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1kook · 4 years

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kissanime & foreplay

this is part of my netflix & chill collection !

summary; You get a glimpse of the KissAnime screen for a good two seconds before about seven ads pop up. Another tab to a raunchy hentai website opens, and Jungkook groans. warnings; mentions of hentai yes u read right, kook leads most of it, cunnilingus, masturbation (f), oral (f), use of a sex toy, fingering, nipple play, face sitting/fucking/riding idk (f), praise kink, hints of dumbification, cum eating, jk is like passive aggressive in this one, 4 (f) orgasms, this is the kicker: sub kook at the end😳, like 2 sec of dom yn lol, & u get 0.002 sec of adams apple kink misc; more dumb story lines, made up sex stores bc my creativity knows no bounds, Jungkook plays nice but is actually mean for the majority of it, once again doyeon plays a pivotal role in the furthering of women empowerment, internal love monologues about jk best boy<3 wc; 8.2k

notes; back when kissanime was offed I remember looking at this fic in the drafts like what the hell we gone do now.. n almost deleting it but I was like yknow what this isn’t a 1kook fic unless there’s smthn weird going on so here we are. also yes I know ohshc is on Netflix shut up!!!!!

HAPPY BDAY MY LOVE AND MUSE JEON JUNGKOOK !!!! 🥺💜

—

The good thing about getting your own apartment is that you finally have a place to call your own. There’s no limit on how many potted plants you can squeeze into a one bedroom, one bathroom apartment, and if there was one, you’re twelve in and no one has said anything to you yet. You don’t have to share the shower space with anyone, label all your products with a hastily scribbled name. There’s a bathtub—something you haven’t had the pleasure of using during college—and a fairly open living space. There’s so many empty spots to fill with useless decorations and family heirlooms and that ugly plastic rooster Jungkook won you at the summer kick-off fair last month.

The bad thing about having your own place is that the entire world and their mothers seem to know now. Despite graduating from college, you still keep in touch with your trusted graduate mentor Kim Namjoon, who is still very much in school, and has made it his mission to bring you a new plant every week, hence your growing collection. Your childhood friend comes over every Saturday morning to lounge around after her Friday nights out. Jungkook, although the only one who is ever actually invited, runs through your strawberry scented body wash like a madman.

And of course, Doyeon.

Your beloved college roommate of four years, Kim Doyeon, has been the bane of your apartment experience so far. Unlike you, who had slaved away for four years, saving every penny you made during college for this moment, Doyeon was a big spender. She blew every dollar she ever came across, which is why she’s going to be stuck living at her parent’s house for at least a couple more years.

Nothing wrong with that, of course, if she wasn’t the most maniac online shopper in existence. It hadn’t been a problem in college because she was always good old pals with the students who worked the mailroom. If they saw something questionable, they’d let it slide as long as it was under Miss Kim Doyeon, Room 229.

The reason it became an issue for her now is because it’s poor Mrs. Kim who signs over the package from Sexuality Unleashed: The Best Toys Worldwide! one Tuesday afternoon as it is delivered to their suburban home.

So now she’s taken to ordering all her freaky stuff to your new apartment, where the small cabinet by the door has quickly become home to her impulsive shopping habits. Truthfully, you don’t mind accepting Doyeon’s weird packages, and have long since grown used to the uncomfortable looks the mail carrier gives you.

Jungkook’s supposed to come over today and you really hope he doesn’t ask about the state of your hall cabinet. Now that you work at a small company outside of your degree to make ends meet, time with Jungkook has been significantly decreased. You weren’t in college anymore, so you didn’t have the luxury of dropping by his house whenever you wanted to in between classes. Of course, it’s mostly your schedule that conflicts with your planned hangouts, because Jungkook is still working his dream job from home.

However, because Jungkook is quite possibly the most amazing person on this planet, he’s started coming over every Saturday night to make sure you’re still alive and not dying. And so weekly media binges are a thing, and it’s currently week four.

He gave up on showing you the Marvel movie franchise last week, after you had asked where Wonder Woman was three times in a row. Since the Barbie Movie Debacle of last month, you’ve found a nice medium between who picks when. Jungkook picks most of the time, because most of the time you don’t really care. It’s become a running joke between the two of you that movie binges are usually just terribly masked excuses to go to town on each other, so you don’t mind missing an entire 15th Century French Revolution documentary if it means Jungkook is deep in your guts by the time King Louis XIV gets beheaded or whatever they did to him. Is it too obvious you didn’t watch the documentary?

Occasionally, there are instances where one of you genuinely does want to watch something, in which case you have an intense match of rock-paper-scissors to decide who’s picking that night. Most of the time, Jungkook wins. But for every match Jungkook wins, he promises you’ll pick the next one so you’ve long since stopped trying to actually beat him.

Long story short, last weekend you sat through a two part Ancient Aliens episode on the connection between aliens and American presidents.

It was the most god-awful conspiracy theory you’ve ever heard of, but Jungkook ate up every minute of it. By the time the two hosts announced their conclusion you were just about ready to rip your own ears off and single-handedly fist fight every producer on the channel for allowing the production of such an atrocious show.

Anyway, because you had so bravely sat through the entire evening without complaints— well, no complaints towards Jungkook’s terrible taste; the show, however, was not safe from your wicked tongue —Jungkook has so graciously allowed you to pick the media for this weekend.

You’ve been telling him for the longest time that you were going to hook him on anime. It was one of the few interests you always believed Jungkook should possess, being a weeb and all, because it was only fair that he had one questionable trait to balance out the rest of his perfection. Liking anime isn’t bad— if a hottie like you enjoyed it, then it obviously had its perks. However, you know a lot of other people are turned off by anime-enthusiasts due to preconceived notions of the genre and the viewer-base.

Now, it was a widely known fact that you always had ulterior motives. So maybe turning Jungkook into a weeb was just a ploy to turn other women off from him and keep your jealousy at bay. Sue you, your boyfriend was a walking wet dream, and you’d do anything to keep him to yourself.

After long deliberation, you’ve decided on introducing Jungkook to anime with a classic: Ouran High School Host Club, a god among anime, a true Beyonce among shoujos. The only problem was that you absolutely refused to pay Crunchyroll or Funimation when you could so easily find the entire show on KissAnime.com, home to only the finest of hentai ads and Are You a Robot? questions.

He sends you a text when he’s outside your building, and five minutes later there’s a rap against your door.

“Hi,” you smile up at him, heart fluttering in that same trademark way it did whenever Jungkook was within a five foot radius. He smiles back softly, leaning down to peck your lips as you step aside for him to enter. He’s got on those cotton sweats that you love, the ones that send your brain into a censored frenzy. But he’s also got that soft curl to his hair that lets you know he came here straight out of the shower in his hurry to see you. How you managed to bag a dream boyfriend like him was beyond you.

You bask in the overwhelming feeling of unannounced love for all of ten seconds before Jungkook is lifting up a square package you hadn’t seen at his hip. “Mailman gave me this,” he says, waving around the signature bright pink packaging of Sexuality Unleashed. Jungkook, for all his politeness and respect, seemed to falter in those categories when it came to you. He turns the box over, reading the big fat name of the company on the side. “Since when did you start buying sex toys?” he asks rather loudly in the hallway.

You yank him inside, hurriedly slamming the door shut before any of your neighbors can come out into the hallway and get a peek of this avid sex toy consumer. “They’re not mine!” you hiss, standing still when he uses you to balance himself as he tugs off his shoes. You snatch the box out of his hands, turning it around to make sure it is actually addressed to your home. Sure enough, it’s for you. Couldn’t there have been some other sex toy fanatic on this floor?

With his shoes off, Jungkook wastes no time enveloping you in a hug, the Sexuality Unleashed box tumbling to the ground. “It’s okay, baby, no need to be embarrassed.”

You groan, leaning your forehead against his shoulder as he continues to pat your back like you’re actually embarrassed to be caught buying toys— you’re not. You’re embarrassed he caught you with a sex toy you simply can’t put to use. “Whatever,” you sigh, “your gross popcorn is in my bedroom and it’s probably stale.”

He releases you, not before pulling you into a slow and languid kiss that has you clutching tightly at the front of his shirt. He pulls away with a soft smooch, right eye falling into a wink. “Bring the box, gorgeous,” he teases, before sauntering off in the direction of your bedroom.

You groan loudly. “It’s not mine!” you repeat, but for some reason do as he says.

Not only do you have no idea what’s in this package, but you’re frankly not too keen on finding out. You’re more interested in Jungkook’s reaction to one of your favorite animes of all time. The package is tossed onto the end of the bed, where Jungkook has already stripped himself of his socks and cuddled beneath your covers.

Your laptop has gone dark from inactivity so you slam down on the space bar to bring it back to life. Your first mistake was pressing anything at all. It flickers back on alright, but you forget that you are working with a minefield of ads ready to explode. You get a glimpse of the KissAnime screen for a good two seconds before about seven ads pop up. Another tab to a raunchy hentai website opens, and Jungkook groans.

“What the hell is this?” he asks in a tone that screams he has never had to fight viruses off his computer just to watch something at two in the morning.

You ignore him, cuddling into his side as you hurriedly type in the title of the anime before another annoying ad can intercept you. “KissAnime,” you answer for now, accidentally clicking down on the mousepad with the heel of your palm. Another tab opens up to some sketchy credit site. You huff.

“Baby, I swear I just saw like twelve viruses,” he says. “And what even are these?” he scoffs, jabbing a finger at one of the many ads that lines the perimeter of the website. “Animated teacher porn?”

By the grace of god, you somehow manage to get onto the episode selection screen without having another tab open on you. You smile in relief, turning the power of your excitement onto Jungkook… only to find his eyes narrowed in on the square advertisement for some hentai website. “What? You wanna watch hentai now?” you snort, placing the laptop on his legs as you cuddle into his side.

Jungkook sputters, cheeks tinting red at the mere insinuation he would ever consume such media. “No,” he glares, releasing the arm around your shoulders to huffily cross them over his chest. “I am not going to watch anatomically incorrect illustrations of a woman teacher relieving herself, ___,” he says rather matter-of-factly.

You snort, repeating, “a woman teacher,” mockingly and in a high pitched voice that, honestly, doesn't sound anything like him. You click play on the video box that appears after only about twenty more pop-up ads. “Silence, you nymphomaniac, the episode is starting.” Jungkook pulls you close with a displeased expression, finally quieting down when you put it on full screen and the ads disappear from his view.

You’re beginning to wonder if Jungkook really is the script and plot dissector he claims to be, or if he just lives to get under your skin. He doesn’t make it three minutes without finding something to critique. First it’s the quality of the frames, and then it’s the characterization of the lead character. He nitpicks everything about the best anime in existence, and by the end of the first episode you’re considering breaking up with him.

“Oh my god,” you groan, tearing yourself away from him. He’s all laid up against your mountain of pillows, tongue prodding at the insides of his mouth in that ridiculously attractive habit of his. Usually, you’d be tripping over yourself to kiss him, but you’re about two seconds from ripping his head off. “I mean this in the nicest way possible, baby,” you sigh, picking up his hand in yours. “You gotta shut up.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I have to shut up?” he asks in a scandalized tone. “You sang through the entire intro, off tune may I add.”

At this rate you’re getting nowhere, so you just snatch the laptop back up before you actually hurt his feelings. You escape the full screen, met with those hentai ads that are slowly becoming the bane of Jungkook’s existence.

“Who actually watches those anyway?” he mumbles, covering the sidebar full of naked cartoon ladies with his palm for you, a real gentleman if you ever saw one. “Really?” he says, knocking his pointer finger against a particularly raunchy ad with the caption Be a Good Boy and Let her Play beneath it.

You snort. “You are such a baby,” you tease, pinching his cheek much to his annoyance. “What? Can’t handle seeing some anime titties?”

Jungkook shoves your hand away, leaning back to become one with the pillows as you continue onto the next episode. “They’re just weird,” he admits. “And make unrealistic faces.”

“Unrealistic,” you repeat, finally giving one of the ads the time of day. There’s an adorably drawn character making the most perverted expression, knees hiked up to her chest. Her face is twisted up, drooling like a dog and with her eyes crossed in ecstasy. You shrug. “Just because you can’t get those faces out of me doesn’t mean they’re unreal.”

The second the words leave your mouth Jungkook is letting out a scandalized scoff, sitting up to level you with another glare. “First of all, I can get you like that,” he defends, tapping his finger against the ad on screen. “In fact, I can get you like that without even trying, so let’s not say anything too drastic now, okay?”

