#a kind of preordained forgiveness

[weebsinstash]

Sigh but like ok, ATSV spoilers but, that scene where Miguel is chokeslammimg and saying all that awful mean shit, which is kinda justified because from his perspective what Miles wants to do could, as far as he knows, destroy an entire universe. Well I'm such a sucker for "ok you burned me and betrayed me and now that you want my help or forgiveness, you don't get it" as a trope, so

imagine Reader being in a similar situation and of course Miguel is even starting to kind of catch feelings. You get introduced to him and the society and everything is hunky dory for a few months but, the Bad Thing Happening now has to happen to you, and, you feel hurt, you feel betrayed, you feel like all semblance of choice has been ripped away from you. Wait, you mean this super cool but massive responsibility that took you from a zero to hero... was never supposed to happen to you? You're a mistake? Like imagine you're actually doing an amazing job at being a hero and then running away from the Society, an above average gifted spider, maybe even potentially a mutant, but Miguel pins you down and says those things to you to try and get you to stop and it. Breaks you. Suddenly nothing you have ever done has ever even mattered. Wait, so they preach this horrible thing about to happen to you, that you're forcing you to not stop, THAT'S preordained, but you becoming a hero, you trying to make something of yourself, THAT'S a huge fuck up, a mistake, not supposed to happen? You don't BELONG there?

Miguel eventually comes to your cell and tries to speak to you, but you're just quietly crying and refuse to look at him. You won't talk to Peter or Gwen or anyone else, and they can't even get you to eat until you're practically vomiting from hunger and even then, it's just small, untrusting bites. They try to apologize and cheer you up but you reject any and all forms of communication and especially touch, if any of them tries to hug you, you shove them back, suddenly furious like you're about to throw punches.

You break down sobbing when you're told The Bad Thing happened, and you're asking, can you go home now? You look right at Miguel, look right in his eyes, "so you guys are going to leave me alone now, right? I get to go home and never see any of you ever again?"

That's... not quite what they wanted? You're a talented hero, just a little green! Just because you're kind of, an anomaly, doesn't mean they hate you! This wasn't personal! They realize a little too late that this didn't "forge you in the fires of adversity" or some poetic shit like that, it RUINED YOU. You hate them, you hate yourself, you hate ever donning this costume and risking your life for others only to be told it was all a mistake. You did this because you thought you were making a choice, but how is this any different than being some kind of slave, expected to burn yourself out and suffer for others?

But unlucky for you, there's some canon events Miguel will need your help with in the future, and if that means he has to atone by sticking to you like glue and forcing you to accept his mentorship as he basically drags you around forcing you to be Spiderman, then that's just what he's going to have to do. And if you turn out to be some kind of special mutant or other such creature that isn't affected by canon or shifting dimensions like they are, then, clearly there's no consequence if he wants to scoop you up for himself, right? And that will just be another reason he can have the Spider Society hunt you down with him if you ever escape his clutches

But also imagine you were destined to do something like lowkey amazing like cure cancer or develop groundbreaking tech or become one of the greatest spiders who ever lived and they check back in on you and you've like. Sold a vial of your blood to Osborne or something and you get royalties from whatever drugs he uses it for and you're just. Living a millionaire lifestyle refusing to care about anyone ever again and dont even own your spider costume anymore. Just the punishment and pain and manipulation of them realizing that they should've done things differently and they might have doomed your world in a different way altogether but also feeling guilt because they changed who you were, they don't have that person that was their friend anymore, you look at them with either hatred or indifference and just want to be left alone, and Miguel decides, ok, fixing you all up nice and better is going to become a little passion project of his

#ive also thought of like justice league applications. like with superman or batman or both #bruce realizes after you become a hero that youre a little too hard on yourself and this may actually be a bad outlet #he has you peacefully voted out of the league and everyone thinks its for your own good #they think you just need some time to breathe and not work so hard but instead you stsrt to spiral #bc this proves youre a failure. or so you feel #bruce checks on you and youre not working towards self improvement youre actually straight up getting worse #like they made you GIVE UP #atsv spoilers #atsv #sinprompts #yandere stuff

[burinazar]

(This post is mostly a direct copy-paste with edits of my twitter thread about the same thing, so you don't need to bother reading it if you've seen that already. Contains spoilers for MiA season 2!)

ahhh. the abyss wiki has one of Irumyuui's occupations listed as this. (Ebil takes 1000hp mental damage and expires)

Now i personally have been known to talk a lot more often about how "made a symbolic religious sacrifice" is what the Ganja and most directly Waz and Vue did to Belaf, but that's because i'm trying to point out something that isn't obvious. Meanwhile i don't usually point out that deification is also what they all did to Irumyuui because, well...duh! This one seems blindingly obvious in being the conclusion the narrative wants us to reach. Elevation, idolatry, cast in the role of savior and praised as a "queen"...for all intents and purposes just another form of dehumanization, if less physical and literal than the other that she suffered.

The sages, and Irumyuui. A prophet and a savior and a sacrifice -- "we sought to become something more than human" -- and, of course, one who was human until the end...

But, to be more precise i think the Three Idiots themselves weren't actually able to find self-deceiving refuge in a view of Iru as a holy savior instead of an exploited child. When Vueko says 'people can get used to anything, even hell', I take it as referring to (among other things) how the rest of the Squad were able to rationalize and live with this. The non-sage Ganja seem a lot more likely to fall into that kind of thinking, from the bits we see -- the taking of the children seems to become a sort of ritual for them.

Vueko and Belaf were never able to think of her as a holy savior for a second, both of them literally tried to kill themselves because they were TOO aware their 'salvation' was not divine providence but the product of making a child (THEIR CHILD!) suffer. And I think Waz is uhh. very realistic about what they were doing. Also, I get the sense that HE didn't view himself as having a 'righteous' heavenly mandate -- while he feels moved by a higher power that 'gathered' them all, i don't at allthink that he would claim moral absolution on those grounds the way religiously or spiritually motivated characters doing bad things in fiction are sometimes seen to do. (Relatedly, I speculate he wouldn't really see it in terms of absolution or culpability at all -- I believe his sense of personal responsibility and free will may be very skewed by his prophet situation, but that's getting into the weeds of Waz speculation that i could write several posts on alone...)

No, I think all three of them understood more clearly than all their followers that Irumyuui was just a child thrust into the role of savior.

Meanwhile the rest of them, the ones we see kneel and pray at various junctures...them... there is a strong sense that the rest -- just as, i suspect, they believed in 'the nameless god' more than the sages actually did -- accepted everything that happened as divine providence. If they thought about Iru's personal suffering at all (and that's quite a big if) they may have regarded it as her preordained role, the reason she was sent to them...

...I really want to know what Pakkoyan thought about this. She's the most demonstrably 'faithful' out of the named characters -- in the anime she's notably the one who assigns a spiritual meaning (absolution and the forgiveness of sin) to the village. That seems pretty clear confirmation to me that she's inclined to buy into the mindset described above. BUT. She is also close to Vueko and must know how Vue was taking it. Does this strike her as contradictory? Does it disturb her that the person she loved was disgusted by what she and the rest of the Ganja saw as holy salvation?

...now that i wrote "she must know how Vue was taking it", i'm wondering if she actually did or not lmao. given that i often picture Pakko having an idealized view of Vueko (the continuity with Vueko's idealized view of Belaf and Belaf's of Wazukyan pleases me) she may not have realized how horribly Vue was doing lol.

Anyway I got a little lost at the end there in Pakkospeculation (listen it's the narrative's fault for barely characterizing her ok) but. Yeah. This is my general view on the in-story deification of Iru and how the sages versus everyone else may have felt on it

#ok heres a long thing no one asked for #i will write the Vueko's Extratextual Relationship to Sex in the Original Manga/Translated Manga/Anime post eventually i swear #the actually useful post that i keep not writing #irumyuui #vueko #belaf #wazukyan #Pakkoyan

[apenitentialprayer]

Truly, the colored race are the most cheerful and forgiving people on the face of the earth. That their masters sleep in safety is owing to their super-abundance of heart[.]

Harriet Jacobs (Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, Chapter XVI)

The oligarchic character of the modern English commonwealth does not rest, like many oligarchies, on the cruelty of the rich to the poor. It does not even rest on the kindness of the rich to the poor. It rests on the perennial and unfailing kindness of the poor to the rich.

G.K. Chesterton (Heretics, pages 106-107)

Let the praise of God be on their lips and a two-edged sword in their hand, to deal out vengeance to the nations and punishment on all the peoples; to bind their kings in chains and their nobles in fetters of iron; to carry out the sentence preordained; this honor is for all His faithful.

Psalm 149:6-9

#slavery #oligarchy #oppression #tyranny #G.K. Chesterton #Harriet Jacobs #destitution #Book of Psalms

[jonathanvik]

Starlight Dream - Chapter 47

“Call me Kaguya, the Dreamer.” The Devil Princess said, giving a polite bow. “I’m pleased to meet you, Seina, the Troublemaker. You’ve caused Mei no end of grief with your meddling.”

“I swore I’d stop your kind from hurting anyone else.” Seina clutched her hand hard enough to draw blood. “I’m fixing the damage you caused. We’re freeing the old queen, stopping your vile plans.”

“Silly little girl,” Kaguya said, giving a mock exasperated sigh. “Has Charity been feeding your little head these delusions? What if I told you that you’ve been fighting for the wrong side? That you’re only hastening the destruction of everything?”

“What?”

“I’m afraid the multiverse is doomed. It will soon become a dead husk devoid of life. Think about your world, child. Its destruction is inevitable.”  

“Inevitable?” A stab of ice tore through her heart as she realized how defenseless she’d left the people she loved the most. Soon Aiko, Seiko, and Uncle Kenji would die, and nothing could stop it.

“But we can help you, Seina.” Kaguya continued. “When Mei rejuvenates the cosmos, we will restore all. We will replace this multiverse of suffering with an eternal, blissful paradise. That is our purpose, to renew a broken multiverse.”

“Why are we fighting against you?” Seina looked into the Devil Princess’s eyes, seeing nothing but supreme kindness. Why had she even considered fighting against such a noble soul? Starlight Dream and the Princesses only wanted to restore justice to the cosmos. How had Seina been blind to this irrefutable fact?

“We should be friends! You’re right, Kaguya!” Seina looked down, ashamed. “Could you ever forgive me for the trouble I caused?”

“You’re already forgiven, Seina,” Kaguya said, her kind voice warming Seina’s sad and broken heart. “Let us be sisters!” Much to her delight, Emiyo and Colten nodded in agreement, finally seeing sense. 

“Don’t give me this love and friendship crap!” A violent voice broke through the tender moment, smashing it to pieces. “It’s you monsters that ruined the cosmos in the first place. And we’re meant to trust you with the next? What bull!”

This outburst caught everyone by surprise, mouths agape at the pure audacity. It jabbed into Seina’s brain, leaving her momentarily dazed. What the heck was that? Why had she agreed with a monster like Kaguya? 

“She was trying to corrupt your souls,” Charity said as a way of explanation. “With the cloud of suffering, you were especially vulnerable. But she forgot somebody in the room, assuming he wasn’t worth bothering with.”

“Impossible!” The serene expression on Kaguya’s face vanished, replaced with pure incongruity. “He shouldn’t have been able to break my spell, regardless!”

But Seina understood. Mr. Kiyojiro had a high place in her heart. He was family, rough edges and all. If anyone could reach out to her, it was him. 

“Damn.” Emiyo grabbed at her head, suffering an even worse headache. With the Devil Princess’s concentration lost, her soul-corrupting spell had fizzed. 

“Pest.” Kaguya’s lovely face morphed into something ugly, almost inhuman in its fury. The sudden smile drove daggers into her heart, making Seina retreat a step. “No matter. I’ll rip you to shreds instead. It’d been too long since I’d played with anyone. And it doesn’t matter what you do. I’ve already preordained how you will die. Your petty victory was pointless!” 

“Your evil ends here!” Seina summoned her staff to her waiting hands, already in motion to strike. While ruthless and mean, she couldn’t allow the Devil Princess to transform. 

“Huh?” Seina blinked as she struck open air, their opponent already across the room. She coughed in pain as Kaguya delivered a punishing kick to her sternum, atomizing several ribs. Even in her civilian form, the Dreamer was this powerful? Seina retaliated with a wild punch, but Kaguya had already disappeared. 

“Emiyo,” Seina said, grimacing as the Devil Princess’s face smashed her nose in with another blow too quick to avoid. Dang, it was like Kaguya knew exactly where she’d move.

“Right,” Emiyo said, breaking her trance of fear. Despite her resolve, fighting against a Devil Princess filled her with unspeakable dread. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Kaguya said, her tone airy. “Two or ten thousand, your fates are already preordained!”

Seina watched helplessly as her every attack came to naught, avoided like the Devil Princess had seen them a year away. Remarkable! Even the untransformed Yuuka Tsujikawa hadn’t been this crazy powerful. Kaguya blinked as Emiyo disappeared like she’d never been there. The Devil Princess’s eyes widened as she dodged a blow meant for her skull. An opening clear, Seina’s fist flew toward the Devil Princess’s exposed back. While an open palm had intercepted her punch, Seina had finally touched her. 

