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sergeantsporks · 3 years

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Here’s to Friendships That Were Never Real

Teen

Gen

Most of the Guardians enjoy having their memories back Douxie rather wishes he didn't have to remember the worst 18 hours of his life, and all the different kinds of betrayal he endured.

Ao3

When the memories returned, everyone was happy.

Everyone remembered what heroes they were.

They remembered Toby’s sacrifice, Jim’s choice.

They remembered valiant deeds, a harsh battle, a tough time.

They remembered pain, but more importantly, they remembered the victory.

That wasn’t how Douxie remembered it.

Douxie remembered pain and torture. Douxie remembered heartache, and loss. Douxie remembered fear.

But most of all, Douxie remembered betrayal.

Douxie remembered being locked up by the order, expecting his friends to come save him.

Only for them to never arrive.

And of course, that was the practical option. The safe option. That was, of course, the right choice. One wizard for the fate of the world? It was hardly worth it. One life, stacked up against all other lives? Laughable. But still…

Douxie had risked the fate of the world to save them.

Douxie had died to save them.

Apparently, they hadn’t thought he was worth the effort to reciprocate.

And then when he was back?

Was it really any better?

Did anyone even care, did anyone even notice that he’d been hurt? They hadn’t asked if he was okay. Just where Nari was, what Nari had said while she was in his body. Did they even care what had happened to him? No. Sure. World in danger. Find out where Nari was. That was… that was fair, that was logical. It was more important than how he felt.

It still hurt.

Maybe if they’d pulled the knives out of his back, they would have had enough weapons to defeat the order.

Friends never arriving.

Friends leaving.

Charlemagne was Archie’s father. Of course he wouldn’t want to leave him. Of course—Charlemagne was Archie’s family. Of course he’d choose to stay with him.

It was just that Douxie had thought he was family, too.

But apparently not.

He remembered falling from the sky, again, and there was no one to help him. He’d had to save himself. Do it alone.

Alone.

Apparently that was what he was.

He’d thought, maybe, that these people cared about him. He cared about them, he cared so much, he thought his heart might burst. Maybe he’d been projecting his own love back. Maybe he’d thought they cared because he cared. Maybe he’d been reading the situation wrong the whole time.

And now? Now they were all laughing, all hugging, and glad to get their memories back.

Glad that things were back to the way they were.

Douxie slipped away, wandering through the streets of Arcadia. They hadn’t noticed when he was hurting then, and they didn’t notice now.

There had been one person who’d put Douxie above the greater good.

One person who had valued Douxie above his own life.

Maybe the one thing this time travel had fixed.

If the erased events had taught Douxie anything, it was that there was apparently only one person he could trust.

One person who had cared enough about him to make an effort.

Douxie stopped in front of a bookstore, his hands shaking as he opened the lock with magic, like he had a hundred times before. He held his breath as he walked in.

Empty.

Dark.

Abandoned.

What had he been expecting? Douxie’s shoulders sank, and he felt tears start to well up in the corners of his eyes.

“Hisirdoux?”

Douxie whirled around to see him standing there, in all of his armored glory, as grouchy and old as when Douxie had last seen him.

“What are you doing here? I should think you’d be celebrating the return of your memories, as all of your frie—”

Merlin broke off as Douxie stumbled into him, sobbing. The master wizard put one hand on his head, letting him cry into an uncomfortable, metal shoulder. “Oh, Hisirdoux. What has happened to you?”

“I d-don’t want to see them,” he choked, “I thought—but then—and even Archie—I don’t…”

His emotions were a jumbled mess. He wanted to see them—but he didn’t. He loved them, and he hated himself for loving them, hated himself for caring so much about people who didn’t care back, and if he could just stop caring, it would be okay, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop caring, and caring while knowing that they didn’t care made it so much worse.

“Then you don’t have to. I do not know what happened in the time after my demise, but if you wish to stay here with me, you are welcome. Master wizard.”

Merlin waved a hand, and the door to the back sprang open. The cot Douxie had left there was replaced by a bed, and warm lights flickered on.

Douxie shuffled inside. “And—if the others come—”

“If you do not wish to see them, I will not let them in. You have my word.”

Douxie collapsed on the bed, more tired than he thought he’d be. Merlin quietly shut the door, and Douxie flopped backwards, one arm over his eyes. He’d have to face them eventually.

But not tonight.

Xxx

Claire slammed a fist on Merlin’s door. Archie hadn’t wanted to come with—she wasn’t sure why, but the familiar had looked awfully dodgy and guilty about it. “Hey! Open up!”

The door opened just a crack. “Why hello, Miss Nunez. I trust you have a reasonable explanation for why you’re attempting to break down my door at his hour?”

“Where’s Douxie?!”

“Oh, finally noticed he’s missing, have you? He doesn’t want to see you.”

“Doesn’t want to—” Claire sputtered, “Liar! We’re his friends, and we know you have him! Let us see him!”

“As I said, he does not wish to see you. Good day.”

Merlin closed the door.

Claire kicked it down. “What are you doing to him?”

Merlin thumped his staff on the ground. “As of a few moments ago, I believe I was allowing him to sleep in. Perhaps you’ve missed your recommended eight hours, and that is why you seem a touch unreasonable.”

Jim put a hand on Claire’s shoulder. “We’re just… worried about him is all. He left last night, and we haven’t seen him since.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for you to worried about him now. As I said, Hisirdoux does not wish to see you. Kindly exit my shop before I am forced to take action.”

Claire heard a slight creak, and she peered around Merlin to see a door to the back open just a crack, a pair of golden eyes peering out of it.

“Douxie!”

The wizard shuffled out into the open, looking like he’d gotten caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. “Oh. Hey.”

Something about him was off, something about the way he wouldn’t look Claire in the eye. “We… just wanted to check on you. Make sure you were okay.”

He still wouldn’t look at her. “Yeah. I’m fine. You can go.”

Claire hesitated. “Douxie, are you… are you sure? Merlin said—”

“Merlin was right,” Douxie said in a small voice, keeping his master in-between himself and Claire, “I don’t want to see you. Please go.”

Suspicion swept over Claire, and she turned to Merlin. “What are you doing to him? Some kind of control?!”

“I assure you, Lady Claire, I am doing nothing of the sort. Hisirdoux simply does not want to see you. Neither do I, really, so if you would kindly walk out of that door—”

“Liar!” A knife of shadows materialized in Claire’s hand, and she leveled it at Merlin. “Let him go!”

Merlin’s eyes flashed, and his staff started to glow. “Careful, Miss Nunez. You may have learned shadow magic, but I still have centuries of experience on you.”

“We’ll see.”

“Stop!”

Claire and Merlin both stopped glaring at each other to turn to see who’d spoken. Jim shook his head. “Both of you. Quit fighting. Claire, if Douxie says he doesn’t want to see us…”

Claire turned back to Douxie. “But why?” she pleaded, “What’s wrong, Douxie? Did we do something?”

Douxie’s eyes flashed blue, and he slammed his fist down on the table. “What’s wrong?! What’s wrong is that you left me with the order. What’s wrong is that even when they were torturing me, you didn’t come for me. What’s wrong is that you didn’t care about what I went through!”

His eyes were completely blue, and small items were starting to float. Claire took a step back. “…Douxie? I… I’m sorry, we didn’t know—”

Douxie collapsed to his knees with a pulse of blue magic shooting out. It didn’t do much—just gave Claire a headache. “BUT YOU DIDN’T BOTHER FINDING OUT, DID YOU?!”

Glowing blue tears ran down his cheeks.

“You just… didn’t care enough, I guess.”

The maelstrom of blue magic surrounding Douxie was getting wilder and wilder, items swirling around like a tornado.

“You left me.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” Merlin muttered as the magic started to spread further and further out from Douxie. “Hisirdoux, wait—”

“Douxie, we’re sorry,” Jim tried.

Another blast of magic shot out of their friend, and this one threw everyone back, including Merlin. “SORRY ISN’T GOOD ENOUGH,” he howled.

The world turned a blinding flash of blue, and when Claire blinked the spots out of her eyes, Douxie was gone.

Xxx

Douxie curled into a ball, in the alley next to Benoit’s. His magic was still fluctuating wildly, making things in the alleyway fly around or light on fire at random.

Sorry isn’t good enough.

How was someone supposed to make up for stabbing you in the back?

How did you just say “sorry” for the way you abandoned someone like that fixed everything?

How could you just FORGIVE someone for not caring enough, for staying willfully ignorant of what you’d gone through?

Because he wanted to forgive them.

But he wanted to stay mad.

He wanted them close again.

But he wanted them to stay away.

He loved them.

He hated them.

He needed them.

He shouldn’t need them.

They’d abandoned him.

They were sorry.

But were they really, actually sorry? Did they actually care, or was he just another item on a checklist—restore memories, check on Douxie, feed the cat.

Something jumped down into the alleyway next to him.

“I know I’m probably the last person you wanted to see,” Archie’s voice said.

Douxie looked up to see his familiar awkwardly pawing at the ground. He turned away.

“You don’t have to forgive me for what I did. I left you. I should have been by your side, I should have been the one to stick with you through thick and thin. And I didn’t.”

Douxie didn’t respond. A glass bottle exploded.

“It was just… when I saw my dad, about to be trapped in the Troll Market, I panicked. I thought “this is it, if I don’t do something now, I’ll lose him forever.” And I made a choice. A bad one. And then in the next hour until Jim reset time… I regretted that choice, Douxie. I spent every second after wishing I was with you instead. That I’d flown out. I would have missed my dad. But in that hour, I found that I would miss you more.” Archie sighed. “I know you’re angry. And you should be. And I don’t deserve your forgiveness—none of us deserve your forgiveness. I made a bad choice, and I… I hurt you. And I can’t fix that. I can’t erase what happened—well, I supposed Jim technically did, but you see my point. I just wanted to let you know that… leaving you was the worst decision of my life. And if you never want to see me again… then that’s what I deserve. I chose to never see you again, and it’s only fair if you want to return the favor. I’m sorry, Douxie.”

Archie turned to go, and for the first time, Douxie reached out and picked him up, hugging him. His familiar tensed, unused to Douxie initiating the contact, but then rubbed against his chest. “I’m sorry, Douxie. I’m so, so, sorry.”

Douxie wiped at his eyes. His magic had finally settled down. “It’s okay.”

“No. It’s not okay what I did. But… I’d be honored if you’d let me stay with you anyway.”

“Always.” Douxie scratched behind Archie’s ears. “But I… I can’t stay here. I need time. To process. And… I can’t keep seeing them. I just… I can’t.”

Archie purred. “The world is much bigger than Arcadia Oaks. We can go anywhere you like, Douxie, you pick where.”

Douxie wrinkled his nose. “Just promise me one thing?”

“Name it.”

“We’re not traveling on any trains.”

#rott #rott spoilers #hi yes i am still angry about how douxie got treated #my writing #claire nuñez #jim lake jr #screw forgiveness let people be angry #toa #douxie #tales of arcadia #toa fanfiction

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itsnothingofinterest · 3 years

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So with the end supposedly approaching (relatively speaking), people have started giving some thought as to who the final threat is really going to be; Tomura Shigaraki or All For One. It’ll definitely be one of them, they’re the strongest and most established villains by a mile; but both have their own reasons for people to think they’ll be the “final boss” of the series. And far be it from me to keep my opinion to myself; I really think it’s going to be Tomura.

I’m not sure if that’s some level of controversial among the fans hoping for Shigaraki’s redemption, as I do believe the alternative’s gotten a lot of traction lately. Because understand that I’m still expecting his redemption too, and don’t expect his hypothetical final boss status to really prevent that. (Practically nothing can, it’s as much a guaranteed outcome at this point as Deku getting his sixth bonus quirk.) Realistically, the only difference would be if he & Deku then team up to fight the evil potato head, or to...just start fixing stuff I guess.

On that note, the eventual redemption is actually one of the reasons I think he’s the better choice. Almost every point of comparison between the two villain I can think of makes Tomura seem like the better choice, actually...with maybe one or two exceptions. So I wanted to go over all those points of comparison & everything they’ve got going for them as endgame villains and why the comperrisons overall seem to favour Tomura as the final boss.

1. Someone who was defeated to the power of just one man

For one, just looking at pure power levels, AFO’s just not as threatening as Tomura; and there’s not really a way to bridge that gap.

Like, Tomura’s obviously more of a threat personally; he’s got the stronger body that was scientifically enhanced, and only he has Decay on top of the AFO quirk and the collection that came with it. It is just a fact that right now, Tomura is far more powerful. And before anyone thinks that AFO could become an equal threat by just taking over & fighting in his body; that’s not true because, along with just more combat experience that doesn’t rely on an arsenal of quirks, Tomura also has that Shimura trick where you remember your origin and become super bad ass. You know, the trick that All Might used to beat AFO in Kamino. In other words, the most dangerous individual in the series right now is the AFO!Tomura body with specifically Tomura in control.

And as long as the slight edge in mentality in Tomura’s favour exists, there’s not really a way to bridge that gap and have AFO take Tomura’s place as the biggest potential threat. Restore or enhance AFO’s original body? That’s just catching it up with AFO in Tomura’s body, which is still behind Tomura in Tomura’s body. Have AFO boost Tomura’s body with him in control? It would still be better with Tomura in control. There’s no scenario where Tomura isn’t the most powerful character in BNHA.

(Well, except maybe AFO weakening him by, say, stripping him of his quirks; but if he has to make things easier for the heroes to become the most powerful, I think that kind of proves my point anyway.)

But one person can only be so dangerous, so lets talk followers. Tomura has a close knit group of friends & allies on top of a vast army super loyal to him specifically that reaches a six digit figure, and AFO...just doesn’t. And I’ll get back to this later; but I don’t think he wants one either. He sticks to just a handful of people useful to him and what’s left of his Nomu. And while maybe that is the better way for him to accomplish his own personal goals, it’s simply not as threatening as the force which Hawks thought could’ve conquered the country if the heroes hadn’t struck first.

Tomura is a country ending threat, who in the right circumstances could fight literally all of the heroes with a chance of winning, and AFO simply isn’t.

2. His own little world

And to return to what I was talking about earlier, I’m not sure he really cares to be either. Like, people say he wants to conquer everything, and I imagine he’d think regaining lots of money & power would be great down the line; but evidence seems to suggest he doesn’t really care much for the country as a whole or any of the major themes being discussed by the actual main characters at the moment.

I mean if he did, he’d probably have rescued the PLF, that army capable of competing with all of hero society. And he probably wouldn’t have told ~10,000 dangerous and powerful villains indebted to him for their freedom to just run amok while he keeps contact with only the ones useful for his personal goals. And he definitively wouldn’t be laying low & sleeping through his enemies lowest moment & giving them a month to recover, also in service to those personal goals. That activity seems to imply those personal goals matter a whole lot more to him than societal conquest.

And what are those goals? Seemingly, taking over Tomura’s body so he can finally steal One For All. To what end, we’re not 100% sure of, but I believe it’s either a) a weird pride thing where he finally has control over his brother who’s rebelled against him for decades upon decades or b) an attempt at immortality as a sentient & transferable body-controlling quirk. Either way it’s some selfish personal thing he just gets others wrapped up in.

He’s incredibly disconnected from the greater themes and conflicts of the story. He seems to have no opinions on heroics besides how people are stupid for attempting them, and no opinion on society besides that it just naturally sucks. He’s mainly just a nuisance for the actual main characters. This self-important old man stuck in his own little world is supposed to be Deku’s final opponent?

Oh, and on that note-

3. Deku who?

We’re also talking about who’s going to be the final obstacle for Deku to face; and the problem with the being AFO is that...they don’t really have much to bounce off of with each other. You might be able to argue slight foil-ment, but they don’t really know each other, nor do they have any kind of connection to each other besides Deku having OFA so he’s AFO’s enemy by default.

(In fact their latest & 2nd convo, which came out as I was drafting this post out, kind of proves that with how AFO basically just shallowly made fun of him for trying to be a hero. That’s basically the extent of their antagonism.)

In fact, I’m like 80% sure this is a major reason for the Dad For One theory existing; just to give them some connection, something to talk about. Because otherwise AFO is just an evil guy known by people Deku knows/wants to save. He’s basically just another, more dangerous Overhaul; who Deku's already fought. And to AFO, Deku’s just another OFA holder acting all high & mighty; which we also already saw him face in the Kamino fight. So what little they do offer each other has already been done for both of them. And there’s nothing wrong with that for carrying a fight, I just wonder if that can really carry the final fight.

Compare that to Shigaraki, who foils Deku in ways so numerous & obvious it’s almost hard to talk about, such as: their position as successors, strategic thinkers, very similar origins, very similar core characters, team players, red shoes, they looked really similar as kids...just to name a few parallels. Contrasting AFO, there is a lot to work with here that would contributed to a good fight that’d double as a battle of ideologies. And admittedly, we know this because it already has, this is also something we’ve seen before; but there’s a lot more unexplored with their conflict, a lot left unsaid that we could see from them arguing their viewpoints. A lot more than from Deku & AFO anyway.

I mean for Pete’s sake; All Might & Shigaraki have more in common and more to talk about than Deku & AFO. That’s a major problem if those two are meant to carry the final battle; which is why I don’t think they are.

4. Just punch him

There’s also the fact that AFO doesn’t really challenge Deku in any real way; and I’m not just talking about how All Might solo-ing him (twice) should logically mean endgame Deku should also be able to solo him. I’m more talking about how...that’s kind of all he’d need to do. If you can just beat AFO up enough then...that’s it, threat over. Wrapped up in a neat little bow.

To compare, Shigaraki is the greatest threat the heroes have ever faced, the victim most in need of saving, and to top it off, he’s got the gall to be both of those things at once. What’s a hero supposed to do with that? That’s a serious question characters are going to have to think about when deciding how to deal with Shigaraki. His position is that of, not just the greatest challenge, but a set of the greatest challenges a hero could face. And that’s before you get into his side representing those oppressed by serious systemic issues that need to be addressed as well; quite possibly simultaneously.

No one needs to address systemic corruption or prejudice to beat AFO though. They just need to punch him real hard. The biggest challenge AFO presents the heroes is “how do we make sure this guy stops being a problem for good when neither our most secure prison, nor removing his head, did the job?”

(Personally, my answer is to have Tomura do it. Because unlike Deku, Tomura actually does have a proper antagonistic relationship with AFO, so he has reason to be the one to end him besides just being the protagonist. Plus he’s under no obligation not to kill, so there’s that.)

And like yeah, that does make AFO the easier guy to deal with, and thus write an ending around (to say nothing of how he's also the most satisfying person to see punched in the face); but does that really mean Horikoshi would want to use him instead of the more interesting option of Tomura? I mean I guess we can’t be sure, there is merit in writing the easy resolution; but I’d prefer the complex finale if I were in his shoes.

5. Horikoshi’s favourite

And lastly there’s just the issue of which of the two Horikoshi’s put more work into. Spoiler alert: it’s not the guy that spent like 200 chapters in jail being menacing every one in a while.

Tomura is by far the more developed between the two, having constantly evolved over the course of the series. And more than just as a character, as described above he’s been developed as the more threatening and challenging conflict for Deku while also reflecting him in a lot of important ways. We’ve seen the growth of his power & influence, we’ve gotten to know & understand his motives, we’ve seen how he’s been failed by heroes before. Everything about him has built him up as the ultimate villain, the most desperate victim, and overall greatest challenge for Deku and the story as a whole to face.

And AFO is...nearly one of those things. Which is pretty much what he was from his first appearance. He has not developed at all over the series, and from what we can tell from his flashbacks, he hasn’t developed at all over the past ~200 years either. (I’m half tempted to call him more inciting incident then character.) What we have with AFO, as far as a character and a villain goes, is pretty much what we’re getting until he’s done. And, well; if Tomura is a better villain & a better pick for final boss than he was then, that gap’s just going to keep growing.

Like, I doubt it really needs stating how Shigaraki is probably the character Horikoshi has put the most work into in the entire series. And a lot of that work, a lot of his development, has gone to the idea of him surpassing AFO or being a villain foil to Deku, who himself is mean to surpass All Might. For his roll to be usurped by the guy he’s meant to surpass just feels like it’s going against that. Like, it’d feel almost as wrong for his character and the story around him than it would for Deku is All Might got his powers back and took over for him as main protagonist. It just doesn’t feel right for Tomura not to be the final villain, is what I’m getting at.

6. ...One saving grace

Okay, but I will admit one thing AFO has going for him that I would be remiss not to bring up. Besides being the most hated character in a series that also has Endeavor in it, I mean. He’s got this one trait that makes him an effective antagonist to anyone in the series; his complete disregard to pretty much every major theme in the series.

I mean think about it; the major themes of Shigaraki’s circle all revolve around trying to fix the society that rejected them; but AFO believes Society just naturally sucks that way as part of human nature, so their cause is doomed. And the heroes’ major themes all revolve around how to become/what it means to be a hero; but AFO believes trying to do good in that society can’t really be done & also it’s ridiculous to believe comic books are real, so their cause is also doomed and they look stupid doing it. So despite not really interacting with anyone’s core conflict or goals in favour of wrapping them up in his own, he still manages a one-sided ideological opposition with nearly every major player in the series; and that’s not nothing.

But, and I completely understand that this is just a matter of opinion, that kind of just leaves him feeling to me like a good antagonist, not a good final antagonist. I’d still prefer it be Tomura even from this perspective, because he’s able to oppose the ideologies of his opponents on purpose & with proper ideologies of his own.

To summarize:

Shigaraki feels the better choice for final boss because he’s more threatening, more interesting, both as a person and as an opponent for Deku specifically, he’s far more directly tied into the themes of the story and their resolution, & he’s had far more set up. AFO is more hated, and his callous disregard for everything everyone else holds important is something I guess, but that’s pretty much all he’s got going for him in compression. I don’t know about you, but I know who I think would carry the conclusion to the series better.

But I also know this isn’t the most popular take among my villain fan colleagues right now. So if anyone disagrees, I welcome any civil discussion about these two & their viability as final boss.

#bnha #bnha manga spoilers #all for one #shigaraki tomura #midoriya izuku #league of villains #lov #paranormal liberation front #PLF #all might #my stupid long term predictions

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bastillia · 4 years

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Innocuous (NSFW)

Read on Ao3

Summary: You’re a medical officer aboard the Steadfast, and you’ve found yourself caring for a gravely injured Kylo Ren. He seems to require some unconventional treatment.

Rating: Extremely Explicit

Words: 7.5k

Content warnings: Somewhat graphic depictions of injury, wound/bloodplay, burnplay, oral bloodplay, oral sex (f recieving), orgasm denial/delay, choking, inappropriate use of the Force (and of a medical device oops), rough sex, extremely minimal aftercare, Kylo Ren is a nasty fucking boy, LISTEN this gets a lil dark ok, so just please consider before clicking ok tysm

A/N: I scrapped and restarted this whole thing at least twice, but we finally got there my friends. Is this over the top? Maybe. Do I have a single regret? No. Please heed the content warnings, you may have a bad day if you don’t. This is pure unadulterated filth. Enjoy!

Strips of fluorescent light ribbed the vacant hall, white beams streaking reflections across the glossy black floor like a frozen lane of hyperspace as the urgent click of your boots perturbed the calm. The corridors of the Steadfast were all but barren this time of cycle, only disturbed by the occasional patrol of noc shift troopers trudging mechanically in unison. Devoid of the usual bustle of footsteps and orders, the static hum from the ship’s walls washed the air with a bassy din of ambient noise that might be calming, were your heartbeat not adding an anxious percussion to the silence.

You really had no reason to be awake, you should have taken your sleeping aid hours ago, but the endless scroll of patient files on your datapad had kept you up just long enough to see the alarm flash. Hardly a momentary blip, but the peculiarity of it was what propelled you from your quarters and heated your step with urgency now. Medical Bay: Intake - Officer’s Ward, it had flashed, and then disappeared just as quickly.

Tapping the access pad that led to the sequestered corridor, you waited for the door to slide open and slipped through. Needles crawled up your spine as your gaze shifted around the familiar yet eerily still hallway, which was making you nervous now for absolutely no reason. Each private room should be empty, you knew you hadn’t checked any officers in for overnight care, and you could recite your inpatient registry as if it were etched into the backs of your eyelids. Droids didn’t typically throw faulty alarms -- maybe your eyes had simply deceived you after a long and fucking exhausting day of post-mission damage control in the med bay. Echoes of that exhaustion now placed a terror within each shadowed room that you passed, something that your brain was convinced would surely jump out at you.

You stopped dead as you reached the final door, half-hoping this one was your imagination. He was still. Too still. Limbs sprawling over the edges of the cot, with haphazard bandages crossing his bare torso aimlessly. They were visibly soaked through with blood, contrasting the blanched sheen of sweat-drenched skin, a black mop of hair askew over the pillow.

A violent spike of dread lanced down your spine. You darted into the room, your medical instincts hot-starting and roaring in your eardrums as you alighted upon him with gentle precision. Two fingers flashed to the pulse point at his neck, depressing the slick, hot skin there as your frantic eyes fell to the broad rise of his chest. Pulse. Breathing. Both too shallow and fast, but present, thank the stars.

