into the room. “And how are you doing, Ms. Saunders?”

While Kendra and Mary talk, Rip takes a step toward Leonard, eyes fixed on the child as if he wants to take the boy himself, but Leonard’s chin goes up, as if daring the captain to try. Rip stops, and Sara closes her eyes, smiling. She’d already known Leonard had a soft spot for kids, but she hadn’t known it extended to infants.

Mary soon ousts them all from the room so she can examine both Kendra and the baby, and Leonard returns the child to the bassinette, joining Sara outside. She studies him as they climb the stairs toward the ground floor, wondering.

“Didn’t know you were quite so fond of babies,” she says eventually, as they emerge into the parlor.

Leonard gives her a tiny smile. “Well. Can’t say I’ve had much of a chance to interact with one in a good long time.” He shakes his head. “But I remember clearly when Lisa was born,” he says quietly as they head for the kitchen. “Holding her on her first day home from the hospital.” He glances at Sara. “Figured I’d do anything to protect her. Still would.”

Sara reaches for his hand, squeezing his fingers before letting go. “You’re full of surprises, crook.”

“You know it, assassin.”

Maybe it’s because they both still have little Alex on their minds. Maybe Sara just can’t resist seeing her younger self, since everyone else has seen theirs. But they drift next toward the Refuge’s nursery, where young Sara, Stein and Jax are being housed.

Leonard finds it a little odd (and unnerving, actually) that he still hasn’t seen any other adults (besides the Legends, if they even count) at the Refuge, and this is, again, no exception. Stein, though, is standing there, holding baby Jax, a rather paternal expression in his face as he gazes down at his partner-in-Firestorm’s younger self. The other two babies are sleeping quietly, but Leonard sees Sara’s gaze drift to the bassinette that holds her infant self, then determinedly away. They’re still supposed to avoid their younger selves, although many of them have rather ignored that edict. (Although none quite so much as Leonard had.)

Stein looks up and smiles at them, then, shifting young Jax to one arm and holding a finger to his lips in a reminder of quiet. Then he steps over the one empty bassinette and gently puts the sleeping boy down before stepping back and turning to them.

“Ms. Lance, Mr. Snart,” he says in a low tone. “This is quite surreal, is it not? All the potential and promise innate in our younger selves…” He waves a hand. “…all here in this one unassuming building. Astonishing.”

Leonard reflects that at least the older man is including the entire team in that assessment of promise. It wouldn’t always have been the case. But he’s not going to point that out.

“Little you doin’ all right, professor?” he drawls instead, folding his arms and glancing toward the bassinette that holds baby Martin Stein. “Had an interesting beginning, didn’t he?”

The scientist chuckles. “Indeed. It went from rather an amusing family story to something else altogether, hearing Captain Hunter and Mr. Rory tell the tale. But, no harm done.” He glances over too. “I was…am…apparently a rather resilient child.”

Small Stein chooses that moment to wake up, however, making an annoyed noise and kicking his feet, which are now encased in tiny green booties. Sara takes a step toward him, then glances toward the adult version in question. The professor waves a hand, smiling.

“I’m heading back out now,” he says. “Perhaps I will go visit our littlest Legend. Or...” The smiles flags a little. “Talk with Jefferson some more. My attempt at a good deed seems to have gone...rather amiss.”

He’s gone before either of them can ask, and Sara and Leonard share a glance before baby Stein makes another noise that’s distinctly pissed off. That seems to disturb baby Sara, who wakes with a vaguely irritated gurgle, then draws in a breath and squalls as only an upset newborn can.

The adult Sara pauses in collecting young Stein, glancing at her younger self, and Len makes his decision quickly, trying not to think about the oddness of the moment. He walks over and collects the baby efficiently, cradling her in the crook of his arm and humming to her, wondering when she’d last eaten and how that’s handled here. Don't infants this young have to eat frequently? He sort of remembers that.

The baby quiets more quickly than he’d expected for all her ire, staring up at him with blue eyes that are quite focused for one so young. She appears to be frowning and Leonard lifts an eyebrow at her, amused at what seems to be the familiarity of the expression. Even little Sara is a spitfire.