“Oh, so that’s how it is,” Kaguya said, somewhat annoyed. 

“Ha! Just as Charity thought! Your ability to manipulate timelines isn’t as useful against someone with time powers!” The fairy said, tone smug. 

“So that’s her ability?” Seina asked, scowling. What an annoying power. 

“Oh!” Colten said, his fairy eyes alighting with understanding and mischief. So far, he’d opted to stay on the sidelines, saving his power for an opportune moment. This unexpected insight into Kaguya gave him some ability to change the outcome. 

“That’s telling!” Kaguya said, her expression darkening. 

The Devil Princess hissed as Emiyo landed a glancing blow with her hoop, the former lieutenant flickering around the battlefield as time went into an erratic flux. Despite their change in fortune, they still couldn’t land a significant blow against their opponent. 

“Impressive. It’s been a while since anyone has pushed me. But you won’t find me such an easy foe.” Seina blinked as four Kaguya appeared from nowhere, each attacking her from a different angle. Flummoxed, her blow with her staff flew through an illusionary Kaguya. Seina’s head spun as the room’s proportions became wonky, making it difficult to tell the distance. 

Blow after blow drove into the helpless Seina, unable to defend herself with her senses so addled. Even closing her eyes didn’t help, the illusion affecting even her imagination. Still, Seina refused to surrender, using her pain as a guidepost to reality. Only the real Devil Princess could hurt her. 

“Gah!” Illusions faltered as Seina’s staff drove into Kaguya’s chest, the girl flinching back. The Dreamer had been unprepared for how hard she could hit back. 

Time dilated as Emiyo moved in to attack with her hoop. Steel clashed as Kaguya summoned a sword to intercept the blow. 

“Fool.” 

“Emiyo!” Seina watched in horror as the sword lost tangency, slipping through Emiyo’s weapon like it was made of insubstantial mist. The blade stabbed deep into the magical girl’s chest, piercing through the heart. 

“Gah!” Emiyo’s breath became labored as the life seemed to be sucked right from her soul. Her youthful skin wrinkled as age, her vitality stolen. In milliseconds, she became a living corpse. 

What? How many powers does she have? A spike of dread stabbed into Seina’s heart, realizing they still hadn’t scratched the surface of the Devil Princess’s power. And Kaguya still hadn’t transformed. 

“Nice try,” Kaguya said, slipping away from Seina’s wild swing. She tossed the decayed Emiyo aside, using her blade to deflect her opponent’s staff. “But without your time-manipulating friend, I can guide this fight however I wish.”

Seina feared the worst, eying the fallen Emiyo with dread. But she sensed a twinge of life still in the girl, faint but vibrant. While weakened significantly, Emiyo wasn’t dead. Her bodyguard pulled her to safety, dragging her down another corridor. He cleared out with Liam and Charity, leaving only her partner behind. 

Their weapons clashed as they engaged. Neither could gain an upper hand. Seina kept her distance from the other magical girl, using her superior speed to keep several steps away. 

“Don’t worry, Seina. I got this. Give her everything you’ve got!” Colten said, interrupting her despair. 

“Oh?” Kaguya said, amused. 

“Right.” Colten might provide them the edge they’d need to turn the fight around. With Mr. Kaguya and the other fairies gone, Seina could afford to cut loose. 

Within the tip of her bubble blower, Seina heightened its destructive capabilities so that no amount of predicting could save Kaguya. The Devil Princess’s eyes widened as Seina concocted this plan, moving to strike a fatal blow. But she ignored the incoming attack, heightening her magic to a fever pitch. Nobody hurt her friends. 

“Die!” Kaguya’s blade thrust forward, Seina not bothering to dodge. Because she didn’t need to. 

“What?” Steel clashed as a sword appearing from nowhere, interlocking with the Devil Princess’s weapon. It was Paliah, triumphant in his brilliant white armor. “Who the hell are you?” 

“Wait, no!” Panic filled the Devil Princess’s eyes as she realized the future looming over her. But Colten grabbed her with his free arm, trapping her in place. With claw-like fingers, Kaguya tore herself free and tried gutting her partner where he stood. But he’d already vanished, leaving the Devil Princess open to Seina’s next attack. 

She held nothing back, filling the chamber with countless destructive bubbles, leaving Kaguya nowhere to run. Counting on her partner, she detonated them all. The Devil Princess howled as fire consumed her, charring her to the bone. Seina flinched as the flames rushed toward her. But Colten was already grabbing her, time skipping to another location a few seconds ago. 

“I can’t believe that worked.” The entire world shook as the chamber ahead exploded, almost knocking Seina from her feet. “I hope I didn’t overdo it.” She might have brought the entirety of Starlight Dream onto their heads. 

“No, it’s fine,” Charity said, appearing from a far corridor. “The secretary’s multi-dimensions protect this place. It’ll cause some ripples, but it won’t burst.”

“Emiyo!” Seina rushed over to her friend, terrified as she saw the girl’s state. 

“I’ll live.” The former lieutenant rasped, her breath sounding like a corpse. Bu life was slowly returning to her, her withered flesh gaining some color. “We need to get going. Devil Princesses are coming.”

“She’s right,” Charity said. “Kaguya isn’t dead. Wounded, but not dead. She’s left to get Mei. Time is short.”

“She’s still alive?” Seina said, surprised. Did the girl transform without her noticing? How did she survive without her powers? But that mystery could wait, and her bodyguard carried Emiyo as they fled down a hall. With Emiyo’s time powers, only milliseconds passed as they climbed deeper into the bottom chamber of the Hall of Agony. 

They wound around a spiral staircase that seemed almost endless. But a weight lifted as they climbed further down, the cloud of despair lightening. In fact, a lightness entered Seina’s soul, making it soar to great heights. There was a purity to the air, like breathing in a child’s laughter. And its power aided them, lightening their steps. While still thin, Emiyo regained her vitality at an astonishing rate. Was the old queen’s power causing this?

“How deep does this go?” Mr. Kiyojiro asked, their steps echoing as they trotted deeper and deeper into eternity. 

“Not far,” Charity replied. “We’re getting close to the core of Starlight Dream, a nexus of pure power that brings magic and vitality to the entire cosmos.

“Really? Why seal her down here?” Seina asked, curious. It surprised her to learn Starlight Dream was so important. But she supposed it made sense that it imbued magical girls with the pure essence of the cosmos. 

“When Charity’s partner created the Needle of the Cosmos, it severely weakened her. Not helpless, as the Devil Princess’s learned, but still not as strong. That’s how they defeated her. It allowed them to seal Charity’s partner into the nexus, becoming one with everything. But it left her unable to affect the real world, watching but incapable of acting.”

“It must have driven her mad, poor girl.” Her bodyguard said. 

“No, she’s fine,” Charity said, reassuring them all. “Just made her angry. She’ll be ready to fight, no doubt.”

“She must have been quite the warrior queen!” Seina said, impressed. It amazed her how resilient the pair had been to endure such imprisonments. This earned a smile from Charity, and warm light bathed them as they touched the bottom stairs. 

The brilliance almost blinded Seina as she looked upon Starlight Dream’s core, the pure essence of magical girl power. Its sheer scale stunned them, the cave only touching a sliver of its radiant surface. It brought tears to her eyes, its warmth like a comforting hug. 

“Welcome to the core,” Charity said, extending a paw. “It represents the pure life that brought the cosmos into existence, a seed planted long ago to birth the entire multiverse. The stories aren’t wrong that Starlight Dream lies at the center of the cosmos.”

“Amazing.” Even her bodyguard was driven to tears, awed by its majesty.

“We need to hurry. They’re coming,” Emiyo said, standing on shaky legs. 

“And I’m already here.” A pitiless voice said. “Did you really think that distraction would cause me to miss your oh-so-obvious plan?”

“Yeah, losers! We aren’t some gullible saps!” Her partner said, sticking out her tongue. 

“Reiko Yoshida, the Poison Ivy,” Seina said breathlessly. Terror stabbed at her heart, fearful of what had happened to Takako and Chō.

“And you’ve really pissed me off!” Reiko said, eyes blazing with fury. “So pissed, you’re gonna wish death didn’t come so hard for magical girls! Oh, you’re going to suffer! I will drink your tears from your lidless eyes as you plea for death’s sweet release! How should I start? I wish…”

But she didn’t get to finish her wish, instead she grunted in annoyance as Paliah appeared from nowhere and slashed her across the throat. While only leaving a small nick, but provided the needed distraction. “Go, free her!”

“Who the hell are you?” With a backhand, Paliah’s broken body slid across the floor. But Seina was already moving, darting towards the orb of light. 

“Throw it!” Charity screamed. 

“I wish Seina, the fool, would lose all control of her body!” The Devil Princess screamed. 

“No!” Already her muscles tightened like they’d always been stone. But she’d already heeded the fairy’s advice, hurling the staff like a javelin. 

“Bastards! I wish the Wicked Queen’s staff was in my hands!” Reiko said.

“Never!” Emiyo surprised them all, appearing right behind the staff. She snatched it from the air and hurled it faster into the orb. The wish took effect, but it was too late. The staff smashed into the orb’s surface, melting into it. 

What was happening? Could the Poison Ivy not make impossible wishes?

A figure burst through the orb, holding her staff high in triumph. Her hair was platinum blond, but Seina detected hints of black at the roots. She wore ragged jean shorts with a bomber jacket emblazoned with a skull with smothering eyes with a cigarette in its mouth.

“I’m back! And ain’t happy.” The old queen squatted down and withdrew a pack of cigarettes, putting one in her mouth. After lighting it, she took a deep drag, savoring its taste. “And I’m ready for some payback. Especially you, Reiko! I’m going to kick you bastards’ asses for sealing me away. I’m gonna do what I should have done millennia ago. Stick my foot right up your ass! Call me Arisu Ikehara, the Wicked Queen!” 

#anime #magical girl #starlight dream #anime stories #humor #action #fantasy #fiction #starlightdream #stories #action adventure #young adult #spells #friendship

[oranges8hands]

It's Not Your Life to Give: Booker Edition

I'm assuming somewhere out there is already meta for why the exile wasn’t wrong, but fuck if you can find shit on tumblr anymore, so here's mine:

I'm not denying Booker needs help; he's suicidal, he's depressed, he's tangled in his own grief and loneliness, he’s got survivor’s guilt, he's likely got complex-ptsd along with his alcoholism and probably some other stuff. I admit, the shorthand of "fuck Booker" is not nuanced to that. That said, I am really not a fan of this fandom narrative that his depression, grief, etc, is a good reason for his actions [1], that his victims owe him enough immediate forgiveness to continue to help him in the aftermath of his actions, that he is the only hurting person in this situation, or that his (self)-destruction - obviously a common symptom - didn't blow up a very basic foundation between him and the others that doesn't just get waived away by an apology. (Which... he never actually offers?  Fandom posits he apologizes and feels bad for what he does in the aftermath, but that's one interpretation, and canon can just as easily be read that he gets a little bit of a rude awakening when Andy is mortal, but frankly he comes across as someone who is sorry it didn't work out and he ended up in a worse place, not for what he did.) 

  Plus, I think a lot of fandom mindset works under what happened [2] and not on what he either planned or did not see the obvious pathway was going to happen [3], as well as ignoring some of the context he put into the situation (his resentment of Joe and Nicky didn't just magically disappear after they escaped), and are looking at his end result (even less familial support than before, in the apartment getting drunk - and shit knows loneliness/isolation is an esp hot button for people right now) and not on the fact he just sold out his family to experience their worst nightmares (a fact he's reminded of again in the middle of his betrayal) and that they can't trust him.

THEY CAN'T TRUST HIM. They had no way to see this coming because it would never have occurred to them, but that barn door is open now. What keeps him from calling in their new safe house? maybe finding a different kind of partner, leading them to another trap on a job? hell, maybe contact Kozak again [4] and see if she made any progress. share their secrets with someone new. do they have to hope Andy's mortality (which is the only thing that made him pause) will reach him enough when apparently their love and affection didn't before? what happens when she dies? what sign are they supposed to somehow intuit if he tips from bad mental health to making actionable decisions to try to die and dragging everyone else into it with him again? if someone picks up this trail of breadcrumbs Copley and Merrick left, is he going to help clean up or go with it? Basically, what stops him from doing this to them again?  Like, I can arguably make a list for reasons I don't think they should have 100 year exiled him (though again, time works on a different scale for them [5]), but at this point I am definitely pushing back on the dominant fandom idea that the exile in and of itself was wrong [6], or that it was only a punishment.     They are going to feel guilty for what they did/didn't do to help him, for not seeing how bad it got [7], (in Andy's case esp) for helping him lean into the bad coping mechanisms, and yeah some of that does need to be owned, but they should not feel guilty for him betraying them or needing time away to deal with that betrayal.  It's funny, cause my immediate response after seeing the movie was that the betrayal story line did not work for me, but it's canon and the response that they should put aside their reaction to help him definitely feels like it ignores the severity of what he actually did to them and how long it could take to (emotionally, mentally) recover from it. That they owe Booker to put it aside to help him. That the others are wrong for the choice they made because of a situation he put them in. [8]  He didn't mind them being tortured, being separated, or being dead; if they want a 100 years to figure out how to continue to love and welcome someone who would do that to them, how to trust someone like that again, they get a 100 years.  And at the end of the day, even Booker understood that.