You released the held breath that was starting to burn your lungs. The alarm. What had sent it? You glanced around. Monitor wires lay scattered over the floor around the metal feet of the bed, not a single one connected. A fizzling noise behind you nearly snapped your neck as you whipped around. A nurse droid lay lifeless, crumpled and sparking against the far wall.

Oh.

You turned slowly back to the unconscious Supreme Leader, fear trickling coldly down your veins in a moment of consideration. He’d wanted to be alone.

Your mind suddenly supplied you with an image of yourself in place of the droid, bones crunched like scrap metal against the wall, eyes glazed, life flickering and dying in the fried wires of your veins. How easy it would be -- effortless, even -- For him to crush the life out of you with little more than a flick of his wrist. How… maybe that knowledge made you tingle, just a little.

You derailed that train of thought with a sharp shake of your head as your eyes flicked across his battered torso and up the column of his neck, settling on the tranquility of his face. Bruised and bloody as it was, he looked… peaceful. Freckles and moles dusting his skin like starry kisses to soothe the ache of battle. His features, always chiseled from the sternest isoform of marble, now softened in sleep. Suspended in a paradoxical state of youthful serenity even as his body worked in overdrive just to tether him to life. He was… just a man. And he was absolutely beautiful.

Maybe you stared at him, just a little longer than you should, before committing to your courage and snatching an antiseptic cloth. If one of you was going to die, at least you were the more replaceable option. And this was what you’d signed up for, wasn’t it? To serve the First Order, even perhaps at the expense of your life. For… the greater good, or something. Yeah. Higher purpose and all that. You were a good medic, and good medics were selfless. It definitely wasn’t because you, perhaps, didn’t mind entertaining the thought of those large hands around your neck, squeezing...

Fucking focus.

Expertly, delicately, you began to peel back the blood-soaked evidence of his attempt to self-bandage, baring the flesh of his torso. Stars, he was magnificent. Glistening skin lay taut over lean muscle, a finely-tuned war machine sculpted by years of hard training, evident even in the depths of sleep. The subtle ripple of his muscles expanding and contracting with each breath spread that insistent tingle through your lower belly as you meticulously swiped the blood and sweat from his body.

Your hands danced to the pace of your heartbeat. Quick and steady, as you tossed the cloth and fitted a needle onto a syringe tip. A light pinch of his skin here, so that he wouldn't feel the prick of the shot there. Pure habit, not that a small needle stick would hold a candle to his injuries in terms of pain. But you didn’t really want him waking up just yet. You pushed the plunger down to administer a microdose of bacta. Just enough to hotwire the healing process, without dulling sensation.

You'd mused privately to yourself on more than one occasion, that you thought he liked to feel the pain. Whether it was a show of control, or an exercise in self-punishment, you couldn’t say. But you'd learned early on, working here, never to bring a pain suppressant around the former Commander.

Maybe no one else had ever picked up on that, because it seemed you were the only person he ever allowed near him with a bandage. You didn't mind. Nor did you mind the way his eyes always followed you quietly as you worked, as you'd gently cleanse his wounds from the battles and conquests that he fearlessly led as the new Supreme Leader of the First Order. You certainly liked him better than the last one. You thought maybe Ren even liked the way your fingers would subtly worship his figure with every quiet and efficient pass of gauze. Maybe he knew where those fingers ended up later. Sick bastard. A smirk tugged the corner of your lip.

His arm was hanging over the edge of the cot, a cautery pen still held loosely in his bloodied fingers. You sighed, removing the device, and picked his arm up to lay it neatly by his side. The weight of it caught your breath in your chest, the solid and heavy cord of muscle dwarfing your hands.

You quickly shook away the distraction, seating yourself on the bedside stool and turning to your most immediate concern: The deep, ripped laceration that bled from his lower abdomen. Vibroblade, you’d wager. It was oozing around the half-cauterized flesh, ugly and red from where he'd clearly begun to try and solder himself shut. You gently placed the cauterizer on the bedside stand. A crude tactic, and not one you would settle for, you decided as you retrieved a sterile suture pouch instead. Preparing another antiseptic cloth and gauze for the blood, you hovered back over the wound.

A realization started to echo along the tunnel of your focus, and the walls crashed away with a thump of your heart as you stared at Ren's flank beneath you, where his breathing had notably deepened and steadied. Your hands froze as your eyes shifted up the planes of his torso, cold spines gouging your chest as you reached his face. His eyes were open, fixed calmly upon your own stare, a flush restored to his full, pouted lips. Ice shattered in your veins.

"S-supreme Leader, I-” You dropped your materials onto the mattress, “You- you want to b-be alone, I'll j-just-" you were stammering, pushing your seat back, brain vibrating with panic. This was it. You escaped now, or you were joining the droid.

You made it about halfway to standing when a hand cinched on your wrist, arresting your movement. Your breath halted as you snapped back around, your heartbeat slamming in your throat.

Something boiled up behind his irises then, trapped so fiercely under the tempered surface of his eyes that his jaw locked tight and his chin quivered slightly with the strain of it. Your brain began to scramble. The look held an unmistakable need, a plea that said, so deafening in its silence, Stay.

You carefully held his gaze as you began to sink back down onto the small seat beside the bed. Your hand was trembling under his grip, every drop of air evaporating in your lungs as his pleading eyes burned through you. You slowly let yourself sit until your weight rested fully on the stool again.

Ren’s body slackened, releasing the air back into the room, and his head dropped back onto the thin pillow in a flutter of raven locks. His eyes drifted shut as a breath rolled through his nose and deep into his chest.

His grip had eased around your wrist, enough for your brain to now register the pleasant warmth of his enormous hand as it softly enveloped the lower part of your forearm. The sensation dumbfounded you for a moment as you stared between your arm and your Supreme Leader's face. The muscles in his brow twitched over his closed eyes as several more controlled breaths seemed to forcibly banish something from his body.

You came back to yourself as a trickle of dark blood drew your gaze back down to his abdomen, where it painted a river over bruised flesh before falling down his side to soak crimson sunbursts into the white sheet. You cautiously twisted your wrist free, and he let his hand drop softly back to the sheet without resistance. Hesitantly, you ran a hand across his skin, next to the gaping wound, inspecting the separated flesh. Firm muscles bunched under your touch, tugging at the ragged edges and inspiring another pulse of fresh red. You studied his face as his lashes lifted open again to meet your eyes. It took you a moment to find your breath.

"I... need to close this," you breathed, tracing a featherlight and completely instinctive touch of reassurance over his intact skin near the wound. He chewed the inside of his lip.

"Do it."

Your belly fluttered at the low command, his eyes never wavering from your gaze. You swallowed. Standing slowly to bend over his abdomen, you studied the open section of the wound. The edges were relatively clean, and it didn't look like the blade had made it deep enough to hit anything vital. The bleeding was nasty though, despite your meticulous cleaning job. His skin here would naturally be taut over firm abdominal muscles, a high tension area, you noted. You’d need to place dermal sutures if you wanted them to hold. Your brow knitted in preemptive sympathy.

“This is going to hurt.” You muttered.

Well, perhaps that was obvious. But stitching up conscious patients was not exactly your area of expertise, so maybe in a way, you were preparing yourself more than him. You were surprised at how well you managed to withhold the tremor from your hands as you quickly cleaned the wound again. It steeled your resolve slightly.

You tossed the soaked gauze, and plucked a curved needle and sinewy thread from the sterile bag. You readied your hand over the cleansed wound and flashed your gaze up to Kylo Ren’s eyes, waiting for... well, you didn’t know. Any kind of final approval or declination, maybe. He said nothing, but his eyes burned you steadily as his jaw locked in place, making the tightness in your chest flutter and twist. Swallowing, you turned back to the half-closed gash. You quickly threaded the first set-back stitch with nimble precision, and tugged the edges closed.

Ren’s muscles locked up with a full-body grunt, and a broad hand shot up from where it lay on the bed to grip the inside curve of your thigh. A jolt leapt through your body, setting your heart at a wild pace. Surely that was just a reflex. Surely he would let go. Blinking, you tried to find the voice in your chest.

"You… you have to r-relax." It came out more breathless than you intended as you fumbled only slightly with tying and cutting the thread. You paused to steady yourself, ignoring how warm your skin felt under his hand. A deep breath rolled through the Supreme Leader, and to your utmost shock, his core slackened obediently.

His hand did not leave your thigh. You took a breath and forced yourself to continue, fingers curling to pierce and thread the next suture through the tender, deep layer of skin. A lower, longer vibration left Ren’s nose as his large fingers gripped tighter into the soft pillow of your flesh. Your breath came shallow as your brain ignited, trying not to file that noise away under the category of pleasure. No. Stop that. You refused to indulge the thought, or the warmth that it shot through your lower body, as you refocused on your work.

You fixed your eyes firmly on your target, not letting yourself meet his gaze again. The next few sutures were accompanied by sounds from Ren that you diligently ignored. If you acknowledged what they sounded like, your focus would be obliterated. It already half was. But the growing hum at the apex of your thighs could not be indulged, could not break your concentration, even if it was just above where his hand… Oh.

Oh.

His thumb traced the slowest line along the crease of your groin.

It was impossible not to notice the stiffness that was beginning to tent his pants, close to where your face hovered over his lower abdomen. A shiver caressed your spine at the sight, as all of the heat in your body began to gravitate to the heartbeat in your cunt. You swallowed thickly. Stars help you, the sight of him. Supreme Leader Kylo fucking Ren, laying underneath you, his cock getting hard as you caused him excruciating pain. And you… you fucking... liked it.

His hand shifted then, sliding upwards to press a single, precise stroke along the concealed line of your heat. “Oh-” The soft moan came unwillingly from the bottom of your chest, and you braced one hand out on the mattress as your knees turned to liquid. Your body responded so automatically that it made your head spin, your thighs shifting wider, inviting his touch. You could have passed out when he curled his hand to pet another slow stripe over your clothed slit.

Panting now, you lifted a pleading stare to meet his eyes. They were hooded black vats of desire, and your heart dropped right through your cervix as they drank you in. Your face tingled hot. Your brain wobbled along the line between finishing your task, and the primal need that was erupting through your belly. Either way, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him to stop.

“Supreme Le-”

"Off." He interrupted lowly, pinching at the fabric of your pants. You weren't sure why you obeyed so fucking immediately, but before you could think, your thumbs were hooking into your waistband, and then you were stepping out of your boots, trousers, and underwear, kicking them carelessly across the floor. The tails of your white coat tickled your exposed skin as you positioned yourself back over his wound, wet cunt bared and leaking down your thighs. Cheeks burning with a heat that reached all the way down to your chest, you pointedly avoided his eyes. You tried to steady your hands, and you swore you could feel his gaze stoking a wildfire at your core. You swallowed, staring detachedly at your fingers.

No, the medic instinct in you wouldn’t allow you to leave your work half finished. If you had the wherewithal to think about it, you might have concluded that he knew this, but that didn’t mean he would hold back in making it as difficult as possible for you now that you were, well, in this state. Taking a breath, you threaded another stitch. This time he shamelessly groaned, and his fingers slipped easily through the silky heat of your slit. You gasped, almost doubling over again as you tied off the suture.

You finally looked at him. His nostrils were flared and his throat bobbed, as he watched his own long fingers collect the wetness that leaked from your core. Pleasure and shame waged war across your skin, and your knees went weak as he met your eyes again.

“Keep going,” he stated calmly, gesturing with only his eyes towards the wound that was now nearly shut.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eliciting a hiss of breath from the Supreme Leader as his fingers passed in a slow arc around the top of your stiff clit.

How you managed it, you had no idea, but in very little time you were looping the last thread over itself, tightening it, and cutting. You blinked, looking back along the neat line of sutures as Ren continued idly stroking at your slit, sending shocks down to your toes.

“D-done.” You stammered as you shuffled your supplies together and started to step back.

With a flash of rippling muscle, Ren sat up and captured the back of your neck, pulling you in just inches from the strong curve of his nose. Your materials clattered to the floor as your legs nearly buckled from the sudden weight of his proximity, his gaze pitching you in an inky black tide of lust.

“Gentle little thing,” he pondered, running a thumb under your jaw. Your lungs simply didn’t function any more, you decided, as heat chased the air from the bottom of your bronchioles and out into the space between you. “I’ve wondered about you.”

Your voice hiccuped dumbly in your chest. “Ab-bout me, S-supreme Lead- oh.” Your question hung unfinished from your slack jaw as the pad of his finger shifted wetly across your clit, shooting a liquid flame up your spine that burst in your brain.

“Mm,” he supplied in acknowledgement, his lust-blackened gaze all but swallowing you whole. “Such a pretty thing...” Heat flowered in your cheeks again. “So unassuming.” He slid two fingers down your slick folds towards your entrance, and the delicate stem of a whimper crawled from your throat.

“You want to let go.” He stated in a deep, near-whisper. “Don’t lie to yourself, officer, I can feel your need for it.” You shuddered. Absolutely you wanted to let go. You wanted to do a lot of things, but mostly anything that would elicit those sounds that he was making before, while you punctured his dermis with a curved fucking needle.

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” Your voice seemed far away in your own ears.

The hand around the back of your neck curled slowly until it tightened into the hair follicles at your nape, and the pinpricks sent a thrilling voltage through your nerves that made you gasp.

"Just as I thought," he hummed, the smallest hint at a smirk twitching on the corner of his mouth. “Your desires are far from innocuous.” The lust that thickened his voice had you clenching.

He held your hair tightly, the pain scraping down your spine and feeding heat into the coiling, writhing need that hummed above your thighs. He began to lean back and pull you with him, until you had to shuffle your knee onto the mattress to keep from falling. His hand abandoned the wet heat between your legs, and a solid arm slid impatiently around your waist instead, pulling your hips firmly over him until you straddled his lap on the generous cot.

The feeling of his clothed, straining cock nestling against your folds chased a whine over your lips, and Ren caught it in its tracks, drinking down the sound as his plush lips claimed your open mouth. Fire exploded through your body and your hands flew to his chest, sliding up over hot, bruised skin until your nails were dragging up his neck and into the inky softness of his hair. A deep growl quaked in his chest and his tongue slid greedily across the roof of your mouth, coaxing your jaw wider for him.

You felt his hands slide to grasp the lapels of your coat and yank them over your shoulders. With a thrill of excitement, you threw your arms back to allow him to shuck the garment roughly from your body. Your shirt followed over your head, forcing you to surface from the depths of the kiss with a vulgar wet sound. The second you were free, his massive hand trapped your wrists behind your back, and you gasped at the sudden feeling of immobility. Kylo Ren pinned you under his dark gaze, pulling your arms to arch your back and press your tits up towards him, his eyes devouring the bareness of you that he displayed for himself.

Then he lunged. His hot mouth latched into your neck and worked down to your chest, his strong grip arching you further until his lips pursed around your pebbled nipple. Your jaw fell open in a gasp as he slid his tongue across the bud and drew it between his teeth, pinching just hard enough to leave it aching, and mirrored the action on your other breast. He hummed as he moved back up to lick wet, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, sliding along your skin until you felt hot breath flood the sensitive hollow of your ear.

“I wonder how you taste, pretty thing.”

The sound that left you was fucking obscene, his words dissolving every bone in your body. You instinctually ground down on his swollen cock, seeking pressure lest your cunt actually rupture with need.

He began to lay back, his hands releasing your wrists, and your strained muscles flooded with relief. Clutching your thighs, he pulled your hips insistently to follow his face back to the head of the cot. A nervous tremor wracked you as he guided your thighs over his shoulders, the realization crashing over you all at once. You were about to sit on the face of the most dangerous man in the fucking galaxy. He closed his eyes and pressed his nose to your mons, inhaling deeply and releasing a growling moan that vibrated right up your body.

A deep magenta bruise flowered his temple and cheekbone, decorating the seam where the flesh of your thigh now ended and his face began. Your core clenched in anxious anticipation, and he turned his face to sink his teeth into the tender flesh of your thigh. Remnants of fear were still paralyzing your chest, but the bolt of pain that flashed up your body pierced through it and into your brain for a moment of blissful clarity. You moaned as you suddenly registered just how much pulsing heat was settling inside your walls, aching now to be soothed by his tongue. He ran his hands down your sides and gripped your hips, and he leveled a dark look up at you that liquefied your bones.

"Please…" you began to whisper.

In a flash, he took your hands and pinned them to the small of your back, then thrust his warm, flat tongue against your cunt with a low groan. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry as he licked a wide stroke up the length of your slit, parting your folds and dragging the flat of his tongue across your swollen nub. Tingling pleasure erupted through your lower body, the feeling of him warm and divine and utterly unbelievable. He moved slowly, almost lazily, lost in the taste and scent of you as he began to work that beautiful mouth over every inch of your cunt.

You shifted your hips in desperation, trying to ride his face and gain more friction on the ache that was coiling in your clit, but he locked your arms up roughly, immobilizing you with one of his huge hands around both of your wrists. You whined and he resumed his torturous pace, lapping at you indulgently, rolling his nose across your clit, building a hot pressure in your core that cried painfully for release.

When his lips finally pursed around your bud, his tongue sliding across it in a way that shot light behind your retinas, it was enough to send you reeling. “Oh, fuck-” you groaned as you felt your orgasm start to pull up tight and hot, your body desperately grasping at its relief. But then it was plateauing, ebbing, as he slowed and slid his silky tongue away from that epicenter of pleasure.

“No, pl-please, please--” you wailed as you felt your impending orgasm slip away down your spine.

Ignoring you, Ren closed his eyes and swallowed with a grunt, sucking down the arousal that had gushed from your entrance, and you felt it travel through his whole body as he went rigid. He shuddered in consummate pleasure then, and your brain suddenly shifted from grieving your denied orgasm to wondering where his other hand might be. You imagined it wrapped around his own cock, and the thought tightened heat around your spine.

You craned a glance over your shoulder, but the sight that met you paralyzed your brain. His cock was free of his trousers, beautifully hard and leaking a bead of precum onto his stomach, untouched. His fingers were instead plunged into the neat line of sutures that studded his low abdomen, fresh crimson welling around his pressure-whitened fingertips as his body trembled. A protest shot instinctively through your chest.

“Don’t-”

Two huge hands hooked over your thighs, smearing you with red, and yanked your ass back onto the warm, broad expanse of his chest, cutting off your objection with a breathy yelp. You had little time to bemoan the absence of his mouth at your center before your world was spinning, as Ren flipped you underneath him in a shockingly strong, fluid motion that inverted your senses.

You flailed an arm behind you for balance, but before you could get your bearings, he was hauling you effortlessly down the thin mattress by your hips. A squeak escaped you as your shoulders met linen, and then you were wailing as he devoured you again, his eager tongue sliding hot and heavily down your folds.

He groaned and slipped two blood-drenched fingers into you, pumping and scissoring them slowly as he massaged your clit with his mouth. Shock and pleasure quaked in equal magnitude through your body, every instinct clashing in a spectacular array as your brain fought against itself. You wanted to be horrified, sickened even, but every nerve ending was screaming in nothing but wretched liberation.

In a wash of euphoria, you submitted to it, let your fingers find and lock into his sweat-dampened hair, let yourself sigh and clench around his warm, wet digits as they stroked against something devastating inside of you. He built you up like this again, higher, tighter, but before you could reach the apex of that perfect ache, just when you were whimpering with the promise of shattering into bliss, something began to coil around your spine. An invisible force -- the Force -- squeezing dark numbness down every nerve below your lumbar spine.

No, no, fuck. Tears rushed to your eyes and you choked out a sob, as you trembled in excruciating bereavement. Your wrists were wrenched to your side and tacked to the bed with that same invisible power while Ren continued to indulge himself in your numb cunt, sucking and lapping steadily at your wet heat. Your insides blazed with need and neglect as you watched him slide his fingers out of you and into his mouth, humming in satisfaction as he savored the mixture of his blood and your slick. That was it. You couldn’t keep quiet.

“Kylo, please-”

His eyes locked onto yours, lips still pursed around his fingers. You did not mean to call him that. You quailed suddenly, in your state of helplessness, at the sight of the large man as he began to crawl over you. He kicked off his trousers, looming until you were caged underneath his powerful body and staring helplessly up into the wicked excitement that roiled in his irises.

“Poor, poor thing,” He taunted as an electric current of sensation shot back down your legs, causing you to yelp. His hips rocked to part your slit with the velvety weight of his cock, his swollen and weeping head dragging moisture across your clit as it tingled with renewed feeling.

“So desperate to cum that you’d forget all respect for me.” The words dripped from his lips to pour over your neck as he nipped above your clavicle, seeping into your blood and heating it tenfold. He felt heavy and inviting and perfect, and you clutched your nails sharply into his sides as a crippling wave of need crashed down your spine. He hissed in a breath, letting it out in a nearly inaudible “Fuck.”

A tear spilled down your cheekbone. He was right, you were absolutely fucking desperate, coiled painfully tight after being ripped back from the edge twice. This was his particular brand of mutual torture, denying your release and losing himself in his pain. You needed to do something, anything, to fracture that infuriating, adamantine control. Anything to break the endless cycle of torment.

Your eyes were drawn down to a river of crimson that streaked into the valley of his hip, welling from the fresh spring of your sutures. A writhing, dark desire slithered up your brain stem, burning with some foreign audacity, and it moved your hand almost on its own. Fuck it, you could play this game, too.

“Please, Supreme Leader,” You corrected yourself, letting your voice thicken through your tears to a noxious sweetness. “I’ll do anything.”

Your palm slid to his low abdomen, collecting the warm blood with your thumb and sliding it back up towards the neatly closed wound. You slowly ran your slick digit along the raw edge, your breath catching in your chest as you flicked your gaze back to his eyes, just inches in front of yours. His lips hung open slightly, in disbelief, in want, it was impossible to say. But his pupils were blown wide and hungry as he stilled, the smallest twitch of his eye daring you, pleading you, to continue.

“Anything…” you emphasized in a whisper, holding his stare through your damp lashes as you pressed your thumb into the bruised, inflamed skin, crushing your finger straight into the raw nerves. You dug down, down, watching his lips slowly pull into a wild snarl of pain, his thick cock twitching against your folds as a ragged groan tore through his teeth. You were panting now, watching his eyes as they filled with liquid black fire, unblinking, burning through you.

Heart pounding, you pressed further, building a pinpoint of pressure over the closed wound until you felt the fine strand of a suture give way under the pad of your thumb, popping open with a soft shift of flesh. A choked roar ripped itself from Ren’s chest as his hand came down on your throat. His eyes were glazed with a terrifying need, inches from yours, strands of hair beginning to mat on his face as sweat decorated his skin.

His hips began to sink heavily. The head of his cock pushed past your folds, pressing insistently at the tight heat of your entrance. You whimpered, pulse racing under his grip, and braced your hand involuntarily against his abdomen as your walls began to stretch, the wet sting reverberating up your spine. Your eyes shot to his, pleading, but found them fiendish.

"You’re going to take all of me, pretty thing." His voice was barely above a ragged whisper, caged behind rusted bars of restraint that were slowly splintering across his eyes as he broke you open. “And you’re going to cum around my fucking cock when I tell you to.”

It was all you could do to simply whimper and nod, his words paired with the intense stretch effectively wiping your brain blank now. And the stretch kept coming, endlessly, filling you completely, until you thought you might crack in half. When he finally sheathed himself, his body flattened down heavily on top of you, pinning your hips wide open. You couldn’t move your hand, his sheer mass was crushing your thumb inside the wet, raised flesh of the wound as you felt it leak warmly around the base. A sound caught in Ren’s throat, and a shudder wracked his whole body.

He laid there for only a moment, crushing the air from your lungs, bathing in the pain, before he lifted his torso and began to thrust. Still slowly, still so controlled, breath rolling hot and rabid down your neck. You pulled your thumb from beneath his skin with a sickening squelch. Trembling, a morbid urge had you bringing the hand up to your mouth.

You moved to flick your tongue out over the warm, coppery liquid that was now coating your thumb and beginning to run down your forearm. In an instant, Ren snatched your wrist and pinned it beside your head. Something utterly feral played across his eyes that made your stomach squirm.

He panted through his teeth, eyes drifting across your face to the hand that he had pinned down. “You want a taste, whore?” His tone was somewhere between incredulous and eager, only fueling your desire to pry further at the seams of his restraint. You bit your bottom lip, lifting a pleading look into his eyes, and nodded with a whimper.

“Yes, please, ple-- Ah!” He slammed his cock into your cervix, making you cry out.

He snatched your wrist up with a grunt and enveloped your thumb with the heat of his mouth, swirling his strong, silky tongue around your knuckle to collect the liquid. Your head spun as he drew his lips up and off of your digit, slamming your wrist back down to the mattress and crushing his mouth to yours. His tongue pushed ravenously past the guard of your teeth, and your palette lit up with the sharp mix of metallic blood and the remnants of your cunt on his lips.

It was deafening, the rush that cascaded between your ears and crashed down your body at the visceral taste, the sensation of his hot tongue swiping across yours, passing the grotesque mixture back and forth. You moaned into his mouth and he shuddered, gripping your jaw muscles to force your mouth open as he drew away, resuming the rhythm of his thrusts. He spat a thick emulsion of blood and saliva into your open mouth before releasing your face, shoving your jaw closed with the heel of his palm. From this angle he could see your neck ripple as you swallowed, and the sight had him deepening his thrusts with a low groan.