He glances up at older Sara, then, and see her watching him too, as she tries to get small Stein settled. After a moment, the corner of her mouth ticks up, and she shakes her head.

“The crook and the assassin are the two soothing the babies,” she says wryly. “Who’d have thought it?”

“Speak for yourself. I’m good at everything.” Unable to hide his smile, Leonard looks down at little Sara, who’s still watching him with a small “v” between her nearly invisible brows. She waves a hand and he catches it, letting her wrap those tiny fingers around one of his. “Good grip.”

“Yeah, well, watch it. I’m told I was a grumpy baby—and I raised hell as a toddler.” Sara laughs a little. “Well, they say second children are the troublemakers.”

“In my experience, that’s certainly true.” Little Sara’s eyes are drifting shut again. She’s still holding on to his finger tightly, and Leonard finds himself loathe to put her down, for all the oddness of the situation. He studies the baby’s face, looking for the beginnings of the woman he loves in the soft newborn features, wondering suddenly how her blond fairness would mingle with his own ancestry, what kind of child...

Holy hell, where did that come from?

Clearing his throat suddenly, he steps over to the bassinette, putting the infant down gently and tugging his finger away. Little Sara sighs in her sleep, but lets him, that hand falling in a loose fist to lie next to her cheek. Leonard turns away hastily to watch older Sara put the now-sleeping baby Stein back too, then reaches for a change of subject.

“Shall we, ah, go grab something from the kitchens here,” he asks, extending an arm to her, “before it’s back to replicator food?”

Sara regards him, her lips quirking again, and Leonard has a feeling he hadn’t hidden his expression quite quickly enough. But whatever her thoughts are, she lets them go, taking his arm. “We shall.”

After Kendra and the baby have received a continued clean bill of health from Mary Xavier, Rip calls a team meeting in their room. It’s crowded, and Stein and Leonard squabble over holding Alexander until Ray pulls rank as the proud new dad and takes his son himself. He sits on the bed by Kendra, and the others quiet as Rip surveys them.

Finally, the captain sighs, but it’s not a put-upon noise, for once.

“This really worked out, for once, as best as I could hope,” he says. “I had planned to ask Ms. Saunders to stay here for the remainder of her pregnancy and the birth of her son, but since young Mr. Alexander had his own ideas…” He nods to them, actually smiling. “I will admit, this is not something I’d ever foreseen in my pursuit of Vandal Savage, but I am glad for your happiness.”

“Hear, hear,” Stein murmurs, while Ray beams and Kendra (Sara notices) studies the captain with the expression of a woman who’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Rip clears his throat, then. “So. Here’s the best plan I can come up with now.” He starts to pace, managing only a step or two before he has to turn. “Ms. Saunders and the baby will stay at the Refuge for now. Mum…Mary has agreed.” He pauses. “And we will return for them. Soon, for us. In approximately a year, for them.”

Ray stares. Kendra, who seems like she’s expected something like this, nods. Mick and Leonard both frown, exchanging glances, and Jax starts to say something before Stein nudges him.

Rip continues. “Ms. Saunders will have to continue training to get back into, err, fighting trim. And then…then we will continue our quest for Savage. The boy will stay here temporarily under Mary’s watchful eye.” He nods again. “It’s not perfect. But…”

Ray has found his voice, however. “I’m not leaving my wife and son here alone,” he protests.

Rip gives him a sympathetic look. “They won’t be alone, Dr. Palmer.”

But the new father is shaking his head vehemently. “I won’t miss it,” he says. “This is my son, too. I need to be there, I need to help. And all the firsts…” He looks down at baby Alex. “His first word, his first steps…” Ray looks back up then, determination in his eyes. “I’m not going to be that kind of father.”

Mick murmurs something Sara can’t quite hear, but she sees what almost seems to be sympathy in his eyes. Leonard’s watching the other man, too, then glances back at Sara, and that is definitely sympathy. She nudges his arm with her own.

But Rip, although he looks a touch resigned, is nodding again. “I really can’t say I didn’t expect that. Very well, Dr. Palmer, you stay here as well.”