____________ [1] mental illness does not cause you to try to murder someone (and it is very clear that even if he thinks Andy wanted to die, he knows Joe and Nicky do not, not to mention Nile), and that's frankly a very harmful myth used to dismiss larger violent patterns irl

[2] 2 days of medical experiments, Andy being (luckily!) non-lethally shot, I'd add Nile's general mental well-being but lbr that doesn't tend to factor into it for fandom

[3] Joe, Nicky, Andy, and later Nile be taken and medically experimented on/tortured until... well, forever, cause honestly it's a big assumption they'd let them go or kill them even if they discovered the secret to their death; earlier on, Nile either being left alone - yanno, the thing he said was his reason for doing this (even if it's obviously just a part of the tangled reaction for why he did it) with no answers and forever dreaming about their torture and/or more specifically Nile being left at the mercy of the us military/govt with no answers and forever dreaming about their torture while experiencing her own. 

[4] them not killing Kozak or destroying the lab was hollywood-sloppy - even though I totally love the hc that either a) their spilled body parts disintegrate after a bit or b) there is absolutely nothing in their system that shows their immortality - but it does mean there's a little more clean-up needed than Copley erasing some tapes. 

[5] which is not an excuse to infantilize him? he's a grown man. he may be young compared to the others, but he's not actually a "teenager" and he's esp not too young to realize the ramifications of his actions (aka that his family won’t react well to him selling them out)

[6] maybe not the smartest choice in terms of safety since they'd have even less ability to see if he betrays them or himself again, and being split up makes them more vulnerable, but also not wrong; it's basically a load of shitty choices and that's the one they picked. cause like he said, what else can they do? frankly, now or in a 100 years, Booker is the one that needs to rebuild trust, but at least 100 years gives the rest of them some time to deal with their own trauma before having to deal with him either trying (or not) to fix what he broke, leaves them possibly more open and receptive to changes he’s made.

[7] though as someone whose been on both sides of it, the idea you should be able to just tell how bad it actually is for someone (or even tell that it is bad) is frankly not actually that realistic or fair; people are very often good at hiding and/or downgrading how bad it is 

[8] and specifically that Joe is wrong for the choice they made. like the fact Andy and Nicky both want to get him out the building or that Nicky isn't vocal in his reaction means they didn't reach this decision together, that Joe is the only angry one, that Joe is the only one to aggressively pursue this course of action. like, come on, the pattern of this definitely comes from fandom's racism

#this is both a) a response to a comment of a comment on someone's fic and b) something I've been thinking about for awhile #I feel like this is less anti-Booker and more anti-fandom's prioritization of Booker's pain (which is what I am) but ymmv #I am back on my footnote bs #haha just kidding I never left it #cross the street #fandom repeat fight #in a very real way they kind of have to forgive him #or at least learn to live with it #a kind of preordained forgiveness #how fucking galling is that #to not get to decide forgiveness #to not get to decide how to *give* that forgiveness #and he knows it too #what are they gonna do kill me?

[stardoing]

i just wrote all this out in the tags of a reblog but i feel so strongly about it that it deserves its own post :o

the kh narrative states that sora is "a dull and ordinary boy" who was never even supposed to have a keyblade in the first place. he's not a warrior of light, he's not a keyblade master, he's no one. but at the same time, as the protagonist, he's ALWAYS the one accomplishing all of the major, universe-saving, friend-rescuing goals. kinda backwards, right?

i think it'd be nice to see it stated that sora IS special, but not in a preordained kind of way. he's not INTENDED to be anything or anyone. he's not special because the book of prophecies says so; he's special simply because of the way he lives his life.

time and time again, sora chooses to love. he chooses to be kind, to be gentle, to be forgiving, to the point that every other major character eventually comments on his extraordinary capacity to love. i love the way ansem puts it at the end of ddd: "sora has a heart like that—uncorrupted, willing to see the good before the bad. when he sees the heart in something, it then becomes real."

also, on the whole "my friends are my power" thing... in the endgame of iii, we see sora at his lowest. he literally says that he is WORTHLESS because his friends are gone. all of his self-worth comes from the people he gives himself to. i'd love to see that turn into something closer to, "the love i have for my friends is my power." because THAT is what makes him special.

choosing to be kind, gentle, forgiving— in a world that repeatedly tries to beat it out of you— THAT is truly remarkable.

#kingdom hearts #sora #kh ddd #meta #deviledmeg #kh3d

[missfinefeather]

Writing this the second time because tumblr ate my post.

The build up to the liar reveal was ROUGH for me! And the moment, despite being brief, was just really tough on my heart.

Also like, it doesn’t sit well with me that Luz would just up and steal Amity’s wand like that. I mean, I know she was desperate, but why would Luz do anything to risk tarnishing the already kind of delicate relationship between her and amity? I mean, after literally everything, which has been a long string of Luz screwing Amity over.

Also, it makes the glossed over forgiveness feel very... formulaic? Preordained? Unnatural? I’m trying to think of the right word. I mean, there wasn’t any hurt feelings after defeating the monster, Luz didn’t even show that much remorse at the end of the episode. It feels like the petty theft was a means to an end.

If I were writing this episode, I’d have Luz come clean to Amity about needing to learn a second spell around the time she has a hand puppet related mental break. Amity relating to Luz’s situation and wanting to help, hands her wand over willingly under the condition she return it before lunch is over and she only do one or two small fire balls for reference.

There, we don’t have to have Luz steal from a girl she wants to impress, and it even adds a bit more punch to Amity trapping Luz considering she got her in that situation to begin with. It just flows more naturally than how things were presented as they are.

It’s a shame that the episode had that big sour note to it, because everything else was really really good!

Amity flirting with Luz. The siblings being overly affectionate. The reveal about magic being everywhere! Luz learning her second spell! Eda’s Granny Smith antics. Heck even the King x Hooty subplot was entertaining!

I want to love this episode. I just, wish they had handled it differently.

I’ll be off this weekend, so we’ll do the final owl house episode of this rotation on Monday!

Thanks for joining me! I love you! <3

(Click here for Episode 13!)

#owlhouse12 #Owl House #Missfinefeather Liveblogs #the owl house #toh #Missfinefeather watches Owl House #rotate your owl #Owl House liveblog #liveblog #Disney #blacklist Missfinefeather

[power-chords]

Lots for me to love in this most Mike Flanagan of Mike Flanagan television dramas. Religious guilt! Forgiveness as moral imperative! The experience of the spiritual sublime as escapist intoxicant! Dreams, dreams, always the significance of dreams! Stephen King and seaside New England towns! Kierkegaardian existentialism! Becker's Paradox of the Gods Who Shit! Familial trauma! Substance abuse! 12-Step programs!

We have three episodes to go, still, but here's why I think it could be the most impressive, ambitious thing he's ever done. You, the viewer, are being seduced by a meta-experience of the exact same escalation toward catharsis as that which constitutes and enables Father Paul's descent (ascent?) into religious madness.

Every line of dialogue, every trope and device and metaphor, every single stepwise unmasking of the narrative is designed to hit with the force of revelation. All roads have led to here. This was foretold and preordained. I understand it now.

I brought this up with James Wan and Malignant about a week ago. This is not everybody's idea of a fun amusement park ride. You either thrill at this kind of heavy-handed, indulgent, almost baroque symbological attack or your eyes roll so hard you see brain tissue. If you're like me, and you fall in the former category, you were probably doing exactly what I have been doing, which is pointing at the TV at increasingly frequent intervals and yelling: "You see! You see! It all makes sense! Everything is meaningful, everything is significant! It was all, inevitably, leading to this! The clues were there all along! Look how it all ties together!"

I have no idea how the series is going to end (please do not spoil me), but knowing Flanagan, I suspect he will first attempt to obliterate your faith, punish your hubris for thinking you could possibly comprehend the mechanics, and then reward you for what small, inexplicable embers persist.

#midnight mass #mike flanagan #this is a series about Fear & Trembling but also The Book On Adler

[robininthelabyrinth]

My fic for Juletide has been revealed! It’s available here on ao3, but I’ll post it for tumblr here as well.

--

“Teacher, what is the purpose of revenge?”

Lan Qiren was used to Nie Huaisang’s strange questions by now. He reached up to stroke his beard, not lifting his eyes from the weiqi board. The game they had been playing for some time now was going well for him, but he’d learned not to let his guard down too much.

Nie Huaisang had always been an indifferent student in almost every fashion, with a memory that could only be compared to a net if the knowledge that slipped through its many gaps were compared to water, and there was not a single martial virtue that could be ascribed to him. And yet he was as skilled in the four arts as any scholar: calligraphy and painting, music and weiqi, there was not a single one in which he was not fluent, capable of holding a conversation at the highest level.

With Lan Qiren, anyway. As far as Lan Qiren was aware, Nie Huaisang didn’t play with anyone else.

“There are many different opinions on the subject,” he said, and made a move, seeking to draw his enemy into his net. “There are those that say revenge is a part of justice: a balancing of the scales. Repay kindness with kindness, hurt with hurt.”

“And yet pursuing justice is righteous, while an obsession with revenge is condemned,” Nie Huaisang pointed out, and made his own move, slipping out of the net before Lan Qiren could box him in. He had a tendency towards quick moves, as if he’d long since thought over what he intended – once he’d decided, he would not be dissuaded, and if he could not be dissuaded, there was no purpose in delay; it was a very Nie way of playing. “Vengeance is a dead end, while justice is a never-ending road.”

“It depends on the purpose,” Lan Qiren said. “Those who fall into obsession may be led astray into thinking that everything they do is revenge, and therefore justify atrocities well out of proportion to the crime – in the end, they drag others into the abyss that they have made for themselves, and the entire world will condemn them for it. The meshes of the net of heaven are large, and yet none may escape - yet someone must be the tool of that justice. That is the value in revenge: if crime can be committed with impunity, there can be no order in the world.”

“So it may be necessary to seek revenge – to impose punishment – in order to demonstrate to the world that certain actions cannot be permitted?”

“Exactly.”

“Even if there is a cost?”

Lan Qiren thought of his nephews. He had raised them as if they were his own sons, and he loved them dearly – he had tried to teach them everything he could, and protect them from what he could not. He had always stood up for what he believed to be right: he had demanded that Lan Xichen abandon the Cloud Recesses in its moment of need to save their most precious writings, even if it meant leaving his father to death and his brother to imprisonment; he had refused to permit Lan Wangji to throw his life away after the maddened murderer who had turned his back on him.

They might never forgive him for it.

“Even if there is a cost,” he said. He could only be himself, nothing more, nothing less. “Revenge, if done in the name of righteousness rather than selfishness, is a duty we owe to the world: after all, is it not said in Liji, ‘one should not live under the same sky as he who has slain one’s father’?”

Nie Huaisang looked thoughtful at that, as Lan Qiren thought he might. “‘How should a man conduct himself as to the man who killed his parent?’” he said, quoting a different section of the same classic text. “‘Sleep on straw with a shield for a pillow, do not take office or share the same sky; when he meets him in the marketplace, he needs not go back for his weapon but is prepared to fight him at once.’”

“I’m amazed you remember it,” Lan Qiren said. His voice was a little dry, but as someone who suffered as Nie Huaisang's teacher, he thought he was entitled to it. “You never used to remember anything.”

Nie Huaisang shrugged. “Some things stick in your mind.”

Lan Qiren supposed so. Nie Mingjue had spent the majority of his too-short life seeking vengeance for the father Nie Huaisang would have been too young to really recall; Nie Huaisang would have learned the principles of revenge at the knee of the only parent he’d ever had.

It made sense that that would be what he'd remember.

After all, Nie Huaisang always did remember the things that were important to him.

Sometimes Lan Qiren wondered why Nie Huaisang was so determined to hide his light under a stone. He would have long ago grown bored of playing weiqi against the foolish headshaker of legend or the vacant-eyed crybaby that perennially sobbed into his nephew’s sleeve, and yet they had been playing these games for years and years, all throughout the decade since Nie Huaisang had become Sect Leader.

He didn’t ask, though, and he didn’t point it out to anyone.

He’d find out the reason, one day.

After all, he’d learned how Nie Huaisang played: decisive, risk-taking, and with an eye on the long game. Everything would seem as if it were going fine, all smooth sailing with the wind at your back, and then suddenly everything would be overturned in one blow, the peace of uninterrupted victory abruptly turning into loss after loss after loss, and in the end it would be a total rout.

…a bit like this game, in fact.