Yes, yes, finally. His cock stroked fire along your walls, the sensation of fullness making your eyes roll into your skull. Drunk from deprivation, you wanted more. You blindly reached down the contour of his obliques and drove your thumb back into his wound, finding the slight firmness of another suture and digging into his flesh until you felt a sinewy pop. Kylo Ren roared, his hips stuttering as his body locked up in a rippling wave of tension. Eyes wild, he gripped your throat again, yanking you roughly as your eyes flew open and met his.

“Fucking filthy slut.”

He slammed into you at a merciless pace, hurtling you past any possibility of orgasm and straight into overstimulation as your body burned around him. Your vision swam, your ears beginning to ring as he pounded you relentlessly. Blood struggled to reach your brain under his grip, building a pressure in your skull that made your face vibrate.

He slowed his pace suddenly, and heat sparked to the tips of your nerves again, alighting on every inch of your quivering skin and fuck, you were close. Oh, fuckfuckfuc--

“Cum. Cum for me. Fuck!”

Ren wildly snatched the cautery pen from where you left it on the bed stand, lit it, and plunged the glowing tines straight into the flesh of your thigh. White hot pain fractured your vision, locked every muscle down tight with a scream you couldn’t hear as your orgasm eviscerated you.

Breath stuttered back into your lungs in hazy, broken sobs. Euphoric pain was weeping from your nerves, flowing across your skin to rival the tears that now ran free and hot down your face while razorblades of pleasure still flayed your veins open. The ringing in your ears finally began to give way to low grunts breaking over the fragmented tide of your sobs.

“Good girl, g-ood, fuck-- shh... pretty fucking thing.” Ren’s deep murmurs faded into your eardrums, the words slurring and thickening through his teeth as he pried the tool from your sizzling flesh. He set it aside, pace unrelenting, and dragged a hand over your cheek. Sticky blood mixed with your tears as his fingers fastened into the flesh of your face. He watched your eyes come back into focus, his own glazed in primal rapture.

He propelled a few more slamming thrusts into the depths of you as the death throes of your orgasm withered on your skin. And then you were empty, gasping, and he was flipping you over so easily you didn’t know which way was up any more. Your breath was muffled by a pillow, and you turned your face just in time for a massive, dirty hand to come down on your cheekbone.

He crushed your face into the fabric, wrestling your hips upwards with his other forearm until your knees reluctantly shifted up to support them. You whimpered at the pressure on your skull and the throbbing pain that radiated from your thigh, but the sound deepened in your chest when you felt the blunt head of his cock graze along your swollen lips. Stars, you needed him to fill you in any way, your emptiness now entwining with your pain to send a cry of grief through your shuddering bones that could only be soothed by that voice, those hands, that perfectly thick cock in any part of you. Overcome, you moaned for it.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dragging his tip back and forth over your clit, adding skittering jolts to the ache that might as well be burning away your peritoneum like paper, causing your organs to pour out over the floor in gruesome mercy. He slid his hand back along the curve of your spine, releasing your face, and you gasped in the acrid taste of copper. His palms smothered your ass, fingers splaying wide and squeezing, pulling your cheeks up and apart for his view. It was filthy, the eroticism of it, but shame was a faraway song in the tempest of your need, barely heard as you clutched the sheets and arched in presentation for him. You heard a hissing intake of breath, which he let out in a slew of unintelligible filth as the fat head of his cock slowly split you again.

Even after just moments of vacancy you had to readjust to the size of him, but the stretch was utterly demulcent this time as he gradually sheathed himself in your aching walls until his head was grinding down against your cervix. Your eyes flew wide with a gasp as you clawed the sheet, streaking it redder, willing your body to relax around the merciless presence of his cock. He pumped his hips once, slowly, powerfully, and your eyes rolled back again as your muscles turned to warm jelly.

“Kylo…” You barely heard yourself moan out, and you had no idea whether he heard you either, as a loud groan suddenly kicked up his pace and the decibels of his rambling.

“Ffffuuck, feel sofuckinggood, so tight…. fucking perfect little cunt…”

You could die, you could actually fucking die from how it felt to lose yourself in this, how possessed you were by the repulsive freedom of it, of him, spitting filthy nothings into the thick air while you entwined yourselves in the dirty rut of shameless pleasure and pain.

You felt hot liquid trickle into the seam between your flesh and Ren’s with the next few smacks of his hips against your ass. His pace faltered, and he fell over you like a snarling carnivore, palms slamming down on the backs of your hands and pinning them beside your head. His breath tickled hot in your ear, and you shuddered, clenching around him.

“I’m going to make you cum again.” He snarled, before yanking you back sharply by your hair until you were nearly upright on your knees, your shoulder blades meeting the warmth of his chest. You caught a flash of blood-coated fingers as they reached around you and began to rub hot, wet circles over your clit.

“Like the filthy fucking whore you are. That I- fuck- knew you were.”

Your muscles gave out as he spoke, your body supported only by his overbearing strength, as euphoria wrapped your nerve endings in white flame. You were keening, though you could hardly hear yourself, as the pressure on your clit started to pull a second orgasm outward from your bones.

His hips pounded ruthlessly against your ass as he brutally fucked you, the force of it knocking air from your lungs with every impact. A glow began to erupt from your spine with the next few passes of his fingers over your clit, and then you were cumming, hard, sailing into an abyss of ecstasy that swallowed your sight. When you resurfaced he was roaring, his arm a vice around your ribs, his cock slamming deep and slow inside of your quaking walls and pulsing with his release.

Ren collapsed on top of you, flattening you into the mattress. Dizziness swam through your blood, intensified by his weight crushing your lungs. He felt warm, sated, absolutely sublime as your spent hole fluttered around his cock, the sensation of his damp breaths on your shoulder easily overriding your need for oxygen. You were perfectly content to lay like this until you blacked out, if that’s what it would take to keep him there.

But then he was rolling off of you, a soft groan rumbling through his body as the cold air of the room kissed the sweat on your spine. It sobered you like an ice bath and you shifted away from him, suddenly feeling the weight of a needed distance between yourself and the Supreme Leader. You dropped your legs to the floor to stand, and pain ricocheted up your body from your thigh. You winced as your leg buckled in a blatant refusal to support your weight, catching yourself on the edge of the bed frame.

You instead sank back onto the small stool, and felt it become slick with cum as you grabbed wads of gauze from a drawer in the bed stand. Blood was gushing from his abdomen again, joining the sheen of bright red that mottled most of his skin as well as the sheets, and you began to work mechanically to staunch the flow once more. Kylo shifted onto his back and let you do it, his eyes falling shut as panting breaths oscillated through his chest. You were filthy, you registered, as you looked down at the red-brown crust of half dried blood that was smeared on your hands and all the way up your forearms.

You gently dabbed at his skin, slowly cleansing the mess and wrangling the bleeding back under your practiced control. The edges of your skin practically cried out in neglect, the dull pain that thrummed through your body begging to be soothed by even the smallest of tender touches that you didn’t dare ask for. The pain seemed to catch up to him as well now. He breathed through it, but you saw it lock up in his exhales, in the tense pull of his brow over his dark lashes. You let the pass of his skin under your palms soothe you both until his bare skin glowed clean and the bleeding was no more than a steady trickle.

Staring at his comparatively clean body under your blood-crusted hands, you suddenly felt disgustingly exposed in your nakedness. You stooped quickly to grab the leg of your pants where they lay on the floor, but Ren’s hand gripped your arm roughly, yanking your elbow back onto the stained mattress.

"Oh, pretty thing.” He growled. “We're not finished, yet."

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren #kylo ren smut #kylo x reader #star wars fanfiction #smut #darkfic #innocuous #my works #this was incredibly exhausting and challenging to write #i would love any and all feedback #masterlist

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vexing-imogen · 3 years

Text

the persistence of 2/?

read from the beginning | on ao3

Percy holds his breath, waiting for Vex to react to Pike’s statement. He likes to think he knows his wife well enough to guess at her potential reaction. He’s expecting confusion, shock, fear. A demand for answers. Possibly denial.

He’s not expecting her to laugh.

Vex holds Pike’s gaze for a good thirty seconds before she snorts and dissolves into helpless laughter. “Alright, that’s a pretty good one,” she says, pausing to wipe away tears. “You really had me going for a minute there.” She takes a breath to compose herself. “Did Vax put you up to this?”

“This isn’t a prank, Vex,” Pike says softly.

“Oh, come on,” Vex says, her tone shifting from humor to exasperation. “You don’t honestly expect me to believe that, do you?”

Scanlan shifts uncomfortably. “Do you really think we’d lie to you about something like this?”

Her response is immediate. “Yes.”

“Okay, fair,” he relents. “This does sound like something I might have pulled back in the day. But do you really believe that Pike would go along with it? Or Keyleth, or Percy?”

“Hey, what about me?” Grog protests.

“You would,” they all chorus.

Vex goes quiet, her eyes flicking from person to person. Percy can see the change in her expression, in her posture as she takes them all in. He sees the moment where she shifts from annoyed confidence to genuine fear.

“Prove it,” she finally says, her voice catching.

Keyleth frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Prove it,” Vex repeats. “If you’re really not fucking with me, tell me something that you’ve learned about me in the past five years. Something that you couldn’t possibly have learned from my brother.”

“You’ve showed me your titties,” Grog offers before anyone can stop him.

Vex’s eyebrows shoot up in alarm. Percy and Scanlan audibly sigh, while Pike facepalms.

“That’s not...really what she meant, Grog,” Keyleth stutters.

“It’s the truth, though,” he says. “And it ain’t like Vax could-”

“Okay, technically, you’re right,” Keyleth interrupts. “I mean, at this point, I think we’ve all seen them in some capacity.”

“I beg your fucking pardon,” Vex says, and Percy might have laughed if he weren’t completely freaking out.

“Not in, like, a creepy way or anything,” Keyleth defends. “You’re just naked. A lot. Sometimes. They’re really nice?” She turns to Percy. “Help me.”

He closes his eyes and thinks. Remembers a conversation had in bed one night, shortly after she’d earned her title of Grand Mistress. The way she couldn’t face him until after she’d told her tale. The tears she’d tried to pretend weren’t falling.

“Trinket,” he says, and her eyes snap to him, her gaze intense. “You once told me the full story of how you acquired Trinket.”

She swallows hard, her eyes darting around the rest of their friends, all of whom are watching him intently. If they’ve heard any of this story, it’s bits and pieces. He suspects he’s the only person she’s ever told the whole truth, that there are details she chose to hide even from Vax.

“Leaving out the bits that you asked me to never speak of,” he starts, “you were kidnapped by poachers. Trinket and his mother were also prisoners. You couldn’t save her, so you took him to raise as your own.”

His heart breaks just a little more when she turns away from him, a single tear falling down her cheek. She gives a tight nod.

Scanlan clears his throat after a minute. “Well, now that we’re acknowledging that this has happened.” He looks to Vex for confirmation, who nods again, sniffling. “I think the big question here is how did this happen? And how do we fix it?”

“I’d like to know that, myself,” Vex agrees, deceptively calm. “I’m guessing I got knocked out, somehow, since I woke up on the ground, but obviously I don’t remember how that happened.”

“We were getting ready to all go home after spending the weekend in Emon together,” Pike says. “We were saying our goodbyes when we got ambushed. It was a pretty easy fight, we scared most of them off pretty fast, But their mage hit you with a spell that I didn’t recognize. It sent you flying, and you hit a tree and were out cold.”

“Did anyone recognize the spell?” Percy asks. “Keyleth? Scanlan?”

Keyleth shakes her head, and Scanlan shrugs. “It could have been Modify Memory?” the gnome guesses. “I don’t know, I’m the worst person to ask about this stuff.”

“We could just ask the mage,” Keyleth suggests. “Can’t you speak with the dead, Pike?”

“Well, I could,” Pike says, “if Grog hadn’t turned the guy’s head into putty.”

“Sorry.”

“Regardless, Pikey, you were able to fix Grog and Percy when they lost their memories of the Feywild,” Scanlan says. “Couldn’t you just do...whatever you did then?”

Percy nods. “That’s right. Greater Restoration, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Pike agrees. “But I kind of used up all of my high level spells for today. Keyleth can do it though, right?”

Keyleth winces. “I...don’t have Greater Restoration prepared today?” She huffs a sigh at their disbelieving looks. “I didn’t think I’d need it, okay!”

Pike sighs. “I guess we just all go to Whitestone, and try it in the morning.” She turns to Vex. “Is that okay?”

Vex gives her a weak smile. “I guess it has to be.” She pinches the bridge of her nose. “Um. You still haven’t said.” She sighs. “Where’s Vax?”

There’s an unspoken agreement in the moment that their eyes all meet. Lie.

“He’s not with us right now,” Keyleth says carefully.

Vex frowns. “Why not?”

“He’s working for his goddess at the moment,” Scanlan says. “He became a follower of the Raven Queen a few years ago, and then her champion.”

“He’s on a vision quest,” Pike adds. “He had this dream, about a week ago, and he just...left. Said it was a solo mission. And we don’t really have any way to contact him.”

Vex presses her fingers to her temples. “My brother. Is the champion of a goddess?” She lets out a shaky breath. “I think I need a minute. Or ten.”

They retreat to the other side of the clearing, and Keyleth’s hand is on Percy’s arm the moment they’re out of earshot.

“Hey, how are you doing right now?”

He sighs. “I am having about three separate panic attacks, but other than that...” He gestures at Vex helplessly. “What do I do, Keyleth? How do I help her?”

She shrugs. “What are you going to tell her about, you know, the two of you?”

“How do I not tell her everything?” he asks. “She’ll see it all once we get to Whitestone. The house, and her title, and gods Vesper.” He scrubs at his face. “I don’t want to overwhelm her, she barely trusts what we’re saying as it is, but I’m not going to let her hurt our daughter because she doesn’t remember that she exists.”

Keyleth tries to smile. “I know this sucks, but we’ll figure this out. We always do, right?”

They all sit in awkward silence for a few minutes, occasionally glancing over at Vex, who hasn’t moved. Eventually the silence is broken by Vex’s voice, tentatively coming through the earrings.

“Um, Percy, if you can hear me, I think you and I need to talk?”

============================================================

She watches Percy freeze in place for a moment before he stands. Pike says something that her lip reading doesn’t catch, and he nods. He doesn’t look at her as he crosses the clearing, his eyes fixated on a spot just above her head. He doesn’t look at her until he’s sitting down in front of her, his expression unreadable.

“Hi,” she says softly. “I wanted to start by saying I’m sorry for slapping you.”

He shakes his head. “Vex’ahlia, you don’t...given the context of the situation, you have nothing to apologize for.”

She shrugs. “I’m still sorry.” She looks down at her hands. “I also have some questions that I think only you can really answer.”

“Ask away.”

Vex sighs. “Are we...married?” she starts. “I only ask because you did kiss me, and everyone looked at me funny when I said that we weren’t, and I’m wearing this ring-”

He takes her left hand in his, rubs his thumb over her knuckles. “Yes,” he confirms. “Yes, you and I are married.”

“How long?”

He thinks for a moment. “Oh gods,” he mutters. “Not quite four years.”

“Oh.” Fuck, that’s longer than she was expecting. “Do we. Um.” She chews on her bottom lip. “Dowehaveanychildren?”

He squeezes the hand he’s holding, nods. She gasps, feels as though all of the breath has been punched out of her.

“A little girl,” he offers after a moment. “Vesper Elaina, after my sister and your mother.”

She doesn’t try to stop the tears from falling. “How old?”

“Three,” he says with a small smile. “Just barely.”

“Fuck.” She wipes away tears with her free hand. “Pike mentioned a place. Whitestone? Is that...”

Percy nods. “That would be home,” he says. “The de Rolo family, my family, has ruled there for generations. Still do, in a fashion.” He smiles again. “You’re technically a Lady.”

“Huh.” She sighs. “One more question.” He nods. “Has Grog really seen my tits?”

He almost laughs. “You have flashed him on more than one occasion.”

She snorts. “Yeah, that does sound like something I would do.”

She loses track of how long they sit together, her hand in his, neither of them looking at the other. Their bubble is only broken when Keyleth approaches, twisting her hands.

“Hey guys,” she says. “Um, we were just talking about how we should probably get going soon. It’s getting late, which means it’s probably really late in Whitestone, and Cass will probably get worried if you guys aren’t home soon.”

“My sister,” Percy mouths when Vex glances at him. “You’re probably right,” he says to Keyleth. He stands, offering Vex a hand.

The world tilts and her vision blurs as Percy helps her to her feet. She’s back on her knees in an instant, and this time she actually does vomit. “I think,” she manages, breathing deep, “I think I might have a concussion.”

“All the more reason for us to get you home and resting,” Percy says, rubbing her back. One arm goes around her waist, and she realizes his intent as he asks, “May I?”

She nods, keeps her eyes closed as he gathers her in his arms and stands. It helps with the nausea, but the pounding headache has returned, and she thinks she may have to ask Pike for another heal soon.

Vex hears, rather than sees, everyone gather around them. She briefly wonders exactly how they’re going to get where they’re going, but before she can ask, there’s a tearing sound just in front of them. She opens her eyes to see Keyleth opening a portal in one of the larger trees. There’s a city on the other side, and she doesn’t have time to ask before Percy is hurrying through.

It’s cooler on the other side of the portal, the sun is setting. They’ve apparently crossed the continent in mere seconds.

“What the fuck was that?” Vex asks weakly.

“Ohh, right,” Keyleth says, “I forgot you wouldn’t know about that. That’s how we travel for the most part. As long as I know of a tree in any given place, I can get us there.” She pats the trunk of the enormous tree they just stepped out of. “Hi, Sun Tree.”

“She always does that,” Percy murmurs in her ear. She feels his chest move with a sigh as she takes in the city square around her. “Welcome to Whitestone.”

#critical role #critfic #vox machina #vex'ahlia #perc'ahlia #percy de rolo

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annalycheee · 4 years

Text

episode 186

John’s backstory is over, and today’s episode was really, uh, fluffy.

- You’re in a library my guy, shhh. Blyke needs to catch up on sleep, he does look kinda awful.

- Remi has restored my faith in humanity. To be honest, that kinda sounds like the clubs we have in school already, like those judgment, bully, and stress - free clubs where everyone just uses their phones or plays cards.

- Not much to say except Remi’s face is just 💗

- Let’s take a moment to appreciate Isen’s bizarre facial expressions. He’s really good at hiding too. I almost completely missed him.

- Don’t listen to them, you’re doing great sweetie. To be fair, Isen has a good reason to hide, because his death probably follows within the coming days.

- You’ll be missed my dude. Take cover, John is coming. I feel so bad for Isen, he’s so afraid of John, he can’t even write articles without freaking out.

- You guys better take him seriously, that’s his last will and testament right there. BURN HIS LAPTOP WHEN HE PERISHES.

- I’d put all my trust in Blyke, he literally went super saiyan like 8 episodes ago. Then again, John could probably copy his super saiyan move so, uhm, at least you tried Blyke.

- Isen doing it for the greater good. We’ll miss you buddy ✊😔.

- Yes, Wellston does need a Safe House. That name literally sums up everything that Wellston should have. The fact that kids are running around TERRIFIED for their life (like my baby Isen) should send a message to the school that something is very wrong. It shouldn’t just be up to the students to fix it, though I’m very happy with how the Royals handled the situation.

- He still has his apple. That’s all I have to say.

- My mans gonna die. I can’t wait to see this club happen. And imagine if they invite Evie, and she talks with Remi again, that’d be so cute and wholesome!

- Remi, I love you but that’s a really stupid move you’re making right there. Please get down and find a ladder instead of risking your life, I’m crying in fear over here.

- Those decorations are cute, and now I want a safe house too. If Remi and Blyke were running it then hell yeah, sign me up.

- I feel like Rei had the best mindset when it came to the hierarchy, the problem was that no one else did, which was why his plan never worked. I really miss Rei, he would have been a great character in the series and it’s such a shame he died to EMBER.

- shsdfsgdfs oh my god it’s baby Arlo. Uru-chan this is a blessing, how can I ever repay you?

- Reilo needs to be canon, I swear. Just look at the two! That’s so cute, and Rei’s smile while Arlo’s busy being all mad, it makes me wanna cry again.

- I think Arlo wanted to reduce the violence in the school but he had doubts about Rei’s way of doing it because of what he saw during Rei’s term. In the end, he still defends Rei’s actions, like when Cecile insulted him, so Arlo is still a good guy.

- FRIENDSHIP GOALS!

- The fact that these two have stuck with her through everything really says something about their bond. Even now the three of them are working together to fix Wellston, even though the situation is so stressful.

- I hope they all have a great time during the club because these three really need a break after all the hard work they put in.

- Wowie wow, what a beautiful panel. I might set this as my wallpaper.

- Look at all those students who are ready to help. The three of them are doing such a good job at getting the rest of the students to do something about Joker. With this OP squad they can take on anything.

- Look at Holden’s face, lmao.

- I love that Seraphina is still included, because Remi still looks up to her, and so do many of the low-tiers like Evie and Roland.

- John, go to hell. I don’t need you ruing this perfectly happy moment for Remi.

- He literally insulted her dead brother. I don’t care if he didn’t know he was dead, you don’t just go around saying that, especially if you don’t know the person. You think if he knew who Rei was and what he died for, would he have said that?

- Probably, John’s too far gone.

- REMI NOOO!

- My girl, I told you that was a bad idea. I bet Blyke’s gonna save her though and I’ll go nuts over it.

- The desks are falling too, that’s a dangerous situation :/

- Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?

- No, my future boyfriend caught me.

- This scene is just beautiful. I’m crying. Blyke being a fairy tale prince is practically canon. I mean just look at that save. He’s a knight in shining armor, who drinks respect women juice for breakfast.

- The way he’s holding her. Blyke is 10/10 husbando material.

- He’s definitely gotten stronger, that energy blast was frickin awesome. Somehow, Remi wasn’t hurt from it though, so maybe he has some fine control over it?

- Look at how he’s STILL holding her. That’s so freaking adorable.

- Blyke’s a bad liar. I can totally see that being true. That energy pulse was sick though.

- What if he tells Remi what he’s been doing? Would she be upset, because he told her to take a break from being a superhero, but he went off on his own to level up anyway?

- Would she be happy that he’s trying to get stronger?

- I still think Remi is a little stronger. Keep in mind she’s probably been training too. Blyke could be a high tier now.

- I have a feeling his ability expands from just energy beams. Or that his passive is using energy to heal, like how the bruise got a lot better in the morning after his first rendezvous.

- Maybe he can beat Cecile now? Would they have the same passive?

- Zeke you dumb, *sshole.

- You have gotten beaten so many times yet you still wanna go out and piss someone off? smh.

- Now I actually WANT John to beat the daylights outta him. It would serve him right. Seriously Zeke, I feel bad for you. Just go, down a bottle of tylenol or something. Take a road trip to the Sahara Desert. Make a tinder account. Bothering John should not be one of your priorities.

FINAL THOUGHTS:

Blemi and Reilo are both practically canon

Zeke’s stupidity knows no bounds

Remi and Blyke’s new club might really help the school’s environment

Isen is brave man, who will forever be remembered in our hearts

#unordinary #unordinary remi #unordinary blyke #blyke #remi #unordinary isen #isen #unordinary rei #rei #unordinary arlo #arlo #episode 186 #review #we need more baby arlo #rip rei #remi is too good

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love-killed-the-superstar · 4 years

Text

super late but here is day 6!! also: if the cottage was actually destroyed i’m sorry, but i combed through TOTS a LOT and couldn’t seem to find any proof it was actually fully destroyed so... please just suspend your disbelief for this one, lads

CASSUNZEL WEEK DAY 6 - TRUST AND HEALING

Interior decorating is something Rapunzel never figured she and Cass would have in common, but somehow, here they are.

To be perfectly honest, when Rapunzel decided to return to Gothel’s old cottage (or what was left of it, anyway) she wasn’t really sure how Cassandra would take the news. How exactly does one explain that they’re rebuilding your nearly-destroyed childhood home that may or may not hold a boatload of trauma inside its walls? In the end she had taken the coward’s way out and written her to break the news, fully expecting to be met with silence on Cass’s end, as so often happens when she receives news that’s hard to swallow. The fact that she returned to Corona less than a month after the letter had been sent surprised Rapunzel to no end.

(“So, we’ve got our work cut out for us,” she had said nonchalantly, climbing off of Fidella’s back and rolling up her sleeves as Rapunzel stared in shock. “Where should we start?”

“I-I didn’t think you’d actually – well, hang on a moment,” Rapunzel had replied, chickening out of the tough conversation. “Let me just find my clipboard.”)

Cass has been… a little quiet on the matter, to be honest. It’s been easy enough to keep distracted by the house; the foundation and floors have been rebuilt where they’d been torn through by black rocks, and Rapunzel had the roof rethatched several weeks earlier. Cassandra has thrown herself into repairing furniture, refitting the window panes and getting the water mill back up and running again, while Rapunzel has taken to repairing torn curtains, scrubbing mould and mildew and moss from the walls, weeding the cracks where plant life has inevitably sprung up from and filling them in afterwards. The effort to seal up the entrance to Gothel’s strange underground mirror lair takes the both of them, and although neither of them have much to say, it gives Rapunzel a grim satisfaction that the burned, smashed up hideout can’t be reached any longer.