Ray nods firmly, then opens his mouth to say something else. But Stein is speaking up now, and everyone’s attention goes to him.

“How will that…I mean, won’t they be able to…” the physicist says slowly, as if working something out. “Eventually, one would hope, we’re going to be coming back for our younger selves. Later, for us. Earlier, for those at the Refuge. What if…what something’s different?” He sighs and clarifies. “Say, if one of us doesn’t return. Dr. Palmer and Ms. Saunders will find out before we return for them. Won’t that create a paradox of sorts?”

Leonard makes a thoughtful sound next to her, and Sara tries to work the knot out. She’s gotten a little used to the oddities of time travel, but it’s still capable of giving her a headache. However, Rip’s speaking again, and she gives it up to listen.

“There is a cottage on the outskirts of the grounds,” the captain is saying to Ray and Kendra, “and I think it would be a fine place for a young family.” He sighs. “We will have to keep you in…a state of some ignorance. Mary is aware of this.”

“Shouldn’t be hard for you, Raymond,” Leonard snipes, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. He’s frowning, clearly disturbed by some piece of this. Sara studies him thoughtfully.

Kendra sighs. “All right, then,” she says, looking at Ray. “I don’t have a better idea. I wish I had Sara to train with, though.”

Rip smiles again. “Well. You might be surprised by Mum. Ask her. You’ll see.” He shakes his head. “Good luck, Dr. Palmer, Ms. Saunders. I’m going back to prepare the ship for takeoff,” he says, turning for the door. “The rest of you, please return within the next 15 minutes.”

But when they do…everything has changed.

“Gideon has intercepted a trans-chronal beacon,” the captain tells them in a tone that’s so carefully blank that it can only scream “trouble.” Then he takes a deep breath. “Gideon, show them.”

A video flickers onto one of the bridge screens: The Pilgrim, staring grimly ahead.

“This message is for Rip Hunter,” the bounty hunter says. “I'm going to make this very quick and very simple.”

And then the picture changes.

Even if Sara hadn’t seen a photo of Lisa Snart before, it’s clearly labeled—and the way Leonard sits forward in his jump seat, tensing, would give it away.

“If I can't find you…” the Pilgrim starts. Sara takes a step toward Leonard. But then the picture changes again, to a very familiar photo. A younger Sara, a younger Laurel…and their father. “Quentin Lance,” says the screen.

Sara stops in her tracks.

The picture changes again: Clarissa Stein. Sara, as if through a haze, can hear Stein’s intake of breath.

“…I can find those you love.”

Another change: Ray and a smiling dark-haired woman.

“Anna Loring,” says the caption.

And then another dark-haired woman, also smiling, in a photo that’s clearly older, sepia-toned.

“Diane Rory,” it says.

Leonard swivels quickly, staring at his partner. Sara looks, too, the anger, fear and adrenaline in her own heart only compounded by the knowledge that they’re all in this boat.

Mick just stares.

“That’s my mom,” he says, in a tone that’s so stunned it barely sounds like the gruff career criminal—or bounty hunter—they’ve known. “But…”

“The Pilgrim clearly pulled people from all over our timelines,” Leonard says when Mick’s words simply trickle off. “If she could…”

But then the video of the bounty hunter is back, and she’s hauling someone else into the screen with her, and…

“Dad!” Jax cries, as the Pilgrim holds a gun to his father’s head.

“All of them will suffer and die because of you,” the Pilgrim says coldly. “Your family, friends, anyone you've ever cared about. Unless you surrender your younger selves to me.”

Rip draws a breath. “So she can erase you all from history,” he murmurs.

But the bounty hunter’s message continues. “If it's of any comfort, you won't feel a thing,” she says. “As for your loved ones, I cannot promise the same thing.”

The screen goes blank. Rip hits the table in frustration, taking a step backward. They all stare at him—and then at each other.