“You’ve won,” he said.

“There’s still a great deal left of playing to do,” Nie Huaisang demurred. “Look at all the pieces still on the board.”

“That the pieces remain on the board does not mean their end is not preordained,” Lan Qiren said, thinking back over the moves they’d made. “It was the suicide move, wasn’t it? The second you played that, there was no way out for me.”

Nie Huaisang smiled. “Some things are worth a sacrifice.”

#mdzs #nie huaisang #lan qiren #my fic #my fics #nearly forgot about this one

[anamelessfacelessnerd]

Not me rewriting the ending to Mizumono only to have a much better idea halfway through so as soon as I finished the first one I started on the second

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: Hannibal (TV)

Relationship: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter, Abigail Hobbs

Additional Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s02e13 Mizumono, Smut, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Mild Blood, Rough Sex, Coming Untouched, Not Beta Read, Dark Will Graham

Language: English

Summary: “I need him to know.” Will looked into Hannibal’s eyes then, searching for the desperation he could hear in his words. “If I confessed to Jack Crawford now, you think he would forgive me?”

“I would forgive you.” It’s clear that Hannibal’s not talking about the murder, but the betrayal. He would still forgive Will for conspiring against him. “If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, Will, would you accept his forgiveness?” The double meaning is apparent. Hannibal was asking Will if he would go with him knowing that Hannibal would forgive him. It’s an invitation. One that Will wasn’t sure he wanted to decline.

“Jack isn't offering forgiveness.” Hannibal wanted to say “I am”, but he didn't. “He wants justice. He wants to see you. See who you are. See who I've become. Know the truth.” Will takes another sip of his wine and Hannibal accepts his defeat. He really hadn’t wanted to hurt Will, but it seemed that it would be the only option.

“Still, I suppose we don’t owe Jack that do we?” Will spoke again.

Notes: Okay, I know I rewrote the ending of Mizumono yesterday, but I had this idea while I wrote it and I couldn't help myself.

“Do you know what an imago is, Will?” Hannibal asked.

“It's a flying insect,” Will replied.

“It's the final stage of a transformation. Maturity.”

“When you become who you will be,” Will said, catching on to the point Hannibal was making.

“It's also a term from the dead religion of psychoanalysis. An imago is an image of a loved one buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives.”

“An ideal.”

“The concept of an ideal always searching for an objective reality to match. I have a concept of you just as you have a concept of me.”

“Neither of us are ideal,” Will says after taking a long drink of his wine. Hannibal considered what Will had just said for a moment. He had nearly trusted an ideal. He thought that Will would leave with him until he smelled Freddie Lounds on him. Perhaps Will was right, neither of them were ideal.

“We are both too curious about too many things for any ideals.” Hannibal paused a moment, feeling a twinge of hesitation for what he was about to ask. It was completely out of character for Hannibal to grovel, but in recent weeks he had grown accustomed to the idea of running away with Will, and he wasn’t quite ready to give the fantasy up. “Is it ideal that Jack die?”

Will matched Hannibal’s pause. Most would not even notice the hesitation, but Hannibal did.

“It's necessary. What happens to Jack has been preordained.” Will’s voice was cold, free from any emotion. In any other circumstance Hannibal would be proud of how well he schooled his expression, but now it just frustrated him.

“We could disappear now. Tonight. Feed your dogs. Leave a note for Dr. Bloom, never see her or Jack Crawford again. Almost polite,” Hannibal was nearly begging now and Will knew it. Their eyes locked and at once Will understood. Hannibal knew and he was willing to forgive.

“That'd make this our last supper,” Will said, considering Hannibal’s offer. Now, just days away from the sting that he and Jack had planned, Will still wasn’t sure whose side he was really on. Part of him wanted to be good, he wanted to atone for his sins and clear his name for good, because even though he had been acquitted, there were still those who believed he had actually killed all those people.

The other part of him wanted to become what everyone thought him to be. Though he hated to admit it, he had felt a thrill as he killed and mutilated Randall Tier. Even worse was that now thinking about that feeling didn’t make him feel guilty or sick, only enhanced the adrenaline.

If he was being completely honest, half of the thrill was seeing how Hannibal looked at him when he knew what Will had done. The subtle adoration and pride that he was no doubt allowing Will to see. Hannibal’s gaze made Will feel things, things that he had never felt with anyone before, and he wanted to chase that feeling.

“Of this life. I am serving lamb.”

“Sacrificial? Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.” Will snorted.

“I freely claim my sin. I don't need a sacrifice. Do you?”

“I need him to know.” Will looked into Hannibal’s eyes then, searching for the desperation he could hear in his words. “If I confessed to Jack Crawford now, you think he would forgive me?”

“I would forgive you.” It’s clear that Hannibal’s not talking about the murder, but the betrayal. He would still forgive Will for conspiring against him. “If Jack were to tell you all is forgiven, Will, would you accept his forgiveness?” The double meaning was apparent. Hannibal was asking Will if he would go with him knowing that Hannibal would forgive him. It’s an invitation. One that Will wasn’t sure he wanted to decline.

“Jack isn't offering forgiveness.” Hannibal wanted to say “I am”, but he didn't. “He wants justice. He wants to see you. See who you are. See who I've become. Know the truth.” Will takes another sip of his wine and Hannibal accepts his defeat. He really hadn’t wanted to hurt Will, but it seemed that it would be the only option.

“Still, I suppose we don’t owe Jack that do we?” Will spoke again. Hannibal perked up almost imperceptibly.

“Perhaps a note will be sufficient. I didn’t want to leave the dogs alone, but they’ll be fine for a while. Knowing Jack he’ll send a cruiser to my place within an hour after I don’t show up in the morning.”

“Let us prepare then. I would like to be out of the country before Jack realizes that you are no longer his man on the inside.” Hannibal stood and began gathering plates to bring to the kitchen because of course he would want to leave the house spotless. Will helped him with the dishes and wiping everything down. They caught eyes several times, both revving with the anticipation of what was to come. Will considered apologizing for his conspiracy, but when he looked into Hannibal’s eyes he knew he was already forgiven.

It was a little intoxicating to know that he had this kind of control over hannibal. To know that he made Hannibal beg. He wondered how else he could compel him to beg. That was, once they stopped dancing around the physical aspect of their relationship and finally just fucked like they both wanted to.

Once they were finished they retired to the study to write a note. Hannibal wandered around, collecting particular books and knick knacks that he wanted to bring while Will drafted a note. After much thinking and many balled up pieces of paper, Will finally got it right. When he finished, he handed it to Hannibal to read.

“This will do nicely,” Hannibal said. He slipped the letter into an envelope and sealed it with blood red wax and a stamp that bore his initials.

Will watched as the wax dripped. The flow of the thick liquid was giving him all sorts of dirty thoughts. Thoughts of Hannibal pouring that warm liquid all over his body. Thoughts of being covered in other kinds of red liquid. Will had to take a deep breath to steady himself and bring some blood back up to his head.

When the wax had dried, Hannibal handed the letter to Will, fingers brushing against Will’s skin tenderly.

“I have a surprise for you,” Hannibal said, hand coming to grip Will’s wrist.

“Oh?” Will replied.

“Come with me.” Hannibal led Will upstairs, never letting go of his wrist. Will had only been to the upper floor of Hannibal’s house a few times, and never in the dark, so he didn’t really know where they were going. He had two ideas, one much more enticing than the other, but both equally likely.

As it turned out, neither of his assumptions were correct. Hannibal led him to a closed door at the end of the hallway and knocked.

“May we come in?” He asked. Will didn’t even have time to question who was in there before the door was being opened from the inside. Standing in the doorway was none other than Abigail Hobbs.

“Hi Will,” She said, a small smile playing on her chapped lips.

“Abigail?” Will asked, voice barely audible. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Had Hannibal drugged him? Was he hallucinating?

“How are you here? You’re dead,” Will said.

“Not dead, just misplaced,” Hannibal replied, “they never found a body, well, not a whole body at least. It was merely a charade.”

Abigail tucked her hair back to show Will the flesh where her ear had been. It was healed over by now, but it still brought a wave of bile up in Will’s throat.

“You’ve been here this whole time?” Will asked, choking down the anger that was building in him. There was no sense getting angry now, especially when he was teetering on the edge of a new beginning.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail said, tears welling in her eyes.

“I forgive you,” Will said. Abigail took two big steps forward and wrapped her arms around Will’s middle, burying her tears in his shirt. He brought a hand to her hair and stroked, both soothing her and assuring himself that she was really there and really alive.

“Thank you,” Will whispered to Hannibal. He wasn’t sure what he was thanking him for. Maybe for keeping Abigail alive, maybe for bringing him to her, maybe just because he didn’t know what else to say.

Hannibal’s hand came to rest between Will’s shoulder blades, fingertips shooting electricity down his spine.

“I do not wish to rush you two, but we must be going,” Hannibal said, “there is still much for us to do and little time to do it.”

Abigail pulled back from Will and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, sniffling a few times.

“Will, would you care to help me pack?” Hannibal asked.

“Yeah, sure.” Will cast one last glance at Abigail before following Hannibal to his bedroom.

“Everything in that top drawer must come,” Hannibal said as he set a large suitcase on the bed. Will began transferring the carefully folded garments from the dresser to the suitcase while Hannibal sorted through his suits to find the ones he liked best.

Will and Hannibal's hands brushed for what felt like the 500th time that night as they both attempted to place clothing in the suitcase at the same time. Their eyes met and there was a moment of contemplation before they pounced.

Will dragged Hannibal to the floor and straddled him, hands balling up around fistfulls of Hannibal’s jacket as he pressed their lips together. Hannibal kissed back with equal fervour, hands sliding back to cup Will’s ass. Will moaned into the kiss and rutted his hips against Hannibals. Hannibal bit Will’s lip, not stopping until he drew blood.

They broke away, panting and breathing each other in. Hannibal brought one hand to Will’s cheek and stroked, the pad of his thumb brushing over Will’s parted lips. Will sucked the digit into his mouth, tongue lapping at the sensitive skin.

Will ground his hips down, ass rubbing against Hannibal’s rapidly hardening cock. The older man stared up at him in wonder, lips parted and eyes blown wide. He withdrew his hand, swiping his thumb along the bleeding cut on Will’s lip until the skin was stained red. Then he brought it to his own mouth, his eyes rolling back as he savored the metallic taste of his lover’s blood.

“You taste divine Will,” Hannibal said, deep voice sending tremors through Will’s body. That was it, that was the breaking point for Will.

“Take your fucking clothes off,” He demanded as he scrambled off of Hannibal to remove his own clothes.

“Such crass language,” Hannibal scolded, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “whatever should I do about that?”

Hannibal was trying his best to regain some of the power he had lost in this exchange. Will would let him believe that he did, if only to sate his ego, but Will knew deep down that he was in control. He had known since before Hannibal had pleaded with him that he was in control here. Hannibal had several layers to his persona. The first was the polite, yet slightly eccentric doctor who loved good food and opera, behind that was the calculating psychopath cold, and emotionless. His true personality was hidden deep within himself, but Will was able to see it, after all, he had not yet met a person he couldn’t read.

The person that Hannibal truly was was driven by his emotions. Anger and hurt bubbled under his skin, suppressed by years of burying everything akin to a feeling deep below the surface. He was intensely narcissistic and hedonistic. Everything he did was to fulfill his desires. He ate to satiate his hunger, he killed to assuage a compulsion. He acted solely in his own self interests, and right now Will was his interest. That gave Will ultimate power over Hannibal. He wanted Will in every sense of the word, and would do nearly everything to have him.

Perhaps what solidified Will’s control was the fact that he was aware of this while Hannibal wasn’t. Hannibal had spent so much effort repressing feelings that he genuinely believed that they were never there in the first place. Will knew about Hannibal’s nature, not from the beginning, no he was fooled like everyone else at first, but certainly longer than he let on. He only raised the issue with Jack when he was in danger.

Will put on the facade of being overly emotional, of being unstable, but deep down he was something different entirely. That’s why he was so good at “faking” the coldness he showed with Hannibal, it was never fake, the emotions were fake, and Hannibal was none the wiser. This was Will’s game and Hannibal was barely aware he was playing.

“Will?” Hannibal asked, pulling Will from his thoughts. He kneeled in front of him, now fully nude, his erection jutting out proudly from a bed of well trimmed blonde curls.

“Fuck me,” Will insisted, trying to pass his momentary spacyness off as fascination with the admittedly impressive cock that hung between Hannibal’s legs.

“As you wish.” Yes, as Will wishes. Hannibal will do exactly as Will wishes.

Will doesn’t wait for any more negotiations. He turns around and sinks to his elbows, thighs spread wide to accommodate Hannibal. He heard the older man’s breath catch as Will displayed himself.

“Oh Will, you truly are exquisite. Beauty incarnate.” Hannibal mused. Will watched between his legs as Hannibal reached into the bedside table for a bottle of lube. Hannibal poured the lube onto his fingers, then pressed them to Will’s hole, tracing the rim to get it nice and wet.