His sudden bout of defensiveness makes something playful in you switch on, laying back down beside him with a smirk. “Oh, you can make me all stupid like this?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Yes.”

“Uh huh,” you drawl, tracing a finger up his chest teasingly; Jungkook knocks your knuckles away, obviously still butt hurt about your comment. That’s fine, because a slightly riled up Jungkook was always the best Jungkook. You sit up and lean in close, letting your hand slip beneath his hoodie, palm running over his bare shoulder and around the top of his back. You give his nape a light squeeze, lips pressed against the shell of his ear. “Why don’t you prove it to me, Jungkookie?” you purr, before pulling away.

His jaw twitches at the nickname, one shapely brow unconsciously arching as he regards you with a calculative expression.

The thing about Jungkook was that, after almost a year of dating, you know just how to push his buttons. He has a rather calm and collected exterior to him, the same one he’s had since the day you met him, but beneath it all was a childish competitiveness that raged with the heat of ten suns. He disliked being taunted like you were doing now, especially when his credibility was at stake.

Honestly speaking, you don’t doubt Jungkook can make you look as goofy and messy as those hentai ads. In fact you’re rather confident he can. Either way, him being right or you being right, you would still get some fun out of it.

“Hm?” you add, tracing your hand up to dance over the skin of his cheek, pads of your fingers running over that stiff jaw. “Are you scared I’m right and you’re wrong?”

A hand snaps up to catch your wrist, fingers tight around your skin until you’re shivering against him. “Oh baby, I can make you cum until you cry,” he murmurs, his usual sweet and lilting tone dropping to a low vibration that makes your pussy throb beneath your panties. Your heart leaps in your chest, lips falling open when he ducks down to brush them against yours. It’s too light, just a simple touch that makes you follow his mouth when he pulls back.

With one firm shove, the laptop is tumbling off the bed, thudding loudly against your bedside rug. Jungkook leans over you, his usual trademark doe eyes zeroed in on you with the focus of a laser. “Have a little faith in me,” he teases, and when he presses close you can feel his fattening cock flush against your thigh. Your body is begging to be touched, every brush of his fingers against your skin searing trails in their wake.

Suddenly, he’s drawing back. “Kook?” you frown, barely biting down on a childish whimper when he snuggles back into your mountain of pillows, one arm stretched behind his head.

He flashes you a smile. “Go on,” he says, arms behind his head. “Show me how to get you like that.”

“By myself?” you ask, shifting onto your knees anyway. Jungkook nods, a soft jut of his chin as he gives you another one of those easy going smiles of his. His goal seems a little unclear, but you had a ridiculous amount of trust in your boyfriend that whatever he had planned was certain to be good. With one final skeptical glance his way, you sink down onto your bum, knees spreading and giving him a clear view of your little pink boy shorts, elastic band hugging your waist.

The material of your t-shirt is guided away, held to your chest by the hand currently not traversing the length of your stomach, gliding across soft skin, over your belly button and past that band until it slips beneath. You chance another look Jungkook’s way, only to find his eyes wonderfully downcast in the direction of your core. That smile is gone now, replaced with a somber look as he watches your hand move mysteriously beneath the fabric of your undergarments.

The first brush of your forefinger against your swollen button makes you twitch, back arching at the sensation that is magnified by his watchful gaze. “Mmh,” you bite down, hand twisting in the material of your shirt. Jungkook’s eyes glare a molten path across your skin, from the comfy bra that peeks out from beneath your rumpled shirt to the wrist slowly working beneath your panties.

A hand falls over your thigh, tattooed fingers giving the skin a light squeeze as you get to work swirling your bud around. The sight of his inked skin on yours makes something warm blossom in your lower abdomen, your eyes following the inky swirls up, up, up. They lead you to the face of your very handsome boyfriend, long lashes fanning across his cheekbones as he watches you play with yourself. “Wanna take these off for me?” he says, the tip of his pointer finger wiggling beneath the fabric of your shorts.

You nod hurriedly, wiggling around on the bed until you’re on your back, legs bent in front of you. The shorts come down your legs; the simplest press of your thighs makes something quiver in your abdomen. You toss them off to the side, and just as you go to sit back up, Jungkook places a hand on your knee. “Stay like this for me,” he says, sitting up from his mountain of pillows to glance down at you. You melt into the plush mattress beneath you, staring down at him between your legs. He’s got that adoring look in his eyes, the one that makes you feel so warm and in love, it’s only natural your hand slips down to play with your bare clit again. “That’s my girl,” he smiles, rubbing a hand down the outside of your thigh, urging your legs to fall open.

There’s this overflowing vat of arousal that builds up inside of you everytime Jungkook is around, like the moment your eyes land on him you’re reminded of every position he’s ever had you in. You remember the soft brush of his hands on your body, the way his lips feel on yours, the soft tickle of his hair when he gets too close. It makes your heart lurch in your chest, like if you don’t grab onto him tightly this feeling will slip through your fingers and out of your life. So you were crazily in love with your boyfriend— now what?

A puckered set of lips meets the inside of your thigh, the action ripping you from your overly gooey, overly soft inner rambling. Your hand trails down your quivering pussy lips, collecting your dripping wetness as you go. At the same time, Jungkook kisses down the inside of your thigh, soft smacks of his lips against your skin filling the air with an emotion that makes you bite down a whimper. Your hole puckers at the brush of your fingers, anticipating an entrance that you yearn to give into soon.

His mouth is on you before your finger can go deeper than a centimeter in. But Jungkook doesn’t brush your hand off, doesn’t shove you away to prove his mouth was undoubtedly better. He places a kiss over your knuckles, before swallowing up your significantly smaller hand with his, that of which he clasps together over your navel.

You groan, head rolling from side to side. “Don’t be so soft with me,” you whine, leg twitching when he presses a kiss against your engorged bundle of nerves. “Push me around like that one time, you know I like it.”

Jungkook grins, mouthing over your clit with practiced ease that has you releasing all kinds of whimpers and sighs. He’s got his other hand wrapped around your thigh, strong arm pulling you closer to that devious mouth and tongue that lavished attention on your clit. “Need me to be mean to you, baby?” he purrs, curling his tongue in such a way that it makes your entire body tense up, muscles pulled tight. “Want me to push you around like the stupid little girl you are?” You moan, head bobbing up and down at the ideas he stuffs in your mind. As he moves down the length of your cunt, that round nose you love brushes against your bud, and the cheeky shit takes an obnoxiously loud sniff of it, a soft groan breathed against your lower lips. “But isn’t this better?” he hums, languidly molding his lips against your lower ones, much in the same way he does with the ones on your face; he moves slowly, slips his tongue in every few seconds before eventually diving in head on. “Slow... and so easy.”

“Kook,” you mewl, getting this overwhelming urge to cover your face with your hands. But you can’t, because he’s knotted one hand with yours and his fingers only tighten when you try to yank them apart. Instead you’re left pressing one knuckle against your mouth, brows pinching as he begins slowly fucking his tongue into your cunt. “F-Faster,” you beg. He, of course, ignores your plea.

The wet mass moves past the clenched muscles around your hole, nose brushing against your lips with every intrusion. Every few cycles he stops to press a kiss against your pussy, so hard and wet that it hurts when he pulls off. You’re left writhing and moaning, your heel knocking against his shoulder when he pushes your leg up closer to your chest. “It’s enough,” you cry, your entire body shivering.

Jungkook pulls off with a loud pop, lips glistening with your arousal. He’s got this glint on his eyes, like he’s thoroughly entertained by your reactions. He shuffles around to get comfortable, finally releasing that grip on your hand. Immediately, your newly freed hand jumps forward to tangle in the hair above his ear, tracing down the delicate curve of his cheekbone. Jungkook turns his head, pressing a soft peck against your open palm that makes your heartbeat thunder in your ears.

As he moves around, his leg bumps against something that has both of you pausing. It sounds out of place next to your shallow breaths, and both of you glance down only to catch sight of that stupid package from Sexuality Unleashed teetering on the edge of the bed.

The moment you see it, it’s like you’re transported into an omnipresent view of the scene, the next few hours flashing before your eyes as Jungkook snorts. You know he’s going to reach for it in two seconds, and you know he’s going to tear the hot pink packaging apart with his bare hands. He does so with a scary amount of power, the industrial tape not standing a chance against him. A box roughly the same size as the package falls out, and before you can kick it away and save yourself from suffering beneath Jungkook’s teasing antics, he’s snatching up the box.

“The Bullet Bestie,” he reads aloud, dark eyes flying across the text with lightning speed before that box is also being ripped open. (Briefly, there’s a voice in your head that thinks of Doyeon, but you’re not sure why.) Out tumbles a little pink bullet with a strap on one end that bounces against your thigh and an even smaller remote.

“Baby,” you rush out, the sight of the tiny toy making your heart thunder in your chest. “We can look at it another time,” you try, hands coming up to brush against his face again. “Why don’t you finish off here?” you ask, a sickeningly sweet politeness dripping off your tongue as the knot in your tummy fades into the background of his attention.

Jungkook ignores you, picking up the remote with a wondrous look in his eyes. Before you can try to persuade him back between your legs, a quiet click cuts you off and the little bullet whirls to life. You yelp at the sudden vibrations against the inside of your thigh, so close to your throbbing core. The jump of your thighs has it falling onto the mattress below you, wide eyes snapping back to the smirk that grows on his face.

“No,” you say slowly, sitting back up, “no, no,” you try, your usual assertiveness melting into a whiny cry as you try to wiggle away from him and the nefarious ideas infesting his lust-addled mind. You’re barely turning, ready to make a run for it and hand him his victory by forfeit, when Jungkook is catching you by the waist. Your hips get pulled up, arms clawing uselessly at the sheets beneath you as he drags you close to him. He’s fast, already having moved onto his knees behind you, and when he yanks you up, you can feel every hot plane of his body aligned with your backside. “Kook, please just make me cum,” you gasp.

There’s a smile pressed against your shoulder, lips still wet from before, kissing along the side of your neck. “Look at my girl,” he murmurs, and you nearly jump out of your skin when something smooth is traced along your thigh. One hand slips beneath the material of your shirt, soothingly rubbing circled against your skin. This hand also holds the tiny remote between two fingers, and every nerve in your body is on edge waiting for it to be used. “Where’s that smartmouth now?”

“Jungkook,” you try to warn. But there’s no bite to your words, only an anticipation that grows the closer he moves that damned toy between your thighs. “Baby, we-we can play another time, okay? Just please—“

A soft click, and suddenly your spine is giving out on you, upper body flopping forward as Jungkook runs the vibrations over your clit. Of course Jungkook follows, never letting you slip far from his reach. A loud moan spills from your lips, lower lip wobbling at the unreal amounts of pleasure he bestows upon you with such a small toy. “W-Wait,” you sob, the coil from before suddenly magnified tenfold. It makes your orgasm loom over you bigger than ever, a wave that threatens to spill over and drown you in one go. “No-please.”

His mouth presses against your ear, hot breaths fanning against the skin there. “Hey pretty girl, does it feel good?” he husks out, kissing just below your ear. “Aw fuck,” he groans, something stiff pressing against the cleft between your cheeks, “can’t even see if you’re making that stupid face right now.”

You are, but you don’t even have the words to tell him that. The moment the vibrator had made contact with your already ravished clit, your eyes had rolled into the back of your head. You don’t doubt you look like those silly ads you’d laughed at earlier, mouth opening and closing every few seconds as he circles the toy around your bud. You settle on a high-pitched whimper that has Jungkook laughing meanly against your ear.

It ends too soon, the stimulation from Jungkook eating you out for a few minutes combining with the bullet to form a powerful duo that swallows you whole. An embarrassingly loud moan rips itself from your throat, hands twisting in the sheets beneath you as it washes over you. It’s so powerful, it blinds you, pussy spasming. Jungkook’s name is repeated about a thousand times in between, your body eventually melting back into the mattress as the final shocks run through you.

The vibrator clicks off just as quietly as it turned on, your harsh breaths filling the room in its place. “Good girl,” Jungkook praises, raining down a parade of kisses against your shoulder. You mewl in appreciation, still awkwardly shoving your face into the mattress, and your hips in the air. From the corner of your eyes, you watch him set the glistening toy off to the side, and you’re just about ready to thank the heavens for such an experience with your boyfriend, when said boyfriend hits you with a curveball.

The gentle pecks against yours shoulder dissolve into harsh kisses, rough hands trailing up your waist. The t-shirt gathers around his knuckles, pushed and pushed until he’s got those same hands cupping your breasts. “Did you like that?” he asks, biting down against your shoulder; the sensation is dulled by your shirt being in the way but it still makes you whine. You moan softly, nodding against the mattress as he gets to kneading your breasts over your bra. “Mm,” Jungkook sighs, “my pretty girl was so good for me, wasn’t she?”