This part of fixing the house takes just over two weeks of dawn-til-dusk of hard work, and each evening they ride back to the castle and fall into Rapunzel’s bed, too tired to really talk about it. Eugene finds the whole thing bizarre and doesn’t shy away from telling them so, but Rapunzel kind of got the feeling that he wouldn’t understand it from the moment she mentioned the idea to him.

(“Why are you dragging this ordeal out?” he had asked her one night, just two days before Cass showed up at the house without warning. “And why bring Cass into it at all? I don’t want to police your process, but isn’t it time to put Gothel behind you both and… learn to let go of the past?”

Rapunzel hadn’t known how to answer him. “It’s just something I want to do,” she had said instead. “And Gothel hurt her too, Eugene. I can’t keep it from her.”)

They don’t need to talk about it; not if they don’t want to. Rapunzel and Cassandra seem to have come to a silent agreement that they won’t push for some big heart-to-heart that ends in tears, or an argument that eventually turns into a greater understanding of each other’s pasts.

When it comes to the house that Gothel built, nothing really needs to be said at all. Right?

…

“I can’t believe we’ve done this, Cass.”

“Tell me about it. What exactly ignited this passion project of yours, anyway?”

“I wanted to breathe new life into this place, I guess.”

The two of them stand back and stare at their surroundings in satisfaction. There’s no more cobwebs or ivy or moss covering the walls, and where there are stains Rapunzel has thrown on a cream wash. The floors and ceiling and roof are repaired, the windows are no longer cracked and smashed, and the creak of the water mill can be heard faintly from outside. The salvaged furniture is stacked up in the centre of the room, and Rapunzel has decided that tomorrow they’ll take a trip to the market to replace the items that were too far gone to be saved.

Today, they’re focusing on the walls.

Rapunzel’s vision is a little… eclectic. Pale, neutral walls might be best, and perhaps they can be accented with floral imagery, or maybe even a mural of the cottage itself. Another part of her, however, dreams in full colour; cerulean walls, or perhaps celadon, with bright sunny yellow flowers and trees with purple leaves – and why stop there? She could paint some horses in a meadow, or birds soaring through the sky. Why not paint fairies, unicorns, dragons? Make this house its own storybook experience?

“I’m so torn on my vision,” she confesses to Cassandra as she stands between buckets upon buckets of paint, an entire rainbow of choice laid out in front of her. “I need a better idea of what to paint before I can even think about washes. Any thoughts?”

“I’m a little creatively stinted, Rapunzel,” Cass deadpans. “I thought you had a clear vision of this place when you started out?”

“I can’t narrow it down. Do I want to go simple, or do I want to completely transform this place?”

Cass shrugs listlessly, sitting down cross-legged by the stacks of furniture. “You just have to listen to your gut.”

Oh, if guts could talk, Rapunzel would be all ears. Her frown deepens as she contemplates her options. Maybe she should find a compromise. Pale walls, vibrant art? Maybe that will work best.

Hesitantly, she reaches for a muted green (the bedroom area can be a forest mural now, she’s decided, or maybe a marsh) and heads over to a wall in need of a fresh coat. Cassandra joins her, a comically large paintbrush in hand, and they paint in a sullen silence.

“So, Cass. I’m… I’m glad you came back to help me out with this,” Rapunzel ventures. “You didn’t have to.”

“You sounded afraid in your letter,” Cass says coolly, with a long sweeping stroke. “Like you thought I would be angry at you for doing this, so I thought I should come back. Besides, I… I wanted to see it for myself.”

Cassandra can be frustratingly hard to read sometimes, and now happens to be one such instance. Rapunzel isn’t sure what she wants right now. It was easy enough not to talk at first, but something about pouring some of her own flair into these walls makes her uneasy – has her overcome with this urge to get everything off their chests before she proceeds. What memories does Cass have of this place? Does it hurt to be here, even if she refuses to show it? Is there some good left in this place, parts that Cassandra might not want to let go of?

“Do you like what you see?” Rapunzel asks quietly.

“...I don’t know yet. I need a fuller picture before I draw any conclusions.”

Rapunzel feels like – hopes – she has some insight into how Cass might be feeling right now. Returning to the tower for the first time since reuniting with her family had given her all sorts to think about, and watching it fall had filled her with a nauseating combination of crisis and catharsis. After all, there were some good memories amongst all the long, drawn out days of agonising boredom and walking on eggshells around Gothel, always so afraid of saying the wrong thing and making everything worse. It wasn’t love, and her world was so small before she left the tower behind.

Even if her time with Gothel was far briefer, Rapunzel can’t help but wonder if Cassandra holds echoes of fond memories somewhere in there, as few and far between as they may have been.

“You know, when I returned to this place, I didn’t think the house would be salvageable,” Rapunzel confesses to the silence. “Given the spike tearing through it, and the way the mountain crumbled inside, I figured it would probably have fallen apart. So seeing that there was still a chance to restore it… I don’t know. I couldn’t really think about anything else, for weeks afterwards. In the end, Eugene just told me to get it all out of my system. He’s not exactly happy about it, but…”

“Well sure, the wedding will suck if you’re too busy thinking about complimentary paint colours to focus on your vows,” Cass points out dryly. Rapunzel laughs.

“Yeah, you have a point.” As she goes to dip her paintbrush again, she glances to the wall adjacent; cream, blank, inviting.

“...Do you have a date in mind yet?”

“Not yet. We’re thinking spring or summer though. We need time to get all the arrangements together, after all.” Rapunzel purses her lip. “You know, I think I’m going to start on some detailing. Mind finishing this off?”

Cass nods, and carries on in that same long silence. Rapunzel moves onto the wall. She envisions a recreation of that cottage. She’s been sketching it a lot, lately, and goes to retrieve her journal.

“You’re making a mural of the cottage?” Cass wrinkles her nose as Rapunzel leans the journal up against a beam at the edge of the wall. “So you step inside, just to see the outside all over again?”

“Well, it’s picturesque!” Rapunzel says. She lingers, paintbrush trailing in the beige she picked out for the base of the house. “Unless you don’t want me to paint it?”

A pause. “No, go ahead. Paint it. It doesn’t matter to me either way.”

Rapunzel begins slowly at first, glancing between the wall in front of her and the woman two metres away, still listlessly dragging the brush. She’s changed a little; her hair is getting longer, scraped back into a slightly lopsided ponytail to keep it out the way. Rapunzel is tempted to drag a comb through and tie it more evenly, but judging from the tension in Cassandra’s shoulders, it would probably be met with resistance.

After a while, however, Rapunzel soon falls into the trance of painting – absorbed into the gentle strokes of the brush, planning the subtle lighting and how to translate the details of the house in simple splotches of paint. She even forgets her original plight to talk things through with Cass, losing her awareness of the world around her until it is simply her and the brush and the wall, coming together to paint this fairytale home, where from now on only good things will happen and happy memories will be made and no child will ever feel abandoned or unwanted or hurt ever again–

“Rapunzel!”

Cass grabs her arm and Rapunzel jerks out of her vision, staring at her in confusion. Her paintbrush, dripping jade, is just inches from the edge of the beam in the corner. The stretch of grass she was in the middle of painting now has an uneven glob that slowly rolls down like a teardrop. Cass grips her arm tight, eyes bright with alarm.

“Cassandra, what’s wrong?”

“I…” Her grip loosens and, brow furrowing, she releases Rapunzel’s arm. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong, you just…”

“I just?” Rapunzel prompts, bewildered.

“The beam. You were – you were going to get paint on the beam.”

“Oh. Uh, good reflexes! I didn’t realise.” She laughs nervously. “Guess I got a little carried away, huh?”

“Yeah, well.” Cass mutters, stepping back. She sets her paintbrush back in its bucket and runs her fingers through her hair, uncaring that she smudges green paint against her scalp in the process. “Just be careful, Rapunzel, all right?”

“Uh, sure.” Rapunzel frowns. “Cass, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine, Raps.” She turns her back. “Look, I’m going to get some fresh air.”

She heads towards the door without looking back, leaving the door wide open and swinging as she goes. Rapunzel watches after her, thoroughly confused, before turning back to the wall. Maybe Cassandra does hate the mural. Maybe she hates everything Rapunzel is doing right now, and is just here to intervene when things get too much? After all, things have been strange between them since she returned. They’ve barely hugged or kissed or held hands, and Rapunzel knows they’re not in the giddy, starry-eyed closeness stage of their relationship anymore, and Cass has never been huge on big gestures of affection, but still… it’s impossible to ignore this atmosphere any longer.

As she sets her own paint brush aside, dejected, something catches the corner of her eye and she pauses. There’s something on the beam. When Rapunzel looks, she can’t work out at first why it grabbed her attention; it’s just a chip in the wood, a scrape maybe, but it’s fairly deep. She only noticed it from bending over, it’s not too far off the ground… and that’s when she sees more scratches. Some are shallower than others, some more controlled and some extremely wobbly and veering off to one side. But she can make out that they’re more than just someone chipping away at wood when they’re bored. There are… scribbles, wonky bodies, twigs for arms.

The lower part of the beam is covered in a child’s carvings.

The longer Rapunzel stares, the colder she begins to feel inside. This beam isn’t the only one; there are dozens of wooden trimmings, as her feet carry her across the room, and each with the same cast of characters – a tall scribble and a shorter scribble. Mother and daughter.

She needs to find Cass.

Rapunzel doesn’t need to look hard. She barely takes two steps outside before she sees the glint of Cassandra’s sword as it slashes through the air, sparring with herself. If she hears Rapunzel approach, she doesn’t acknowledge her until Rapunzel offers, “I saw the carvings. I’m sorry, Cass.”

“Why be sorry? You didn’t know they were there,” she mutters, swinging again, and again. “Nobody did. Even I didn’t, until we started the wash. Once we were standing there, the memories kind of hit me all at once.”

“They were yours, then.” No response. “...They looked quite advanced, for a four-year-old’s drawings.”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do to pass the time, once the floors had been swept and the beds had been made?” Cass snaps. Another swing. “I had nothing but free time with the house to myself, after all.”

“Cass, can we please talk about this without the deadly weapon thrown in?” Rapunzel pleads. Cass ignores her. Another swing.

“I’m just lucky she was never around long enough to really pay attention to them. I mean, can you imagine how she would have scolded me? Or worse?” Another swing.

“Cassandra, please. Put down the sword. Let me near you.”

“I don’t get it, Rapunzel! Why did… why did I just – why did I ever let Zhan Tiri fool me into thinking she might have loved me?”

“Cass, stop!”

Cass raises her sword to strike again when she feels arms wrap around her waist, halting her in her tracks. Rapunzel clings on, pressing her cheek to Cassandra’s back and feeling her erratic breathing as she stands still, finally allowing the sword to lower gently.

“...Why did it have to be this cottage, Rapunzel?” she croaks. “Isn’t it better to leave it all buried?”

“I don’t think so,” Rapunzel whispers. “Darling, I don’t think that will work forever.”

Cass sinks to her knees, taking Rapunzel with her, and they kneel in silence as the breeze rustles the trees around them.

“I feel sick,” Cass says dully, setting her sword down in the grass. Rapunzel presses her forehead to the space between Cassandra’s shoulder blades, breathing in her smell, trying to soothe her somehow.

“This is too weird, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

“Rapunzel, it’s so fucking weird.” Rapunzel winces. Cass does well not to curse in front of her, but, well… maybe now isn’t the best time to comment on it. “You never even lived here. Why do you have this need to mold it to your worldview instead of letting it rot away quietly like everybody else was happy to do?”

“This is a beautiful place,” Rapunzel protests. “Isn’t it beautiful? Why should it have to die because of the terrible things she did? You were born in this cottage, Cassandra, that means something! Gothel was a horrible person and she made both of our lives miserable, but – but that doesn’t mean we can’t still find something beautiful in this place.”

“Not everything has to be beautiful, or even saved. Fixing a house isn’t going to fix us, is it?”

The sharpness of her words cut right through Rapunzel, and pulls away from Cass, stunned. Cass cranes her neck to face her, regret already written all over.

“You’re right. I’m a fool, aren’t I, Cass? Because I – I actually hoped it would.” Rapunzel buries her head in her hands. “Darn it, I… I want to move on, just like you do. I always think I’m over the tower and Gothel, but then when I found this place… I just thought about how good it would feel to take it away from her and make it beautiful and then some new family could live here, a loving family who take care of each other and don’t b-belittle their kids…”

Cass turns around fully, and reaches over to squeeze Rapunzel’s shoulders.

“Don’t, Raps. You’re not foolish for wanting those things, all right? I just… I don’t think painting some walls will bring you any closure. And being here, surrounded by all these things that remind us of her, isn’t helping either.”

“I shouldn’t have written to you. Eugene told me to leave you out of this because he knew this was a bad idea and we’d both get hurt from it, but I didn’t listen, and now-”

“Seriously, stop. Do not give Fitzherbert the satisfaction of being right about something.” Rapunzel peeks up at her, and Cass offers her a small smile. “I didn’t feel like this the whole time. It has been kind of fun, repairing things and putting it all back together, but then I’d remember where we were and wonder why we were doing this, and – and I didn’t know how to even talk to you about it.”

“I thought you just didn’t want to talk, so I didn’t try to push it.” Rapunzel smiles faintly. “Eugene is going out of his mind, trying to understand the logic of the situation.”

“He’s not the only one.” Cass leans forward and kisses Rapunzel softly. “Look, if you truly believe that redecorating will somehow cleanse this house of Gothel forever and give us some catharsis, I’ll trust your judgement. But only if you trust mine when I say that this isn’t the only way to do that.”

Rapunzel nods, leaning over to kiss her back.

“I’m sorry Gothel hurt you,” she murmurs. Cass sighs sadly.

“I’m sorry she hurt you too.”

“I wish Zhan Tiri hadn’t forced you to remember all of this, but… do you regret knowing?” Rapunzel asks, running a thumb across Cassandra’s cheek soothingly. Cass leans into her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

“No. I always knew something was missing, so even though it hurts, at least the pieces are all there. I just – I wish it had gone differently, that’s all. I wish she had been different.”

They sit in silence, neither sure of what else to say, and Rapunzel glances back over at the house. It stands stout and quiet, charming on the outside, but somehow she can't bring herself to go back inside. “...You know, maybe we should leave it for today.”

Cass quirks an eyebrow in confusion. “Really? It’s barely noon, and the walls won’t paint themselves.”

“It’ll still be standing tomorrow! Besides, we’ve been perfect strangers since you came back. I want to take a moment just to be with you.”

She flops back, stretching out on the soft grass and staring up at the cloudless sky above. It truly is beyond beautiful out here. Cassandra’s face hovers over hers, presses a kiss to her brow, and then she lies back beside her.

“You know, when you take Gothel out of the equation, this place is really peaceful,” Cass comments.

“If we have our way, by the time we’re done no one will associate it with her ever again,” Rapunzel agrees. “Wouldn’t it be nice?”

“Paradise,” Cass remarks, and Rapunzel can hear the wry smile in her voice as she speaks. “It would be just paradise.”

When it comes to the house that Gothel built, they’re going to build it back up, better than ever before. Nothing else needs to be said. The clouds drift on and they lie there, hand in hand.

#cassunzel week #cassunzel week 2020 #cassunzel #tangled the series #tts #writing

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rowan-raven-rogue · 4 years

Text

kirschwein (ch1)

will probably edit later when it’s not 3am but let’s get this posted babey

kirschwein

word count: 2127/2830 part 2/8 rating: general audiences warnings: no warnings apply category: f/m fandom: critical role (web series) relationship: jester lavorre/caleb widogast Characters: jester lavorre, caleb widogast

additional tags: let’s see how matt mercer thrusts the harpoon of canon straight through the heart of this story in like 5 episodes, somewhere between AU and canon-divergent?, established relationship, technically mechanically compliant, we can discuss the meta of greater restoration vs heal if you want

chapter 1

Despite evidence to the contrary, she thinks, Jester really is not suited for healer’s work.

To heal is one thing, certainly; one whisper to the Traveler, and a wound in Beau’s shoulder closes, or a burn on Caduceus’ palm blisters over and cools. But the work of healing - bandaging, applying poultice, splinting - that remains a mystery, even after the morning spent in the red-haired healer woman’s tent. A body really does most of the work by itself, Jester thinks, diligently elevating a young man’s shattered leg all the same, the way the woman had instructed. She croons something low and nonsensical to soothe him, as he half-cries in his half-sleep, and is thankful that her mama taught her at least a bit about the work of consolation.

To be perfectly honest, she might have been of slightly more use on the builder’s crew. Slightly.

“That’s very good, dear,” the red-haired woman smiles, only with the corners of her eyes. She finishes applying delicate-smelling balm to the frizzy side of a dwarf woman’s face, then turns to Jester. “You learn quickly.”

“Not always,” Jester admits. “Only because you showed me. If I had to learn this from a book or something, or if you were just talking me through it I would have no idea what was going on.”

“We learn in different ways,” nods the woman, in her thick, familiar accent. “I learned much of what I know from books, but they do not, ah, always have the full story.” The young man lying next to Jester groans again, and she reflexively lays a hand on his arm and hums something lullsome. “A page cannot teach that,” she says, softer, indicating.

“I could do more,” Jester ponders, “but he seems okay for now, and if anyone else gets brought in that might be worse, I don’t want to… I’d rather save it.”

“More wisdom.”

“But if no one else comes today, I can fix it no problem,” Jester says, and puffs just a touch of green sparks from her fingertips, for effect.

The older woman’s eyes crease, again, the way they had earlier that morning, when Jester first arrived, when she first set her fingertips to the gashes clawed in a half-elf child’s back and asked Please, Traveller, make it stop hurting. Not in a smiling way, and not for longer than an instant, but long enough for Jester to see, and to vanish the green sparks with a small noise like a weasel’s squeak.

“You are talented,” murmurs the red-haired woman, and the rain slowly pattering away at the canvas above them drums a little harder and faster.

“I hope Caduceus is okay,” Jester says, as if she could look through canvas walls and summon him, dripping but cheerful.

“He is allergic to water?” the woman says, unblinking, and it takes Jester seconds to realize she’s joking.

“Yes,” she deadpans back, in her best mimic of Caleb - and there was a pang, she hadn’t seen him all day - but the woman actually laughs, small but full.

“He will be alright,” she says. “I am sure the apothecary is… overworked, today.”

“He’s better at this kind of thing,” Jester says. “Healing without, uh. Cheating. He knows what he’s doing.”

“I am grateful for your help,” the red-haired woman says, firmly, seating herself by the small brazier in the center of the tent. “Normally, they,” with a small circle of the hand, to her patients, “would be cared for at the hospital, but. You saw the state of the hospital, after...” And after a long pause, “I do not think of it as cheating.”

Jester sits, mindful of the patients resting. The woman continues to stare into the glowing coals.

“We simply have different ways of accomplishing the same task,” she says, finally. “You are skilled as you are, dear.”

A blush purples faintly over Jester’s cheeks “You sound like my - friend,” she says. How do I refer to Caleb, exactly?

“Hmm?” says the woman. “She is smart, then.”

“He’s so smart,” says Jester, eagerness creeping in at the edges of her voice. “I meant you sound the same like you have the same accent. He’s Zemnian, too.”

“Is he a healer, also?”

Jester shakes her head. “He usually needs me to like, put his arms and legs back on after a fight or something. But he’s really good at other stuff.”

“A mage, then,” and that same small ghosting look gathers in the corner of her eyes, and dissipates just as quickly. “That will be useful, if your aim is to hunt these creatures. They are quite strong.” There is a small pop from one of the glowing coals. “My husband was a soldier, and he only barely managed to slay one of them, once. I nearly had to put his arms and legs back on myself.” A suggestion of a smile turns at the woman’s mouth. “He is… not in his fighting prime, of course. That was one of the few times I have thanked the gods for his hard-headedness. I think he was simply too stubborn to bleed out.”

“Oh my God, Caleb is so stubborn sometimes,” agreement spills from Jester, and the woman cocks an eyebrow.

“Your - friend?” she says, with a suggestion, lilted and understanding, and Jester takes pause.

“Well - yes, and also - I mean, we’re together, but - it’s so hard, when we’re with this big group, you know, like - you never get any time to yourself as it is, and it hasn’t been that long…” Jester’s words trail off into a small, exasperated sigh.

“My goodness,” the woman laughs again, this time fuller. “I do not miss being young, my dear, it seems just as complicated as I remember.”

“It wouldn’t be, if…” and Jester trails off again. If we weren’t worried about everybody making it weird? or for a shameful instant, if he could let himself be happy for longer than a few minutes at a time? although that one Jester quickly sweeps away.

The woman filled her pause. “Well, I’m sorry to say you signed up for stubbornness with that one, if he’s a Zemnian boy. My husband is this way, and my son.” There is a hitch to her voice, near the end, catching over son in a way Jester can’t miss. The pitched canvas above them thrums harder still beneath the rain. “He was a mage, as well.”

“Your son?” Jester says, carefully.

“Yes,” and the woman’s voice peters out into something like a whisper, carrying something heavy and unmistakable.

“I’m sorry,” Jester says simply.

“Thank you,” the woman replies. The wind and rain somewhat quiet, and eventually she picks up again with the smallest of shakes of her head. “From where in the Zemni Fields is your friend, dear?”

“Oh, uh. I’m not actually sure, he doesn’t really like to talk about it.”

Nodding, “Many lives were difficult, before, after the first war. I cannot blame him. Well, if you are going to be in town for a few days, you are welcome to pay us a visit. Gods know there aren’t enough friendly faces near, especially for strangers.”

“That’s very kind, thank you.”

“And if it helps, you can tell him we’re from Blumenthal. He probably won’t know where that is, it’s such a small village, but. Who knows.”

“I will.”

“I’m back, Miss Una,” the canvas flap at the front of the tent mutters open, and Caduceus ducks inside, stray strands of pink slicked to his otherwise-placid face. “They were out of yarrow, I hope you don’t mind, I asked for comfrey instead. Jester, I saw the weirdest thing,” he says, depositing a large pouch on a nearby work table. “I thought this guy out there was Caleb for a minute, it was freaky.”

“Caduceus,” Jester says, in mock disappointment, hoping the points of her teeth don’t belie the joke, “It wasn’t actually Caleb, right?”

“No, when I got closer it was an older gentleman. One of the guys working on the hospital,” he replies. “They look really similar though. I know everyone’s supposed to have a doppelganger here and there, but. Huh.”

“On the hospital?” Una says, frowning. “The only older man working there would be my husband, I think. Tall, brown hair, short cropped?”

“Yeah! That’s him,” Caduceus says, with seemingly no opinion beyond. He digs through the pouch until he finds a vial of greenish liquid, and turns to crouch over the young woman he had left previously, the one with a deep gash just above her collarbone.

As the glow from the coals dances over the woman’s red hair, something begins to gnaw at Jester.

“Miss Una,” she says finally, drawing closer, as one might draw close to an animal that may bolt. “You said you were from Blumenthal?”

“Yes?”

“How - when did you come to Druvenlode, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh,” she says, drawing out a small tilt of her head. “It’s been seventeen years, soon.”

“Hmm,” Jester says, hoping her nonchalance can pass for acknowledgement rather than processing her thought. She creeps further still. “Miss Una.”

Something begins to be wary about the woman’s eyes. “Yes, Jester?”

“Why did you and your husband come here?”

She tenses into rigid politeness, even as her crest falls:

“I - we. We were moved here, after the death of my son.”

“You were moved here? You didn’t move here yourselves?”

“Well, no, we were - this is really not something I would like to discuss, Jester,” says Una.

“Please, forgive me, but - it’s really, really important. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t.”

“We were offered to move, yes. My son was - he died at school. The Academy offered to relocate us, as recompense.” She tightens further, everywhere but her eyes. “It was difficult to leave, at first, but eventually the memories became too - strong, in that house. And so we accepted.”

“The Academy? The Soltryce Academy?”

“What is this about?” Una stands, and Jester sees Caduceus tense as well, before he finishes his work and slowly turns to face them.

“I can explain everything, I promise, I just - need to know. Your son was a mage? And he died - he died seventeen years ago?”

“Uh, Jester…” she hears Caduceus begin, and he approaches, but her focus is trained on the burning brown eyes of the red-haired woman before her. Una stares, stone-faced, calculating.

“Caduceus, this is like, critically important, I need you to trust me,” she says, and perhaps it is because she rarely speaks with such urgency, but he backs down, drawing slowly closer to her instead of between the two women. Jester plays her fingertips over the holy symbol at her belt, and murmurs a plea to the Traveler.

“Please, please forgive me, Miss Una,” she begs, and a shimmering green encircles the woman’s feet. She recoils with a sharp intake of breath. “Please answer my questions, and I promise promise I’ll explain everyhing.”

“Jester…” Caduceus warns again, voice rolling low and docile in an attempt to cool tempers.

“What is your name?” Una is still and silent.

“Please answer me.”