Will buried his face in his crossed arms to stifle a moan. The last thing he needed was for Hannibal to know exactly how sensitive he actually was and to exploit that fact. They didn’t have much time and Will was really just looking to be fucked.

Finally, one finger breached Will. It slid in with little resistance and Hannibal added a second. His thumb came to press against Will’s perineum as he scissored his fingers. Will let out a choked sob when Hannibal’s other hand tangled in his hair and pulled his head up sharply.

“I want to hear you Will. I want to hear exactly how much you like this.”

“God, just fuck me already Hannibal,” Will begged, “I’m ready, just get in me.”

Hannibal withdrew his fingers at once. Will didn’t even have a chance to get a word out before Hannibal was pressing his cock inside.

“There you go sweet boy, taking my cock so well, like you were made for it. Like you were born to take me.”

Will had never heard Hannibal speak so lewdly before, but he liked it more than he would ever care to admit. Not that he even could right now with Hannibal thrusting into him with punishing force, hitting his prostate every time.

Hannibal still had one hand in Will’s hair. The other was gripping his hip so tight he would undoubtedly have finger shaped bruises in the morning. He brought his lips down to Will’s shoulder, placing a few gentle kisses there, and that would simply not do. Will needed him to be rough, he needed to be fucked hard.

“Harder,” Will grunted, “come on Hannibal, you can do better than that. Do it like I know you want to. Hurt me.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Hannibal panted.

“Fuck yes, give it to be Hannibal, fucking ruin me.”

Hannibal complied immediately, using all of the force he could to pound into Will like he was trying to split him clean in half. He bit down hard on Will’s shoulder, just short of drawing blood.

Will rocked back to meet every thrust, letting out a litany of pathetic noises that he probably should have been embarrassed about. Hannibal was groaning now too, grunting like a beast in Will’s ear as he shoved in impossibly deeper.

Will’s orgasm was so sudden, he didn’t even feel it coming. In an instant his body went rigid as white hot pleasure coiled in his abdomen and he came completely untouched.

After coming for what felt like hours, he dropped to the floor, thighs shaking too hard to support himself any longer.

Once he had caught his breath, Will rolled over onto his back and spread his legs.

“Keep going,” he told Hannibal, “I want you to use me to make yourself come.”

Hannibal didn’t need to be told twice before sliding back into Will. He hoisted the younger man’s knees up over his shoulders to get a better angle as he slammed in over and over again.

At last, Hannibal gave a final hard thrust and spilled inside Will, coating his insides with his seed. He pulled out and laid on the floor next to him, breathing hard and trembling.

“I would have run away with you a long time ago if I had known that was in store for me,” Will panted, struggling to sit up.

“If I saw you every day, forever, Will, I would remember this time,” Hannibal said, reaching over to brush a lock of curly hair behind his ear.

Will smiled and kissed Hannibal again. It was softer this time, full of much more affection, especially on Hannibal’s behalf.

“I would sit here with you for eternity Will, but I fear that we must leave soon. We would not want to keep Abigail waiting.” Hannibal said when they pulled away.

“Of course, but first will you promise me something?”

“What is it that you desire?”

“Do that again as soon as we get to wherever we’re going.” Hannibal grinned and cupped Will’s cheek.

“I would gladly have you every day, my dear Will.”

Notes: Listen, we all know who's actually in control and this relationship and it's not Hannibal "Simp" Lecter.

#hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #abigail hobbs #smut #fanfic #ao3 #hannigram fic #hannibal fanfiction #mizumono #2.13

[stay-neurotic]

A Prisoner’s Needs

The Dominion sends a representative to ensure the Federation’s sole Vorta prisoner is “well-treated.”

Weyoun 5/Keevan/female reader, explicit.

Of all the positions you’d been assigned to, prison watch had proven to be – by far – the most tedious. Stashed away on some starbase sufficiently isolated from the rest of the quadrant, passing the slow hours in mind-numbing boredom, you had begun to look forward to even the smallest moments of excitement at mealtimes. As starved for attention as you were during those long shifts in empty rooms, kept company only by your security camera consoles, the prisoners were even lonelier - and the short time they had to hold conversation with you while you delivered their meals was often the highlight of both of your days.

Many prisoners refused, at first, to so much as look at you. After all, you and your colleagues served as a constant reminder of their defeat. But inevitably their defiant silence gave way over time, first to an offhand comment here or there, then to tentative chatter, and finally to warm conversation as you became a comforting constant in their dreary lives.

But one prisoner in particular had yet to follow this preordained path. From the moment he arrived on the starbase, he treated everyone around him with equal parts cold condescension and detached politeness, and for all the months you’d spent bringing him his three squares and trying in vain to initiate conversation, he’d never given an inch. It intrigued you, even more than his violet eyes and curvy, ridged ears had at first glance. But try as you might, the Vorta never appeared to take even the slightest interest in talking to you.

“Lieutenant.”

You snap out of your reverie to the sight of your commander standing before you; you hadn’t even heard him come in. You stand at attention.

“Sir.”

“Today is going to be a little different, Lieutenant. We have...visitors.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, looking off for a moment. You can tell the stress was getting to him; whoever these visitors were, they were trouble.

“The Dominion has sent a representative to check on our Vorta prisoner. To ensure he is being ‘well-treated.’ They know damn well the Federation doesn’t torture our P.O.W.s, but when we declined their visit the first time, they grew insistent. Now I suppose we’re in the position of having to prove to them that we have nothing to hide.”

You swallow, half in nervousness, half in excitement. The chance to meet another Vorta! And in the midst of all this political intrigue as well.

“What is my part to play in all this, sir?”

“I’d like you to stand guard with Keevan while their representative ‘chats’ with him. We wanted a more...established officer with them to ensure no wrongdoing, but they’re worried about intimidation tactics. That he won’t say certain things if we’re in the room with him.”

The commander waves a hand dismissively.

“It’s bullshit if you ask me, but we have no choice in the matter now. We’ll have two guards standing outside the door and I have a security team in place if anything goes wrong. Any funny business and you just say the word, alright?”

“Yes, sir.”

“They start talking about any escape plans or sensitive information, you escort the representative out at phaser-point. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good.”

He claps you on the shoulder and steps back, speaking into his comm-badge to order the transporter room to teleport their visitor directly into the prison block. Before you materializes a relatively short Vorta, standing upright with his hands clasped in front of him. His eyes, amethyst and wide, dart about the room – hesitating on yours for a split second – before settling on the commander. His mouth pulls into a sharp grin.

“Ah! Commander. Such a pleasure to finally speak face-to-face. I must thank you once again for –”

The commander holds a hand up and cuts him off. “Let’s dispense with the formalities. Lieutenant Y/N will escort you to Keevan. After forty minutes she’ll bring you back here and we’ll transport you out. Any questions, you ask her.”

You’re surprised to be put in such a position, having only been briefed moments ago, but the responsibility emboldens you and you stand just a bit taller. You hold the Vorta’s gaze as it slides over to you, his smile tightening.

“Ah. Well, in that case.”

He holds his arms out at his sides, palms open.

“Shall we?”

“Right this way,” you direct him, voice clear and loud, becoming for a Starfleet officer. He follows closely – a bit too closely – as you walk briskly down the corridor. Every species has a different idea of personal space, you think, trying not to make too much out of it. But somehow it feels intentional.

“Forgive me,” he purrs suddenly, once you are out of earshot of the commander. “I hadn’t the chance to introduce myself properly. My name is Weyoun.”

You hear the smile in his voice as he speaks but don’t glance over. He senses your hesitation to return the sentiment and prompts you: “And you are…?”

“Lieutenant Y/N.”

“A lovely name,” he states, matter-of-fact, and you can’t help feeling as though he meant that genuinely.

You reach Keevan’s cell and input the security code; the two of you stride into the room past the guards posted at the door and you step aside, allowing him to approach the forcefield. Keevan, reclined on the bed, tilts his head and raises his eyebrows in dispassionate interest. You had half-expected a more emotional response but, then, you really should’ve known better.

“Weyoun.”

“Keevannn,” he retorts, dragging out the Vorta’s name, sounding as warm somehow as he does threatening. “You could at least appear happy to see me.”

“Why should I, exactly?” he asks, rising to sit upright. “You and I both know my stay here isn’t entirely Dominion-sanctioned.”

“No,” Weyoun admits, “it isn’t. But we are at least invested in the wellbeing of our operatives. Captive or not, you are still Vorta, and we take great interest in knowing the Federation is not abusing the privilege of having you in their grasp.”

Keevan scowls; you wonder if these two are communicating something beneath the words they’re using, but you have no way to tell. Weyoun turns suddenly to you, his smile unwavering.

“Tell me, Lieutenant. Is this where Keevan spends all of his time? Or is there some communal space, a mess hall or barracks of some sort?”

“The lower-security prisoners do have communal spaces,” you begin to explain, but then curtail yourself, remembering these Vorta are the enemy and you do not wish to supply them with any unnecessary intel. “...Keevan is a high-security prisoner, so he spends all his time in this cell, yes.”

“Ahh,” he sighs, focusing more intently on you and beginning to slowly pace back and forth in front of the forcefield. Has he noted that eagerness to share you just displayed? “You bring him his meals here, then? How often does he eat?”

“Three times a day.”

“Mm, a shame,” he denotes, and at your confused expression, gracefully explains: “The Vorta have a slightly higher metabolism than humans do. We eat four, sometimes five times a day. Still,” here he glances back to Keevan, who tilts his head back defiantly, “he certainly does not appear to have lost any weight. Nor does he appear to be sleep-deprived or ill...”

“We’re not in the business of starving, sleep-depriving or otherwise abusing our prisoners,” you interject sharply, offended by proxy at the diplomat’s hypocrisy; you’ve heard tell of what Dominion prisons have to offer, and he has the gall to stand here and grill you. “Federation prisons are nothing like Dominion ones.”

Weyoun’s head whips around to stare at you. His smile has vanished. Your bravado dissipates as he advances upon you; gripping the phaser at your hip does nothing to slow his approach and, for a moment, you feel real fear.

“I don’t know what kind of lies you’ve heard about Dominion facilities,” he hisses, stopping inches from your face, “but I do not appreciate the implication that we mistreat our guests, Lieutenant. In fact…”

He pauses, eyes leaving your own uneasy gaze to travel down and back up your body. The tight-lipped smile returns to his lips; you feel more unsettled by the second.

“Many things are allowed in our facilities which clearly are forbidden in this one. I assume you do well to meet many of Keevan’s needs...” He looks back over to the Vorta, who meets his gaze challengingly. “But not all of them.”

“We meet our prisoners’ needs just fine.”

Weyoun shoots you a venomous smile before turning his attention back toward Keevan. He holds a hand out to gesture at the Vorta and directs firmly: “Stand.”

After a moment of hesitation, Keevan does so, begrudgingly.

“Strip.”

You glance at Weyoun, alarmed, but say nothing. Fascinated, you stare without restraint as Keevan rolls his eyes, uncrosses his arms and begins to shed his prison uniform; you’ve never seen a Vorta naked and you're not about to pass up this opportunity.

His skin is paler beneath his clothing, almost to the point of translucency. He is slender, though he lacks much muscle tone. You notice with interest that he sports a pair of aubergine nipples but no belly button; if the latter is no longer necessitated due to their cloning techniques, why keep the former? Heat spreads over your cheeks as Keevan’s jumpsuit falls completely to the floor, revealing a relatively small protrusion dangling at the meeting of his thighs. Your attention is quickly drawn further downwards, however, as you notice the bright red scars that decorate the Vorta’s thighs.

No, not scars – these are fresh. Partially scabbed over with bruises blooming beneath. Five angry lines, vertical, on each thigh – claw marks?

“Ahh,” sighs Weyoun, as if he knew exactly what he was going to find. He looks pointedly back to you, as if you’re supposed to know what this means.

Panicked, you stutter: “I – these aren’t – the Federation doesn’t –”

Weyoun raises a hand to cut you off, and you fall to silence, grateful. He shakes his head, tutting softly as he closes the distance between you once more. You wish he wouldn’t get so close; it makes it hard to think.

“My child. I know quite well the Federation is no practitioner of torture. At least, not on purpose.” He pauses to let the implication sink in and tilts his head, studying your measured expression. “However. I believe you have mistaken one of our people’s needs for what your people consider a mere desire.”

The confusion is evident on your face and, to Weyoun, it is amusing. He raises a hand and brushes the back of his fingers, ever so gently, against your cheek. The feather-light touch sends shivers throughout your whole body; your breath hitches. You stand statue-still, frozen, your eyes locked on his piercing violet gaze.

Weyoun chuckles, low in the back of his throat. You wonder briefly if this constitutes “funny business,” but can’t seem to bring yourself to move. Or care.

“You see, my dear, the Vorta suffer quite horribly if they cannot achieve a joining on a somewhat regular basis. Keevan here seems to have taken to self-harm in order to deal with the urges.”