Those deft fingers run back down, crawl beneath the elastic of your lounge bra and push it away until your breasts are bouncing out of their cage. “Kook,” you sigh, eyes fluttering shut as he traces circles around your nipples. “W-Wait,” you whimper, suddenly reminded of the swollen cock pressed against your backside when he leans closer.

“Shhh,” he soothes, tweaking your nipples. “Relax for me, sweetheart,” he coos, flicking your hardened nipples with his fingers. You can’t relax, not with your body still so sensitive and him playing with you. Still, the low intonation makes something soft and warm settle in your chest, the kisses against your jaw making your eyes fall shut. “That’s it,” he says, giving one nipple a playful twist that draws a high-pitched moan from you.

Just as you’re beginning to fall into the rhythm of Jungkook’s caresses and voice, he releases one breast to traverse his hand down and over your tummy, to your sensitive pussy. You gasp, biting down on your lip as he teasingly flicks your clit with his fingers. “Bet you could come again now,” he murmurs, taking the tip of your earlobe into his mouth and nibbling softly. You groan, shoving your face into the sheets as if that will save you from your doom. “Bet your pretty little pussy can cream itself just like this, isn’t that right, sweet girl?”

You whimper, hips bucking back against him when he begins nudging your bud, lewd sounds reaching your ears. His other hand remains on your breast, no longer toying with your nipple but simply holding it almost comfortingly. There’s a smirk pressed against your skin, that pearly white smile you usually adore so much teasing you as he circles your nub.

“Come on,” he encourages quietly, kissing up the column of your neck again. You moan, thighs quivering as he strokes a second orgasm out of you with no struggle. Your eyes and throat burn at the heat that washes over you, and you release a hoarse scream into the mattress— Jungkook chuckles at the sound, egging you on with that low voice until your muscles go limp a second time.

When he rolls you onto your stomach again, you try desperately to cover the tears that blur your vision, turning away from him like a child when he tries to look. “Crybaby, crybaby,” he sings teasingly, prying your hands away to capture your mouth with his for the first time that night. “Lemme see those tears, baby,” he purrs.

He tastes like you, tongue dripping with that sweet tang of your pussy, and he smells like you too. It strokes the flames of you ego, arms eventually wrapping around his shoulders as he settles above you. He pulls off with a curl of his tongue against your swollen lips, brown eyes lazily staring down at you. It’s embarrassing how well kept he still was compared to your half-nude state of dress. His skin is all glowy and pretty, not a single tear track in sight, and his grin is still too relaxed for your liking.

Jungkook’s body feels so warm and comforting against yours, muscles keeping the heat trapped between your bodies. You go to brush a hand through his hair, needing to feel the familiarity of those silky locks, before he’s suddenly leaning away. He shuffles onto his knees again, glancing down at your thoroughly abused cunt with a quirk in his brows.

“God,” you groan, knocking your foot against his side. “Just fuck me already,” you huff despite your earlier fatigue. You could only go so long without feeling Jungkook’s fat demon cock inside of you.

He snorts at your snappy tone, cutely tilting his head to the side to move his hair out of his face. His jaw looks sharp from this angle, facial features covered in shadows the lamplight behind him can’t touch. “Can’t,” he announces, and you could pull your hair out from all this unnecessary build up.

Truth to be told, you and Jungkook were both equally as unrestrained when it came to each other. Most of the time, the lead up to actual, penetrative, key-in-lock sex included a couple minutes of heavy petting from his end, and maybe a half assed handjob from you. Sometimes if you felt extra attentive, he’d eat you out and you'd him off. But for the most part, the two of you jumped straight into it after an orgasm, like horny teenagers despite the two of you being twenty-three now.

The most adventurous you’d ever gotten up until the point was maybe two orgasms bestowed upon you by a crazed Jungkook. And, well. You had hit two orgasms now. You were ready for his monster cock.

“Kook,” you whine childishly.

Jungkook shakes you off, placing a palm on both your knees. Slowly, he spreads your thighs apart again, eyes zeroed in on the glossy folds that come into view, the sparkling pearly cum that leaks out of your hole. “I can’t, baby,” he says, almost pained. “I gotta clean you up first,” he insists, and before you can tell him how counterproductive it is to lick you clean of your arousal before fucking you, he’s diving face first into your cunt.

But the biggest surprise doesn’t come from Jungkook going in for thirds, but from the hands he clasps around your thighs, the sheer strength he uses to roll you over (ignoring the shriek you let out) to sit you on his face. “No, no,” you yelp immediately, “I-I‘ll break you,” you cry, trying to escape from his hold.

From beneath your thighs, dark eyes peering up at you daringly, you can see the clear warning on Jungkook’s face. It’s a look that loudly says don’t you dare fucking move, shapely brows sending a jolt of genuine fear down your spine for a moment. “Jungkook,” you fret, trying to ignore the arousal that only continues to blossom as his tongue laps against your folds for the second time that night. “I’m, I’m,” you stammer, hands burying themselves in his hair as he ignores your cries. “I’ll break you,” you try again, spine arching when he slurps your clit into his mouth. “I-I’ll—“

He pulls off with a pop. “Fuck my face, baby,” he says, as if he hadn’t heard a single of your concerns at all. His nose nudges against your clit, a whimper catching in your throat. Briefly, his hand disappears from around your thigh, and when it returns, that tiny bullet vibrator from earlier is pressed against your thigh. “You got that?”

You nod, internally torn apart by your fear of crushing him and your need to drag your cunt all over your boyfriend’s handsome face. You glance down at him, watch him slip that vibrator into his mouth for just a second and lewdly coat it in his saliva, before he’s reaching around to shove it past your pussy lips. They’re still swollen and puffy, but have long since relaxed enough for him to slip it in. “B-But what if—“

“You won’t,” he cuts off, readjusting himself closer to your cunt again, “come on, pretty girl.”

The reason you think you and Jungkook click so well was because he was able to bring that vulnerable side out of you every now and then. He knew you liked to parade around with that huge superiority complex, and he loved it. But he also knew there were things you liked and disliked, and sometimes it took a little pushing for you to reveal them.

For a second, that horny cloud over his irises lifts, and he gives you one of those cute, sloppy winks as he taps your thigh gently. “Fuck my face, sweetheart,” he whispers, “drag that pretty cunt all over me until I can’t breathe.” A gasp catches in your throat, hands unconsciously curling against his scalp. He notices, and flashes you a lazy smirk. “You can do that, can’t you?”

Something akin to adoration blooms in your chest, and before you can blurt out something embarrassing—like I love you—there’s a soft click that has The Bullet Bestie revving up inside of you. You gasp, the sudden vibrations deep inside your pussy making your hips snap forward, clit rubbing against Jungkook’s nose.

“O-Oh,” you cry, and that’s all it takes for you to lose it. Your hips start off slow, at first just savoring the wet drag of his tongue against your lips, his nose against your clit. He sticks his tongue out for you, and part of you wants to tell him he’s a good boy, that corny hentai ad flashing in your mind, but you doubt you’ll survive the aftermath of that. Once you find that perfect pace, your hands are practically yanking at his hair, pushing him further into the mattress as you ride his face like he’s nothing but a toy. “Kook, Jungkook,” you pant, grinding your lower lips against his all too eager mouth.

It feels oddly weird being over him like this, using him like this. You like to think you and Jungkook have equal power in the bedroom, but you will admit that more often than not, he assumes control by default. You’re not particularly bothered by that, because you doubt you’d ever come up with the crazy ideas Jungkook did when he was horny (okay, a lie, because you definitely have thought of crazy sex schemes before).

But, this moment…

The power was quickly going to your head. “Fuck,” you sob, roughly dragging the length of your pussy over and over his face. The hands around your thighs are pressing against your skin with a strength that would hurt were you not blinded by arousal. His eyes are shut, lids fluttering open every now and then as he watches you buck wildly over his face like he was a pillow in high school and your parents were gone for the weekend.

It doesn’t help that the rhythmic pulses of the vibrator inside of you are doing their job well, the tongue that slips into your pussy joining together to form a powerful combination. It’s ultimately what has you halting your manic thrusts, instead falling into a slow grind over him. Your hips circle, eyes squeezed shut as you lose yourself in the lapping of his tongue against your dripping hole. “Mmmf,” you mewl, biting down on your lower lip as the wet muscle prods against a delicate spot within you. You hear feels light, view of the gorgeous man beneath you obstructed by the eyelids that can't seem to stay open. “N-No,” you cry, pulling his hair more roughly than you intended to in order to redirect him. “There, there,” you whimper, holding him tight against your pussy.

Beneath you, Jungkook exhales harshly against your lips, hands moving frantically over your thighs as he works his tongue inside of you alongside the bullet vibrator. If you weren’t so caught up in your own pleasure, all kinds of sounds spilling from your lips, you would have heard the quiet moans that fall from his. Alas.

It takes a few more pulses from the toy and a few more licks from Jungkook until you’re coming for the third time that night, features twisting up as your pussy clenches around his tongue before spilling down his mouth. Your back arches, a defeated moan escaping you as you release the same mess he’d claimed to clean up onto his lovely face. You can barely breathe afterwards, mouth dry and head dizzy when Jungkook finally pops back out from between your thighs. You barely have enough time to lift yourself up, pussy lightly brushing across his Adam’s apple as you stop yourself from crushing his windpipe. It makes you twitch.

“Good girl,” Jungkook praises with a cheeky smile that distracts you from the bullet toy he retrieves from your quivering cunt. His face is absolutely glistening from your arousal, skin warm and flush. He’s looking up at you like you’re some mythical goddess and he’s but a humble villager coming to pay his respects at the temple that is your body. Fuck, were you okay? You don’t think you’ve ever felt this good in your entire life, and Jungkook’s mushy gaze was doing things to your heart.

He presses a kiss against the inside of your thigh before helping you off of him, laughing meanly when you flop limply down beside him. He’s still fully clothed, a fact that irks you when he leans over to kiss you with that glossy face of his. “D’you like it?” he mumbles, kissing softly down your face. You nod, legs twitching from the aftermath of that wild ride. “I saw it, y’know,” he says suddenly.

“Saw what?” you mumble, mindlessly rolling your head to the side and exposing more skin when he begins kissing along your neck.

Jungkook says nothing, just rolls over you. Part of you thinks he’s crazy, but you’re suddenly hit with the realization that while Jungkook’s drawn three orgasms out of you in the course of an hour, you hadn’t done anything for him. Before you can dive head first into swallowing his cock, he’s kissing you softly. “That stupid face,” he smirks, slotting his mouth against yours. “That weird, now realistic face,” he tacks on.

You huff out a laugh, throwing your leg around his waist comfortably. Jungkook smiles, kisses you one last time before settling in your arms, face cutely pressed in between your boobs. “Hey,” you call, “don't you wanna cum too?”

He shakes his head, a soft sigh filling the air. “Nah,” he says, cuddles closer into you. “Rest now, baby.”

You roll your eyes. “I can feel your dick against my thigh,” you point out, wiggling your pelvis upward to brush against his throbbing erection. Jungkook holds you down in an effort to stop you. “Fuck me.”

He groans against your collarbone. “No, you’re tired,” he tries to convince you, but his skin is warm and flushed in the way it always gets when he’s riled up. “Sleep.”

With the leg around his hip, you pull him closer. “Fuck me, Jungkookie,” you purr, using the hands in his hair to turn his face up towards yours. His dark eyes are drawn down cutely, pouty lips too. “Use my body,” you suggest, “I’m yours anyway.”

His eyes flutter shut, a quiet whimper falling from his lips. “Don’t say that,” he sighs, “makes me wanna do very mean things to you.”

You smile. “You can do whatever you want to me, don’t you know that?” Another groan, his head falling forward until he’s hiding in your neck. Still, there’s movement from below, he sweats slipping down at his hips until that throbbing cock is pressed into the tiny crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. There’s a moment of hesitation, and you wonder if this is what he felt like earlier when he’d managed to get you to sit on his face. “Inside, Jungkookie,” you murmur, reaching down to line him up with your sensitive entrance. He whines softly, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you close. “Good boy.”

Despite your earlier belief that you’d never survive an encounter with Jungkook after using such a term on him, the result is much different from what you had anticipated. He visibly melts into your arms, cock slipping past your folds easily. “No,” he says, his voice feathery and whiny against your ear. “I can’t.”