Somewhat to Leonard’s surprise, it’s the professor who breaks through his own distraction first. “Someone needs to tell Dr. Palmer,” Stein says, turning toward the captain. “His fiancée…”

Rip turns back around. “Dr. Stein, I hardly think…”

“No, you don’t,” the physicist says, a clapback Leonard would probably appreciate more if he wasn’t dealing with his own circling thoughts. (What age is the Lisa the bounty hunter captured? And Sara’s father…the one from 2016 Star City? A younger version? If…)

But Stein’s continuing. “The Pilgrim has a woman he loved…and he needs to know that,” he tells Rip. “Wouldn’t you want to?”

The captain hesitates, then nods. Stein hurries off the ship, presumably toward the house, to tell Raymond that the bounty hunter has his late fiancée, who’s not late at the moment, although he’s currently married to and has a newborn son with another woman. Because that’s not going to be awkward.

Leonard looks toward Mick, but the other man has backed up to the wall, a blank look on his face as he stares at the now-dark screen. Jax is sitting on a jump seat, looking distraught. Sara’s rubbing her hands up and down her arms in a characteristic gesture of quiet unhappiness. She paces toward Leonard, eyes meeting his.

“This is…” she says quietly but doesn’t seem to know what else to say.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t really know what to say either.

Does the Pilgrim have adult Lisa? Last he knew, she was out of town, trying (she said) to turn over a new leaf. He’d left a message for her, just in case, but she might not even have gotten it yet.

Or is it the girl he remembers? The helpless baby, the toddler who’d followed him on stubby legs, the scared and wary preschooler she’d been when he’d first gotten out of juvie. The preteen who’d just wanted, with a desperate enduring passion, to be “normal,” or the teenager who’d realized they’d never escape their father’s legacy and devoted herself to trying to live “down” to it?

And then Stein’s jogging back onto the bridge, and Raymond’s on his heels, the inventor grim-faced in a way that Leonard’s rarely seen him before.

“I want to take her down,” he says fiercely, coming to a halt. “Then I’ll come back to the Refuge. But I can’t let her do this.”

Rip nods to him. There’s an expression on the captain’s face that’s different, too. Resolve? Calculation? A combination? Leonard frowns.

“Strap in for takeoff,” the former Time Master says shortly, taking his own seat. “Once we’re in the timestream…I have a thought.”

What can they really do but listen? And Rip’s as good as his word for once, hopping out of his seat as soon as they’re on an even keel in the sea of green.

“Gideon, I take it that the Pilgrim's transmission included a carrier frequency through which she can be contacted?” he asks, raising his voice.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Hail her,” Rip says in a voice that has more than its own share of anger. “Please.”

“What are you planning to do?” Stein asks quietly.

But then the Pilgrim is there, on the screen, and Leonard feels both fear and rage rising in a tidal surge, although he struggles to keep both under wraps. He might acknowledge feelings more these days, but this isn’t the time or place to let them go. Sara moves toward his side, Mick to his other, and at least there’s that.

“Captain Hunter,” the woman says in acknowledgement.

Rip steps closer to the screen. “Look, I'm gonna make this easy.”

“I already have,” the Pilgrim cuts in curtly. “The lives of your team's nearest and dearest for their younger selves.”

But the captain’s not taking the crap, for once. “And I'm going to counter that demand with an offer of my own,” he grits out. “I will surrender myself…” He holds out his arms. “…if you spare the lives of my crew and their loved ones.”

Leonard lifts his head in surprise, and the others do the same. He’s already thinking furiously, though. It’s an interesting…

”…gesture,” the Pilgrim says, dismissively. “But…worthless. My directive is to eliminate your entire team, not just you.”

Rip tilts his head. “Yes,” he says, and it’s almost a hiss. “Well, I'm not talking about me now. I'm offering you me in the past.”

For the first time, Mick’s head jerks up and he stares at the former Time Master. Leonard’s eyes narrow.

“Rip Hunter before he became a Time Master,” the captain continues. “Eliminate him, and this team will never have been.”

Never have been.

Leonard turns almost involuntarily, looking at Sara, who’s staring at the screen. If Rip never forms the team…

The Pilgrim stares back at Rip. All Leonard’s instincts tell him she’s taken by surprise as well.