You break Weyoun’s icy stare for long enough to glance at the vulnerable Vorta behind the forcefield, who has diverted his gaze to stare in dismay and frustration at the floor. But the hand that caressed your cheek suddenly grips your chin, forcefully directing you back to the ambassador’s attention.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, child,” he growls, every hint of pleasantry all but evaporated.

The words, uttered so closely, so dangerously, bring a hint of red to your cheeks once more. Swallowing, you manage a whisper-quiet protest: “I’m not a child.”

“Oh,” he sighs. His hand slides to grip the back of your neck, holding you firm. Leaning in, he exhales the rest of the sentence into your ear. “That, you are not. Forgive me. A grown woman...with her own needs and desires.”

You exhale a shaky breath. This is not the kind of diplomacy for which you were prepared.

“I can tell,” continues Weyoun, his hand snaking up into your hair, “yours are not being met either. Why, you’re positively melting under my touch.”

You hate the smug way he says this – you hate that he’s right. But the way he murmurs each word into your neck...the way he tightens his grip on your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat. The slow, open-mouthed kisses he’s now pressing into it. These things, you don’t hate.

You realize one of your hands is gripping Weyoun’s upper arm. When it got there, you aren’t sure. But the Vorta takes this as a sign to continue, as if he weren’t planning to do so already. His free hand snakes around your waist and pulls you into him, and the heat radiating between your bodies is intoxicating. His deliberate kisses travel up your neck and along your jaw, and finally he descends upon your parted, waiting lips – cradling the back of your head as you press desperately back into the passionate kiss.

In his cell, Keevan clears his throat loudly.

You whine quietly in protest as Weyoun breaks the kiss and turns to survey the prisoner you’d all but forgotten about. He breaks into a wide grin. “How rude of us,” he laments, still holding you close as he looks back into your eyes. “We seem to have forgotten someone.”

Your eyes widen a bit in panic as you realize what he wants. “I… I can’t just –“

“Ah, but you can,” counters the Vorta, releasing you and backing away. You miss his touch immediately and take an involuntary step after him. His smile widens; ever amused, that one.

“Think about it. There are two guards just outside that door, and surely more just out of sight. There is nothing accessible in this room that constitutes a danger to you – besides myself, of course!”

He laughs in genuine delight at his own joke.

“Keevan isn’t going anywhere. But isn’t it awfully cruel of us to indulge in such a feast in front of the proverbial starving man?”

You consider Keevan carefully. He’s met your gaze now, and behind his guarded stare you notice something else this time – a hunger. A weakness. Between his legs, the soft, lavender-tipped organ has started to swell. He swallows, worried at your hesitation, and after a moment chokes out a single, genuine plea, the first hint of submission you’ve ever heard leave his lips: “Please.”

You could be relieved of duty for this, you think as you stride over to the wall panel.

You could be stripped of your ranking, you realize as you type the security code to neutralize the forcefield.

You could –

“Mmm!”

Your thoughts cease altogether as Keevan descends upon you. Hungry, desperate, his hands are all over you; his lips dominate yours and his (rather longer than you’d expected) tongue shoves its way into your mouth to tangle with your own. One of his hands grips your ass and pulls you into his hips, and you let out a tiny moan at the feeling of the hardness pinned between you. His other snakes up your chest and squeezes a breast, groping, exploring.

Suddenly a second pair of hands finds its way up your back and to the hidden zipper at the top of your uniform. A warm pair of lips presses itself to your neck, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses. Your attention fades from Keevan’s ravenous kissing to Weyoun’s licking and nibbling at your flesh as he pulls the zipper of your uniform slowly down, revealing the bare skin beneath. The jumpsuit falls to the floor, leaving you in only your underthings, but the two bodies pressed against you prevent you from feeling very cold or exposed.

Weyoun’s hips press into your backside and you sigh softly at the feeling of his desire pressing into you. His hands grip your hips, guiding them to rock back and forth between the two Vortas, grinding against both of them in turn. Keevan moans his approval and his mouth leaves yours; in the split second that follows, Weyoun swiftly pulls your sports bra over your head, and Keevan wastes no time cradling one of your freed breasts in his hand and dousing the other with a quick series of kisses and nibbles. He takes your nipple between his lips, sucking at it gently and teasing it with his tongue, and as you arch into his touch, Weyoun takes it upon himself to grab you by the chin once more and force your head back to meet his lips. You release soft sounds of pleasure into the kiss that grow in intensity as Weyoun’s free hand slips down your belly, across your hipbones, and beneath your waistband – finally wedging itself between your cunt and Keevan’s cock.

Your knees grow weak as he strokes your clit, first in soft, circular motions, then in long, harder ministrations. Leaning back into his comforting presence, you break the kiss to allow your head to loll back onto Weyoun’s shoulder and exhale your approval in quiet whines and moans. Each time he moves, the back of his hand also strokes Keevan’s aching cock through the fabric of your panties, and the Vorta rocks his hips in time with the motions – growling lowly against your breasts.

In what feels like no time at all, Keevan’s impatience gets the better of him, and he shoves Weyoun’s hand violently away in order to replace it with his mouth. Falling to his knees, he yanks your panties off your hips and presses a lingering, breathy kiss to your pubic mound. Weyoun – sensing your unsteadiness – holds you firmly against him and backs the two of you up to the bed in Keevan’s cell. Lowering onto it, you settle gently down into his lap.

Keevan follows and positions himself eagerly between your legs. One of Weyoun’s hands slide up to your chest; the other falls to your inner thigh where it meets your groin. The Vorta uses the gentlest brush of his fingers to coax them further apart and you comply helplessly.

“Good girl,” he breathes, husky, into your ear - and you practically melt into his arms. Keevan, nipping at your thigh, reaches the outer lips of your cunt and presses long, lingering kisses along them – never quite reaching the spots you want him to. Squirming, you reach over your head to grip the back of Weyoun’s shirt tightly and turn your head into his neck, burying your soft protests there.

“We don’t have all day,” Weyoun reminds the other Vorta impatiently. His breathing is shallow and quick in your ear; you sense perhaps a hint of jealousy under his irritated tone. Keevan’s attention ceases for a long enough moment that you open your eyes and glance down to see the two Vorta fixing each other with an adversarial glare – but it is over as soon as it started and Keevan’s tongue is lapping over you as though you are the best meal he’s ever tasted; Weyoun’s hand covers your mouth tightly and pulls your head back against his shoulder, and you rock your hips into the mouth pleasuring it and you cry out into the hand silencing you and you feel the world around you spinning as a pair of teeth sink sharply into your shoulder –

And then, just as you are positive you can’t keep from falling over that edge anymore, the sensations all stop at once. Keevan sits up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand; Weyoun presses a soft kiss to the bruise he’s left on your shoulder, his arms having wrapped themselves around your waist. You close your eyes and pant hard for a moment, legs shaking as you back away from the edge. Far more patient with you than they had been with each other, both Vorta allow you to collect yourself before moving on. Your eyes open to the sight of Keevan, leaning back on the floor now, jerking himself off slowly and staring wantonly back at you. A short chuckle resonates from behind you: “Look at him. So desperate. Can’t you tell how badly he wants you, Y/N?”

Your eyes widen. You hadn’t told Weyoun your first name.

Your thoughts are cut short as the Vorta pushes you firmly off of him, only to turn you by the hips around to face him. Pulling you down, he directs you to your knees, never once breaking eye contact. As you settle and begin to breathlessly undo the Vorta’s slacks - half terribly nervous, half insatiably eager – Keevan sidles up behind you, his grip tight as he pulls your hips upwards and into his own. The movement forces you mostly horizontal, arching your hips up toward him, and your face is now inches from Weyoun’s still-clothed crotch. You find it difficult to concentrate as Keevan grinds into you, and your labored breathing hitches as you slip the Vorta’s cock from his trousers. He shifts beneath your gentle touch, aching, but you are too fascinated at seeing this alien anatomy up close to give him what he wants just yet.

Weyoun’s cock is – while girthier than Keevan’s – still only about the average size of a human’s. It tapers from a thick base into a soft, smooth curve at the tip, which sports a concave indentation leading up to the slit (currently beading with a pearlescent drop of fluid). Ridges much like the ones on Vorta ears decorate either lateral side. Engorged, it shows the slightest hint of veins bulging from beneath the delicate skin, violet blood pulsing visibly. You are fascinated to find at its base a smooth parting of the skin concealing a slit, rather than a pair of testes; perhaps the Vorta were intersex. You suppose it would make sense.

“Are you just going to stare at it?” Weyoun prompts sternly, cocking his head at you as you glance up. The expression on his face does little to soothe your nervousness.

“No sir,” you find yourself murmuring, and with a deep breath, you begin your work.

Bracing yourself on Weyoun’s thighs as Keevan presses the tip of his cock against your slick opening, you take the base in one hand and drag your tongue slowly up the Vorta’s length, savoring the taste – not salty like a human’s skin, but muted and sweet. He groans approvingly as you take the tip into your mouth and stroke at the base, swirling your tongue around the strangely-shaped organ. And just as you slide your lips down the throbbing shaft, Keevan’s cock plunges smoothly inside of you, burying itself completely into your cunt in one smooth motion.

You and Weyoun moan in unison. He slides a fist into your hair and pulls your head up – shoves it back down. Your cheeks burn red hot as Keevan matches the rhythm, sliding almost entirely out of you and pumping back in in time with Weyoun rocking his hips up to meet each bob of your head.

You’re not sure how long you can hold out against this feeling of being absolutely, completely filled. Of being used by the both of them, at both ends.

Keevan has picked up the pace, pounding relentlessly into you – you hear his breathing hitching, feel his grip bruising your hips. Every thrust floods you with ecstasy, with pure, blinding pleasure. Gasping, you fight against Weyoun’s hold to break free from his cock and pant heavily. Your hips slam back into each thrust, and you let out a helpless moan into the Vorta’s thigh; his muscles twitch, and, fearful of what will happen if you abandon him altogether, you wrap your hand more firmly around his member and stroke. Zealously. He relaxes somewhat - and then, as you relocate your other hand to the slit at the base of his cock, he relaxes completely.

You notice the opening is slick with lubricant, and after a moment of teasing, you slide two fingers inside with ease. “Kaa’li…” you hear Weyoun murmuring despite himself, and you glance up to see his head falling back, eyes drifted shut. Stroking in time with the thrusts of your fingers, you work the Vorta into a positive frenzy; he squirms beneath you, arching, grasping the bedsheets, unable to keep composure. It’s enough to distract you from the sensations of the other Vorta fucking you - allowing you to hold out that much longer.

“Ah…” shudders Keevan from behind you, his moans growing louder, more urgent. He slows to a drawn-out, steady rhythm, pumping hard into you, and – trembling – you twitch back against him as he pulses inside of you, filling you with hot, viscous cum.

The immense feeling of satisfaction gives way to a flash of panic as you realize what has just transpired. But when you look up to Weyoun, he’s anticipated your concerns and reaches down to stroke a finger under your chin. Through his breathlessness, he remains articulate.

“No need to panic, my dear,” he assures, and you gasp at the sudden emptiness as Keevan slides out of you, “Vorta are not capable of passing on any genetic material. Nor...” You are whisked up into Weyoun’s lap, and you straddle him, holding tight, “...are we capable of transmitting disease.” He pulls you close with a hand on the small of your back, and the other guides his cock to align it with your waiting entrance. Before you can lower yourself onto it, he paralyzes you with a penetrating stare, holding your gaze fast and purring: “You can fuck me quite guiltlessly.”

You slam your hips into his, unable to wait a single second more. Weyoun gasps, tenses, holds you tighter; you begin a desperate, rapid rhythm, moaning like a Vulcan love slave as his cock fills you over, and over, and over. You quickly reach that fateful edge, the tension in your belly growing, heat filling you, pleasure blinding you – and when Weyoun’s deft fingers slide down to massage your clit, you can contain it no longer.

“Fuck – Weyoun – I...!”

Tensing up around him, you cum hard, wave after wave of euphoria racking your body. A long, low, choked groan tears its way from the Vorta’s throat as he reaches his own orgasm, and he clenches his teeth around a tender spot on your neck to muffle the sound, holding you to him until the ecstasy subsides.

You both pant hard, lying still, even as you feel the warm liquid they deposited beginning to leak out of you and drip down your thighs. You aren’t sure of Keevan’s whereabouts after his exiting the foray, but at the moment you can’t bring yourself to care; you’re too busy trying to catch your breath. After what feels like an eternity, Weyoun’s hand brushes your arm, rousing you.

“I’m afraid our time is nearly through, Lieutenant.”

Fuck. Fuck!

Scrambling up, you search for your clothing. “Computer, how long have the three of us been in this room?”

“It has been thirty-seven minutes, twenty-three seconds since you and Visitor 1B entered this room,” chimes the computer.

You swear under your breath, trying clumsily in your haste to zip up your uniform, when two cold hands swat yours aside and complete the job for you. You turn and meet Keevan’s smug gaze inches from your face. Though still as insufferable as it’s always been, you sense it’s changed somehow, in some small way. Softened.