You soothe a hand down his back, eyes fluttering shut as he begins slowly rutting against your swollen lips. “That’s it,” you encourage, tugging softly at his wavy hair. Jungkook moans wantonly against your neck, rolling his hips harshly against you until his arms are the only things keeping you from jostling out of his hold. “Do you like this pussy?” you ask, purposefully clenching around him, tummy tightening at the stimulation you keep packing on.

Jungkook shudders, pace growing slipping inside of you. “Yes,” he pants, “s-so wet… creamy.”

“Yeah?” you huff, pressing a smiley kiss against his forehead. “It’s yours.”

“Ffffuck,” Jungkook chokes, picking up his pace as his well-deserved orgasm reaches its peak. He’s breathing harshly now, and it’s taking everything in you to keep your pussy tight around him. But after the night he’d given you, the sounds and faces he pulled from you, it’s the least you can do. Besides, your body, after being so thoroughly pleased, still rears up for one final orgasm with him. “Mine,” he growls, bucking his hips into you. “You’re mine, baby, mine,” he seethes, ending his little tryst with a piston of his hips that makes you gasp, body almost unconsciously spasming around him. It’s painful, but so, so delicious how he manages to pull this last orgasm from you as he finally busts inside of you.

He comes with a stuttering garble of words, none of which you catch as he collapses into your hold for the final time that night. “Fuck,” he pants afterwards, leaning into your touch when he finally registers the soft combing of fingers through his hair. “That was evil.”

You laugh, pulling him closer. “As evil as you making me suffer through three orgasms before putting your dick in me?” you tease. Jungkook slips out of you, and you know it’ll be a hassle to clean your sheets tomorrow but it’s worth it.

“It’s called building the scene,” he weakly defends, blindly tugging the puffy blanket over the two of you. “I was gonna rhyme it with that horrible website you made me use but I already forgot it’s name.”

“Rude,” you snap, “it’s called KissAnime.”

“And fore-play,” he suddenly says, and you almost yank his eyeballs out of their sockets for doing that stupid thing again.

—

epilogue

Two weeks later, your favorite website and home to hentai ads is shut down after years of piracy. Jungkook laughs at your demise, sits and actually cackles at your heartbreak, until he eventually comforts you with his flaming demon cock and a subscription to both Crunchyroll and Funimation. Doyeon spends weeks tracking down a missing package, apparently some freebie she’d gotten for being such an avid customer on Sexuality Unleashed: The Best Toys Worldwide! before eventually finding it in your drawer. And because her and Jungkook have some awkward life-long rivalry for your attention, he doesn’t pay for that.

—

#goldenclosetnet #networkbangtan #bangtanhq #ksmutclub #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jjk smut #jeon jeongguk smut #jjk fic #jungkook fic #bts fic #bts smut #mine

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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

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Smooth as the nine realms

loki laufeyson x reader / masterlist

summary; the midguardian lifestyle is strange, but there is an aspect of it that loki is definitely not accustomed to, and he’s conflicted about whether he likes it or not / warnings; smut, talk about pubic hair, or lack of, oral sex (female receiving)

kicking off your leggings, you abolished them to the other side of the room, straddling loki as he abandoned his book, caring not that the pair of you were in the middle of the common room, nor the fact that he had lost his page. it had been a few months since loki had been forced to join the avengers on their next quest, thor had practically dragged him towards the bifrost.

but now, he didn’t mind earth so much. sometimes it could be quiet, that was when all members of the team were away on missions, and thor allowed him to be by himself. this though, the way you, an average, world protecting midguardian straddled him, after stripping out of your top and bra, in the middle of a public sector of the domain, was something that he sure as valhalla had no mind about.

in fact, he rather enjoyed the way that your hands roughed down the points of his shoulders, and trailed down his biceps, that were underrated, especially in comparison to his brother’s. the two of you had been playing a game since he attacked the planet, it was a chase of cat and mouse.

at first, he had envisioned you to be the mouse, but you no longer seemed meek and small any longer. instead, you were the feline that was cosying herself upon the perch of his royal lap, descending her grounding hips over the throne of his pelvis.

“what is it trickster, cat got your tongue?” you seemed rather confident with the way that his eyes remained glue to your mound, he realised that must have been quite a complimentary action for a mortal man to show to his partner.

to be truthful, it felt as though all speech was parched from his mouth, he had knowingly waited for this instance where you would deliberately rut yourself against him; like heimdall, he had a vision of the future delved in the reverse side of his eyes, though, his reaction was the most unexpected thing that he could had intended to paraphrase.

he trailed his hand over your mound, through the fabric of underwear, watching mercilessly as you bucked into his hand. midguardians were something else, they weren’t as sensual as others he had been with concerning their sexuality, in fact, as it appeared, some were desperate.

you were rutting in his grip, though he applied a stern hold unto them, forcing you to stop your ravenous movements, and pose stilly for the god beneath you. he gently, which was a surprise to you with how tender and kind his eyes had become, laid you down on the couch that stark has paid a pretty penny for, exchanging your positions so that you were the one under his demeanour.

“do something.” you eagerly insisted, lacing your mortal fingers through his midnight locks, tugging gently at his dark roots. a glassy encasement covered his eyes as he stared up at you, it was a mess to place the expression that was carried within them, gods were difficult, that much was clear. though, you weren’t seeking anything particularly intimate with the company of one, this had been inevitable though.

it had been like a kettle brewing, screeching like an applause when the pair of you had finally gotten to the point of no return. this was it, there were no divine interventions or avenging interruptions to discard this moment, instead you and loki were thrown this coin toss, given your desires in the aura of a wish fountain.

“humans.” his voice prowled, making bumps appear on your skin, as he blew a swift succession of cold air across your stomach, it sending a blizzard of coolness up the paving of your chest, making your nipples undeniably hard, their stiff peaks that beaded under his breath were almost painful as they stood obediently to attention. “always so demanding, why can’t your kind beg for a change, i know that would appease my hunger?”

“oh loki, please.” your tone was severely monotone, and caused the mischievous lord to roll his gemstone eyes, rendering their spheric pupils to glare in amusedly at you, though, he tugged your panties down, the sight leaving him breathless. he was enraptured with the sight, perplexed by it as his emerald eyes stared up at you for an explanation. though, you were not sure what he was expecting from you.

his throat dry, as for once, he was not able to comprehend the situation. his silver tongue had gotten lost, obstructed as he grew distracted by the visual that he was receiving. it was a cunt, he knew that much, but there was someone uniquely different about it, he’d assume it was scalped if her were to make verbal predictions. “what is this?”

“my attempts at deflating your ego. i am not going to beg for you to do something to me, i can easily find someone else.” you rested your head back, digging the crown of it further into the end of the couch, as you parted your legs a little further to resend an invitation for him to proceed.

“not that...” loki revealed, paving his icy hands up the roads of your thighs, letting his forefinger brush over your pubic mound, it was like the bifrost, a smooth pathing to a transportation of depth, one that he wished to investigate, though he was still stricken by the eventing shock that pulsed within his golden veins. he had always been a curious child, and he remained to be as keen to know all now, at centuries upon centuries old.

“have you never seen a vagina before?” you huffed, wanting him to do nothing more than devour your cunt, stabbing you with his vigilant tongue so that he could curl crude and priceless sounds out of your mouth. if anyone knew that you were about to participate in intercourse with the destructive, slippery handed body, they would surely judge you.

but they didn’t, and even if that were not the case, you wouldn’t care. your mind was far too preoccupied with the growing inclination to jump the god’s elegantly crafted bones, bury for now you, remained still, allowing him to assert his comfort within the situation. “what’s wrong?” this time, he answered you, looking almost like a dear kitten that was plodding through the bustling streets, seeking out attention from a kind citizen, having hopes to be taken to a home, and fed well.

“why-,” he cleared his throat, he never came across as this nervous to anyone, it was as though he feared what you may think of him if he were to speak his mind. “why don’t you have hair- here?” he stroked the pad of his thumb over the flat and bare crest, finding it to be one of the most peculiar things regarding humans that he had ever witnessed.

“because i shave.” it was a simple answer, whilst all while being not as direct as the god was hoping for. “it’s kinda a thing down here, some people let it grow out, others don’t. it’s whatever picks their fancy, and a lot of people, like me, shave so intimate partners don’t get grossed out. some guys are dicks and hate everything that is natural.”

“well i’d still be reaped with great, reprised regret, if i were to reform the idea of giving you satisfaction if you were to have a natural slate sheathing around your sweet cunt.” he inhaled, making your muscles wither with succumbed arousal. the god could smell your distinct scent of attraction towards him, and he was visually compelled by the aroma that invaded his senses.

loki, without warning, placed his palm over your clean shaven mound, holding you down as his tongue worked against your tender flesh, stroking it as though he bore a hand of intricacy, sketching out every detail of your skin, plucking the outer labia into the hatch of his often deceiving mouth. he had to admit, in his mind of course, he liked the access that he was granted by this strange human lifestyle.

the idea of pubic hair was one of parts of a woman’s body that usually fuelled the immortal man, however if you didn’t want to bear its follicles on your skin, then that was to it choice. he wouldn’t judge you for it, although he happened to judge midguardians on everything. you were different from the others though, despite sometimes bickering, and making stabbing jokes towards one another, he rather enjoyed your presence.

with you nearby, he finally felt seen. he was not only the immortal that had prided himself with almost crushing an entire mortal city, no. you saw through that, understanding that he was definitely not in his own mindset, he had been controlled. it was never in his plans to venture to midguard, even if it was to cause a ruckus. but now with you, he never wanted to leave.

despite your optimal obligations regarding the team, and villains much like himself, he felt accepted. thor too appreciated him, but that was far different, there had always been a means of competition between the brother, with you, that regard was not present. he could be himself, and appreciate your side silhouette, and demand the agents that passed by with wandering eyes with threats if they did not continue walking.

now that he thought about that, as he engorged on the taste of your cunt, sliding a prying finger through the door of your entrance, fumbling your clit with his bewitched thumb, he realised something. a great surprise to himself. he indeed cared about you, but far more than he had ever anticipated to. his fingers slowed as he became mesmerised with every small noise that projected from your mouth, wanting to drag this instance out for as long as possible.

not only did his self realisation show him that he found some calm in your lasting presence, but he had feelings. usually he blocked off such things, but the heavenly expression that illustrated itself upon your face had him inwardly swooning. he felt you comb your fingers through his locks, and he hummed. he wanted this moment to last forever, in it, he was not a god, nor an infamous trickster.

he was just a man swarming with irregular emotions towards a woman, a being of optimistic resort; if things were as simple, or if he understood as well, he’d ask to take you for dinner. but he didn’t know where to start with that, not only did he have a lack of wisdom when it came to human restaurants, but he had no clue as to how you would respond. he didn’t even think that you saw him as a suitor, he was simply a deliverer of teasing and now pleasure.

“fuck loki.” the mortal swear sounded like a spell, making his body overbear itself with a proud sensation as he pushed you over the edge, removing his fingers only for you to bring them to your own mouth and clean them off. “holy shit, that was so good. maybe i should have started with gods years ago.”

inherently the mischief source growled, his mind instantly going over to the idea of you choosing his brother; everyone did, they had a strong preference. from his family to his old friends, they all liked thor more, and that was how his resentment towards his brother had originally stemmed. he felt like an outcast, and from that reminded alone, conjoined with your interest towards his brother, he felt his eyes grow glassy.

“go to him. i’m sure thor would appreciate your partnership.” yes, he was acting like a sulking toddler, and it had your brow bone raising as you took in his words. it was his clap back response, and you grasped him, stopping him from leaning the room. you felt slightly vulnerable, being in the nude after such a small lash, but you knew something was bothering loki, and it was clear to what that was.

“i do not want your brother loki, nor any other god.” your voice bit back a strain to its tone, as you stared at the man, standing in your birthday suit before him. your hands splayed on his chest, feeling his heart through his attire viscosity beating. “there is no need to be jealous, it feels like we’ve playing this game for so long, and i intend for it to be over. i will be the first to admit it, i want you, all of you. from the dark corners to the hopeful light in your eyes.”

loki was astounded, nobody had ever been so straight forward with him. despite being the god of mischief, the half of the time it was him whom was the victim of lies. “you don’t mean that.” his hands lightly traced every dip in your hips as he searched your expression for certainty. “nobody wants me, i am the monster that had tales spread to fear the children of my people of a night. there is nowhere i belong, nor anybody whom i belong with.”