“If this is some kind of trick...” she starts.

Rip cuts her off this time. “It's no trick,” he says, something like scorn in his voice. “Enough people have died at my expense. Gideon will send you the location.”

And then he cuts the transmission and turns away.

It’s rather a nice little fuck-you to the bounty hunter, but Leonard doesn’t feel capable of appreciating it right now.

“Hunter!” he says, raising his voice. “It occur to you that if you never form this team, that changes a hell of a lot for some of us!?”

No distraction for a restless crook looking for something new. No second chance for a lost assassin looking to find her way back to being a hero.

If they ever meet at all, it’d probably be as enemies. And all the things they’d changed in 1958, all the lives…

Raymond makes a slight noise and Leonard is reminded that this would change even more for him. Hell, there’s another new life at stake altogether.

Rip had stopped in his tracks, but he’s still facing away, shoulders slumped, silent. Sara takes a step forward, her own eyes narrowed. “Rip? I think that’s a pretty good question.”

“I’d answer it if I were you,” Raymond says, and damned if the Boy Scout doesn’t actually sound threatening.

And something else has occurred to Leonard. “You said before, that removing you, a former Time Master, from history would be ‘quite dangerous’ to the timeline. What changed your mind? What makes you think the Time Masters want that when they didn’t before?”

Rip’s shoulders heave in a sigh and he turns around.

“I know that this goes against the grain for you, Mr. Snart,” he says quietly. “But trust me.”

It’s Stein who answers, though. “You’re playing with lives here, captain,” the professor says. He sounds more tired and resigned than angry, but there’s steel in the words.

Rip looks at him. “You think I don’t know that? But I do have a plan. And I can’t tell you what it is. Not yet.”

The captain stares at his crew for another long minute.

“Trust me,” he says again. “What choice do you really have, right now?”

And frankly, Leonard has no response to that.

It’s just as well that the trip is a very quick one. Sara thinks that maybe she should try to get a moment with Leonard before they arrive, before they could…they could lose part of their lives. Part of her life she’s not willing to lose, not at all, three months on this ship and nearly a year in 1958, a grasp on the blood lust she didn’t have before, the memories of friends made and a thoroughly unexpected lover who’s brought a part of her back to life that she thought was forever dead.

But neither is she willing to lose her father, or Leonard’s sister, or any of the others. She sighs, watching Rip hold a quiet-voiced conversation with Ray, who still looks pissed at the former Time Master.

Leonard’s leaning against a jump seat next to her, and their arms are touching, as if he needs her to know he’s there. It’s a tiny gesture that’s nonetheless large, coming from a man who so notoriously is shy of contact and PDA, and Sara relishes it as they wait.

Mick ambles over, then, stopping in front of them. The big man has seemed almost…introspective?... during this whole thing, from Leonard’s younger self to his own toddler self, and now his mother’s capture by the Pilgrim. Sara knows, from bits and pieces, that Mick’s father had been an abusive asshole (although not, perhaps, on the lines of Lewis Snart), but she knows nothing about his mother, save that the woman had died in the fire teenaged Mick himself had accidentally started.

It must be incredibly hard, having her here, after so long. But that’s not what Mick’s here to talk about now. He stops in front of Sara, clearing his throat.

“Blondie,” he says almost formally. “Been an honor. Knowing you. Um. M’ sure it didn’t always seem like it, but it was.”

It’s the sort of thing that you just have to take as intended. “Thanks, Mick.” Sara manages a smile. “You too.”

Mick nods. Then he meets Leonard’s gaze, holding it a long moment. They won’t lose each other, at least, if Rip’s plan doesn’t work—or will they? Sara thinks. They’re not the men they were before. They might as well be two new people.

But after a moment, Mick nods again, and Leonard nods back, and that’s that. Sara shakes her head as she watches Mick walk away, then looks up at Leonard.

He’s staring after his partner, and there’s a muscle ticking in his jaw. He doesn’t look back down at her as he speaks.

“I’m not going to say it.”

Sara lifts an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“Anything.” Now he glances down at her. “If you don’t already know it, no point in saying it now.”