The Vorta, dressed again, tilts his head as he regards you. The thin smile on his lips spreads into a grin, and that familiar unsettled feeling you get under Keevan’s sinister gaze settles back into the pit of your stomach. “I look forward to our continued working relationship,” he teases, not breaking your gaze as he steps backward into the open cell. Weyoun, having collected himself, rejoins your side. He stands upright and proper, all smiles once more.

“Well. Following this interview, I am now more than satisfied that the Federation is caring for Dominion prisoners to the best of its ability. I hope it will continue to do so.”

He regards you pointedly, and it takes real effort to tear yourself away from his stare and reinitiate the forcefield. Your hand shakes.

When you turn back, Weyoun beams, one arm extended towards the door.

“Shall we?”

In several months’ time, a routine physical will locate the microscopic surveillance device the Vorta implanted stealthily into your shoulder. Starfleet will be very eager to learn how such a device could have been implanted subdermally without your notice, and you will need to come up with excuses, fast. But for now, you simply escort Weyoun back to security, eyes glued to the ground, wondering all too excitedly when he might next visit – and on earth you were going to find an excuse to spend an hour in Keevan’s cell every week.

#WHEW LADS #feedback always welcome #i'm rusty as all hell but this is a good a place as any to get back into writing fanfiction #weyoun #keevan #vorta #ds9 #st: ds9 #st:ds9 #fanfic #fanfiction #pwp #deep space nine #weyoun x reader #keevan x reader

[autumnstwilight]

Rating: T Words: 1,500 Tags: Gen, character study, WoR, angst, blood/injury Summary:  Gentiana encounters a wounded Ignis outside Lestallum. Written for Lost in Wars zine.

It is not her own coldness that fills the night. Not the bright chill of the winter wind nor the crispness of fresh snow underfoot, but the hollow black rot of absence, and so it displeases her. Her footsteps through the roiling dust are like fingertips taking a temperature and finding the body corpse-stiff. The scourge is bitter on her tongue and her breath each moment she spends here.

Here at the still point of the turning world, time has carved away half of the wait appointed. The midnight moon is just past full, and must wane again before the darkest hour. Frost blossoms at her feet, flowers from the dead land.

It has been many years since she first began to live among the humans. At first, she served as a companion and guide for the young Oracle, now she passes her time in the city as another set of hands, stirring the soup pot and tending to the sick, tasks that pass unnoticed, unrecognized. In the hours when the humans sleep, she slips the gates and wanders, surveying what is left of the world. She does not hunt the daemons, but when the Light within her draws their attention, she dispatches them with a freezing gale.

He is not far from the city gates when she finds him, the heat of his blood bright in the frosted dust, and the wheezing of his breath rising like smoke from a candle flame. Life burns within him yet. She has no message to speak, and so she watches. Eventually, he lets out a wet cough, and rolls onto his back.

“All has its hour, but the hour of the Swordsworn is yet to come.” It is, to her, an observation, as one might comment on the weather. The thread of fate on which his life is suspended has not yet reached its end.

“It will take more than that to finish me,” he asserts, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You should know.”

He summons a cane into his hand and prises himself from the ground, leaning on it heavily as he makes his way toward the gates. Draped over one shoulder, he carries a bundle neatly wrapped in cloth, treated with more caution than any part of his own body. She does not assist, but trails behind.

It is always so. She is not permitted to alter the events that have been preordained. The life of the Star rests on the point of a needle, as does the truce between the remaining Gods. Between the wrath of Leviathan and the justice of Ramuh, between Bahamut’s pragmatism and her own compassion. Woe to him who tilts the balance.

And thus, her role is observer and Messenger. Her borrowed body has lingered here, watching the Oracle grow into a dauntless young woman, then facing the destiny asked of her. Gentiana shed tears for her, as promised. It was to cry for Lunafreya that she took this human form.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I once found your following us reassuring.”

“Is it no longer so?” she asks.

Too distant for human senses, the daemons hiss in the wasteland and under the earth that his blood drips over and soaks into. They dare not rise while she is here. She is not permitted to tilt the balance. But every now and then, she places a fingertip beneath the scales.

“Back then, I thought that he had your favor. That you would protect him.”

She tilts her head at this seeming accusation.

“Bearing the blessing of the divine, the King lives yet. The High Messenger watches as he walks the path appointed.”

The man turns away from her, a wordless noise escapes him. When he speaks, his voice is rough and thickened by something other than blood.

“You did not protect the Oracle in Altissia. And when her murderer turned his blade toward the King— there was not a God in sight. What I did may have been reckless, but I never abandoned him. Can you say the same?”

“It is not for the Messenger to interfere with the path set for the King. The Swordsworn understands this now. He too knows what lies ahead, and spoke of it not.”

His head jerks back toward her, outrage on his features, and for a moment, he appears to be searching for words.

“With all due respect, our circumstances are hardly comparable. I did not decide the way of things, merely failed to change them.”

“Every action brings about change,” she tells him. “Such acts of loyalty echo in the halls of eternity.”

“Forgive me, but I’m rather more concerned with the present.” He sniffs, then wipes a trail of blood from his nose. “And I’m not ready to face eternity yet. Nor send anyone else in my stead.”

“The fate of our Star now rests upon the King. Bearing the Light, he will return prepared. Does the Swordsworn intend to oppose him?” She asks this pleasantly, but there is a taste of frost on her tongue. Betrayal displeases her.

“No! I— I will follow him to the gates of hell, if I must. But only after all other roads have been exhausted.”

It should gladden her, but her heart fills with sorrow. She recalls the elder brother standing before her, bearing the crest of his enemies, the same urgency in his voice as he insisted there must be another way, and he would find it, even if he had to tear the world apart. She had smiled sadly then, too.

Humans claimed forever so easily in their vows and poems, like snowflakes that did not know of spring. Yet even if she could freeze them in the moment, she would not. Eternity was not for them.

Long ago, they had turned against her love, driving him from his throne and leading to his downfall. But who betrayed whom? Was it Ifrit who was the first to turn cruel, demand too much, punish too harshly? Her mate, or her beloved humans— she had turned a blind eye to the flaws of both.

And would Ifrit have punished the humans knowing that his actions would lead to the poisoning of the world, threatening the Crystal itself? It seemed impossible, he had been created to defend it. And yet as king, he was as uncompromising and unstoppable as the flow of magma down a mountainside. Perhaps this was what he had willed.

Her unease then, is with the will of the Gods. It pains her most, as she has walked among the humans, come to value even lives that vanish like frost in the morning sun. None of them take joy in this, but she alone comprehends the weight of each loss.

The children of the Crystal, cruel and kind, petty and generous, short-lived and spanning across ages. Her humans. She could not look at them and feel despondent. They gathered and huddled in their settlements like campfires reduced to embers, nestling for a rebirth.

Her companion walks with a furious stride and says nothing more until they arrive at the gates, and she bows to him in preparation to leave. It is then that he turns to her, with the hesitance of a child and asks, simply.

“How long?”

She smiles a little, although he cannot see it.

“Which answer is sought? That he is soon to return, and free the world from its peril? Or that time remains, so that the Swordsworn may prepare, mind and body?”

The expression on his lips is thin and bitter, twisting around the answer he already knows.

“Too long. And not long enough.”

He lets out a sigh that dissolves in the emptiness around them.

“Tell him then. If you can do nothing else for me, then deliver this message. We are waiting. Always.”

He passes through the gates and they close with a clang of metal, something harsh and man-made. The noise displeases her, but no more than the faint howls of what lies in the wastelands. At least the creaks and clattering of mankind speak of hope. Someday they will build towers and ring bells once again.

It is then that she turns away from the city. Her gaze turns to the waning moon, suspended above the Umbral Isle and trickling away like sand in the upper half of an hourglass, cliffs reaching up like spread wings to catch it. Below, the King sleeps, and the land with him. Devoured by darkness deep enough to swallow the Light of the Gods.

But all is not lost. The cycles of the ocean still pulse, sending the sea breeze, the heat of the earth still pushes upward, and the rain still falls to quench its thirst. She senses her kin in the stirring air, refusing to let Eos perish. Within her hand she cups snowflakes, and lets the breeze snatch them from the clifftops, illuminated by the glow of the meteorshards below. For a moment, the endless night has stars.

#ffxv #my fanfic #lost in wars zine #ignis scientia #gentiana ffxv

[wickedgxmes]

nate dubois task #1: character comparisons

“You Climb Up Here With Me, It’s One Less Minute You Haven’t Lived.” - Gilmore Girls

Like Logan, Nate is charming, smart, flirty and witty at a first glance. Both came from money and have a sense of entitlement as they were both ‘groomed’ at a young age for success. They. both grew up looking at a preordained life which shaped their zest for living in the moment and leading a life of reckless fun for as long as they possible can. Both of their mothers were often bottled up with stress and would ignore their fathers maltreatment of them in a poor attempt of maintaining the family image. They also both have a love for literature and the dramatics, often referencing or quoting famous authors or making poetic references. Like Logan, Nate has a low sense of worth which is a result of his parents mistreatment of him. This comes to the fore when he, like Logan, feels vulnerable or threatened. They both like grand romantic gestures and can be kind when they want to be, but they often disregard their own feelings and the feelings of others in an attempt to escape being vulnerable.

Like Kol, Nate can be menacing, unpredictable, dangerous, wicked, cheeky, self absorbed, somewhat unreasonable and cocky to a fault. He can quickly go from being a respectful gentleman to direct and aggressive with a flip of a switch. To certain individuals, Nate will greet them with dignity and charm, whilst with others he might appear to be condescending. Like Kol, Nate patronizes his siblings often, challenging them with snark and a sometimes irreverent sense of humor. Like Kol, Nate enjoys breaking the rules and is naturally very defiant. He is the one out of the three Dubois whom had been feared as a child similar to Kol being described as being the wildest one in the family. But, like Kol, Nate can also come across a a playboy and hedonist at times, taking great pleasure in his supernatural nature. He can even be vindictive like Kol, not hesitating to get retribution on those whom have caused him harm. Both do not easily forgive, though they may pretend to further their goals. They both find child-like enjoyment in acts of violence, sometimes comparing them to games like hide and seek and believing that there is always time for games when they are told to take a situation seriously. Despite, both of their flaws however, they show a true care for their family. They have a sense of honor and will not go back on their word, however they will look for loopholes in the deals they make. Like Kol, they are not hypocrites as they are often honest about their true nature. They also both despite being intelligent and calculating are known to draw unwanted attention to themselves. Although Nate is often more indifferent, less easily angered and playful then Kol can be, both of them possess this peter pan like carefree nature that can be equally alluring and off putting.

“if it isn’t the happy homicidal maniac” - The Vampire Diaries

#c: nate #nate bio #tasks #nate muse #ahqtask1

[frangipanidownunder]

Fox Mulder’s Guide to Building a Pool: part 2

Read Part 1

A/N This is in answer to an anon prompt: Mulder builds a pool in the yard. It ran away from me so I’ll post it in two parts.

This is set post IWTB and assumes Season 10 didn’t happen. Because it shouldn’t have, am I right? Angsty to start with.

Winter

November rushed headlong into house and yard with blizzards and ice storms and squealing winds under the doors. The pool project remained as frozen as the ground but his brain was always planning. Winter was the end of things, yet, even as he scraped freezing condensation from the inside of the windows, he felt a kind of resurgence. Like his bare, unadorned spirit had rested enough to begin anew. It helped that he spoke to Scully often, random phone calls, text messages with links to articles she’d found on cryptid sightings or arcane deaths. Her emoji use was spot on. Aliens and foxes and ghosts and a solitary blue heart.

Christmas Eve and she sent him a message about a sighting of a ‘gargantuan, hirsute humanoid’ in a Florida forest and after reading it with a sense of comforting familiarity and relieved distance, he googled the meaning of the blue heart. Trust, harmony, peace and loyalty. Reading into emojis had to rank right up there on the Fox Mulder Chart of Weirdness but the idea of it, that she had carefully researched this colour and chosen it as the one to close off her messages to him, took root in his own heart and he felt a burst of that same restless energy that had plagued him for months.

He walked to the back door, chancing a look out. A smirry rain fell, leaving the bare branches oily in the low light. Further around, the pool, sunk below the hard, cold earth was a gaping dark mouth, the concrete bearing the marks of months of bad weather. In one corner, debris from the yard had collected, twigs and small stones, plastic wrapping floating in the grimy pool of melted snow that covered the base.

The sound of her voice as she picked up the call pulled a smile to his lips. She sounded pleased to hear from him. Excited almost.

“Hey.” It was an extended version of her usual greeting. A stretching of the word into something more. His heart skipped. “I know you don’t celebrate, but Happy Christmas, Mulder.”

It would have been typical for him to make some flippant remark about stockings or mistletoe but instead, he raked up the trash in the pool as he wished her season’s greetings and listened to her stories of wrapping gifts for the kids at work and the terribly formal staff dinner where the turkey was overcooked and the hasselbacks were rubbery and she left early so she could pull on her pyjamas and robe and watch It’s a Wonderful Life and then, after a breathy pause, added, that it wasn’t the same on her own.