“that may be your mindset, or the one that you are speaking, but you are lying to yourself. i do want you loki odinson, please accept that.” he gulped, nobody had ever had he guts to tell him how it was, and here you were, simply speaking your mind before him. it was an admirable feature, something that he deemed to be a favourable quality. “now i think i’m gonna get dressed and head to my room, i am feeling a bit cold. come find me when you feel like admitting the truth to yourself, i’ll be waiting.”

as you went to turn, loki grasped your elbow, hushing your questions with his mouth, as he clutched your cheeks, passionately endorsing you in a meaningful kiss. he walked you backwards, until the pair of you once again fell onto the furniture. “you don’t have to wait y/n, because i do not want to.” he ushered pecks down your neck, as you grew warm from the disappearance of his usual cockiness, it being replaced with true confidence, that served as a show for no one, and instead was his own admittance to all.

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askvectorprime · 3 years

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Dear vector prime, as the guardian of time and space what cosmic beings have you faced and defeated that have almost destroyed the transformers multiverse and timelines(besides unicorn and hytherion)?

Dear Destruction Dialoguist,

There have been many, ranging from the small to the incomprehensible, and to list them all would probably take too many of your decades, so I hope you'll understand if I limit this answer to just the one. While the Grand Uprising raged across Cybertron, a grave danger had emerged offworld—a threat neither the Protoformers or the Builders alone could address, or even comprehend.

In their distant past, during Galvatron's war with the Human Confederacy, one of the worlds caught in the crossfire was the small planet of Temptoria. To Galvatron, Temptoria was just another organic-inhabited world, fodder for his conquest, and raw materials for his Grendel Gambit—but unbeknownst to him, Temptoria had come into being around a multiversal anomaly: a living breach in the barriers between dimensions. Prior to their extinction, the Temptorians had believed it to be a mark of the creators upon the world, which they called the Brand. They used it to connect symbiotically with other realities, with "the crossover" being one of their most sacred rituals—but as centuries passed without them, the Brand grew stagnant, and fell to ruin. Dimensional instability spread from the planet, and at the epicentre, a timestorm threatened to unleash itself.

It was when the first of the anomalies reached Cybertron that I was alerted to the danger. In that reality, Blackarachnia had successfully forged an alliance with the Darksyders prior to the Vehicon Apocalypse, pushing Megatron to be bolder in his operations; during an attempt to seize Grimlock from Builder custody, they came into open conflict with Hot Rod's forces. Major Mayhem was mere moments away from tearing off Dirgegun's head, when a small group of Autobots from a distant universe spontaneously materialised in the middle of the street, towering over the Micromasters and Protoformers. To Megatron's surprise, the Autobot seemed to recognise him—and he certainly recognised the Autobot, as impossibly, it was none other than Optimus Prime!

I intervened, cutting short a potentially disastrous battle between the gathered parties by sending everyone through a dimensional gateway to Temptoria, and spoke to them about the Brand. I explained that if we didn't mend the brand, it would devour everything, reducing every universe to an endless loop of spacetime, the same events playing out eternally without development or resolution. The parcity of new information would bring about a memetic equivalent to heat death, and the Multiverse would be forever ruined. The gathered Cybertronians agreed to help me; in the case of Optimus Prime and his crew, only I could return them to their home dimension—and as for the rest, I suspect that many of them had designs of their own for the Brand. Regardless, I voiced my thanks, as it had taken a great deal of effort to bring them all together at the same time.

The situation we were faced with was undoubtedly the greatest "crossover" in history, a nightmarish unending mockery of the Temptorian's limited events. The Brand was exerting a continuous effect on other universal clusters—even ones from the greater Megaverse—taking their properties to make itself even more potent, threatening to subsume them entirely. All around us were strange beings, pulled from dimensions undreamed of, and the Brand was trying to make them part of itself, no matter how impossible that seemed, destroying itself in the process.

Hot Rod, Optimus and Megatron led their teams against these aliens, who seemed more confused than anything (I admit to being rather confused as well, especially at how many sounded similar to the Transformers). Still, it was an epic confrontation: they valiantly fought off the aliens while I saved the Brand. No sooner had I done so than the anomalies began to vanish, in the opposite order to that in which they had appeared; I had just enough time to thank Optimus Prime's crew (and answer a few lingering questions they had about one of their number's origins) before they disappeared. And, with the last of the anomalies gone, the Protoformers and Builders suddenly found themselves in the past—before they'd even set out on the mission to begin with!

I fear that the temporal trouble is why you haven't heard of this before, despite your universe's interest in the Uprising and the further adventures of Optimus Prime's team. In fact, as to whether or not the Resistance was able to overthrow their systematic oppressors in that timeline, I'm afraid I simply don't know: I myself only learned of the Protoformers' fate thanks to a spoken account of this adventure—"Cancel Culture", I believe it was called—plucked from spacetime as it settled. Such a shame it doesn't exist—I made for quite the dashing protagonist.

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mortallyclearwonderland · 3 years

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Star Wars Alien Species - Gotal

The Gotal species evolved on Antar 4, the mineral-rich fourth moon of the gas giant Antar in the Prindaar system. As the moon of a gas giant, Antar 4 was a world with a complex day/night cycle. Sometimes, one side of Antar 4 would be illuminated by the sun Prindaar, while the other received almost the same amount of light from the highly reflective surface of the gas giant Antar. At other times, Antar would block all sunlight to both hemispheres. As light was not always available there, Antarian animal life could not rely on sight as a primary sense. To compensate for this, the ancestors of the Gotals evolved cranial horns as receptors to sense electromagnetism and other energy emissions.

Although they were easily disoriented around devices that produced high levels of electromagnetic interference, the Gotals managed to develop quite sophisticated levels of technology. Using chemical reactions where other species would use electronics, the Gotals managed to colonize four of Antar's other five moons, and set up mining operations on the fifth, even before Galactic Republic explorers contacted them.

The Gotals joined the Galactic Republic between 25,000 and 22,000 BBY, becoming one of the first species to send representatives to its newly formed Galactic Senate. Kith Kark, a Jedi killed during the Freedon Nadd Uprising, is the earliest known Gotal to make his mark on galactic history. Goethar Kleej and his son Aubin came to prominence during the Mandalorian Wars a few decades later as swoop-duelists on the space station Jervo's World.

In later centuries, one of their most notable contributions to Republic society was the Antarian Rangers, founded in 620 BBY to assist the Jedi. Co-founded by the Human Jedi Master Marus Timpel and the Gotal businessman Kaskutal, this organization grew to become a major non-Jedi paramilitary auxiliary, working alongside the Jedi Order to protect the Galactic Republic.

In the Republic's final years, however, the relationship between the Gotals and the rest of the galaxy became increasingly strained. The Duinuogwuin-Gotal conflict was a short, but intense struggle which required the intervention of the Jedi Masters Jorus C'baoth and Tra's M'ins to bring to an end. Tensions between the Gotals and the rest of the galaxy continued over the next decade, however.

During the Separatist Crisis of 22 BBY, many Gotals supported the Gotal Assembly for Separation, or its more violent splinter group the Roshu Sune. After Roshu Sune terrorists set off bombs in Antarian Ranger chapterhouses, the Jedi and their Antarian Ranger allies invaded Antar 4 in retaliation. During the Battle of Antar 4, the Jedi and the Antarian Rangers took heavy casualties. They used electromagnetic pulse weapons in desperation, even though such weapons caused immense pain and disorientation for civilian Gotals caught in the crossfire. The Jedi response turned the Gotals, and the people of thousands of other worlds, against the Republic. After the battle, many Gotal refugees fled to Atzerri, leading to the Gotal hostage standoff. During this crisis, the Roshu Sune militants captured a commuter hopper that had 25 passengers, one of whom was Nathanjo Nirrelz. A taskforce of Jedi led by Sarrissa Jeng attempted to negotiate with the hijackers, but when blasterfire spooked the militants, they executed some of their hostages. The Jedi forced their way into the hopper and killed the Gotal militants. Gotal Foreign Affairs Commune leader Shagrad Loset castigated the Jedi for their "lightsaber diplomacy," asserting that the Gotals should have been allowed to solve the crisis themselves. Although a poll conducted by HoloNet News showed that a majority of respondents believed that violence was inevitable in the crisis, the events provided the impetus for the Clone Wars that engulfed the galaxy for the next few years. During the Clone Wars, Antar 4 was conquered by the Confederacy of Independent Systems. The Gotals did not benefit from the war, and were greatly impoverished during the Confederate occupation. Around this time, a Gotal team was entered in the Cularin Classic swoop race on the planet Cularin and was represented by the racer Arum Oru.

At the war's end, the Gotals became subjects of the Galactic Empire. The Imperial military refused to let Gotals serve in the military, believing they were too apt to empathize with their enemies. Only a minority of Gotals were willing to work with the Empire in any case, since their empathic sense led them to distrust the promises of Imperial diplomats.

During the time of the New Republic, Gotals were one of the nonhuman races targeted in Warlord Zsinj's plot to destabilize the New Republic. The operation was able to brainwash certain individuals to attempt to assassinate major leaders in the New Republic. Three of the targets included Wedge Antilles, Admiral Ackbar, and Mon Mothma, whose intended assassin was Tolokai, her trusted Gotal bodyguard. The intent of the operation was to breed distrust between Humans and prominent nonhuman races of the New Republic. The operation was ultimately foiled. By 9 ABY, the New Republic had liberated their homeworld, together with the rest of the Inner Rim Territories. At the end of the Yuuzhan Vong War, Antar 4 became a part of the Galactic Alliance. Gotal senator Ta'laam Ranth served on the Alliance's High Council as Minister of Justice. Circa 25 ABY, Antar 4's population was between one and ten billion. During the Yuuzhan Vong War, the Antar system was attacked by the Yuuzhan Vong. At some point during the New Republic's existence, the Shi'ido anthropologist Mammon Hoole included an entry on the Gotals in his publication The Essential Guide to Alien Species.

In 130 ABY, at least two Gotals were involved with the new Sith Order: an unnamed Sith who took part in the Massacre at Ossus, and the spy and information broker Attatag Gosem. By 137 ABY, the Antar system fell within territory controlled by Darth Krayt as part of his Sith Empire, and Gotals were still active in the galactic community.

In addition to sensing energy emissions in their environment and the presence of their prey animals, Gotals used their cones to monitor subtle changes in one another's electromagnetic auras. This ability to quickly and easily judge another Gotal's emotional state was fundamental to their culture. For example, Gotals were able to avoid angry members of their species, share in the joy of happy ones, and seek out depressed ones to cheer them up. Gotal communities were considered among the most harmonious civilizations in the galaxy. They had difficulty interpreting the emotions of other alien species, however, often mistaking basic emotions such as affection or anger for extremes such as love and murderous intent. Sufficient exposure to the galactic community could help them overcome this, however.

Gotals formed intense bonds with one another upon first meeting, and love at first "sight" was the norm among Gotals, whose empathic nature made the elaborate courtship rituals of other sentients unnecessary. Gotal would mate for life, and would bear young as soon as their lifestyles permitted it. Gotals only spoke to each other to relay abstract information, since they had no need to vocally express their emotions.

Young Gotals often had trouble assimilating the information arriving from their cones, and were in a constant state of agitated confusion until they learned to filter unwanted signals after about one standard year. Even then, it took them until the age of twelve to attain emotional maturity, and they could sometimes be nearly psychotic until then. Despite this, Gotal parents were devoted to their children. Mature Gotals were generally calm and peaceful individuals.

Gotal sensory cones allowed them to keep their emotions to themselves. They tended to keep a calm and restrained demeanor when dealing with others, speaking of emotions only abstractly. This led some non-Gotals to assume the species lacked emotion entirely, and many species to be uncomfortable around and mistrustful of Gotals. Some felt that they were at a disadvantage when dealing with Gotals and their sensitive head cones, and other, more superstitious species, were wary of what they saw as the Gotals' supernatural powers. Nevertheless, the quirks of Gotals made them effective diplomats, mediators, businesspeople, and gamblers. Unless they sensed evil intentions, Gotals were generally diplomatic and polite when interacting with members of other species.

The ruthless Imperial era financier Sarlim Gastess was among the few Gotals whose cones were non-functional. Perhaps because of his inability to sense emotions, this "blind" Gotal was a fearsome psychopath by his people's standards.

Some Gotals became romantically attached to non-Gotals, but they only seemed to be sexually attracted to other creatures with cones or horns on their heads.