Quietly: “Una Ermendrud.” The white circle at her feet flares white briefly, then shrinks back to green.

“Is there any other name anyone else ever calls you?”

“No.” Another flare of white.

“Is there any other name anyone else has called you before?”

A brief pause before her next answer, “Una Kohler, before I was married.” Yet another white flare.

Jester’s voice quivers. “Your son died seventeen years ago.”

“My son is dead.” The circle burns white.

“Your son Bren. He has your hair.”

Jester feels a whipcrack surge between them as they lock eyes again. Confusion plays across grief plays across anger plays across love plays across guilt on Una’s face. “Please answer me.”

“Yes.” Once more, white.

Pain lodges at the back of Jester’s throat.

“Tell me a lie now, Miss Una.”

“Jester -”

“Please.”

“I - we. We live in R-” and the word rolls and rolls, but she cannot seem to finish it. The circle flares angrily red as she manages “-Rex-xen-trum”, and she stares down, understanding narrowing her eyes as the color fades back to green.

Jester pulls her last question like an arrow from her chest.

“How did he die?”

The whisper cuts over the patter of rain, the reedy keen of the wind:

“A fire. There was a fire.”

The circle momentarily flares white before Jester clenches her fist, and it disappears.

“There were other students, inside,” Una breathes, continuing. “He was - he went back -”

“I’m sorry, Miss Una, I’m sorry,” she says, resisting, “please don’t call the guards or anything, I can explain, I can -”

“You knew my son.”

Jester feels Caduceus’ hand warm her shoulder on her reply.

“I know your son.”

#widojest #liam o'brien don't read me please

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evangeline-of-montfort · 4 years

Text

ash garden (i)

read it here on ao3

I scuff my boots against the rocky ground, bored out of my damn mind. My assignment this week must be one of the most pointless in border patrol history. This sector is of no importance whatsoever, a lonely stretch of granite and pine trees. But due to its proximity to Davidson’s estate, it has to be patrolled.

The day is overcast but chilly, and I huddle in my thin uniform. Gray clouds scud the light sky. Fall is bearing down on Montfort: according to Carmadon, we have about two weeks before the first snows hit Ascendant.

My ability forms a protective shield around me, searching for the steel of raider weapons. As usual, there is nothing. The Prairie raids have slowed since Montfort troops withdrew from the Dancing War and border security tightened. But I haven’t lived this long—twenty-five years, now—by being complacent.

The edge of the cliff looms before me: six inches of granite are all that stand between me and the hundred foot drop. I peer over the edge anyway, a cursory glance to check for raiders, who have been known to scale the cliffs. None. Obviously. I straighten up again and pace back towards the Hawkway, the road that runs from Ascendant in the mountains all the way down to the plains.

I switch on my wireless, a broadcaster that taps into the same signal as the other patrol units. “Sector E-1 is clear.”

Static. I wait for the standard response from the rest of my unit, but nothing comes.

“I repeat, Sector E-1 is clear.” My voice rings out in the silence, echoing off the mountainsides and into the wilderness.

Still nothing. I switch the wireless off and then on again. No change. The device feels the same as ever, even to my ability: all the inner workings are fine, so it isn’t a mechanical issue.

A sense of unease rises inside me. In my five years on border patrol, I’ve never lost connection like this. Something is wrong.

There’s another, smaller, wireless hanging from my belt. A direct line to Elane and the Premier’s office. She made me take it in case of an emergency. I switch it on, just in case.

Her voice comes through the other end immediately. “Eve? Is everything alright?” There are other sounds in the background: shuffling paper and people talking in lowered voices. I’m guessing she’s sitting in one of Davidson’s meetings.

“I’ve lost contact with everyone else in my unit,” I say. Even as I talk, my eyes scan back and forth along the tree line, watching for potential danger. There’s no sign of metal, no sign of movement. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone waiting, just out of sight. “I’m keeping this line open just in case. Is that alright?”

“Yeah. Stay safe. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hook the wireless back onto my belt and continue pacing, but farther away from the ledge. If I have to fight, I’d rather not do it backed against a cliff.

A minute passes. Then five, then ten. I’m about to call it a false alarm when I hear a sound like muted thunder in the distance.

Then it draws closer, and I realize it isn’t thundering.

It’s hoofbeats.

~~~

“Love you too.”

I smile briefly at Eve’s voice on the other end before setting the device on the table. On my right, Lyrisa glances at me, a question in her eyes.

“Everything’s fine,” I say, even as worry snakes its way through my heart. “Apologies for the disruption.”

“Nothing to worry about, Elane,” Davidson says from across the table. “If you need to be excused, or anything else at all, let me know.” His expression is worried, tense. I used to think the premier was immovable, his restraint unbreakable. After five years, I know better—he can be read like anyone else, if you know him well enough.

The others—Davidson’s closest aides and various Scarlet Guard officials—shoot me worried glances. “It’s going to be okay,” I reassure them. “Really. We should continue.”

It feels like I’m lying through my teeth. My mind is consumed by Eve, my fiancée, on patrol. Sworn to protect us all, even at the cost of her own life. But I have my own job to do—our weekly intel meetings are preciously short—and I won’t let my emotions get in the way.

“Back to the situation in the Lakelands, then,” Ada Wallace says after a second. “One of their nobles made contact with the Silver Secession last week.”

She’s the only person in the room without a notebook or files of any sort—naturally, she doesn’t need them. Sometimes, I envy her ability. Paperwork is a nightmare.

“Lord Cassius Merin,” Davidson says, consulting his own papers. “What do we know about him?”

“He’s a cousin to Jidansa Merin,” Lyrisa says. “Very close to the Cygnet royal family. I believe I met him once.”

Ada frowns, and I can practically see the gears whirring in her mind. “The royal family and court are still in turmoil following Cenra’s abdication last month. If Merin contacted the Secessionists on their orders…”

I shudder. The Nortan Silver Secession are violent blood supremacists and bigots, intent on restoring Silver rule through any means possible. If the Lakelands back their play, that could be very bad for us. “An alliance between them could be strong enough to stabilize the Lakelands and threaten the Nortan States,” I say. “Especially after the Dancing War.” This has always been the endgame for them—restore the Nortan monarchy, fix the thrones that Cal and Eve broke.

“Potentially,” Ada says. “But I don’t see who they could possibly put on the throne. Maven is long dead. Cal is not a viable–”

Suddenly I feel the wireless vibrating against the table. I put it to my ear, my heart pounding like a kettle drum. “Eve? Eve, are you there?”

Her voice is nearly unintelligible, punctuated by crackling static. “There’s—trouble—raid—E1–” A high-pitched whine splits the air, and I jolt in my seat, dropping the device to the table with a clatter.

When I raise it to my ear again, there is nothing but static.

Trouble, she said. A raid.

The blood drains from my face. The room has fallen silent, every eye fixed on me. “She needs help,” I say hoarsely. “Evangeline’s in danger.”

Lyrisa grabs my arm, her grip bruising and viselike. “I’ll go help her. I can get to Sector E1 in five minutes if I take a cycle up the Hawkway.”

“You can’t–”

“Watch me. Whoever tried to hurt Evie, I’ll kick their ass–”

“No—Elane is correct. You are too valuable.” Davidson’s voice cuts through the rising clamor like a knife. “A Piedmont princess, the former betrothed of Orrian Cygnet? You cannot let yourself be captured.”

She doesn’t back down. “There’s only one cycle—we can send one person. I’m the only fighter here. It makes sense for me to go.”

“You will not be going,” the premier says. “That is final.”

I turn to him, desperate. “Evangeline needs help. She might be injured, or—” Bile rises in my throat. Eve isn’t dead. She can’t be dead. I can’t imagine a world without her in it.

“Enough,” Davidson says. His voice is deadly calm, but his eyes burn with gold fire as he stands from the table. “I will go.”

“So Lyrisa is too valuable, but the premier of this country is not?” Carmadon appears suddenly in the doorway of the library, and I wonder how long he’s been eavesdropping outside. His face is as hard as I’ve ever seen it, cut with lines of anxiety. “Dane, please—”

“I will go,” Davidson repeats firmly. “My life should hold no greater value than those of my officers. Premiers can...” He hesitates, and I can see through his composure to the person he is underneath: shaken but determined.

“They can be replaced,” he says at last.

His husband closes his eyes, as if he’s willing the words away. “No. They can’t. You can’t.”

“Every second I spend here is a second Evangeline could be in greater danger. If anything’s happened to her…” His voice darkens, and I realize Dane Davidson would be a formidable enemy on the battlefield indeed. I pity whoever tries to cross him.

“Then let me go with you,” Carmadon says suddenly. His voice is afraid, but he does not back down. “I can—”

“You can stay here, in case something happens to me,” Davidson interrupts. He steps through the doorway, and the look he exchanges with his husband is so private that I drop my gaze. “I cannot fight knowing you are in danger as well, Carm. I cannot afford distractions.”

I am suddenly reminded of Evangeline before she went to defend the walls of Corvium. She had begged me to remain safely at the Ridge House. You would only distract me, she’d said. So reluctantly, I had stayed.

She and Davidson are so similar. Destined for greatness, destined to fight a dozen wars and emerge victorious. Theirs is a flame that will never stop burning.

And Carmadon and I? We are similar as well. We tend the hearth, feed the fire, ensure the blaze doesn’t consume itself. We are content to stand in the shadow of greatness, strong enough to let our loves go again and again to the jaws of mortal danger.

Davidson presses a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Trust that I will come home to you. But if I cannot? Have strength, my dear Carmadon. Have strength.”

The door swings shut as he leaves, and I pray that I have not sent him to his death.

~~~

tag list: @evangelineartemiasamos @fuvkingmagnus @lilyharvord @freaky-freiday @drasticsarcastic

#red queen #evangeline samos #elane haven #dane davidson #red queen fandom #evangelane #rq fandom #red queen fanfic #evangeline of montfort #ash garden

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stillthewordgirl · 5 years

Text

LOT/CC fic: Somewhere on Your Road Tonight (ch. 17 of 19)

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

Here's the first of the three "Legendary" chapters--and then this story will be done! The final two are done, so it won't be long.

Bear in mind that the three chapters of "Ripples in Time" took place between chapter 16 and this chapter. Many thanks to LarielRomeniel for the beta!

Can also be read here on AO3 or here on FF.net.

“You’re all back,” Rip marveled, scanning them as they stood there, in the same lot in which he’d met them with the Waverider five months—or more—ago. “I wasn’t sure…”

He shakes his head, smiling a little. It’s a sad smile, but there’s something in it that’s different, Sara thinks. Resolution. His son is saved; he’s honoring his wife’s sacrifice. It wasn’t all for nothing. And now…

“Savage isn’t dead yet,” Leonard drawls, in his uncanny way of following her thoughts. “I think we’re all here for that.” He folds his arms. “Mission’s not done.”

“He needs to burn,” Mick rumbles in agreement.

Rip inclines his head to the other men. “Indeed, Mr. Snart, Mr. Rory. However, we still have to find him, which is now somewhat more difficult—and it wasn’t easy before.” He decloaks the Waverider, however, and waves them toward it. “So. Let’s get started. Dr. Palmer and Ms. Saunders are on board.”

Sara tilts her head toward Rip as the group—her and Leonard, Stein and Jax and Mick—start for the ship.

“How’s Jonas?” she asks quietly.

Rip’s smile is conflicted, but real. “Well enough,” he says, pausing as the hatch opens. “Tucked away safely at the Refuge. And your younger selves have been restored to the timeline.”

“We gathered,” Jax tells him with amusement in his voice as they enter the ship. “Given that Mrs. Stein and…” He pauses, a grin overtaking his face. “…my folks remember us just fine.”

Sara stops too, a laugh escaping her as she registers the words. A smile spreads over Leonard’s face, and even Mick makes a pleased noise. He claps Jax on the back and the younger man staggers a little, still grinning.

Rip, who’d moved ahead of them, halts and turns, looking incredulous.

“Warning your father,” he says slowly, “it worked?”

“Yeah.” Jax smiles at him. “You were right, Captain. I guess time wanted to see my dad and I back together.” He shakes his head as Stein beams at him. “I nearly fell over when I opened the door and he was there. And it’s weird. I had to get used to a lot of new memories—a lifetime--pretty fast. But it’s worth it. I remember…birthday parties and long talks and my dad cheering at my games…”

His smile grows a little rueful. “And getting in trouble for a lotta stupid kid stuff. But it’s good. It’s all good.” He steps forward, nodding to Rip, a greater self-confidence in his body language that Sara can’t help but be aware of. “And now you got time with your boy, too, Captain. So let’s get this done with so you can get back to him.”

Rip’s smile is wistful and pleased. “And so you can get back to your father, Mr. Jackson. And your mother. I hope she wasn’t too worried that I…” He glances at Stein, who looks a little sheepish under his broad smile. “…we rather kidnapped you for months.”

“She wasn’t happy,” Jax allows as they move onto the bridge. “But my dad told her not to worry too much.” He nods as the captain lifts an eyebrow. “Yeah, he remembered. Sort of. He said once that he dreamed I warned him about a bomb in Mogadishu, the day I was born.” He shakes his head. “Then he sort of blinked and laughed and said of course that wasn’t possible.”

“The human mind can twist itself in knots trying to comprehend time travel,” Rip murmurs. “Well, Mr. Jackson, I am truly glad. It seems this venture of ours has done good in more ways than I ever envisioned.” Then, in a quieter voice, “Miranda would be pleased.”

Ray and Kendra enter the bridge too, then, and the greetings take up a few moments. Ray was full of stories about Alex’s early words, and how he’s not only saying “Dada” and “Momma”—but also “book” and “robot.”

“More like ‘boo’ and ‘obot,’” Kendra murmurs to Leonard and Sara, amusement in her tone. “But I do think the intent was there.”

Rip lets this go on with remarkable patience for a while, but then he lifts a hand, asking them to have a seat or otherwise settle themselves. (Which they do with relative alacrity, for once, even Mick.) Then the captain lets out a long sigh, gives them a weary smile, and claps his hands together.

“Well, then,” he murmurs. “Let’s get to it.” He focuses on Kendra. “Ms. Saunders. During your time on Savage’s time ship, did he do or say anything…anything at all…that might be a clue? We are flying blind now, in more ways than one, and even a place to start would be appreciated.”

Kendra’s already nodding, exchanging a glance with Ray.

“He did…he took a blood sample from me,” she says, wrapping one hand around the other arm in what seems to be an almost subconscious gesture. “Said something about it being a key, but he stopped then.” She shakes her head. “He seemed annoyed, about Carter…the 2166 one, anyway. Khufu, Torvil... The Time Masters led Savage to believe we’d be taking him with us, too.”

Rip frowns at that, leaning on the holotable. “The Time Masters were hardly truthful with me, as I’m woefully aware of now,” he muses, “but they did seem to believe they really could dictate all of time. I can’t figure out why some things seem to have slipped past them. Why...”

He stops then. Sara realizes that he’s frowning in Leonard’s direction, and sighs. She knows her eyes had flicked in his direction, but it’s his story to tell, and she hadn’t meant...

Then she notices Mick, who’s fixing his friend with a far more direct glare—and more to the point, Ray, who’s giving Leonard the puppy eyes and not even bothering to hide it. Leonard, leaning against his jump seat, is steadfastly ignoring both of them, studying his nails and projecting an image of great boredom that certainly isn’t true.

Rip, of course, notices too.

"Mr. Snart,” he says with yet another sigh. “Is there something you should be telling me?”

Len’s silent a moment more, but then he lifts his shoulders in a lazy shrug, glances at Sara, glares at Mick and Ray and then transfers his gaze back to Rip.

“OK. Short version,” he drawls. “There was…someone…in the Oculus messing with the Time Masters and undoing some of what they were trying for. And some of the little stuff wound up changing bigger stuff. Added up. And the Time Masters didn’t always or even usually know about it.”

He stops then, chin going up, as if daring to Rip to try to get more out of him. Sara knows he’s still unsettled by his experience meeting his double—and, perhaps, a touch preoccupied with the man’s plight—and it’s clearly nothing he wants to discuss right here, in front of the team.

Rip stares at him with an expression that goes from stunned to putting pieces together. “And how do you know...” He stops, though, and shakes his head. “I want more information later,” he informs Leonard, who shrugs again. “But all right. We’ll leave that be and thank heavens for the gift.” He runs a hair through his hair in habitual distraction, then nods.

“OK,” the captain continues. “So, Savage wants a version of Mr. Hall. He has an array of varieties to choose from. Where, and more to the point, when...”

“But we left him right there,” Stein chimes in. “In 2166. Won’t he just go try to get the version there?”

Kendra’s intake of breath is audible.

“Savage even already had him then,” she marvels. “He just waited because he thought he was going to get both of us, together, wrapped up like a gift.”

Leonard straightened from his slouch, eyes narrowed, worry in his posture. Sara can read that even if not all the others can. “We left Torvil with the resistance,” he says sharply. “Savage will go there. Rip...”

But the captain’s already nodding, turning quickly and heading for his chair.

“We have to at least try, though it seems that we’re already running behind,” he says, “a day late and a dollar short, as usual. Strap in!”

This time, as the Waverider comes in low over London toward the resistance camp, no one’s shooting at them. Leonard decides that has to be a good thing, though Rip looks grim. He’s returning, yet again, to the vicinity of his wife’s death, and yet again, there’s nothing to be done.

It’s enough to make even a cynical crook sympathetic, though Leonard has no intention of letting the other man know that. Rip wouldn’t want sympathy from him anyway. Snark and distraction, that’s the ticket.

For the rebels, it’s been five days since the Legends had flown off with Savage in tow. Rip’s bringing the ship in two days after it’d been when he, Sara, Stein, Jax and Jonas had left before—as soon as possible due to time currents. Leonard doesn’t quite get the principles involved, though Mick grunts in understanding. That means Savage has had two days to get here and wreak havoc, even try to take his army over again—and find his traitorous daughter.

All cynicism aside, Leonard’s worried about the resistance. They’d been his kind of people. And, yes, Cassie. He and Sara may not be what she’d hoped they were—just a story told by a lonely child to explain the rescue she’d hoped would come—but he’ll admit a certain fondness for her. She’s a survivor. Like him. Like Sara.

There are a lot of people running this way and that as the Waverider swoops into the camp, but there doesn’t seem to be any sign of overt fighting or destruction. As soon as the hatch is down, Sara and Leonard leap out, weapons at hand, running toward the core of the camp, Mick, Ray and Kendra behind them. Somehow, they and the ship have apparently been identified, because no one fires at them, although lots of people turn to look.

Kendra, having the ability to hawk out and soar over their heads, does so, landing neatly by the command center even as the resistance commander emerges from her tent, staring at them.

“Carter...Scythian Torvil. The man we left here,” Kendra says urgently. “Where is he? Savage...”

But the other woman has already lifted a hand, nodding. “He’s all right,” she says, a frown crossing her features. “Or he will be. Savage roared in yesterday, did some damage—but he was just looking for Torvil. Stabbed him and then left, getting back on a ship much like yours, but smaller. And he was alone.” She looks back and forth at their faces. “What’s going on?”

Leonard frowns. “He didn’t try to take him?”

“No. Just hurt him.” She smiles a little despite the grim words. “Of course, we’ve also had some success getting through to Torvil, so he wasn’t the good soldier for Savage he was before. And...”

Kendra sighs even as Sara interrupts. “Savage didn’t bother trying to take over his army again?”

“No. Although he’d have found it more difficult than he might have believed.” The smile now is a touch vicious...and proud. “You were right, about his daughter. She’s been an asset, and more of Savage’s people than I would have thought are willing to follow her.”

“She’s OK?” Leonard asks before he can help himself. But then he sees the resistance leader’s eyes flick to over his shoulder, and he turns...just in time for Cassandra to halt in her tracks a few feet away, smiling at him and the others.

“You’re all right,” she says with relief. “I mean, I knew...but you flew off with...him...and then he was back yesterday...I was a little worried.”

“It’s a long story, kid,” Mick tells her a little gruffly. “And now we gotta find him again.”

Cassandra nods, but the resistance leader clears her throat and cuts in then. “Savage said something to Torvil,” she says, studying them. “He’s in the medical tent, recovering from the stab wound. Would you like to talk to him?”

Kendra takes a deep breath, but nods, exchanging a look with Ray. The older woman begins to lead them away, but she gives Cassandra a long speaking glance before she does so, and Leonard looks back at the younger woman in time to see an odd look cross her face.

Then Cassandra takes her own deep breath, nods to herself, and looks at Leonard and Sara. “I have something to show…tell you,” she says. “Will you come with me?”

She sounds...nervous? But excited too. Leonard frowns, but he also nods, as does Sara. They follow the other woman into the camp—Mick, showing his own sort of perception, stays behind—past tents and a few somewhat sturdier constructions. The camp’s looking more, well, solid than it had before; things seem to be going well enough, and he wonders about Cassandra’s role in that. Apparently, she’d won them over quickly.

The young woman in question leads them to one of the sturdier buildings, a solid framework covered with waterproofed canvas that seems to be shored up by other materials in a patchwork fashion. There’s a generator running outside, quietly and smoothly, and once inside, it’s clear why.

The computer monitors in the small room are old, especially by 2166 standards...they wouldn’t look too out of place in 2016.

“A few of the first people to revolt from Savage’s side to ours were the archivists and record keepers who worked in the citadel, and many of the scientists,” Cassandra says, turning and holding out her hands somewhat proudly. “They didn’t like what he was doing with their knowledge.” A frown crosses her face. “And it was...dangerous...to try to leave while Savage was around—more dangerous than I ever knew. Or maybe I didn’t want to know.”

She’s quiet a moment, then shakes her head. “Anyway, as soon as he was gone, a number of them simply packed up everything they could carry, on whatever form of media worked, and ran. Many came here.”

Sara lets out a long, low whistle as Leonard steps forward to peer at the screen of one of the monitors. Cassandra, sounding a little nervous again, continues. “We interview them and then find a place for them, in the structure of the camp. And we...we’re trying to make sure the records are backed up as much as possible. The originals—or the versions that were brought to us—are in safe-keeping elsewhere. But here is where we can access copies.”

Leonard hums thoughtfully, eyeing her. Cassandra glances at him, then away quickly, as if worried he’ll read something on her face.

“There’s a man whose main work was in DNA, genealogy, who was one of the first runaways to come here,” she says, very quietly. “I asked him to look at a blood sample for me, to compare it to others that had been...obtained.”

Sara makes a quizzical noise, but Leonard nods, watching the younger woman. Thinking about conversations, and a lost girl looking for a rescue straight out of a story. A Peter Pan, a Blue Fairy...a Hagrid. (What? He reads.)

“You were hoping you were someone else’s daughter,” he says quietly. “Our daughter. Right?”

Sara laughs a little, sounding rather nervous herself. It’s unusual—that’s a tone Leonard thinks he’s never before heard in her voice—but rather understandable, given the conversation.

“You’re not, though,” she says, looking at Leonard, then back at Cassandra. “Right? I mean, you were born just, what, 20-some years ago?”

Cassandra nods. “Yes, in 2142,” she says. “And no, I’m not. I’m Savage’s daughter, after all.”

Sara lets out a long breath, but Leonard keeps his eyes on Cassandra and waits for the other shoe.

And then she drops it. “I am, however, your descendent.”

And just like that, Sara can’t breathe again.

Oh, she remembers Leonard musing that the younger woman—what, only five years younger than Sara herself right now—looked, and fought, like she could have been theirs. It was true, and it’d started some of her thoughts circling around what else a child of theirs might be like—but even after their “agreement” back in Star City, kids certainly weren’t a thing that were upmost in her thoughts or ambitions. Savage himself was still out there, and Sara intended to see a bit more of time before she went back home, maybe learn to pilot the Waverider a bit more...

“Our...both of us?” she manages finally, then winces. It’s not like there’s anyone else out there she’d be planning to have kids with. But she’s never really discussed the matter with Leonard, either, and while she knows he likes kids more than she’d once expected, that doesn’t mean it applies to fathering—or parenting--them himself.

“Your great-great-great granddaughter, as best he could tell from the DNA markers.” Cassandra nibbles her lip, glancing back and forth between them, looking increasingly upset. Leonard's own expression is still, frozen. “We don’t have complete records from that far back yet, though we’re still collecting them. I don’t know when, or what their name will be. Your son or daughter, I mean.” She blinks, then, and Sara belatedly realizes she’s on the verge of tears. “I’m sorry. I guess this wasn’t a good idea.”

But Leonard moves first, before she can turn away, and the notoriously touch-adverse crook puts a hand gently on her shoulder, drawing her attention. Cassandra, Sara suspects, is probably just as touch-adverse as Leonard, and probably for the same reason, but she looks up at him like he’s given her a gift, an expression that makes Sara hurt for her.

“Hey, kiddo,” Leonard tells her gently. “It’s OK. I get it. We’re family.” He glances over at Sara, something warm and hard to define in his gaze. “It’s just that...this is a lot to digest.”

Cassandra looks over at Sara, who at least feels up to giving her an encouraging nod. The younger woman grows a tiny smile, even though it still looks uncertain.

“I know,” she says with a sigh. “But...I felt you should know. And I...well...”