“What’s that noise?” she asked.

He could have said it was the sound of his heart breaking free of his ribcage but he shook his head at himself and took a deep breath. “Would you believe me if I said I was cleaning the pool?” She laughed and he burst right through her green light. “Did you want to come over, Scully?”

She would very much love to, she said, and he held the phone to his chest while he scraped out the detritus against the side wall one-handed. The first flake of snow landed and he looked up to the silver heavens and whispered a thank-you.

Guilt crept in when he saw a parcel in her hand. “I didn’t get you anything, Scully.” He took her coat, the bag of groceries and the gift and she said she’d forgive him and he grinned at her as he rattled the box until she tutted and snatched it back from him.

“I’ll put it under the tree,” she said but the living room was empty of seasonal decor and she looked down at the gift and her feet and he wondered if he could pull out all the boxes in the attic to retrieve the decorations but she shook her head and laughed through her nose. “Don’t worry about it.” She could still read him like a book.

The intensity of the storm took them by surprise, heaping snow against the window sills and the door and Scully’s car until everything was silent-white and glistening. He poured brandy over ice and she sank into the couch next to him wrapped in a blanket and wearing a resigned smile.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I’m not due at mom’s until New Year. I was going to be working but that changed, so I have no plans.” She squeezed his knee and there was a glint in her eye that had him almost believing that she’d engineered the weather, just like that Holman guy from years before, but Dana Scully MD was no lovelorn meteorologist. She was the sender of blue heart emojis, the bringer of turkey steaks and farmer’s market vegetables, she was the best present ever, the three wise men and more.

She was also a little tipsy, he thought, eyeing her reddened cheeks and the way she shucked off her boots to tuck her ankles under her ass. He hadn’t seen her so loose for years. He’d spent too long ignoring her that by the time she left she was coiled like wire rope and just as cool to touch.

“If this storm keeps up maybe we can skate on your pool,” she said and giggled, pressing her fingers under her nose.

“You want to rush me to ER with multiple fractures on Christmas morning, Scully?” He swallowed the liquor.

Her face straightened and she cleared her throat. “It will be strange, won’t it, being here tomorrow? Waking up on Christmas morning together. It’s not something we’ve done for…”

“Three years,” he said and let that settle between them before adding, “but I’m looking forward to it.”

“Because it feels like we’ve moved past…all that?”

All that. All that rage and disappointment. All that bitterness and rancour. All that unsaid. Too much said. “Because it feels fated,” he said. And she pulled a face. “Preordained, inexorable.”

“Destined,” she said, leaning forward. “Portentous?”

He chuckled. “That has a negative connotation, like foreshadowed. It’s more ominous than auspicious.”

“I’m going to have to take back that Thesaurus and buy you something else, Mulder.” She nodded to the present on the table.

“I used to be poor,” he said and she quirked her eyebrow. “Then my partner bought me a thesaurus and now I’m impecunious.”

Her snort was half-laugh, half-surprise. “We’re not…”

“I know.”

The next morning dawned clear and Mulder was already awake. Had hardly slept. Like a child at Christmas, he thought wryly, impatient for his gift. Scully wasn’t for unwrapping though. At this stage, he was lucky she was here to decorate his living room. The brightest star. An angel.

She was dressed in his old anorak he’d used years before to clear the yard when they first moved in. It surrounded her like a canoe, pointed hood above her head and falling to almost her ankles. She was dragging something behind her, leaving a thick trail through the snow. Mulder opened the door and she huffed through, revealing her treasure – a small pine tree, dripping melting snow in grey piles on the floor.

He found a box of decorations behind a wall of old books, dusted them off and climbed back down the ladder. She’d made cocoa and found marshmallows from that Mary Poppins bag of hers. She added a dash of brandy with a hair of the dog wink and they made the tree pretty.

Flipping pancakes, he watched her as she sat in the chair near the window, wrapped now in one of his sweaters, pink-stockinged feet crossed. “If you squint through these blinds, Mulder, and use your imagination, of which you received a wild and overly large share, it looks like there’s a snow monster in the pool.”

“Are you still drunk, Scully?” He bent beside her, close enough to see the dark skin on the mole above her lip.

“I am not, look! There. See it? It’s got shifty eyes and a long nose.”

He rubbed at his own features and she jabbed his hand away.

“It’s there. I swear. Come on, I’ll show you.” She shot up and dragged him outside where the cold shrunk his skin around his bones. The sky threatened to unload again and she shivered despite her layers. He slunk an arm around her shoulders and she swayed into him. “There. Look. See?” Her finger pointed but he couldn’t have seen a thing beyond the fact that she was there, right next to him in the dead of winter, gesticulating to a lump of frozen water.

“At least when Frosty the Snowmonster dies, the pool will be quarter full,” he said, holding open the door for her. She dipped under his arm and it felt like old times.

Spring

Blossom hugged the ends of branches, pom-poms of pink dipping on the breeze. The sun was watery-warm and birdsong amplified the hope of the season. He’d tiled the pool himself, enjoying he exact nature of the work. The water delivery contractor was late but the from his vantage point on the front deck, Mulder couldn’t care less. Just for an hour or so, he could afford to do nothing. He told himself he deserved it. He let his eyes slip shut.

“Can’t a girl get a fanfare any more?” Scully was standing at the foot of the steps, casual in blue jeans and a fitted mint-green tee, her hair was pulled back in a scruffy ponytail that usually signified she was about to get messy.

He made trumpet noises and she bowed when she reached the deck. From her tote she took out a bag of pastries. He liked this version of Scully. He liked her very much. This soft, coquettish variety gave him hope like the spring and made him feel lighter.

“I’ll make coffee,” he said and ushered her through with a theatrical wave.

The truck arrived two hours late but that was two hours passed with Scully who spent her time asking questions about the pump and the pool fence requirements and whether he was going to plant a garden and how much she loved the mosaic tile design on the bottom and whether he’d considered a shade sail. She wrinkled her nose and her freckles danced. He had a vision of her sunburnt and cranky.

“I’ll order one before the heat hits,” he said, solemnly.

“Don’t do it just for me,” she said, over the din of the hose being unravelled from the truck.

As though he would do anything for anyone else. He’d spent much of the time since the Father Joe case doing things only for himself. He couldn’t see it then, but his focus had narrowed beyond the scope of voiceless victims, beyond the purview of his domestic responsibilities and from his refreshed perspective, he could see now how Scully had been cut out of his orbit.

“Did you imagine this when we first moved in here?”

“You designing and constructing a pool, sundeck and safety fence? Mulder, when we first moved here you couldn’t have built a house of cards. Remember when the screen door fell off the hinges and you tried to fix it but ended up breaking the drill. You were so angry, a wounded animal fighting off any help. I thought…” she covered her eyes with her hand to watch the water running over the bottom of the pool, steadily rising, filling the void. “I should have left sooner. Maybe you would have rediscovered this…this spirit of yours earlier.”

“You think your leaving prompted me to do all this?”

“Didn’t it?”

“It took more than three years of you not…”

She sucked in a breath and it dawned on him that she was still hurting too. Would it ever stop? Or was the pain destined to be a constant companion to remind them of their failings? Was building a pool really just a diversion from the agony of Scully being gone? Was her position at the hospital just her version of a building project? She was building herself a better life and he was building a pool.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for his hand and squeezing gently. “For not trying harder.”

The drone of the truck’s motor stuttered to a halt and he looked down at her. She was gazing at the water as it slapped at the sides, settling. “You have nothing to apologise for, Scully. I closed off, shut down, kept you out and then got mad at you when you made a new life.”

“We were both pretty closed off, Mulder. Talking for hours but never saying enough. Remember how we used to spend days on the road and never have to say a thing. We could go for miles in silence. It didn’t bother us then, so when did that change?”

“I think the truth of it is that we were both just talking at each other, trying to get our voices heard, but we didn’t care to listen for fear of actually hearing.”

She raised those brows of hers and smiled. “That’s very deep and heartfelt.”

The truck reversed and he looked down at the water and the moving outline of the blue love heart he’d tiled at the bottom of the pool. “Just like my pool.”

The first time she came over for a swim, she presented him with a new beach towel. It had a fox face on it and she was so proud of herself. She let him splash her and she bombed him and he didn’t want her to leave but he watched her drive away and sat on the verandah for hours after the sun went down.

She phoned to say she was coming over again and that gave him an idea. After all, he owed her two gifts now. So he went online and shopped.

Taking the parcel, she dipped her head in gratitude. “This better not be a beach towel with Big Blue on it, Mulder, or I swear to God…” She ripped the package open scattering paper everywhere. She held it up. It was a one-piece swimsuit the colour of those Caribbean island beaches, azure, the colour of her eyes. She pulled a face, whispering a wow and telling him he shouldn’t have because people might talk.

“Let them talk,” he called out, as she slipped into the house to change. “What else could they say about us that we haven’t heard already, Mrs Spooky.”

When she returned, she was wearing the bathing suit and a knee-length cream sarong. She pulled a wide-brimmed hat out of her bag and went to put it on but he stopped her.

“Just one more thing,” he said, finding the smaller parcel. “This is a very late birthday or really early Christmas present. Take your pick.”

“Another gift? You already got me this suit and I’m wondering if I should really spend the afternoon with a man who buys lingerie for a single woman…”

“It’s lingerie?” His voice was high-pitched because he was genuinely curious and a little sorry about her use of the word single which seemed unnecessary but she grinned wickedly and he breathed out in relief. “Damn. If I’d have known that I would have bought that red lace number…”

“Don’t push your luck, Mulder.”

The small gift was wrapped in silver frosted paper decorated with a gold bow. She opened this one with much more care and when she lifted the lid and saw the silver chain with the blue topaz heart pendant, her eyes filled with tears. “It’s beautiful, Mulder. You shouldn’t have. It’s too much.”

“Trust, harmony, peace and loyalty. Blue hearts. That’s what they mean.”

“Uh-huh.” She turned and he clipped the necklace under the hair. “You’re reading a lot into an emoji.” Was he? Maybe. Did he care? Not much. She turned to face him, stood on tiptoe and kissed him, softly, gently, with love. “But you’ve always looked beyond the obvious. And that’s why I love you.”

Love. Not loved. He took her hand and walked her to the edge. “Ready?”

She didn’t answer but tugged at his wrist and pulled him forward so they both plunged into the deep blue, going down and down.

#txf fanfic #my fanfiction #fictober #msr angst and love #fox mulder's guide to building a pool

[roominthecastle]

There has been this thing in recent years -- and it's not new, I'd say the last 5 to 7 years -- where the value of a story is related directly to whether or not the audience can anticipate what the ending is gonna be. In other words, the 'twist' has become the gold standard: 'If I didn't see it coming, that's what makes it a great story. You got me!' And I feel like that's kinda... cheap. I feel like it has to be character-based. The characters have to be real first and I almost forgive a plot that is not so clever if the characters are strong and real. I think characters that serve the plot are less interesting than characters that motivate plot. If you have a full character that's real and you put something in front of them, in a way they begin to write the story because you know how they're gonna react to whatever you put in front of them because now they are these dimensional characters as opposed to 'let's have this happen and let's have this happen and we'll just make sure they do these things that I've preordained'. I think that's what creates a feeling of artifice or you-have-seen-it-all-before or boring. If you create real characters, then whatever happens as a result of those characters interacting is bound to be more interesting than something that's just been constructed. [...] I think there's a lot of writing that's just like 'It would be cool if this happened and let's have this happen, that would be cool, too.' And you have this pile-up of cool shit but it doesn't have any resonance because it's not based in any kind of reality or consistency. It's almost this... negligence? Not even negligence, it's apathy. 'Who cares whether it's consistent. Who cares whether it makes sense as long as it's cool.' I think the coolest movies that have the coolest shit are still weighted or rooted in some sort of reality that the writer has believed and has maintained as opposed to just a sort of assembly of things that just happened to be exciting but don't really trace back to something or make sense for the character. [...] If the character is built, then they will dictate to you in a way what will happen.

Jack Perez | x

#jack perez #quote #writing #screenwriting #q

[kombellarke]

Chapters: 33/33 Fandom: The 100 (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin Characters: Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake, Madi (The 100), Abby Griffin, and the rest of the gang Additional Tags: Fix-It of Sorts, Bellarke are parents, Family Fluff, I wish this was season six, Rehabilitating Raven, Saving people is what Echo does, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Headcanon is the best kind of canon Summary:

Diverges from canon at the end of S5. Clarke and Bellamy are struggling to forgive and forget. And then Abby learns something that might force them to do just that. Angst, family fluff, time travel (ish), and a good slice of preordained relationship. Rating will be earned in later chapters.

#bellarke fic rec #bellarke fanfiction #the 100 #bellarke #so i'm starting a fic rec #10/10 angst #and smut #highly recommend