Gotals possess cranial horns as receptors to sense electromagnetism and other energy emissions. These nerve-ending filled cones could sense the natural electromagnetic fields produced by Antar, Prindaar, and Antar 4's magnetite-rich crust, allowing the species to operate even in total darkness. Their senses also picked up the electromagnetic auras from other life forms. Gotal hunters could sense their quarry from up to ten kilometers away, and could track herds of quivry for weeks. While hunting, a Gotal could determine the amount, species type, and level of sickness of animals by relying on their cones alone. When close to their target, they could ascertain information on its mood, awareness, and state of mind. As such, Gotals numbered among the most sought-after hunters in the galaxy.

Gotal cones could detect another being's emotional state and intentions. Gotal horns were even sensitive enough to pick up such indistinct signals as neutrino emissions. Electronic devices could also be sensed by Gotals: in fact, most droids gave off enough electromagnetic emissions to at least annoy a Gotal, and at worst to seriously disorient the horned beings. Consequently, the species was notoriously distrustful of droids. Gotals relied heavily on their cones, with their eyesight and hearing being quite weak, and their sense of smell almost completely absent.

At least some Gotals were able to sense the Force with their cones. Nevertheless, standard reference works such as the Catalog of Intelligent Life in the Galaxy were silent on the subject, and the writings of Mammon Hoole described this as a rumor which had "yet to be proven." Other sources indicated that both the Jedi Order and the Galactic Empire had conducted inconclusive research which attempted to train Gotals to sense the Force. The records of the Gotals themselves were split on the issue. Those sources which did describe Gotals sensing the Force varied in their descriptions. Some sources described it as an intense, overwhelming sensation, while others treated it as a mere "indistinct buzzing." At least one Jedi Knight, Luke Skywalker, believed that sensing the Force could cause Gotals headaches. Any ability to sense the use of the Force with their cones did not hinder Gotals who were Force-sensitive in the conventional sense from learning to use the Force, however.

Gotals had flat, elongated faces with reddish, heavy-lidded eyes, small, flat noses, and a wide, downturned mouth full of blunt, yellow or white teeth. Their eyes varied in color, with individuals sporting shades of red, orange, yellow, gray, green, and black. Coarse, shaggy fur covered most of their bodies with the exception of the face, chest, and abdomen. Gotals were classified as mammals. Their overall body plan was humanoid, with proportions generally similar to Humans. Some Gotals had four fingers and a thumb with short, conical claws on each digit;[3] others had only four or three digits per limb with much longer claws making up a large portion of each finger. Their skin color varied from gray-brown to black, and their fur came in white or shades of brown or gray. While male Gotals typically had a thick fringe of hair around their cheeks and chins, this was absent in female Gotals. Gotals shed their fur and most Gotals learned to control this process. Under extreme stress or nerves, however—as when surprised or frightened—Gotals could lose control of this process and begin shedding large clumps of fur. Gotals' natural body odor was similar to the smell of mildew and old sweat. Gotals were resistant to the venom produced by members of the Killik species.

A typical Gotal stands at 1.8 meters or 5.9 feet tall and weighs 70 kilograms or 154 pounds.

Gotal age at the following stages: 1 - 9 Child 10 - 12 Young Adult 13 - 40 Adult 41 - 60 Middle Age 61 - 75 Old

Examples of Names: Abav Ghart, Glott, Kith Kark, Lishma, Mnor Nha, Pari Notgoth, Tolokai, To-yel.

Languages: Gotals speak Basic and Gotal. However, the form of Basic they speak is devoid of emotional context. The Gotal language is impossible for other Species to learn, because so much of it relies on feedback relayed through their head cones.

#Gotal #star wars species #star wars aliens #star wars Gotal

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harcourtholmesii · 3 years

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Heaven And Hell

I have finally caught up with the prompt list! Thank you to @connor-sent-by-cyberlife for the lovely list. It is not only a nice experiment but it is helping to motivate me to write, which I appreciate.

Pairings: HankCon / Hannor / Hank X Connor

Warnings: - Swearing - Graphic Violence and Gore - Implied Rape and Referenced Murder - Slightly NSFW - Implied Sexual Interests - Existential Questions - Hurt and Comfort

Words: 3368

Enjoy!

Connor was still young. Bright-eyed, by the book, and completely innocent despite his research into humans and the Earth’s violent and erratic history.

Being that it was his first mission to Earth, his superiors had been worried to send such a young angel to the planet below. His job had been, put simply, to walk among humans and learn from his experiences. Adapt to their atmosphere and climate, and whilst present, deal out the necessary punishment to the beasts that walked alongside them. As a new breed, Connor was created to find and destroy.

And they had not been hard to find.

Executing them for their evil whilst being subtle, however, was another matter entirely.

In order to achieve it, he had combed through the vast knowledge he had learnt over centuries of study. A vast mind vault within him, stacked high with books and parchment, informed him that the best path he might take would be to gain a career as a police detective or ‘cop’.

In such a position, he would be more likely trusted by civilians, allowed to carry weaponry he could modify to destroy demons and fallen angels alike, and he would have the means to track them without strain on his own power. He had to build up to it first, of course.

The police academy, where he excelled at all of his classes, took only a short amount of time to him; a mere couple of years. His superiors, though proud of his work, told him to slow it down. Take hits and failures every now and again, where necessary, to make it appear he was just as fallible as the average human. Even when he had graduated from the academy, he was top of his class by a mile.

He had been immediately placed into the Detroit Police Department, and had been near delighted by his success. Well, as delighted as an angel was allowed to be. Too many human emotions were enough to cause an angel to fail and fall. Ones of his kind were able to fall into the throes of passion so easily, due to their physical inexperience, that it was often in a murderous rage or in the heat of sexual intimacy that the worst acts were committed. It doomed an angel to fall.

Connor was certain such things would not affect him. After all, he was the best of the best; made to be more and above the other angels. Not that he wished to gloat, or be overly prideful, but he was better.

And then he had entered into the precinct for the first time.

There was the stink of human sweat and he could practically taste the sugar and coffee in the air, but there was the smell of smoke and the near taste of fire to accompany them that had Connor reeling. He restrained himself from immediately hurling himself forward and into the throes of battle, rolling his shoulders as if to shrug off the weight of sin in the precinct.

There was a devil among them, and it wasn’t hard to work out which of his new colleagues it was.

Captain Fowler had introduced him to his experienced partner, lieutenant Hank Anderson, whom he was supposed to follow and learn from. Connor had to grit his teeth so as not to roar at the other. The humans were blinder than Connor had initially thought. They would let a devil into their midst, one that would see them fall to doom and destruction.

He fought back the scowl, replacing it instead with a kinder smile, offering the devil his hand. When their palms connected, there was a deep burn that seared through his skin.

‘It is nice to be working with you, lieutenant.’

‘It won’t be, I can assure you.’ The urge to let his wings loose and drive the devil through the wall grew, but he kept his smile up. This was going to be harder than he thought.

~X~

Hank had been created from blood and brimstone. He was born to a world of darkness, the lick of hot flames and the sting of teeth and steel against his flesh. For centuries, he had grown and festered like the plague on humanity he had been made to be.

His dark wings became a shield from the worst pain, and his teeth helped to defend him and tear out the throats of other devils that tried to hurt him. Survival was learnt from an early age, and when he was finally able to crawl free of the pit, he was greeted with the warmth of sunlight and the feeling of Spring dew.

He had to learn fast, so that he might survive and not return to Hell itself.

He studied parchments, scrolls and tablets from the dawn of human time, had followed human history and learnt the best and worst of it all. He had learned quickly how best to disguise himself from most angels, and had nearly died numerous times throughout history.

Through it all though, Hank had grown and aged. He became harder to find, harder to kill, and he had come to recognise humans as less the worms that he had heard through shouts and tortured whispers. Instead, he came to recognise them as an intelligent species, who often made stupid decisions. Mistakes or choices that sent them to an early grave or simply added up until they were being ripped from the planet and pulled down.

Down below.

He had many jobs throughout history, had many backstories and different histories to suit his needs. His most recent character was that of a police lieutenant, where it was he that dished out punishment, not just on horrible human beings, but the occasional devil, demon or fallen angel that caused trouble.

He had come to realise that long ago, humans were too often dragged to Hell for something that could be forgiven or looked over. The seven deadly sins may have been something ‘damning’, but they could be explored without being taken to the extreme like angels seemed to believe. In fact, in Hank’s mind, it was simply Heaven that was refusing to forgive, as was their (quote, unquote) ‘policy’.

It had been a surprise to Hank when his newest partner turned out to be an angel. Not only that, but one that could immediately see through his disguise despite the centuries he had to perfect it. He never gave the game away, but the two of them had been forced to work side by side. It would have been comical, if Hank wasn’t constantly feeling the burn of ‘righteous fury’ whenever they were within close proximity.

He had spoken with Connor, had even apologised for his rather rude introduction, but the angel had refuted his words. It was clear to him that Connor was just one of many angels that would never learn, the naïve little pricks that they were. Heaven did a brilliant job of brainwashing those that left it, and Hank was unsurprised Connor seemed furious, in some cases fearful, to be around Hank for any extended time.

Though, there was one thing that shook their relationship.

It was a case, one of a particularly brutal serial killer. As they were the investigators for the case, they allowed themselves more freedom in the crime scene once given space from other officers. When alone, Hank let his human visage drop a bit, to reveal the scarred features he held, two strong horns and a pair of white, bony, bat-like wings. When Connor had noticed his transformation, the other had released his own mirage, revealing dark, feathered wings and a neon blue halo above his head.

‘No need to get pissy. We’re alone here.’ Hank huffed, and though the angel didn’t relax, he didn’t attack. Hank allowed him to use his powers to help with the investigation, the little angel practically spitting out the blood when he tasted it. Hank already smelled that it had been a devil’s blood, but he smirked at the adorable face the angel had pulled when he found it disgusting.

They returned to their human forms before another officer would show up, and through it all, Hank had noticed how Connor’s eyes kept diverting to him. Gazing at him not in anger or disgust, but curiosity, and perhaps an interest that made Hank’s spine perform a delicious tingle.

He could work with this.

~X~

A few months into their work together, they had started investigating a serial killer. Connor had done well to keep the devil away from him, though it had been easier than he initially thought. The devil seemed to pay little mind in attempting to tempt him into the worst kinds of sin, and to Connor’s surprise, actively assisted in the investigations. He didn’t attempt to get the wrong humans killed or framed for their actions, and helped to track down the murderers or rapists or whatever else as quickly as possible.

Without revealing themselves, of course.

When the other had dropped his human guise at the crime scene, Connor had been prepared to rip his head off, but when the other spoke so softly, despite his gruff demeanour, Connor had agreed to keep the peace. But he was confused, and more than a little curious in the other.

He didn’t know what it was that he was experiencing, as he had little knowledge of what a human or an angel could feel. He had never experienced emotions in this way, but he became curious about his partner. He was curious if those wings were as sensitive as his own, whether his gruff behaviour was from boredom, or if he genuinely didn’t want to fight. He didn’t understand this enigma.

During their investigation into the serial killer, it was at the third crime scene that Connor had taken note that not only did the place stink of his usual, devilish partner, but that the smell had intensified. As if doubled.

Connor had been too slow to connect the dots, and had been ambushed by the devil. He was tackled to the floor, feeling the figure thrust their knee deep into his back, pushing against his spine. It hurt. Connor whined, a sound he didn’t know he could make, but the devil had just laughed above him. Lips leaned down and a forked tongue swept over his cheek, tasting him. Connor fought back, but from his position, he couldn’t grab his gun nor his sword. He was trapped.

There were footsteps, and then Hank was in front of them both. Silver hair which had helped to curtain his eyes, was pulled back, revealing similar silver eyes. They looked down at Connor with some kind of gaze that he didn’t recognise. Then they turned to fury as they rose to meet the eyes of the devil.

‘If you want a piece of angel flesh, you’ll have to wait your turn.’ There was a tightening on Connor’s limbs, a burning sensation scarring his wrists. Connor twisted, feeling the grip change to grab a head full of hair and lift his head up at an uncomfortable angle. When that tongue came out to taste him again, the weight was released with one quick movement.

Connor could breathe, and he had turned to see Hank without his guise. The two devils were in a tangle of violent clawing and limbs, wings sprouted and teeth bared. There was a loud ‘SNAP!’ as something was broken, and the killer shrieked. Connor leapt into action then, pulling out his gun. He raised it, and stopped.

He trained it on the two of them, and through the burn of his halo, the voices of his superiors and guardians urged him to end it. He had both of them in his sights. He could do it. He could shoot and kill them both.

There was a gunshot, and Hank peeled back as there was an explosion of red. The head of the devil had a hole clean through the skull, through the back and between the eyes. It left an alcove in the back of its head, brain matter and blood bursting into a bright confetti of colour. And beyond that, Hank was greeted with the sight of Connor kneeling on the floor.