“I get it,” Leonard tells her. “Sometimes, knowing you got people out there in the world, it keeps you going.” He fixes her with a look that Sara, suddenly biting back hysterical laughter, thinks looks frighteningly paternal. “But family’s more than blood.”

He looks over at Sara, who can pretty much almost read his thoughts. Sometimes it’s the guy who saved your life in juvie. Sometimes it’s the crew of a timeship. Sometimes it’s the little group of women and children who live at the house next door, decades before you were even born.

Cassandra’s smile grows a little. “I’m starting to learn that.”

Kendra and Ray aren’t back yet and Mick’s already left, so Sara and Leonard, after bidding Cassandra farewell, slowly make their way back to where the Waverider is parked on their own. Leonard’s hands are stuffed in his jacket pockets, and Sara has her arms wrapped around herself, and they’re both silent, more so than usual.

The hatch isn’t down, and although they could easily hail the ship and ask Gideon to lower it, Leonard seems uninterested in doing so. He moves off the side, near a copse of trees that had somehow survived all the war and violence Savage had to throw at the area, and Sara follows. And when he plants his back against a battered oak and relaxes into his habitual slouch, she follows suit.

For a long moment, they just study the oddly peaceful day. There’s a hint of tentative birdsong in the air, as if the local wildlife is there, resilient, but still trying to figure out if it’s safe to call attention to itself. Sara closes her eyes, enjoying the faint sunlight on her face, then finally opens them to glance over at Leonard.

“So,” she says. “We’re gonna have a kid.” She looks down at herself, self-consciously smoothing her White Canary leathers over a still-flat stomach. “I mean, not now, or even soon. Pretty sure Gideon would have said something.” She’s babbling. “But...a kid. Within the next few years, I’d presume.”

Leonard turns his head. Sara’s rather relieved to see a hint of a smile on his face. He shifts toward her, studying her a moment.

“Well, I guess we know we survive this whole Savage thing, at least ‘til I knock you up,” he drawls finally, humor in his tone, then shrugs. “Well, I will. You’ll get at least nine more months after that.”

It’s not really funny, but Sara lets out a huff of laughter anyway. He doesn’t seem upset so much as...pensive...not if he can make jokes like that.

“Yeah, well, given that I’ll have to do all the work of that portion of the enterprise, that’s only fair,” she retorts.

He lets out his own not-quite-a-laugh, then studies her, eyes serious. “You OK?”

It’s a good question. Sara’s not sure how to answer it.

“I...Leonard, I wasn’t even sure I could have kids,” she says haltingly, turning more fully toward him too. “Like you said. It’s a lot to digest.” She studies him in return. “And you? I mean, I know you kinda like kids—other people’s kids, anyway—but I wasn’t sure this was a thing you’d want, or even be OK with.”

Leonard tilts his head, and Sara watches his eyes go distant—but she can see that he’s thinking, and not just withdrawing, so she holds her peace and simply watches him. After a moment, he sighs, shaking his head.

“Me neither,” he says, very quietly. “I mean, you know what my dad was like. And...I tried my best with Lisa, but I wasn’t what she needed. I was just what was there. I didn’t do a great job.”

There’s a sort of pain in that admission that Sara doesn’t think she’s ever heard from him before. She moves closer, leaning against him and feeling the sigh that moves through his body as he puts an arm around her shoulders. It’s a reminder how far they’ve come, and she closes her eyes, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’m not so sure she’d agree with you on that,” she murmurs. “Lisa.��

Another sigh and an even quieter: “Coulda done better.”

“I think the deal with parenting is that everyone could. I think that...you just do the best you can, and you hope.” It’s funny. She understands her parents better now than she ever has before in her life, Sara thinks. She thinks about the Gambit and she sighs, but even if she could change it now, she wouldn’t. Too many other things wouldn’t have happened.

The silence stretches. Sara opens her eyes and glances back toward the camp, wondering about Kendra and Ray. It can’t be easy, dealing with the reincarnated Carter, even—or especially—if he’s starting to break Savage’s control.

Something about the movement, though, seems to break Leonard from his reverie. He shakes his head and, to Sara’s disappointment, pulls his arm from her shoulders. But then he also moves his hands to her shoulders as she glances back at him, with a grip that’s gentle and strong, and when she looks up into his face, she sees an expression that’s determined and tentative at the same time.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he tells her. “I’m sure that any kid I’d have with you would be...incredible.” A deep breath as Sara stares at him. “And I may not be good at the...the whole dad thing...at all, but I'll do the best I can. And I figure you won’t let me fuck up too badly.”

It’s honest and brave and so...well, sweet...that Sara has to take a minute to respond. She gazes up at him wordlessly for long enough that she sees him tense and start to reach for his habitual snark and ice to defuse the moment.

“Same back at you, OK?” she says before he can, reaching up to lay a hand along his jaw. “I mean, this scares me to death...more than things that probably should have scared me a lot more, over my lifetimes...but I trust you. We’ll figure this parenthood stuff out.”

A corner of Leonard’s mouth ticks up. “I kinda think we’ve already figured part of it out. Certainly been having a lot of fun practicing.”

Sara’s startled into a laugh. “A point. But...”

But there’s a rustle of feather then, and they both look up as Kendra wings in to land neatly nearby. She doesn’t look upset, not quite, but she does look very, very focused, and the look she gives Sara and Leonard is more hawklike than even her wings.

“We have a lead,” she says. “Let’s go.”

#somewhere on your road tonight #captain canary #legends of tomorrow #sara x leonard

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swanqueeneverafter · 6 years

Text

45. The Dark Swan, Pt.5

Merlin's Tower. (Regina slams a book closed in frustration. Robin is there, along with a mute Zelena.) Robin Hood: “It's all right. You'll get it. Perhaps it's time for a spot of tea. Calm nerves lead to clear thoughts.” (Regina nods and Robin leaves. Regina turns to see Zelena rolling her eyes.) Regina: “You're here so I can keep an eye on you, mute handmaiden. I don't need you rolling your eyes at me. We need to clear the air in fact.” (Regina restores Zelena’s voice.) Zelena: “Ah! (Laughs:) Oh, there you are, my lovely voice. It's so... light and feminine.” Regina: “Enough. Now... let's have a little chat about you trying to escape back to Oz. Zelena... you know you can't take that child away from Robin.” Zelena: “Well can you blame me? You're going to take it from me. This child could be my only chance for someone to truly love me, and... you got a second chance. Why can't I?” Regina: “Why do you think we brought you along? Robin seems to think you’re worthy of yet another second chance, even after you threatened his life. You can't keep painting yourself as a victim. It's absurd.” Zelena: “A second chance, with Robin? You do realise I only shacked up with him to mess with your happy ending?” Regina: “Yes, and how was that supposed to work exactly?” Zelena: "Well, when I followed your girlfriend back in time, I managed to find the Author. We had quite the little chat, Isaac and I. Even back then he was already writing fiction. But, try as I might, I couldn't convince him to do my bidding and change your fate. Something else must've done that. Anyway, I did manage to get something from him." Regina: (Thinks:) "Like what?" Zelena: "Remember the page depicting you and forest-boy kissing? (At Regina’s look:) Oh yes. I knew exactly what to do with that. So, after I returned to the present as Marian, I merely had to wait for the right moment." Regina: "You put that page in Robin's bag?" Zelena: "Oh, absolutely. I thought that if you believed you were destined to be with Robin, it’d tear you up inside, make you question everything. And by the time you decided you loved Robin, I’d already be in place to ruin your chance at happiness.” Regina: “Yeah, well nice try, sis. But you clearly didn't account for my feelings for Emma.” Zelena: "Obviously not. Still, (Rubbing her stomach:) at least I got something out of all my hard work. You can tell me that life is fair all you want. All I can tell you is that I'm still seeing one sister with all the...” Regina: (Taking Zelena’s voice once more:) “Be quiet and listen for once in your life. (Zelena stomps her foot:) You forget who I am. The Evil Queen. I can be a far greater nightmare than you can possibly imagine. Robin believes you can change, so for now... my gift to you is a promise. I will make sure your baby is fine and loved and safe. But if you betray us again, the same will certainly not hold for you.”

The Round Table. (Now clad in armor, Arthur shows David his selection of weaponry.) David: “Wow.” King Arthur: “I like to be prepared.” (They each take a sword. David turns and spots something.) David: “Is that... Percival’s chair?” King Arthur: “Yes. But no need for more apologies. A leader does what needs to be done. I'll find a man worthy to fill that seat. (Arthur gestures to the tallest chair at the table:) This is the one that will stand empty forever.” David: “I assume that was your chair. Suitable for a King.” King Arthur: “No. Mine is no different than the others in the same way that the table is round. Many of our order are kings and princes in their own realms. Nonetheless happy to sit shoulder to shoulder with the rest of their knights. No one of us above the other. Except for this one. This is the Siege Perilous. Reserved for the knight with the purest heart, the one destined to carry out the most sacred quests. It once belonged to a man I trusted more than a brother. But he betrayed me. It's been vacant since.” David: “Lancelot.” King Arthur: “You've heard of him.” David: “Well, all of you are kind of legends.” King Arthur: “Really? I shudder to think what our tale must be.” David: “Oh, only one of the greatest romances of all time. Your love for Guinevere was ripped away by your best friend, Lancelot. It's a tragic story that clearly had a happy ending. The two of you seem like all that's in the past now.” King Arthur: “Yes. Lancelot was a good man. The situation was difficult.” David: “I understand. Actually, Snow... Mary Margaret and I, we met him.” King Arthur: “You did? How is he?” David: “I'm... very sorry to tell you this, but we... learned that he died. I'm sorry.” King Arthur: “Lancelot failed to resist temptation, but he was a good knight. He tortured himself for his sins far more than I would've done. I wished him happy. Just not with my wife. (The door opens and a page enters, carrying a large trunk. As it’s placed on the table, Arthur opens it:) This... is our reliquary, containing sacred magical items our knights have recovered.” David: (As Arthur pulls out a burning torch:) “I've never seen magic like that.” King Arthur: “It's the Unquenchable Flame. Said to be part of the burning bush itself. This will light our path, and where we're going, we're gonna need it.” Brocéliande. The Forest of Eternal Night. (David and Arthur trek through the forest.) David: “What is it, noon? You weren't kidding about eternal night. I'm glad we have a torch.” King Arthur: “I'm glad we sent Grif home with the horses. These woods would make him restless.” David: “Your squire works hard, Your Majesty.” King Arthur: “‘And you don't thank him enough.’ I can hear you saying it even when you don't. You're right, though. I don't even have the excuse of ignorance. I was born a common man and I've been in service myself.” David: “You weren't born noble?” King Arthur: (Chuckles:) “I'm as peasant as they come.” David: “Shepherd.” King Arthur: “Ah. (Chuckles:) I can feel my backbone relaxing already. Let's stop with the ‘Your Majesties,’ shall we?” David: “Of course.” King Arthur: “As for my squire, I assure you Guin more than makes up the difference. Showering him and the others with gifts. She really is the kindest woman I've ever met.” David: “Sounds like my wife. When she decides you're family, she'd die for you.” King Arthur: “That's not to say Guin doesn't have her fierce side. With a bow and arrow, I've seen her take out the eye of a dove in flight.” David: “Mary Margaret could do that. She wouldn't, but she could.” King Arthur: “We should have a tourney. Get them to compete.” David: (Chuckling:) “Right. 'Cause I'm sure they'd love to be pitted against each other to let us feel good about ourselves.” King Arthur: (Hands David the flame:) “Here. (Opens a flask and offers it to David:) Then perhaps there are better ways for me to show off.” David: “You're a competitive man for someone with a round table. I thought the idea was you didn't want to sit above anyone.” King Arthur: “Someone who isn't competitive doesn't need a two-ton table to remind him to be humble. I know my weaknesses. Lancelot and Guinevere weren't the only ones to blame for what happened to them. I was a difficult man to live with. But I made a conscious decision to fix things.” David: “I understand that.” King Arthur: “This way.” The Lake. (They come to a lake and stand at the end of the bridge.) King Arthur: “Look upon that, brother.” David: “So it is real. (Uses an eyeglass to spot the toadstool:) Crimson Crown. (Puts the eyeglass away and steps on the bridge, which sinks into the water:) It'll never take both of us. I'll go.” King Arthur: “I'll wait here. Let the torch be your beacon back.” David: “Thank you.” (The wooden bridge beneath his feet creaks and cracks as he begins to cross. Halfway along, he falls. Picking himself up, David continues on as we see armor shining in the water.)

(Upon reaching the other side, David cuts the mushroom from the island, while the enchanted armor of slain knights rise out of the water. The armor attacks David, one piece of pulls him underwater. Eventually Arthur saves him by pulling David up.) David: (Gasping for breath:) “Thank you.” King Arthur: “Think nothing of it. It would appear you did it. Well done.” (Quickly they both cross the bridge to safety. David suddenly looks panicked.) King Arthur: “David, what is it?” David: “The toadstool. It's gone. Either the phantom knights took it, or it was lost in the bog.” King Arthur: (Looking back at the lake:) “We could search for it.” David: “No. It's gone.” King Arthur: (Sighs:) “The word ‘quest’ means to seek, not to find. It's the seeking that matters.” David: “You believe that?” King Arthur: “Not truly, no. If the finding is what makes a difference in this world, then that's what I want. I'm sorry.” (David ruefully begins to laugh and Arthur joins him.) David: “My father, he drank his life away. My brother accomplished nothing but evil. There was a time I thought I'd be different. Change the world. But I just... I don't want to only be remembered as the man who kissed a sleeping princess awake 30 years ago.” King Arthur: “I understand.” David: “You do? You're King of Camelot.” King Arthur: (Chuckles:) “Yes, some large rock decided I was a hero. Prophecy fulfilled. (Both chuckle:) But since then, I've had victories and I've had losses. And I've learned that it's the losses that require us to be brave. So, if anything will make us heroes...” David: “It's the never giving up. Even after a loss.” King Arthur: “Indeed.” David: “Well, we might as well get out of here. (Stands and offers his hand:) There's work to be done. And it's not here.” King Arthur: (As David pulls him to his feet:) “Good man. David, if you want to be part of something, do something that matters, I have a place for a man like you.”

The Round Table. Night. (There is applause as David enters the room, followed by Mary Margaret.) King Arthur: (As David kneels before him:) “I dub thee Sir David of the Enchanted Forest. Now of the Round Table. (To David:) I know 'Knight of the Round Table’ is pale fire, indeed, next to the title of prince.” David: “No. I am beyond honored.” King Arthur: “Then rise, Sir Knight. Take your place.” (David moves towards Percival's chair, but King Arthur clears his throat and points to the Siege Perilous chair.) David: (Murmuring:) “Really?” King Arthur: “I never thought I'd find anyone I trust enough to fill that seat. But it's yours. (They cross to the table, Guinevere holding David’s shield:) It will bear your coat of arms. (They shake hands:) Not bad for a shepherd, eh?” David: (Chuckles:) “Thank you.” (As David takes his seat, applause breaks out again. As baby Neal starts crying, Mary Margaret steps outside the room, and sees a shadow move.)

Mary Margaret: “Someone there? (As the figure steps into the light:) It can't be.” Lancelot: (Approaching:) “It is.” Mary Margaret: “Lancelot. We thought you were dead.” Lancelot: “That is a long story. But trust your eyes... it is me. And right now, my struggles don't matter. What does is that there is a terrible villain in Camelot.” Mary Margaret: “The Dark One. We know. It's our daughter. We're going to fix it.” Lancelot: “No. There's another villain. Arthur.” Mary Margaret: “What?” Lancelot: “Trust me. Camelot is not what it seems.” (Troubled by this, Mary Margaret stares back into the room where Arthur is applauding David along with everyone else.) Later That Night. The Round Table. (Arthur sits alone at the table as Guinevere stands watching him.) King Arthur: “Today was a difficult day.” (Arthur unwraps the previously concealed toadstool.) Queen Guinevere: “You lied to him, to David.” King Arthur: “And it brought me no pleasure. He's a good man. A noble man, but I must think of my kingdom first.” Queen Guinevere: (Placing her hand on his shoulder:) “Of course you must.” King Arthur: “That is always the burden of a king.”

The End.

#sq #swanqueen #swan queen

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gadgetsrevv · 5 years

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Barcelona are in crisis. Here’s how Valverde can turn Messi, Suarez & Co. around

Hands up if you’re loving every second of Barcelona’s ever-deepening crisis of faith, hapless away form and evident bewilderment, as every rival now plays them with the conviction that Spain’s champions are there for the taking.

You’re not alone. It’s one of sport’s most enduring storylines, as teams that have lain waste to all opponents before them with absolute inevitability then wane, decline and get pulverised. It’s not a matter of “maybe,” only a matter of how well you prepare and cope. “Nothing’s more certain than death, taxes and the collapse of possession football if it’s not properly cared for,” as Benjamin Franklin surely meant to say.

For that reason there will be widespread glee about Barcelona’s sudden vulnerability, far further than among Madridistas, Espanyol fans and anyone of a Manchester United, Juventus or Arsenal persuasion who still resents either the manner or just the pain of those three Champions League final defeats since 2006.

– Hunter: Ansu Fati proves ‘Barca DNA’ as strong as ever – Marcotti’s Musings: Catch up with the weekend action – Ogden: Why Man United’s owners won’t care about bad results

People find it fascinating, even enjoyable, when mighty edifices crumble and fall. They call it “Schadenfreude” in German, a deliciously malicious enjoyment of someone else’s woes. Football has, metaphorically, become such a bloodlust sport that there will be many who think that the only feasible remedy is to accept Ernesto Valverde’s mea culpa on Saturday night after Barca lost in Granada for the first time since 1972 and sack him.

(A fun stat: Barça has lost there five times in club history, and every time it happened, they failed to win La Liga that season.)

During the buildup to Tuesday’s Camp Nou meeting between La Liga’s highest scoring teams thus far, with Villarreal matching Barca’s 12 goals after five games, Valverde accepted the reality of his side’s malaise. “Coaches are always fighting against the sack. That’s not a novelty for me or any of my peers. Given the job I’ve got, it’s results that dictate [my fate]. If Barca aren’t leaders, then the manager’s under intense scrutiny. But two good results can end a ‘crisis.'”

A couple of weeks ago Messi admitted, “I think everyone worried that the coach might be sacked at the end of last season because we didn’t meet our objectives, but it was more the players’ fault than his.”

The problems with Valverde

Three things are true of Valverde. First, while Barcelona were bristling with steely ambition and their key leaders were fit and on form, his “light hand on the tiller” approach to management was perfect. Just look at the good haul of trophies since he took over.

Secondly, now that the seas are extremely stormy, his style of coaching — specifically the “pact” he struck with the squad leaders that rather than him being the outright boss (like an Alex Ferguson), he’d be primus inter pares, aka “first among equals” — will need an upgrade. That he struck such a deal with Messi, Sergio Busquets, Gerard Pique and Luis Suarez made sense: His was the ultimate responsibility, but it was an extremely benign, consultative dictatorship.

It’s a long way of saying that Valverde reckoned, “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” It worked a treat … up to a point. Now it’s out of date. Things are broken. They’re fixable but cracked.

The third thing that’s true of Valverde, I’d argue, is that he isn’t enjoying his work as much as he once did.

Yeah, I hear you: boo-hoo-hoo. He’s well paid, and he knew the stresses and potential indignities of managing a huge, often self-destructive and deeply divided club such as FC Barcelona. You’re playing the world’s smallest violin in sympathy for him, right? But this is a decent, hard-working guy who’s respected by the large majority of his squad, simply doing the same things that won him six trophies (and a UEFA Cup runners-up medal with Espanyol) before he took over at Barca.

He’s not a dud. He is not someone to be dissed lightly, nor is sacking him the real solution to what’s been going wrong.

Ernesto Valverde needs to change his tactics to get the best out of his team.

The flaws are easy to list and interdependent. Fundamental to Barcelona’s producing a brand of football that was hellish to combat and made them if not unique then brand leaders was positional play. Intricate, demanding and intelligent play that required both discipline and intelligence. Yet it has been abandoned by the club, in the first team at least, for some considerable time.

Eventually, under someone such as Xavi perhaps, it’ll be restored, but will there be competent students to impose it?

That’s an intriguing question for the future. Positional play helps possession play, as does the availability of Xavi and Andres Iniesta. Gradually, Barcelona’s actual amounts of possession have declined, but much more startling has been the decline in strategy for why possession is important: what you can do with it to punish the opposition. In the cases of some players, “possession” has begun to mean “running with the ball” rather than letting the ball do the work. It’s anathema to the Frank Rijkaard, Johan Cruyff, Pep Guardiola and Tito Vilanova school of thought.

Barcelona are not anywhere near as tough — whether physically, spiritually, athletically or competitively — as they were in the era when they could count on Puyol, David Villa, Samuel Eto’o, Iniesta, Xavi, Dani Alves, Pedro, Seydou Keita, Yaya Toure or Eric Abidal. Gradually — and I think this is an inescapable truth — they’ve gotten a little softer. The mix of technique, brains, character, strength, athleticism and height declined across the first-team squad.

There’s also less pace. Several of those players who would feature in most people’s “best XI” of the current squad are actively short of pace, either in explosive sprints or over a foot race. When the ball isn’t moving quickly, this becomes a far greater Achilles’ heel.

President Josep Bartomeu has been pretty obsessed with passing the buck, whether it existed or not, to the guys who did his football planning: Andoni Zubizarreta, Robert Fernandez, Pep Segura and the exceptional Joan Vila, three of whom should have been retained. Now he’s left with an imbalanced squad in which two of the three full-backs, Junior Firpo and Nelson Semedo, aren’t good enough, in which there’s that lack of pace and in which no one seems to have planned for the fact that the only centre-forward turns 33 in January, carries extra weight, struggles to get away from defenders and hasn’t scored away from home in the Champions League in four years.

Luis Suarez remains an astonishingly clever, competitive and successful footballer, but the lack of strategy to replace him or make him compete for his place has shown either incompetence or fear of upsetting his major stakeholder, Messi.

Barcelona need to change formations

Let me propose a solution for Barcelona supporters. It’s a good one too. Hopefully Valverde is reading this.

Apart from the instincts that Pique, Busquets, Jordi Alba and perhaps Arthur are still imbued with, the whole position-possession-pressing thing that made the modern Barca famous, admired and successful has pretty much departed, meaning that the 4-3-3 they currently play is out-of-date. It’s a touchstone of the philosophy that, in due course, Victor Valdes, Puyol, Xavi and perhaps even Jordi Cruyff could reinstate, but right now, it’s a relic.

Barcelona, away from home, simply do not possess the means to make that formation effective. It’s a strength turned weakness. The solution is a 4-2-3-1. That formation is not a magical formula in itself but is a good fit for Barca’s playing staff while addressing current weaknesses and turning them into strengths.

Frenkie De Jong would benefit from a switch in formation at Barcelona as he continues to gel with his new team.

Frenkie De Jong was always going to require time to settle in and develop. He’s 22 with only 12 Champions League matches and fewer international caps. But most of his impressive football at Ajax was part of the pivotal partnership in a 4-2-3-1. Let him enjoy that role next to Busquets (on rotation with Arthur/Rakitic and so on).

Busquets benefitted hugely from Ivan Rakitic playing as a “double-pivot” next to him for large parts of the past two seasons. In fact, Valverde’s Barcelona were often lined up in a 4-4-2 last term. De Jong can be Busquets’ bodyguard now.

Another new signing, Antoine Griezmann, doesn’t like playing as a winger or very much as centre-forward. But right now, he could easily play as a No. 9 in front of Ousmane Dembele, Messi and Fati Ansu until Suarez trains away a kilo or two. After that, Barca could run Suarez at No. 9 with permutations of Messi coming in off the right, Griezmann in the middle of the three and Ansu or Dembele on the left. That not only could augment the chance creation but also would offer Valverde the option of installing a high press.

The 4-2-3-1 formation probably asks the full-backs to fly forward far less than, say, Alba currently does. But with Alba and Roberto edging forward into midfield to flank Busquets and De Jong, a mixture of Pique, Jean-Clair Todibo, Clement Lenglet and Samuel Umtiti as the alert, high-line centre-backs and Marc-Andre ter Stegen happy to play the “sweeper-keeper” role, there are far more solutions than new problems.

Valverde has had the chutzpah to try to find solutions by dropping Busquets, promoting Ansu and Carles Perez and mysteriously giving Rakitic the kind of limited minutes that suggest he was either caught swearing in church or singing the Real Madrid anthem in the showers.

The burning question now is whether Valverde also the chutzpah to accept that 4-3-3 is now making his team weaker and change formation.

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#Articles #Barcelona #Spanish Primera División Barcelona are in crisis. Here’s how Valverde can turn

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webcricket · 7 years

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It’s Only Castles Burning

Pairing: CastielXReader

Word Count: 4745

Summary: Established CastielXReader. Powered up with the souls of purgatory, Castiel forsakes his friends, exacts punishment upon his foes in Heaven, and begins to do God’s work on Earth. Feared by everyone he encounters, he seeks out the only person who ever seemed to truly understand his motives as hitchhiker leviathans progressively overpower his will and corrupt his vessel from within.