Sara nods. She leans against him as they watch Rip finish whatever he’s saying to Ray and turn to look at the rest of them.

“I love you too, crook,” she murmurs, and hears his quiet hum in response.

And then the captain is beckoning them over.

And then it’s time to go.

Leonard hates waiting. As it turns out, that’s precisely his role in this plan of Rip’s, at least to start. Because of course it is.

At least he’s waiting with Sara, crouched with her behind some sort of storage containers in this defunct Time Masters outpost. A few more minutes in each other’s company.

Oddly, he’s not expecting this particular plan of Rip’s to go haywire, and he’s not sure why. It’s still nagging at him, that the Time Masters would want to cancel out all the actions of one of their greatest bounty hunters. And now, those of a Time Master himself? He hadn’t missed that no one had answered any of his questions about that.

It just doesn’t make sense.

They watch Rip, Mick, Stein and Jax walk into the cavernous former…warehouse? It looks like a warehouse. Leonard can hear their voices, but not their words, not at a normal conversation volume. But he recognizes Mary Xavier when she walks into the echoing space from another direction.

And he recognizes the boy with her.

“I saw that kid back at the Refuge,” he says quietly to Sara. “That’s little Rip?”

Sara gives him a surprised glance. They watch the woman exchange a few words with the captain and the others…and then the Pilgrim enters too, crossing the floor toward them.

“Where's my dad?” Jax asks, raising his voice, as Mary Xavier withdraws. While the Pilgrim answers, they can’t quite hear her, and Leonard tenses again, uneasy with the lack of information. But there’s not much he can do, not right now, and they continue to wait, watching, as the two sides exchange words.

At one point, the Pilgrim looks Mick dead in the eye, and Leonard’s reminded that they’d been colleagues, once, of a sort. An odd thought. Then the bounty hunter scans the room, and Sara and Leonard freeze. But she doesn’t see anything, apparently, and turns back to Rip, holding up some sort of device.

Then James Jackson appears next to her. The man, still in his fatigues, staggers, and Jax takes a step forward. But the kid stops himself, and Rip says something to his younger self…and the boy starts to walk toward the bounty hunter.

“Remember, we wait for Ray's cue,” Sara says quietly as Leonard tenses again. They can both see the blue mote that’s following the Time-Master-to-be, lighting on the kid’s jacket.

The Pilgrim and the young Rip exchange a few words…and then Raymond explodes into full size, yelling “Now!” and aiming his blasters at the bounty hunter.

She freezes him, but Sara and Leonard are already moving in tandem, Sara with her bo in her hand and Leonard with gun primed. Sara rolls to avoid a blast, but Mick joins them from the other side, firing, and Leonard fires too.

The Pilgrim, in the middle, freezes both blasts, fire and ice, and then throwing her arms wide, sends them both hurling back. Leonard lands awkwardly, and by the time he’s back on his feet, Firestorm is there too, ablaze and attacking. And then Sara’s next to him, her bo in one hand and a knife in the other, and Mick’s back up and firing and so is Leonard. Rip has his fancy revolver in hand and…

The Pilgrim has them all frozen.

She turns slowly, watching them, and Leonard really wants to wipe the look off her face, the slightly smug expression that says the bounty hunter thinks she’s won. And maybe she has, because while Rip said he has an ace in the hole, Leonard has no idea what it is, and no idea where.

“I was willing to proceed in good faith,” she says, barely audible over the crackle of the cold gun in his ears. “Now you'll watch those closest to you die.”

Leonard’s trying to get just enough freedom to say something rude, when young Rip does him one better. That skinny kid, ignored by all of them, the same kid he’d watched try to snitch food back at the Refuge, pulls out a knife with a wicked blade and buries it without ceremony in the Pilgrim’s back.

He says something to her, but Leonard’s already straining against her control, trying to break it. Then the boy stabs the bounty hunter again, and the Pilgrim knocks him backward, but they’re free, they’re all free, and Sara sweeps the boy out of the way as all their weapons and powers hit the Pilgrim at once.

Satisfyingly, there’s not much left after that.