The gun had not lowered.

Hank knew it was over. He could practically see Connor’s guise dropping, the wings unfurling and the halo gleaming as he was close to accomplishing his mission. Connor’s eyes flicked back and forth, his hands around the gun trembling. Suddenly, the gun dropped, along with Connor.

There was a cry from the angel, a terrible, pained sound as he clutched at his head. The halo burned through his hair and deep into his flesh. Hank was to his side in a moment, bringing him into his lap as the halo withered away to nothing. His wings shook, feathers beginning to moult and though his wings seemed to have shifted a shade darker, they remained their beautiful, glossy colour.

By the time it was over, Connor had been rendered unconscious, his wings shrinking back into his human guise, but he was missing the heated glow that would arc above his head. As Hank’s own body returned to its original form, he held the other close, and even carried him to the ambulance outside, after he called it.

It was shock, according to the paramedics, with some bruising from the damage dealt by the now deceased criminal. He would be out of the hospital in no time, less so since he would still be healing at an angel’s rate.

He met Connor outside the hospital, and instead of driving the both of them back to the precinct, Hank had taken the quiet fallen angel to an empty bridge where Hank had found it easiest to think. Few people came there anymore, the playground abandoned and the stink of the river causing people to feel far too uncomfortable to approach. It was the perfect place.

‘What are we doing here, lieutenant?’ His voice quaked, and wide, doe-brown eyes looked up at Hank with the most fearful expression Hank had seen the angel wear. It was more afraid than when he had been attacked by the devil in the first place.

‘I think, you being downgraded to a fallen angel, has earned you the right to just call me Hank.’ He half joked. It didn’t help the angel’s shaking. ‘Come on. I just want to talk.’

He stepped out of the car, and over to a park bench that looked out over the river. He waited a few short minutes before he heard the car door slam and Connor’s approach, taking a seat beside him.

‘Why did you come out all this way to eat me?’

Hank turned a confused gaze down at Connor, eyes to the hairline with shock. Now, that he had not been expecting.

‘Uh… I don’t want to eat you.’

‘The devil said you would have to wait for angel flesh. You have looked at me in a similar way before, so I am pretty certain your intention is to eat me. Especially since I can’t burn you anymore an-’

There was a guffaw of laughter from Hank, and Connor felt his cheeks flush a great pink. He had never been able to blush before, and he felt more embarrassed and more shame when he realised he was exhibiting such human behaviour.

‘Tha… That isn’t what the little creep meant.’ Hank assured him, arm around Connor and bringing him close. Despite Connor’s immediate panic, he didn’t struggle when Hank pulled him into the half hug. He felt Hank’s warmth, and how it didn’t burn like when they first met. Instead it was a soothing sensation that heated his skin and the smell of brimstone had been clouded with the smell of sugar, the slightest taint of alcohol and something stronger.

‘T-Then… what are we doing out here?’

‘I just wanted to talk.’ It was a slight lie, but despite Hank’s growing interest in the tiny angel, Hank wasn’t like the devil serial killer. He wasn’t one to take that shit by force. Hank may have been a devil, but he had grown to become more than that, in his mind. ‘I just wanted to say, I’m sorry.’ Connor’s gaze was confused and disbelieving. ‘No, I mean it. I’m sorry you lost your grace. And for me of all people.’

‘It wasn’t for you.’

‘Then why didn’t you shoot?’ Connor’s lips were sealed, and he had turned away from Hank, that shameful flush giving him away.

‘Believe it or not, Connor, being so close to humans isn’t so bad.’

‘Of course you would say that. Just trying to rub it in that I have been released from Heaven?’

‘See, you say that like being released from Heaven is a bad thing.’ Hank hummed, turning his head and pulling Connor closer. He could practically hear the fallen angel’s heart racing and the slightest chatter of teeth in the cool night air. ‘But, think about it; Heaven had such control over you, in the end, your own decisions were considered enough to have you banished?’

‘I…’ Connor shouldn’t be listening to this. He shouldn’t! ‘I was placed here on Earth to hunt your kind, to protect the humans from sin.’

‘But see, you can’t protect humans from sin.’ Hank said in response. Connor tilted his head, like a little, lost puppy. ‘Humans cannot be saved from sin, in fact, it is in their nature to sin. And the small things should always have the option to be forgiven, and yet, Hell is being piled high with more and more souls each year.’

‘You’re just saying that…’

‘I’m not. Think about it, Connor. Is it so wrong to indulge? Certain things are out of line, of course, but is violence, when necessary, a bad thing? Is lying? Is sex really as sinful as Heaven taught you?’ Connor turned his head away, gaze pointedly to the pavement.

‘I… I don’t know…’

‘And that is the thing about human nature; no one really knows what is too far. Sometimes, someone deserves the worst that happens to them, but then there are those that are judged too harshly for something so insignificant. And they are humans, with lifespans shorter than ours by whole millenniums. They should be allowed to live as they choose without us dictating how they behave.’

Connor didn’t seem sure how to react to such information. He felt Hank’s guise drop and let his own drop as well. When he met Hank’s eyes, he hid his gaze, shameful of his appearance. Instead, he felt Hank raise on of his hands, and thin, soft lips against the crook of his knuckles; a gentle tease of fangs against the skin of his hand. Wide eyes turned up to Hank, and even though there was something lustful there, Hank did not proceed any further.

‘You are beautiful, Connor. I don’t know if Heaven made you that way, or if this was your own design, but it was a good choice.’ The pink to Connor’s cheeks burned. He withdrew his hand, and Hank didn’t press further. The devil simply chuckled a gruff sound from deep within his chest.

‘Don’t worry, Connor. I may be evil, but I am not going to do anything to you that you wouldn’t want me to. I just wanted to indulge myself a little.’ Connor bit his lip, kneading his bottom lip between his teeth.

‘I… I d-don’t mind…’ Hank raised an eyebrow down at him. ‘I just… I’m not sure it is appropriate.’

‘In Heaven and Hell’s eyes, it never will be. But here, on Earth, things can be different. Connor…’ There was a quiet sound from Connor, and Hank felt his body burn and his spine quiver. ‘I… If you want, we can be friends.’

Connor leaned into Hank’s arms, resting his head in the crook of Hank’s throat. Hank’s hands passed over one wing that twitched, and then relaxed beneath his touch. There was a hum from Connor, a sound so content and just a little bit nervous.

‘I… I would like that…’

#dbhlightandshadow #Detroit: Become Human #DBH #Hank Anderson #RK800 Connor #RK800 #HankCon #Hannor #Hank X Connor #NSFW?#Fanfic #Fanfiction #HarcourtHolmesII

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chaoticspacefam · 3 years

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Kiss With A Fist

A/N:

quite literally heeheheh ok I’ll see myself out LMAO the rest of this song doesn’t literally apply to these two, they love each other very much and rest assured they’d never actually, deliberately hurt each other. it’s more the general Vibe(tm) of the song that fits their courting process + I really liked the poetic irony of this line used as the quote & the last line of the fic XD Also bear in mind this is from D’leah’s POV and yes, it is semi-ironic on purpose because...it’s D’leah. Any regulars on the blog should be very familiar with mama Sith’s propsensity to be a bully with an overinflated ego at this point *shrugs* XD

OKAY, with that out of the way, here we go! A little oneshot. I haven’t sat down to properly write or edit for a good long while, but this is still one of my favourite oneshots that I’ve ever written tbh, so...enjoy! 😄😄 I’ll leave it up to reader interpretation as to whether they actually finished the mission her brother & dad sent them out on or got sidetracked(tm) 👀😉

I don’t think it needs a particular warning since it’s literally one sentence but there is a mention of killing an assassin in the middle of this (under the cut) so ig be aware of that. It’s not horribly graphic so should be fine but uhhh, just in case?

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

“A kick in the teeth is good for some, but a kiss with a fist is better than none!” ~Florence & the Machine

Of all the Royal Guards that could have possibly been assigned to accompany her on this mission, it had to be this one. The heiress would be lying if she said she wasn't a tad bitter by the Emperor's insistence on that arrangement; she'd attempted to change his mind in a moment of desperation in the past, but her father would hear nothing of it, patting her on the shoulder and claiming that none of the others had the skill level for this sort of task, or to keep up with her during it. So, once more, she was resigned to the company of the fool who, despite her snapping, always seemed to turn up when he was least wanted and needed.

(This was, of course, not the case and given that his entire purpose was to protect the heiress from threats, perhaps she should have been more tolerant of his presence, or perhaps her protests stemmed less from annoyance and more from something else than she was willing to admit…)

And he had been fraying D'leah's nerves ever since they'd landed on Tatooine this morning. Kissai had enough arrogance for the both of them, and he seemed to have gotten the idea into his head that she couldn't take care of herself without him needing to jump in to "rescue" her at the most inopportune moment. It was infuriating. She did not need him charging in to help, she could handle herself just fine.

Everything about this man irritated her to no end: the way he stomped around with his great big feet and woke half the karkin’ planet, his habit of always being right behind her whenever she turned around, the way he kept grabbing her by the shoulder to pull her back and insist he, of all people, went first; his stupid face and that annoying, oaf-ish smile of his…

She’d been so busy internally cursing her Guard that she’d failed to notice the man who had been tailing them since the spaceport; in fact, she only noticed him in the first place when she heard his spine crack as Kissai lifted him into the air with the Force, then flung the body down in front of her almost pointedly.

D’leah let out an agitated hiss as her amber eyes flicked from the corpse at her feet, to his face as he raised both browstalks at her as if to say "I told you so", then back again, and sputtered.

“He wasn’t going to shoot me.”

“I think you’ll find he was, princess.” Kissai retorted smoothly, plucking the man’s blaster pistol off the ground and waving it at her as he added, “You’re welcome, by the way.” She bristled faintly at the word ‘princess’. Sometimes when she was in a good mood, she’d slip up and let it slide without correcting him. Today, after the morning she’d had, D’leah was in no mood to put up with it.

“I don’t need you following me around like a lost Tuk’ata pup!” she snapped at him, trudging onwards and praying he’d catch his stomping feet in a sinkhole when he tried to follow her.

“Your father seems to think otherwise.” The man simply laughed the comment off, pulling his hood up to protect his face from the sand that whipped into a vortex around them. His voice dropped an octave, to become a more serious growl. “Are you forgetting that my entire job is to protect you?”

The Ahaszaai High Lady snarled under her breath, checking the locator beacon Duuma had given her as she ducked into the alcove it indicated. The lost artifact should be around here somewhere…

“I don’t need protecting, I can take care of myself just fine!”

“Mm, of course, D’leahane, because Sith who can take care of themselves usually almost get decapitated by assassins.” Kissai snorted, though she could practically hear the shit-eating grin in his voice, “I think your father’s right to ask me to accompany you. You’d have died three times today if I hadn’t.”

“GO JUMP IN A SARLACC PIT!” she shouted back at him.

“And there are the creative insults your brother warned me about.”

D’leah paused in her search to turn her head and give him a dirty look over her shoulder, intoning menacingly. “I’ll kill him when I see him next.”

Kissai’s expression moulded into one of concern this time, the red-eyed Pureblood blinking at her uncertainly as he reminded her. “...You don’t know which one it was.”

Now it was her turn to grin at him.

“Don’t need to, I have a fifty-fifty shot.”

“No wonder they’re both afraid of you.” he scoffed, rolling his eyes. Truthfully, the High Lady was doing her best to ignore his obvious needling as she ducked through another archway and moved further into the cave system, the words she threw over her shoulder echoing back to him off the empty passageway’s walls.

“You should be afraid of me, too. I could end you.”

She was surprised he was still behind her, he could move rather fast despite his large frame, it would seem. D’leah tried not to be too impressed by that fact, but if she was being honest...

“Does it bother you that I’m not, princess?”

He wasn’t going to drop this, was he? She’d been about to levitate a pile of rocks out of their path, but stopped and spun around to glare at him instead.

“Don’t you “princess” me, you...you…” just when she needed it the most, her ability to think of an appropriate insult failed her, and instead she trailed off into awkward silence. Kissai took that as an invitation to make her even more irritated that his wit was quicker than hers, and added, grinning the whole while: “If you’re trying to think of something you haven’t called me yet, we’ll be here for a good century or so.”

“Fool.” she hissed in frustration. He had her on the ropes, now, and that wasn’t somewhere the Ahaszaai heiress was used to being. “Is that the best one you have? Did I wear you out, my Lord~?” he crooned back at her, and that was when D’leah put her foot down. She flung a few bolts of lightning in his direction for good measure. As she had suspected, his reflexes were as good as his saber skills and he easily deflected them off his palm before the electricity did any damage, swatting them aside into the wall as if he were brushing dust off his cloak.