A/N: One-shot written for @roxy-davenport / Lexie’s SPN Birthday Challenge with prompt pairing Leviathan!Cas X Fem!Reader (see also Godstiel and Dom!Cas), claiming, biting smut, movie Amityville Horror 2005 (in which Cas’ vessel is the metaphorical evil house), and quote “Get your hands off her!” Written erotica content warning – specifically, oral (male receiving), pinned spooning, and mentions of cowgirl/denied orgasm. Italicized quotes are direct excerpts from SPN episode 7X01 Meet the New Boss and 7X02 Hello, Cruel World and are not mine – fic is set during the time period of these episodes with canonically dark themes and descriptions of physical violence consistent with Cas’ character arc and the leviathans. All things considered, I think I managed to keep it a tiny bit fluffy (you know, considering what happens in 7X02).

Scanning the pallid faces of the Winchesters and Bobby Singer, Castiel perceived only fear. These humans he once called friends did not love him, did not respect him.

“Stop, what’s the point if you don’t mean it. You fear me, not love, not respect, just fear.”

Castiel won – victor in the battle for Heaven and Earth against Raphael. In affront to the misgivings of his so-called friends, he also managed to out-maneuver the King of Hell at his own manipulative game. Castiel deserved this power – this glory, and they had the audacity to deny it to him. The betrayal disappointed him, but the frustration of utter terror radiating from their souls rather than awe of his newfound authority infuriated the seraph turned God. However, Castiel was a just and merciful God, and although disloyalty demands justice, these men were one-time allies - flawed men deserving of mercy.

“Be thankful for my mercy.”

Despite their indiscretions, he spared their lives with a warning he knew they were not likely to heed.

“I hope for your sake this is the last time you see me.”

“Bobby, slow down,” woozy from a precipitous rush of adrenaline, you sat on the edge of the musty motel bed, worn springs creaking in recoil.

“That idjit opened purgatory and drank every last soul. Now he’s juiced up and calling himself the new God,” Bobby’s exasperated voice exclaimed over the tinny speaker of the phone held in your wobbly hands.

You absorbed the news, the beginnings of a relieved grin sprawling across your features. Cas told you of his plan, and you supported him however you could, even splitting alliances with the brothers and the old hunter on account of your romantic involvement with the angel. Sure, you had doubts about him acting behind the backs of Sam and Dean, but this was about the greater good, and the brothers were a stubborn lot - leaving out certain details saved valuable time, and stopping the next apocalypse was infinitely more important than the Winchesters’ hurt feelings. Amorously skewed loyalties aside, Cas presented the best game plan and you backed him.

“You hearing me, girl?” Bobby’s tone rose an octave, snapping your awareness to the present.

“Yeah, got it, new God. What about Raphael?” You queried - after all, eliminating the archangel was the whole point of the crazy endeavor. If he was still out there, inciting the angels to rise against humanity, the danger hadn’t yet passed.

“Bloody writing on the wall,” the old hunter grumbled.

“And Crowley?” You wondered, already gathering Cas must have duped Crowley too. You’d anticipated the scheming king double crossing him, reminding the angel he had a tendency to be too trusting and that the former crossroad’s demon always had a loophole when it came to power grabs.

“In the wind,” Bobby answered.

“Damnit Bobby, he did it! I knew he would!” You didn’t attempt to mask the unleashing of joy - you were proud of your angel. Silence answered your triumphant exclamation and celebratory squeals. Rolling your eyes derisively, you muttered into the phone, “Bobby, look. I know you and those boys don’t agree with the method, but what’s the problem? All’s well that ends-”

“Y/N, he’s got to be stopped. You didn’t see him, it’s not Cas anymore,” Dean’s gruff voice interrupted.

“Dean,” you spoke his name through gritted teeth. “Stopped?” You instantly realized where Dean was going with this - he intended to use you to get to the angel, “So you’re calling me ‘cause you think I’m the chink in his armor, right?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that, but yeah, if the shoe fits,” Dean replied. “He might let his guard down with you, even now. I know how you feel about him Y/N, but-”

“What do you expect me to do Dean, bat my lashes, say come hither, and stab him in the heart with an angel blade?” You spat, vitriolic.

“Sam already tried it. Didn’t work,” Dean stated flatly, without remorse.

Bristling with fury at his nonchalance, you jumped to your feet, stomping across the dank carpet, snarling into the receiver, “You tried to kill him? Castiel? Our Cas? You tried to kill him and now you’re asking for my help to do the same. After everything he’s done for us, for you. It wasn’t enough for you to refuse to support him when he needed you the most, when he begged you for your help, now you want him dead. No Dean, I can’t...I’ll never help you hurt him. I’d sooner die!”

“That may be exactly what happens the next time you see him, sweetheart.”

“He left you alive after you tried to kill him. Makes him a better man than me,” you retorted with a snort. Dean was wrong. Castiel’s heart perpetually dwelt in the right place, why couldn’t Dean understand? You picked absent-mindedly at the peeling wallpaper beside the window, inhaling a quietening breath, intent on winning the hunter over to your opinion, “Come on Dean, it’s Cas. He’d never hurt us.”

“Wouldn’t he? Try telling that to Sam. His mind’s broken,” Dean groused. “You didn’t see him. All that power. Y/N, it changed him.”

“He’d never hurt me,” you murmured, knuckles tensed cold and white around the phone as your hand slumped to your side. You felt sorry for Sam, you sincerely did. But the angel would never harm you, he loved you – he’d told you as much before the eclipse when he tucked you safely away in this warded motel room in case he failed - in case Raphael sought vengeance or Crowley got vindictive. You knew power could change people, but Cas wasn’t people. If he was calling himself God, if he didn’t fix Sam, then he must have a very good reason. Dean was biased, judgement clouded, he would always choose his brother over everything else. Embracing free will, Cas chose you. Exercising free will, you chose Cas. You trusted the angel implicitly, reiterating under your breath, “Never.”

Dean’s defeated warning pierced the quiet, “Yeah, well I guess we’ll see about that. I suggest you lay low, stay off his radar. Find somewhere safe, ward it for all the good it will do. And Y/N, when he shows up, when you finally understand, you know where to find us.”

Lip twitching indignantly, you swiped the screen of the phone, ending the call - as if you would ever hide from the angel to whom you’d given your heart. Gaze rising to the water-stained ceiling, directing your longing heavenward, you prayed, “Castiel?”

The new God first restored order in Heaven. If the demonstration of his righteous leadership and consequences for insubordination required the sacrifice of thousands of disloyal angels, he could only view those brethren as inconsequential collateral damage in the grander scheme.

“Be obedient children.”

With this stern cautioning, Castiel sensed a resounding shudder of angelic trepidation. Here he was, assuming the vacant role of their father, selflessly accepting the responsibility to guide and nurture them, something they’d yearned for – and where love and fidelity should reside, there existed only a thinly veiled terror. It didn’t make sense, his brothers and sisters should be exultant, not ungrateful. Tone tempered, attempting to allay their doubts, he decreed.

“Rejoice.”

Three full days, a tad beyond 72 hours since Bobby’s phone call, a dozen ignored calls from Sam and Dean, and still Castiel failed to answer your litany of prayers. Dithering betwixt fitful slumber and anxious wakefulness, you tossed uncomfortably on the worn mattress, flinging off threadbare sheets, skin sticky and sheened with sweat on account of the air conditioner having broken the night before. The manager offered you a new room, but you refused to leave – this is where Cas left you, and here you would remain.

“Y/N.”

Eyes popping open, legs flailing, you scrambled backward in alarm, shoulder blades knocking on the headboard, which, being screwed into the wall, was the only thing in this Godforsaken roach nest that didn’t creak when you touched it.

Castiel lingered in shadow near the window, passively observing as you blinked the sleep from your eyes.

“Cas? Cas!” Leaping off the bed at the angel, you draped your arms about his immovable frame, peppering his mouth and jaw with relieved kisses. So overcome with elation, you didn’t notice his failure to return your affection, “I was so worried, Dean said-”

Cas’ eyes narrowed at the mention of that name, roughly grabbing you by the upper arms to peel you off his body. He wondered if he had dallied too long in his return, if Dean had already poisoned you against him.

You wriggled in protest at the loss of contact, clutching the lapels of his trench coat, imploring, “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Brow furrowed, he cocked his head almost imperceptibly to the left, austerely regarding you, eyes glinting dangerously red in the harsh light of the neon motel vacancy sign bleeding through the paper thin curtains. “Kneel,” he commanded, the subtle tensing of his stubbled jaw suggesting he expected you to refuse, to disappoint him as all the others had.

Focus locked on his dark gaze, legs weakened by awakening arousal, you did not hesitate to comply, dropping to your knees, suggestively trailing your fingertips down the front of his body as you did so. Staring up in expectant silence, your heart pounded, every beat resounding with adoration and love. Dean was wrong. Cas stood before you, your Cas, peering at you through those same expressive sapphire eyes – not a single facet of color shined upon you with malice. You held no fear in your heart of the angel.

The lines of his face softening incrementally, he reached out. Extending long fingers to brush your cheek - he felt no recoil from his touch, recognized no anxiety in your features, and distinguished only devotion toward him dwelling within your soul. He would never tell you he intentionally avoided you these past few days, unaware himself that he was petrified of your potential reaction, of seeing the same fear he saw in Sam and Dean and Bobby and his own kin mirrored on your face – knowing your rejection would kill the only part of him that mattered, the part capable of love. A pleased smile impressed upon his mouth at your open acceptance of his authority.

“Cas,” shutting your eyes, you exhaled his name, leaning into his caress, “I missed you so much.”

“I know,” he tenderly traced the bowed edges of your lips, “but there was and is much work for me to do.” The calloused pad of his thumb parted your pink lips, “Still, I think you’ve been patient enough, my love.”

Your heart fluttered at the term of endearment, eyes flickering open to search his lust-darkened pupils, a flood of heat gushing in your center at the domineering way he gazed down upon you. You swallowed a whimper, fingers kneading his thickly muscular thighs, “Would you like to know exactly how much I missed you?”

A low growl erupted from his chest as he tangled his fingers in your hair, bending to crush your mouth with a needy kiss – lips rough and insistent, sucking and bruising your own, tongue invading to devour your taste.

Blindly fumbling with his belt buckle, you grazed his already hardening length.

He emancipated your mouth with a groan, tightening his grip on your hair, snaking an arm around your waist to haul you to your feet, teeth ravishing and marking the delicate sweat-salted skin of your collarbone, claiming you as his own.

You stifled a squeal at the pleasurable sting of his bites, palming and squeezing his clothed arousal in retaliation, nipping at his earlobe, whispering, “Castiel, let me worship you.”

He angled away from you, freeing his fingers from your hair, a gratified smile curving the corner of his mouth and conveying approval at your choice of words. Nodding once, he assented to a demonstration of your veneration.

Sauntering around the angel with a simper, you tugged at the collars of his trench coat and suit jacket, stripping him simultaneously of the burdensome garments. Pressing your heated body to his broad back, hands delving beneath his arms to travel the landscape of his chest, you loosened and yanked free his tie, unfastening buttons as your fingers happened upon them in their wanderings, nails raking the exposed planes of flesh.

His muscles went rigid in anticipation beneath your touch.

Yanking off his shirt, laving his shoulders in a meandering line of wet open mouthed kisses, your hands journeyed ever lower – unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers, you slid them and his boxers to his ankles, liberating his straining cock.

He groaned, peering back at you, kicking off his boots and the puddled fabric around his feet, compelling you with hooded eyes to continue.

Grasping the base of his cock, you stepped around the angel, stroking him excruciatingly slow, standing up on tip-toes to nibble the prickly angle of his jaw, biting and drawing his lower lip through your teeth. Twisting your wrist, spurring a swell of knee-wobbling pleasure to course through him, you flaunted a sultry smirk, “Do you have any idea how much I adore this perfect vessel of yours Castiel? This temple?”

“Show me,” he growled, hardening in your grip.

You knelt before him, not needing to be commanded, licking and wetting your lips as you admired his perfect cock. Maintaining eye contact, you dragged your tongue over his slit, spreading the beaded pre-cum around the smooth tip with a widening swirling motion.

Blue eyes snapping forcefully closed, he raggedly panted your name mingled with praising words of Enochian.

Diverting your attention lower, you fondled his balls, massaging with increasing pressure the hypersensitive patch of skin behind them. Steadying his strained lurch forward with a palm flattened to his thigh, you licked a broad glistening stripe up the fleshy ridged underside of his cock, stroking him vigorously with clamped fingers in the wake of your tongue, kissing his purple engorged tip dotingly. Blowing puffs of cooling air teasingly across his saliva coated tip, you glanced up innocently for the pure indulgence of beholding his wanton reaction.

His fingers flew to snarl in your hair, blackened pupils fixed upon you, countenance wrecked, growling through clenched teeth, “Continue.”

You grinned, amused at his persistent illusion of control, content in the knowledge he was all yours in this moment to do with as you pleased. Flicking your tongue across his tip, provoking a series of small needy groans from his throat, you wrapped your lips around him, cheeks hollow and suckling as you sank him further into the inviting warmth and wetness.

He involuntarily bucked deeper into your throat, head dipping back with a rumbling growl, fingers twisting locks of hair as he fought the urge to impatiently pound into your gullet and take what he needed.

Bobbing up and down his cock in a steady rhythm, fingers enclosed around his shaft to stroke what you could not comfortably take into your throat, you alternated the sucking pressure of your lips around his girth and feather-light scrapes of your teeth with the twirling caress of your tongue at his sensitive tip. Feeling his cock swell and jerk against your tongue, you hummed - the vibration overwhelming the angel.

Muscles rippling involuntarily, abdomen tensing concave at the climax of blissful surrender, fingers scrabbling at your scalp, he cried out your name.

Moaning around his cock, you drank the hot spurts of his release. Shaking subsiding, you slid his softening length from your mouth with a sated sigh, clambering up his still unsteady naked frame, you cupped his cheeks and scattered his face with dainty kisses.

Winding his arms about your waist, hugging you closer, accosting your mouth with a passionate kiss, he closed his eyes, groaning at the taste of himself on your tongue, intoxicated by your absolute reverence. Desiring to reward your piety, he banished your clothing with a thought and scooped you into his arms.

Giggling, you bounced when he tossed you on the squeakily protesting mattress. Squirming to the middle of the bed, you skimmed a finger through the drenched folds of your sex, beckoning him closer with the arousal glossed digit, “My God Cas, I’m so wet for you.”

Crawling to hover over you, bending your knees together to the side, cock again rigid and prodding your ass, he growled, “What did you say?”

You smirked knowingly, goading his lust, “My…God.”

Planting an arm firmly behind your uppermost knee and the other at your waist, caging you in, limiting the potential for your movement, he nudged his cock at your sodden entrance, breath hotly ghosting over your neck, “Say it again.”

“M-my,” you moaned as sank into you with a single powerful thrust, “God!”

He bit his teeth into your shoulder, nearly hard enough to draw blood, the contrasting tingle of pain serving only to heighten your pleasure. Withdrawing completely and plunging deeper than before, stretching you with a singe of white hot ecstasy, he growled, “Again.”

“Oh God,” you keened, fingers digging into his biceps, desperate for purchase as he relentlessly drove into you, “Cas-Castiel!” Whimpering, unable to move within the secure restraint of his arms, you arched your back as sparks of pleasure ignited in your core under the merciless thrust of his hips setting your whole body aquiver. Salacious moans, fervent grunts, the weary creak of the old bed, and the sinfully lewd sound of skin slapping skin intensified the steamy atmosphere of the room.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered, breaking breathlessly from your lips to lavish your breast with his tongue.

Every nerve ending aflame, you obeyed, slipping quivering fingers between slickened thighs to rub circles over your engorged clit, gasping, “Cas, I’m so close.”

“Then come for me Y/N,” he snarled in your ear, altering the angle of his hips to directly strike your sweet spot.

“Oh, God!” You screamed, body engulfed in a blazing release of bliss, nails clawing into the muscles of his arms, pussy convulsing around his thick cock.

Hips faltering, he tensed and juddered, head burrowing into your neck with a groan, cock twitching to fill you with warmth. Collapsing on you, your bodies shook together for some time with small aftershocks of pleasure as he tenderly kissed your swollen lips. Rolling to cuddle you from behind, cock slipping from your center, combined releases leaking hotly down your thigh, he anchored your spent figure snug to his heaving chest. Affectionately nuzzling your sweat soaked hair, he realized he had been wrong to ever doubt your love for the simple fact you were the one human in all of creation who never doubted him.

Hypocrites, bigots, motivational speakers – no one was immune to cleansing under the reign of Castiel. Mitigated by your love, he worked in equal shares of miracles too - healing the infirmed and afflicted, restoring sight to the blind, feeding the famished. As he exercised his seemingly boundless power, something wicked began to stir in the darkest recesses of his vessel, attracted instinctively to surface by the scent of fear which seemed to surround the angel wherever he journeyed. Castiel first heard their voices and felt their dreadful burden in a church after smiting an irreverent reverend.

“Castiel? Cas.”

Castiel paid no more head to their cries than he would the buzz of a fly - yet some part of him acknowledged the very same fly as a harbinger of ill. That evening, when he returned to share your bed and indulge in the carnal pleasures of your company as he had done every night since your demonstration of faith, he seemed different – distant, hesitating to meet your questioning eyes, unwilling to boast about the day’s accomplishments, flinching under your loving touch. Bodies tangled together in the dark, mind spiraling from the sensory overload of intense orgasm, serenely combing your fingers through his soft dark curls, you had no way to know it was the beginning of the end.

The rebelling darkness Castiel harbored nourished and strengthened itself on the unacknowledged fear within himself triggered by fracturing control, finally cracking the surface of his vessel after a confrontation with Crowley wherein he dictated in no uncertain terms the demon’s newly perfunctory role in Hell as a figurehead king answering to God. Disconcerted by the minor outward lesion on his vessel, but nonetheless emboldened with power, Castiel discounted their scraping merely as a passing itch – there would be time to deal with them later, when the work was done. That night, deeply undulating your hips against the angel as you rode his cock, mewling, pussy throbbing and close to orgasm, his fingers dug into your ass, abruptly shoving you from his body. He rolled from the bed, staggering into the bathroom.

“Fraud. Charlatan!” The voices screamed ominously inside him, “Too weak. Mistake. Let us out.”

Cas buckled over the counter with a pained groan, blinking into the hazy mirror, running cool water to splash his perspiration beaded skin.

Dazed at the precipice of release, you crept to the edge of the mattress, calling out shakily after him, “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Scrutinizing the newly deteriorating flesh of his vessel’s cheeks in the mirror, he lied, “Nothing. Just-just stay in bed. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Let us out!” The voices insisted, stretching and clawing out from his abdomen.

“No.” Cas growled under his breath.

Easing out of bed, unconvinced and alarmed by his strange affect, you padded softly barefoot toward the open bathroom door. Crossing the threshold, you found the room empty, clear cold water overflowing the sink to splash the tiled floor, “Cas?!”

The meddling Winchesters, as expected, were unable to leave well enough alone – unwilling to acquiesce to a simple request in exchange for their mercifully permitted existence, ever ready to forfeit their lives to save the world from what was it this time - order? Peace? God’s love? Stupid little ants, Cas sneered even as his vessel decayed before them, as control slipped from his tenuous grasp. Why couldn’t they be more like you? Love him? Or at the very least, trust him?

“You look awfully like a mutated angel to me. Your vessel’s melting. You’re going to explode. You think you’re simply under the weight of all those souls, yes? But that’s not the worst problem. There are things much older than souls in purgatory, and you gulped those in too.”

Death, summoned by the hunters to kill Castiel, named the ancient evil corrupting his vessel – leviathans.

“Irrelevant. I control them.”

Fists clenched, muscles straining with exertion, Cas did not fear Death. Death was ancient as his father, present at the dawn of creation, and if he could control Death himself, why should he fear leviathans? No matter. The Winchesters weren’t a threat. They failed, and he had work to attend to in the form of a corrupt politician spreading lies in his good name.

“Cas!” Just as unexpectedly as he vanished days ago, the angel appeared before you now, battered, bruised, and bloody.

“Help me,” he stumbled weakly to one knee, panicked blue eyes pleading.

Tucking his arm over your shoulder, you helped him to stand, guiding him to the bathroom, leaning him against the edge of the counter. Hands trembling, you wrung a wet washcloth over the sink, wiping carefully at his face and neck and hands, towel rapidly staining crimson, droplets of red speckling the white porcelain of the basin. Rinsing the washcloth again, you swiped the blood-matted hair from his forehead, “Cas, there’s so much blood, where are you hurt?”

Pivoting, he gripped the edges of the counter, pitching forward with effort, the volume of the laughter inside of his vessel’s skull overpowering your voice.

“Cas, whose blood is this?” You stared at his haggard face in the reflection of the mirror, realizing none of his wounds could produce this much blood. Something churning maliciously behind his wearied eyes caused you to shrink away, forgotten washcloth splattering to the floor, heart seizing with fear, “Cas, please, say something. You’re frightening me.”

“I-I blacked out. I don’t know what happened,” he sobbed, vessel shaking. Collapsing into folded arms, he hid his face, unable to bear the fearful gleam in your eyes.

You stepped closer to rub his back, to comfort him, to assuage the disquiet feeling surging within yourself, “Okay, it’s okay, we’ll figure it out. Just-just tell me the last thing you remember.”

“I, they’re all dead. Innocents. Slaughtered,” he mumbled, “I only went to talk. I-” His body convulsed and went silent.

“Cas?” You squeezed his shoulder.

“Try again,” the creature that leered up at you wasn’t Castiel. The fingers that snatched at and compressed your neck, cutting off the air to your lungs, dangling your kicking feet uselessly off the ground weren’t Castiel’s. And the laughter springing from its throat as it garnered enjoyment choking the life out of you resonated of pure evil, “Or, you know, don’t.”

“Get your hands off her!” The fingers at your throat slackened.

You crumpled into a gasping heap on the cold tile floor. The last thing to register before you blacked out were the horror stricken blue eyes of your angel brimming freely with tears.

“I’m sorry Y/N. I’ve made a horrible mistake. I can’t control them. Forgive me. Please, forgive me. I-I love you…”

It was your love shrouded in fear that turned the tide for Castiel and made clear the errors in his judgement. He had determined to return the souls to purgatory the moment he saw the fear reflected in your eyes. Being alone, losing your love, it terrified him. It was in that instant of weakened resolve that the leviathans gained the upper hand. Helplessly witnessing the life ebb from your body, he wrenched control back from the ancient beasts by harnessing the raw power of his love for you to stun them into submission - a thing so purely evil is incapable of breaching such devotion. Now, clutching your unconscious body to his chest, listening to your wheezing struggle to hold onto life, he understood the profound danger. Gently laying you on your back, he rolled a towel beneath your neck. Pressing blood-stained fingers to your temple, he healed you, not with the ungodly power coursing poisonously through his vessel, but with angelic grace. Heartened by your strengthening respiration and the pink flush returning to your pale cheeks, shaky fingers brushed the shock damp hair from your brow and he placed a tender lingering kiss on your forehead.

You roused many hours later when a beam of sunlight stretched from the window to tickle your closed eyes, the familiar gravel of Cas’ voice murmuring a morning greeting in your ear. Moaning softly, you reached to the opposite side of the bed, your fingers grasping at the empty space, finding only rough sheets where the angel should be. Bolting upright, everything came flooding back. Grabbing your phone, you paced the room as it rang, “Damnit, Dean! Answer!” It went to voicemail. You tried again.

He picked up on the first ring this time, “Y/N?”

“Dean! It’s Cas, he’s in danger,” your words frantically slurred, “I don’t mean the God thing, he’s possessed or something. Whatever it is tried to kill me, but Cas stopped it. He-”

“He’s gone, Y/N. Cas is gone.”

Your stomach flipped at Dean’s words, stunned to silence as you rode a wave of nausea.

“You okay?”

“G-gone?” You didn’t understand - you heard the angel’s voice, felt his presence only moments ago.

“Last night, he showed up just in time to send those souls back to purgatory. The thing that tried to kill you - leviathans, they managed to hang on. And Cas, he couldn’t hold them back without all that extra purgatory power. They marched his vessel into a municipal water reservoir and scattered.”

“I need to see him,” you refused to believe Dean, needing to see the angel’s lifeless vessel with your own eyes as proof. It didn’t feel like Cas was gone, there was no pervading sense of emptiness in the corners of your soul where his love resided.

“There’s nothing to see Y/N, all that’s left is that stupid trench coat of his.”

Your heart soared with hope, knowing without a shadow of doubt that your angel was out there somewhere. Not gone – lost. Lost and alive. And for as long as your heart continued to beat, no one would convince you otherwise.