Sara watches Jax go to his shaken father, even as Mary Xavier sweeps back in to collect young Rip, who doesn’t seem all that fazed by the experience. The woman gives Sara a slight sly smile as they pass, and Sara has an odd feeling that, maybe, Rip had had more than one ace in the hole.

Then she looks at Leonard. Her lover gives her a small smile, but he’s not the sort to do anything effusive, not here and now, anyway.

Later. They have later.

“That's you,” Mick says, faintly marveling, as he watches young Rip leave with his adoptive mother.

Rip shrugs. “Yeah,” he acknowledges with a sigh. “I was a cutpurse from the age of five. Starved more than I ate.” He shakes his head. “I knew what I'd do if she tried to harm me.”

Leonard makes a faint noise of…something. Impossible, to ignore the similarities there. (Though Sara knows perfectly well both men will. Acknowledging them would be far too close to admitting they do have some respect for each other.)

“Lucky for us,” he drawls, “you didn't forget your roots.”

Rip sighs. “Believe me, Mr. Snart,” he murmurs, turning away. “I've tried.”

The Pilgrim’s ship isn’t precisely hidden, and whatever the bounty hunter’s flaws, she’d told the truth about their loved ones. They’re all there, angry or scared or some combination thereof but also healthy and whole, and Rip and Mary have them ushered onto the Waverider quickly. The Time Masters almost certainly have a means of tracking the other ship. Best to leave it as soon as possible. A pity, Leonard thinks.

They go back to the Refuge, after that (although Leonard never does find out to his satisfaction how Mary Xavier got young Rip to the meeting point). He also never finds out if Raymond speaks to his former fiancee or if he leaves the past in the past-- but the other man heads back to the house with barely a murmur of farewell before his year at the Refuge. Well, his wife and son are waiting for him.

Leonard himself contemplates looking in on his younger self—and baby Sara--again, but...he’s said what he can say. Time to let it go.

And Lisa is on the Waverider.

Despite the photo of adult Lisa the Pilgrim had used when contacting them earlier, it’s not the older Lisa she’d picked up. It’s the 7-year-old girl he remembers, all skinny arms and knobby knees and pigtails, who’s curled up on the bed, eyes wide and wary. She’s in the room that’d once been his, not the one he now shares with Sara, and she shrinks away as he appears in the door. Leonard winces.

“Hey,” he says, gentling his voice and keeping his distance. “It’s OK. I know it’s been weird. But we’re taking you home.”

Problem is, home’s not a haven either, and Leonard knows it. But what else can they do? Time, he realizes now, isn’t so much a straight line as it is a cat’s cradle, and too many things might change.

Lisa’s picked up her head a little, eyeing him. “Who was that lady?” she asks in a voice that’s not much louder than a whisper. “She said...she said she wanted to hurt Lenny.”

And Lenny, to her, is the 17-year-old big brother who’s probably back in juvie right now, the gawky kid just starting to get his height, hair still dark and just barely long enough to curl, the kid who still thinks he might be able to be something other than a criminal. Not this stranger older than her father, hard eyes and short, silvered hair, gun at his hip and ice in his soul.

At least she still remembers him at all.

Leonard takes a deep breath and lets it out. “She didn’t,” he tells his baby sister gently. “We stopped her.”

Something in his voice makes an impression, he thinks, and Lisa relaxes just a tiny bit more. “You did?” she says hopefully. “Is he home now? Is he here? Can I see him?”

Leonard has no idea precisely when the Pilgrim had plucked her from. “You will...in time.” If they don’t put younger Leonard back quickly, how will that affect her? He thinks of the times he’d gotten between Lewis and Lisa. Will she even be...

He can’t chase that thought. He can’t, not now. Not and still keep moving.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks instead. “Coloring books? Would you like to watch TV?”

Lisa perks up. “Cartoons?” she asks hopefully. They’d been a rare treat at home, for when Lewis wasn’t around. Leonard browses briefly through the list Gideon presents him with and pulls up “Beauty and the Beast,” leaving his sister behind with one last, regretful glance. He’d love, he’ll admit, to give her the hug their adult selves tend to eschew, but she wouldn’t react well to that from an apparent stranger.