#Lexie's SPN Birthday Challenge #castiel x reader #castiel x you #castielxreader #castiel reader insert #cas x reader #cas x you #castiel oneshot #castiel fanfic #castiel x y/n #godstiel #my edit #cricket writes cas #flagged

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wavemaker9 · 7 years

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I remembered this undertale/at4w xover I'd put a lot of effort into a while ago and i still love a lot of the parts of it. highlights from the notes i made for sketches i did/planned before switching fandom focus:

- Frisk is Pollo since there was a joke clip about Pollo not being able to talk when first created. Chara is Mechakara, the AU version of Pollo Frisk who killed their Linkara Sans and wears them as a makeshift suit because of course they do. - Sans walking in on this copy of himself talking shit about the show’s audience during a review. The copy standing up and laughing, voice shifting away from sans’ own voice, before sans just sits down and starts to review a comic. When the copy (Chara) calls him out on this, Sans just "oh, right. you're still standing there." before his eyes go black and the gaster blaster appears and shoots Chara off frame before San returns to the comic. rip chara - Papyrus is Allen, Linkara's friend in the FBI or whatever who Linkara was super distrustful of, but Allen gave him a chance when he saw Link's show and saw he was a chill dude. Paps as the only reason a sniper didn't take sans out already. paps with a speech about how he knows Sans isn't happy about the government getting involved in his life (side effects of getting a space ship with weapons on it), but paps just wants to be his friend and he thinks sans is a good person that can be trusted. later on sans admitting paps is the best friend ever though. - "LAST YEAR [FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY] I GOT YOU A JOKE BOOK." "and it was a good joke book." - paps offering to take sans home because he is super drunk. sans "no, /i/ am taking /you/ home, because /i/ can teleport" - “LET’S GET YOU TO BED, OKAY?” “okay…” “OKAY!” “hey, papyrus?” “YES?” “thanks for getting the snipers recalled.” “DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT, SANS! YOU SLEEP WELL, OKAY?" I forgot how much I loved paps as allen - paps admitting he’s doing his job because, while the government may have lots of issues with it, he believes in helping out as many people as he can. I fucking forgot how much i loved paps as allen -"(having expected the pizza delivery person, showing a look of betrayal)...you're not pizza" "I'M SAUCIER THAN PIZZA!" I fucking forgot - the underfell AU was the mirrorverse. it was literally just underfell AU Sans in a version of the evil spock beard - toriel was liz and that was good. for a while there tori being the only one sans felt could carry on his series (and fill the pun quota) if something happened to him - 'also, can the Linkara Lost arc just be called Sans Sans for this, i really need that.' nice one past me - Undyne was Jaeris. Her thanking Sans for helping to finally get her back to her home dimension. him reminding her he stranded her there in the first place. Her frowning immediately. "Oh yeah.... Up yours! ...Thanks, but mostly up yours!" - this isn't even the xover i just had a note about this and i still love this line for Link and Jaeris after Jaeris hugged him in thanks for helping him finally get home for the holidays “You know they’re gonna write fanfic about this.” “Who cares!? I’m not gonna be around to read it!” Jaeris is honestly the best char with the best lines no lie - Monster Kid was 90s Kid and Flowey was the Entity. instead of "I see you Linkara" scribbled in the book as a challenge, it was "I see you Trashbag" - “I am the outer god that looks in and beholds a world that lacks a best friend.” - Alphys was Linksano but more importantly Metaton was Eliza, the foam lizard linksano gave sentience to so he could give her as a gift to linkara. Alphys: S-so you don’t l-like it? Sans: i’m not saying that. i just...wish you wouldn’t play god around christmas time. Alphys: So w-when IS a good t-time to play God, then? Sans: never would be nice. - sans asking frisk if they ever wonder if they'll end up like chara, "hating humanity and hating [him]". Frisk assuring Sans no, they never wonder that, before finding out though that Sans does worry about that. frisk assuring sans they're friends, they hold absolutely no ill wishes towards sans and will never turn against them. later on when frisk sacrifices their life to stop chara in a wrath of khan spock dying moment while reviewing a comic based on that movie: *You tell him... you stopped the other you. "...they aren’t you..." *You remind him he said he was afraid... you might become like them. You hope... this proves otherwise. "...you didn’t have to prove anything. you’re nothing like ‘em, kid. you’re my friend..." - PAPS FUCKING DYING IN THE MOVIE THANKS TO CHARA AND THEN THEY FIND A PLANET THAT CAN HEAL AND RESTORE PEOPLE AND SANS INSISTING THEY BRING PAPS' BODY DOWN TO SEE IF HE CAN BE BROUGHT BACK TO LIFE “How long do we wait?” “long as we have to.” “...I hate to say this, but he might have been gone for too long.” “...i know... but i had to try.” - Holographic sans threatening to rip Monster Kid's heart out of his fucking body if he keeps interrupting. sounds about right, that tracks. - this bit but holo and real sans. it’s just such a badass fucking scene i love it so i gotta include it in the xover - 'I don’t know if One More Day would be the BIGGEST point of anger for sans, at least enough where it’d be the one worthy being used in the ‘fix it or i total your company’s building’ ultimatum holokara gives, but i do think it’d piss him off just like it does for linkara. I think every reboot, either within the narrative or not, would to a point. same with the ‘proactive’/killer portrayals of commonly just characters or the needless shock deaths of beloved characters. It’s all got the same feel of resets and genocide runs and even if this sans hasn’t gone through all that, there’s an echo across the verses that’s strong enough to frustrate this sans every time he sees it in a comic. Just one of those things that’d push him close to a snapping point if he doesn’t get a helpful little nudge to be careful about what he’s willing to do for the greater good.' - sans teleporting out instead of just running but frisk pushes them back in frame and tells them to just do it. Sans not happy with this. - re one of the commercial bumpers where he wore his sniper cosplay: “that pyrope’s a spy!” - “[no, i trust you just fine. i don’t trust the technicians.] you can vouch for them all you want, but they’re not you, so i don’t trust them, papyrus.” - River Woman was Moarte oh no???? that’s actually pretty good??? - I literally never settled on a harvey??? I briefly considered Asgore because of dead kid and Grillby becaue of similar clothing style and relay with sans to harvey re linkara. but i never had a concrete harvey picked out.

#ignore this #crossovers! unlimited crossovers!#an undertale tag

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thisdaynews · 5 years

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How the baby boomers broke America

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/how-the-baby-boomers-broke-america/

How the baby boomers broke America

The offering includes outliers like Pete Buttigieg, the millennial South Bend, Ind. mayor running openly on generational change. But the most likely outcome as it stands now is that the nation will yet again ask a baby boomer to fix what the baby boom broke. And it’s a lot to fix.

“We have Social Security. We have the national debt. We have what’s called ‘deferred maintenance’ in infrastructure. And of course we have the climate,” Bruce Gibney, author of “A Generation of Sociopaths,” said in the first episode of “Baby Bust,” the new POLITICO Money podcast series on the political and financial legacy of the baby boom generation. “I think the main impediment right now is the death grip the boomers have had over the political system.”

What went wrong

That death grip could hold at least another four and perhaps eight years in the White House.

Gibney and other critics of the baby boom generation argue that the huge cohort that came of age in the prosperous years after World War II spent much of their time in power cutting their own taxes, ensuring that giant entitlement programs are protected — at least for themselves — and doing little to protect the environment or invest in American infrastructure or address the mounting student loan crisis.

It wasn’t entirely their fault, students of the generation say. Boomers just grew up at a time when everything was fairly awesome and people assumed they would stay that way.

The baby boomers “grew up in an era when there was something close to full employment almost all the time. Wages were going up with productivity, and productivity was going up very fast. Incomes were growing at the rate of 2 percent a year, something that we haven’t seen since,” said Ruy Teixeira, a senior fellow at the Center for American Progress and himself a boomer. “The baby boom happened to get older at the same time that America adopted an economic model that was actually pretty counter-productive, which did not actually produce rising wages and incomes for people at a very good clip, that enhanced inequality.”

A bipartisan generational critique

The first boomer president, Bill Clinton, did raise taxes in the early 1990s and briefly created government surpluses after all the charts and warnings and televised lectures from Ross Perot. But he also suffered an ugly impeachment over personal misbehavior and efforts to cover it up.

And progressives blame him for expanding the penal state, cutting capital gains taxes for the rich and engaging in petty personal feuds with then-House Speaker Newt Gingrich — another boomer — leading to government shutdowns and the dawn of the kind of scorched earth, Forever War politics that now dominate Washington.

President George W. Bush, far from addressing government funding problems, engaged in a short-lived movement to privatize Social Security and added an expensive prescription drug program to Medicare whose main beneficiary was older Americans. His presidency was then largely consumed by the massive and costly post-9/11 war on terror, leaving concerns about climate, entitlements and infrastructure spending aside.

Barack Obama — technically a late-era boomer but more Gen X by personal temperament — attempted to strike a “grand bargain” with tea party-led Republicans and then-House Speaker John Boehner to address long-term entitlement sustainability and spending issues along with significant tax hikes.

But it all fell apart when progressives balked at entitlement overhauls and Republicans at tax hikes. The brief bipartisan moment when it seemed like some real change might happen vanished as quickly as it appeared.

The rise of Trump

Following Obama — whom many Gen Xers claim as one of their own — boomers helped elect another boomer, Donald Trump, partly on his promises to restore manufacturing greatness while also not touching any entitlements for those at or nearing retirement.

Trump essentially junked the entire approach of the tea party movement in favor of far greater spending on the military — along with Democratic priorities to secure the Pentagon money — and signed a $2 trillion tax cut that slashed rates for corporations and rich people with a little thrown in for everyone else. Under Trump’s watch, the annual deficit has grown close to $1 trillion and the national debt to over $22 trillion.

The GOP has essentially returned to the ethos of former vice president Dick Cheney — that deficits don’t matter — after they spent the Obama presidency threatening shutdowns and debt defaults over out-of-control spending. Critics of Trump’s fiscal approach argue the tax cut was the last gasp of the baby boom attempting to direct money to itself.

“The tax cut that was passed [in 2017] is the best example,” said author and attorney Steven Brill, also a baby boomer. “Most of the money the corporations have saved through that tax cut have gone to buybacks of stocks, which make the shareholders richer.”

Trump also pledged to pull the U.S. out of the Paris climate agreement aimed at sharply reducing emissions and rolled back many environmental regulations of the Obama White House.

Through all of this, presidents and Congresses of both parties, largely governed by baby boomers, did little to address what engineers suggest are nearly $5 trillion in infrastructure updates needed in the U.S. as rising powers like China pour massive resources into such projects. Calling every week “infrastructure week” has become a running joke in political circles.

Baby boomers in power, according to their critics, have done a fairly good job of ensuring that Social Security and Medicare will be protected for those at or near retirement — including tens of millions of boomers — but much less to ensure they will be fully funded for later retirees including Gen X, millennials and Gen Z.

Social Security and Medicare might not be going broke. But the outlook isn’t great.

“As long as people are working there will be at least money coming into Social Security,” said Nancy Altman, chair of the board of directors of the Pension Rights Center. “Even if Congress did nothing whatsoever, people would get three-quarters of their scheduled benefits, which is not good enough, but it isn’t nothing.”

Boomers defended

Many baby boomers defend the generation’s contributions, citing advances in gender equality, the protest movement against the Vietnam war and the civil rights movement (even though most landmark civil and voting rights laws were passed when the median boomer was around 12 years old).

Some also argue that it’s not fair to look at political failures through a purely generational lens, arguing that plenty of boomers (including Warren and Sanders) have long argued for more forward-thinking, less self-interested policies but failed to win enough power to enact them. And they say there is still a legacy the baby boom can leave to Gen X, millennials and Gen Z as those generations finally take over political power.

“Typical Xer, you’re saying, ‘Yeah, they gave us diet foods and yoga,’” said Neil Howe, managing director of demography at Hedgeye and a leading theorist on generational cycles. “I think boomers gave younger generations a language of communitarianism and whole-ism that they are going to use when it comes time to bind this country back together again.”

The boomer Democrats

The current crop of Democratic candidates is dominated by boomers and near-boomers including Biden, Warren and Sanders who are one, two and three in nearly every national and state poll. Biden has largely based his campaign around taking another shot at the Obama approach that sought to address major structural problems like climate change, entitlements and debt through coalition-building, both domestically and in international accords like the Paris treaty and the Trans-Pacific Partnership, a giant trade deal meant in part to counter China’s rise as a global economic and military power.

Obama’s biggest legacy, the Affordable Care Act, was more of an incremental approach to driving down costs and making care more accessible. Biden has defended the law but is struggling to beat back challenges from the left that what is needed is not incrementalism but radical change including wealth taxes, “Medicare for All,” student loan forgiveness and free college. Entire industries, including big tech and Wall Street, need to be busted up and reformed, according to the Warren and Sanders view of the world.

For progressives and economists who believe deficits and debt really don’t matter at all, this is a welcome change in political direction. And Warren and Sanders both have widespread support from many younger voters.

But Warren has now found herself in something of a political quagmire as she promises to explain how she would pay for government-funded health care for all with estimates of the cost at around $3 trillion a year without boosting taxes on the middle class.

The millennial Democrat

Into all this comes Buttigieg, running as a millennial alternative to all the older candidates as well as more of a centrist who wants to take on structural problems left by the boomers but not in ways that send deficits and debt into the stratosphere.

“You have a different sense of urgency around these issues if you’re expecting in your lifetime to be dealing with them personally,” Buttigieg said on the podcast. “So by 2054, when I get to the current age of the current president, the shape of the world then, both environmentally, economically and beyond, that’s not a theoretical question; it’s a personal one that I have to prepare for just as a human being.”

Buttigieg added that, “There’s just no way we can get very far into the next few decades on this tax policy without a fiscal time bomb going off.”

And as for the baby boom legacy? “I think a lot of wrong decisions get made out of just a kind of political or moral laziness that says that certain consequences, because they’re going to hit down the road, aren’t consequences for the politicians who are dealing with them, especially politicians who work one election cycle at a time,” Buttigieg said.

What about Gen X?

Generation X, those born between 1965 and 1980, may never find themselves with a president to call their own, even if they lay claim to Obama, who was born in 1961. But that doesn’t mean the generation won’t have a significant role to play in future elections and political debates that increasingly pit baby boomers bent on protecting their investments and entitlements against millennials and members of Gen Z seeking to significantly alter the structure of taxation and federal benefits.

The role may wind up being quintessential Gen X, attempting to referee between much bigger generations to find some kind of compromise where everyone can win.

“I guess we’re going to have to choose, in some of these presidential elections, if it pits a baby boomer against a millennial with very different ideas, and I think there is significant political weight to Gen X and how those decisions are ultimately made, right?” said Amy Walter, a Gen Xer and national editor of the Cook Political Report.

“Like, we’re not meaningless in terms of which way we go in the coming presidential elections of the next four, eight, 12 — even longer than that. There is some significant political importance to how Gen X decides on a lot of these things.”

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theconservativebrief · 6 years

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Barack Obama stepped back into the fray on Friday with a ferocious speech aimed squarely at not only his successor in the White House but the entire Republican Party.

The ex-president uttered the name “Donald Trump” for the first time in public since Trump’s inauguration in his speech at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. Obama chastised a politics of fear and resentment, but argued that Trump himself was “a symptom, not the cause.”

“It did not start with Donald Trump,” he said. “He’s just capitalizing on resentments that politicians have been fanning for years, a fear and anger that’s rooted in our past, but it’s also born out of the enormous upheavals that have taken place in your brief lifetimes.”

The speech reintroduced the president to American voters just before he begins campaigning earnestly for Democratic candidates in the 2018 midterms. Obama sought to portray the November elections as an opportunity to regain “some semblance of sanity to our politics.” He even spoke positively of emerging progressive policies, like Medicare-for-all, that he could not have endorsed in his more center-left administration.

But more than anything, Obama abandoned the posture he’s cultivated over the past 18 months as an elder statesman who largely stays out of the ruckus and refrains from directly criticizing Trump or Republicans in Congress. In doing so, he seemed to hope to convey a sense of urgency, arguing that the republic is at a crossroads and it will require a mobilized body politic to change direction.

“This is not normal. These are extraordinary times, and they’re dangerous times,” Obama said. “But here’s the good news. In two months we have the chance, not the certainty, but the chance to restore some semblance of sanity to our politics.”

Here are seven key moments from the speech:

Obama criticized Trump and Republicans more directly than he ordinarily would, but he still placed the current politics of resentment — the coded racial language, the dehumanizing of The Other, and the fear-mongering in what is actually the safest time in recent history to live in America — in a grander historical context.

“America’s dark history of racial and ethnic and religious division,” Obama said, is a tale “as old as time.” And he heavily implied that Trump follows in those demagogic footsteps:

Even though your generation is the most diverse in history with a greater acceptance and celebration of our differences than ever before, those are the kinds of conditions that are ripe for exploitation by politicians who have no compunction and no shame about tapping into America’s dark history of racial and ethnic and religious division. Appealing to tribe, appealing to fear, pitting one group against another, telling people that order and security will be restored if it weren’t for those who don’t look like us or don’t sound like us or don’t pray like we do, that’s an old playbook.

It’s as old as time. And in a healthy democracy, it doesn’t work. Our antibodies kick in, and people of goodwill from across the political spectrum call out the bigots and the fear mongers and work to compromise and get things done and promote the better angels of our nature. But when there’s a vacuum in our democracy, when we don’t vote, when we take our basic rights and freedoms for granted, when we turn away and stop paying attention and stop engaging and stop believing and look for the newest diversion, the electronic versions of bread and circuses, then other voices fill the void.

A politics of fear and resentment and retrenchment takes hold and demagogues promise simple fixes to complex problems. No promise to fight for the little guy, even as they cater to the wealthiest and most powerful. No promise to clean up corruption and then plunder away. They start undermining norms that ensure accountability and try to change the rules to entrench their power further. They appeal to racial nationalism that’s barely veiled, if veiled at all. Sound familiar?

Obama’s rise to the presidency began, in earnest, with his 2004 Democratic National Convention speech professing his belief that there was not a Red America or a Blue America — that there is more that unites Americans than divides them. He has therefore been reluctant throughout his career to paint too broadly in his critiques of his political opponents.

But on Friday, he asked very bluntly: “What happened to the Republican Party?”

Republicans passed a tax bill that exploded the deficit by $1.5 trillion, Obama noted. Anti-communism used to be the rallying cry of the conservative, pro-capitalism movement in America and yet now they seem perfectly comfortable with the leftover Soviet spy running Russia. Or they’re at least willing to ignore Trump’s comfort with him.

With Republicans in control of Congress and the White House, without any checks or balances whatsoever, they’ve provided another $1.5 trillion in tax cuts to people like me who I promise don’t need it and don’t even pretend to pay for them. It’s supposed to be the party supposedly of fiscal conservatism. Suddenly deficits do not matter. Even though just two years ago when the deficit was lower, they said I couldn’t afford to help working families or seniors on Medicare because the deficit was in existential crisis. What changed? What changed?

They’re subsidizing corporate they’ve made it so that the only nation on Earth to pull out of the global climate agreement, it’s not North Korea, it’s not Syria, it’s not Russia or Saudi Arabia, it’s us. The only country. There are a lot of countries in the world. We’re the only ones. They’re undermining our alliances, cozying up to Russia. What happened to the Republican party? Its central organizing principle in foreign policy was the fight against communism, and now they’re cozying up to the former head of the KGB.

Actively blocking legislation that would defend our elections from Russian attack. What happened? Their sabotage of the affordable care act has already cost more than 3 million Americans their health insurance, and if they’re still in power next fall, you better believe they’re coming at it again. They’ve said so. In a healthy democracy, there’s some checks and balances on this kind of behavior, this kind of inconsistency, but right now there’s nothing. Republicans who know better in congress, and they’re there, they’re quoted saying, yeah, we know this is kind of crazy, are still bending over backwards to shield this behavior from scrutiny or accountability or consequence.

Obama didn’t name the recent New York Times op-ed by an anonymous Trump official directly, but his allusion seemed clear as he warned against putting hope in unaccountable, unelected bureaucrats to protect the country from Trump’s worst impulses.

The claim that everything will turn out okay because there are people inside the White House who secretly aren’t following the president’s orders, that is not a check. I’m being serious here. That’s not how our democracy’s supposed to work. These people aren’t elected. They’re not accountable. They’re not doing us a service by actively promoting 90% of the crazy stuff that’s coming out of this White House, and then saying, don’t worry, we’re preventing the other 10%. That’s not how things are supposed to work. This is not normal.

The wonky president couldn’t help but add a policy critique, contrasting emerging Democratic proposals like Medicare-for-all or giving workers seat on corporate boards — a rhetorical embrace of a much more leftist politics than Obama himself ever pursued in office.

I happen to be a Democrat. I believe our policies are better and we have a bigger, bolder vision of equality and justice and inclusive democracy. We know there are a lot of jobs young people aren’t getting a chance to occupy or aren’t getting paid enough or aren’t getting benefits like insurance. It’s harder for young people to save for a rainy day let alone retirement.

So Democrats aren’t just running on good old ideas like a higher minimum wage, they’re running on good new ideas like medicare for all, giving workers seats on corporate boards, reversing the most egregious corporate tax cuts to make sure college students graduate we know that people are tired of toxic corruption and that democracy depends on transparency and accountability, so Democrats aren’t just running on good old ideas like requiring presidential candidates to release their tax returns. But on good new ideas like barring lobbyists from getting paid by foreign governments.

We know that climate change isn’t just coming. It’s here. So Democrats aren’t just running on good old ideas like increasing gas mileage in our cars, which I did and which Republicans are trying to reverse, but on good new ideas like putting a price on carbon pollution. We know in a smaller, more connected world, we can’t just put technology back in a box. We can’t just put walls up all around America. Walls don’t keep out threats like terrorism or disease.

Obama’s speech was officially the kickoff to his campaigning for Democratic candidates in the midterm elections. He treated it, therefore, as a call to action. It was an unsubtle challenge to progressive Democrats who might have been unenthused about Hillary Clinton or suburban Republicans uncomfortable with Trump but voted the party line.

Speaking as a Democrat, that’s when the democratic party has always made the biggest difference in the lives of the American people. When we led with conviction and principle and bold new ideas. The antidote to a government controlled by a powerful few, a government that divides is a government by the organized, energized, inclusive many. That’s what this moment’s about. That has to be the answer.

You cannot sit back and wait for a savior. You can’t opt out because you don’t feel sufficiently inspired by this or that particular candidate. This is not a rock concert. This is not Coachella. We don’t need a messiah. All we need are decent, honest, hard-working people who are accountable and who have America’s best interests at heart. [ Applause ] And they’ll step up and they’ll join our government, and they will make things better if they have support. One election will not fix everything that needs to be fixed. But it will be a start. And you have to start it. What’s going to fix our democracy is you.

But Barack Obama is still Barack Obama. As he turned into the home stretch of his speech, the former president could not help but reaffirm his faith in a kind of post-partisan politics.

He called on people of all parties to be properly offended by the resurgence of white nationalism in mainstream politics or the appeasement of neo-Nazis by the president of the United States and people close to him.

“We’re supposed to stand up to discrimination, and we’re sure as heck supposed to stand up clearly and unequivocally to Nazi sympathizers,” Obama said. “How hard can that be? Saying that Nazis are bad?”

I am here to tell you that even if you don’t agree with me or Democrats on policy, even if you believe in more libertarian economic theories, even if you are an evangelical and our position on certain social issues is a bridge too far, even if you think my assessment of immigration is mistaken and the Democrats aren’t serious enough about immigration enforcement, I’m here to tell you that you should still be concerned with our current course and should still want to see a restoration of honesty and decency and lawfulness in our government. [ Applause ] It should not be democratic or Republican. It should not be a partisan issue to say that we do not pressure the attorney general or the FBI to use the criminal justice system as a cudgel to punish our political opponents. Or to explicitly call on the attorney general to protect members of our own party from prosecution because an election happens to be coming up. I’m not making that up. That’s not hypothetical.

It shouldn’t be democratic or Republican to say that we don’t threaten the freedom of the press because they say things or publish stories we don’t like. I complained plenty about fox News, but you never heard me threaten to shut them down or call them enemies of the people. It shouldn’t be Democratic or Republican to say we don’t target certain groups of people based on what they look like or how they pray. We are Americans.

We’re supposed to stand up to bullies. Not follow them. We’re supposed to stand up to discrimination, and we’re sure as heck supposed to stand up clearly and unequivocally to Nazi sympathizers. How hard can that be? Saying that Nazis are bad.

Obama actually began his speech by explaining, in his unique way, why it had taken nearly two years for him to make such a speech.

Truth was, I was also intent on following a wise American tradition of ex-presidents gracefully exiting the political stage and making room for new voices and new ideas.

We have our first president, George Washington, to thank for setting that example. After he led the colonies to victory as general Washington, there were no constraints on him, really. He was practically a god to those who had followed him into battle. There was no constitution. There were no democratic norms that guided what he should or could do. And he could have made himself all powerful, could have made himself potentially president for life. Instead, he resigned as commander in chief and moved back to his country of state. Six years later, he was elected president. But after two terms, he resigned again and rode off into the sunset.

The point Washington made, the point that is essential to American democracy is that in a government of and by and for the people, there should be no permanent ruling class. There are only citizens, who through their elected and temporary representatives, determine our course and determine our character. I’m here today because this is one of those pivotal moments when every one of us as citizens of the United States need to determine just who it is that we are.

Original Source -> The 7 most important moments in Obama’s blistering critique of Trump and the GOP

via The Conservative Brief

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