Then he goes to check on Sara.

Of course, she’s not in their room. But her father is, sitting on the bed and taking off his shoes, glancing up as Leonard halts abruptly in the doorway.

“Who the hell are you?” Quentin Lance asks, eyes narrowing. He looks...well, frankly, he looks younger than Leonard, at whatever point in time the Pilgrim had pulled him from. Maybe even Sara’s age.

Leonard blinks at him. “Ah,” he manages. “Sorry. Just...looking for Sara.”

He takes a step backward, watches Quentin’s eyes dart around the room. There are unmistakable signs that his adult daughter isn’t the only resident, including Leonard’s parka draped over a chair and a pair of his boots by the desk.

Sara’s father looks back at him. Then he shakes his head.

“Well, I just took what they tell me was an amnesia pill,” he says, sighing and stretching out, resting his hands behind his head. “So, whoever you are, and whatever you are to my little girl, just...treat her right. And just maybe, we’ll manage to get along one of these days.”

Leonard can’t help a faint chuckle. “If I didn’t, she’d have long since kicked me to the curb,” he says quietly. “Or gutted me. Or both. Probably both.”

Quentin Lance chuckles too.

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs as he closes his eyes.

Leonard leaves with alacrity.

Sara had actually been looking for Leonard, to warn him that her dad was in their room. But as she sees him beating a hasty retreat from that corridor, she stifles a laugh, pausing until he joins her and they both head for the bridge.

“How's your sister?" she asks as they fall into step. She’d rather like to meet Lisa Snart, but the young girl she’d seen had been confused enough without adding more to the mix.

“She's a tough kid,” he drawls, then flicks a glance at her. “Just met your dad.”

Sara’s lips twitch. “He should be sleeping off that amnesia pill from Rip."

“Think he is now.” Leonard shakes his head, but he declines to say more about the encounter. Sara lets it go.

Rip’s speaking to Jax as they join the others, and Sara hears the word “Mogadishu.” Leonard pauses, but Sara turns away, noticing Mick sitting in a jump seat, watching her. Taking a deep breath, she strolls over.

“I gave it to her,” she says, leaning on the table next to him. “The amnesia pill. You sure you don’t want to...”

Mick makes a noise that’s part sigh and part grunt. He won’t meet Sara’s eyes.

“What would I say?” he says, looking downward. “Make sure you have working smoke detectors? Get out while you still can? Hey, look at what a...a monster...your little boy turned out to be?” He shakes his head. “If I didn’t already want to take the Time Masters down, I would now. Didn’t need to revisit any of this shit.”

Sara dares enough to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a monster, Mick.”

But Mick Rory looks up at her then, and the pain in his eyes negates anything he’s ever said to her about not doing feelings.

“I killed my parents, Sara,” he says simply. And what can she even say to that?

Even if she’d found something, though, time’s up. Rip’s standing at the holotable now, looking around, and Leonard joins them, leaning on the table next to Sara as the others gather too.

“Time, the history from which your younger selves were removed, is beginning to set... as is evidenced by the change in Clarissa's memory,” Rip says, motioning to Stein. “It’s only a matter of time before it spreads to the others as well.”

Jax takes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says. “So how long do we have till these changes stick?”

“No one knows,” Mick rumbles, getting to his feet and moving to Leonard’s other side.

The captain’s nodding. “Which is why—after we put our guests back where and when they belong and after we retrieve Dr. Palmer and Ms. Saunders--we need to move swiftly to locate Vandal Savage if any of your lives are to be restored to normal,” he concludes. "Fortunately, there is one place in time that we know Savage to be.”

“You said he conquered the world in 2166," Mick observes, and Stein frowns.

“You also said it was too dangerous to strike at Savage while he was at the height of his powers,” the physicist points out.

Rip gives him an unhappy smile. “That it is,” he says, then takes a deep breath. “But with your younger selves removed from history, we have quite literally...run out of time.”

#somewhere on your road tonight #captain canary #atomichawk #legends of tomorrow

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