“I knew you were going to do that, too...do you really think I can’t handle you?” he teased fondly.

“I’ve no time for oafs the likes of you.” D’leah growled.

"Then tell me to leave you alone." he stared back at her seriously, browstalks furrowing as his gaze slid from hers to focus on the rest of her face, as if searching her expression for a nonverbal cue he might have missed. "At your word, my Lord, you'll not hear another thing from me beyond those necessary for my duty."

Looking into his eyes in that moment, she was forced to admit the reality that perhaps she didn’t want him to leave her alone. He’d figured out she was testing him, and now he was calling her bluff, the kriffing, good-looking bastard. Her jaw spurs rattled in annoyance, but D'leah's lips remained sealed. He waited a full minute, still studying her carefully, to give her plenty of opportunity to voice her thoughts.

She didn't. The corners of Kissai's mouth turned upwards into a faint smile.

"That's what I thought." he stepped away from her again, but not before slipping up and forgetting his station for long enough to murmur fondly, "Your nose scrunches up when you're sulking, you know. It’s cute."

D'leah could let "princess" slide on a good day, as far as his pet names went it was among those she considered tolerable, but she drew the line at "cute"! Annoyed and frustrated in more ways than one, she strode after him to reach up and grab the taller Pureblood's shoulder to stop him in his tracks. The Guard turned towards her again, a small, confused noise rumbling in his throat.

First she punched him in the jaw, then she kissed him. Hard. And that was the end of that.

#swtor #swtor fanfiction #elven's writing #subterfugeverse #swtor oc: d'leah ahaszaai #sith heiress #swtor oc: kissai ahaszaai #d'leah/kissai #d'leahssai #is this classified as a meet cute; a meet-ugly; or some sort of weird in-between version of *BOTH*? you guys decide hahahaha #this *is* a prequel of sorts ;) i'm finally trying to sort out my askbox and clear it so i can open it again in a few months' time #so that oneshot will go out next week; if fanfic/writing gods are with me and i can finally finish writing it 🙏#d'leah: stop saving me all the time; i can save myself!!!#also d'leah: constantly walks her ass into danger with alarming regularity #emperor ahaszaai: uh; yeah; hey....izreni do you....do you think you could; maybe; stop her from doing that. great; thanks #d'leah likes to blame kissai for saarai's knack of throwing herself into danger like some sort of damage/blaster bolt sponge #but the truth is it's actually *BOTH* their faults; d'leah's just as bad at wandering into dangerous situations #it's just that kissai's whole ass job is to jump in the way before something bad happens *to* her #i really enjoy writing their dynamic it's so much fun #it's a blend of bodyguard/royalty; ''only i get to make fun of/beat them up''#and later on once they're married: well-meaning idiot/''oh fuck that's *MY* idiot!!''#it's great XD #i need to find a better title/''name'' for the Royal Guard(s) but atm i'm drawing a blank so generic filler fantasy moniker(tm) it is !#(for now)#also yes the jaw spurs *are* bone and they *do* emote with them; bioware are cowards and no i will not stop with that headcanon LMAO #i could write a whole ass essay on that point alone #maybe one day when i actually manage to draw the examples like i keep saying i will XD

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imagine-loki · 3 years

Text

The sniffles

TITLE: The sniffles CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: ONE SHOT AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump ORIGINAL IMAGINE:

After the Chitauri attack on New York, imagine Loki being sentenced to public service on Earth, specifically in aiding people who got hurt during the attack. His magic has been limited to only be enough to aid keeping Odin’s spell in place so he wouldn’t turn blue. His task is to help people with special needs, to do house chores, help them get around, do their grocery and keep them company while they recover. He is assigned to a girl who ended up blind after one of the Chitauri shot at her.

Imagine that against everything you both thought possible, Loki gets the flu.

RATING: T NOTES/WARNINGS: It’s getting to be chilly season, so the flu is lurking about. Get your flu shots! Be careful! Socially distance! Language, maybe? Mostly fluff. Mentions of illness? (Do people tag that?) Not beta’d or edited, really–probs lots of typos.

SUMMARY: Loki gets sick, though he insists it’s just allergies. Charlie puts on her bossy pants and shows Loki she’s a bamf. Loki is a Nervous Nelly.

Loki had nearly frowned himself into an alternate dimension when it first happened–a simple sneeze. He had been sorting through some paperwork that Stark had asked him to complete, a mindless task meant to keep him occupied under the guise of his rehabilitation. With a shrug, Loki aired out the papers, assuming dust had tickled his nose for the briefest of moments, but thought nothing more of it.

Two years into his exile to Midgard and working under the tech guru, Loki had pretty much worked off his sentence in Tony’s eyes. According to anyone with half a brain, depriving Loki of his magic, the major condition of his exile, was punishment enough for the Prince (Loki would never admit that the act of cleaning a whole kitchen to perfection on his hands and knees was methodical and soothing, but it was one of the many joys of his near mortal existence). Still, it turned out that Stark was a bleeding heart and could recognize the tell-tale signs of a son who never got proper validation from their father (or enough hugs). It could have also been the fact that the former hissing-serpent-of-an-Asgardian all but turned into a golden retriever after he fell in love. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that Stark was deathly afraid of the five-foot-nothing woman Loki now shared an apartment with, and who would most definitely cause him bodily harm for overworking her boyfriend.

All in all, within the constraints of this supposed punishment, everything was wonderful.

Then, Loki sneezed again.

And continued to do so.

But, of course, he wasn’t ill.

Achoo!

Charlie started, letting out a half-strangled shriek that soon turned into a groan as objects clattered on her desk. Her jaw clenched together so tightly, she thought her teeth would crack.

Now, Charlie wasn’t irritated that her dork alien of a boyfriend was sneezing in her presence while she was trying to get work done. No, she was irritated because she had sent him to bed (again, for the sixth time) twenty minutes ago when his fever and chills started to turn him into an unintelligible, hallucinating mess. She thought she had been quite clear in her order for him to get some rest. After all, it had been three days since Loki first sneezed, and though he had brushed it off as a bad case of seasonal allergies, his denial was starting to get ridiculous, not to mention, harmful.

Turns out thousand year old demigods-turned-mortal are no better at following orders than any other man on the planet. In fact, Charlie was pretty sure he was being more of a brat than any other mortal… not that she’d ever tell him.

Pushing away her keyboard, she stood away from the desk, taking a second to orient herself and stare in the general direction she had heard the sneeze come from.

She schooled her facial expression into what she hoped was a no-nonsense expression. “Go. Back. To. Bed.”

Loki grumbled, his voice particularly hoarse and gravelly with an added nasally quality from his blocked passages. “It’s allergies and I have things to do,” he retorted stubbornly, ignoring the fact that his whole world seemed to tilt ever-so-slightly with each step he took.

“Allergies, my ass. Loki Odinson, you have the flu. You belong back in bed. Don’t make me be the bad guy here.”

He let out a half-hearted snort, pretending that he did not at all feel the need to double over and repeat whatever little breakfast he was able to get down his gullet that morning. “I am not sick. I haven’t been sick in four centuries. Your sorry Midgardian microbes cannot infect me.”

“Yeah, when you had your full powers. Now, though–”

“I’m fine-d.”

It was a small, momentary miracle that Charlie wasn’t able to see the way he swayed on a spot, holding his head pathetically against the sudden bout of vertigo that assaulted him. At least he thought she couldn’t. Though Loki could not explain the fact that her hand grasped him by an elbow a moment later with what appeared to be no difficulty. Clearly he was off his game, and he didn’t even bother complaining when Charlie half-dragged him all the way to the sofa and forced him to sit.

He couldn’t help but smile at the brows knitted together in worry or the lower lip being chewed within an inch of its soft, supple life. The extreme gentleness and care she took in smoothing back his hair and pressing the back of her hand to his forehead made his stomach twist in the most pleasant way. This was the best antidote, he supposed, just watching her fuss over his shivering body. Loki certainly wasn’t used to being taken care of in this manner. It felt almost wrong to succumb to the desire of slumping into the pillows and letting her dote on him.

“I love you,” slipped from his lips before he was even aware that his brain had attempted to convey the message.

Charlie beamed in response, cheeks turning warm copper with a blush. Her fingers trailed down the sides of his face to cup his cheeks. “I love you, too, sweets, but if you don’t stay still and rest, I will put on Stark’s suit and make you.”

Loki smirked, twining one of her curls around his finger and letting it bounce back with a gentle tug. “Have I told you how attractive I find you when you get all bossy?”

“Only every single second this week, Lo.”

“Well, I firmly believe in truth-telling, dove,” he added, voice betraying the exhaustion that seeped into his bones. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought that the gentle circles she drew around his temples were some sort of ancient magic. “I’m late for work,” he protested, making an effort to sit back up. He would admit that they way Charlie shoved him back onto the cushions was a little distracting for two entirely different reasons: one, he was weak enough that Charlie could push him down like it was nothing; and, two… it was sort of… sexy. He would take them both to his grave.

“I called Tony and told him you were sick.”

Loki frowned. “What did he say?”

“He asked FRIDAY to queue up ”Ding dong! The witch is dead“,” she joked, lips tugging up in a smirk. “He said to take the week off. No one needs your Asgardian super bugs rolling around the Tower.” Charlie’s lips pressed against his forehead, followed immediately by a sigh. “You’re burning up again, Loki.”

“Everything hurts,” he conceded in a small voice, feeling like a failure when the concern etched in her features deepened further.

Charlie took in the complaint with a resolute nod.

“OK. I’ll go to the pharmacy down the street for some medicine and some electrolytes. You get some rest.” She patted his cheek and made to stand when Loki’s hand wrapped around her wrist.

“I’ll come with you.” He assured, at once, hoping the edge of nervousness wasn’t obvious in his voice.

“Nice try, super spreader.” Her fingers peeled his, dexterously. “No. Get some rest. I’ll be back in twenty.”

“But–”

“I promise you I will be fine, Loki. It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

Loki was still reluctant as he watched her cool and confident expression. He shifted awkwardly. He knew that Charlie was entirely capable of any task and she had adapted well to the technology available to her as a non-seeing person, but… Norns, he was just a pathetic mess when it came to her. The thought of anything happening to her… “I know, but–”

“You worry. I understand, but this is important, Loki. You’re important and you’re sick and you need me to go get you medicine.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against her hand for a long moment before finding the courage to speak. “Just… be careful, alright? Maximum alertness, yeah?”

“I promise,” she assured in a whisper, leaning in to kiss his crown. “Please get some rest until I get back.” Her fingers were back to scratching his scalp, combing through his shaggy locks until he could no longer fight against the heaviness of sleep. He uttered half a protest before drifting off, leaving Charlie to cover him up with the spare blanket she kept on the sofa and tucking him in.

Charlie would not say that she was nervous about going out without Loki, but she was certainly not not nervous. She wrapped herself up warm to ward off the autumn chill and triple checked her belongings: keys, phone, card wallet, cane. Her head turned over her shoulder on instinct, as if attempting to spare a glance at Loki sleeping on the couch, before she closed the door behind her.

Loki awoke with a start what felt like an eternity later. His hair was sticking out in all directions and his clothes felt like they were pasted to his body with sweat. He was no longer on the couch, but in bed, and he felt… marginally better. Still, his heart was thumping loudly against his ribcage with a sense of uneasiness.

Charlie.

Where was Charlie?

“Oh, gods, please no.” It was too still. Too quiet. “CHARLIE!?” He called frantically, kicking the covers off of himself, despite the fact that his head disliked his sudden change in momentum. He grit his teeth against the nausea that rose immediately after. He needed to get out of bed and–

“Oh, you’re up!” Charlie chirped happily from the doorway.

His head snapped toward her voice to find her standing with a tray and very carefully balancing a bowl of soup, a sports drink and a bottle of water atop it. The grace with which she was managing to balance the liquids over the wooden serving tray was uncharacteristic–Charlie had never been particularly poised due to her impatience and going blind had not helped matters. After a minute, she placed the tray beside him on the bed and managed to sit down without any major spillage. Loki beamed at the satisfied look on her face and the anxiously flitting and hovering gaze she got when she was particularly excited.

“You’re back,” he breathed softly, fingertips trailing over the hand resting closest to him.

“I was only gone for fifteen minutes.” Charlie giggled. “Do you not remember taking your medicine and coming to bed?”

Loki shook his head before remembering his replies had to be aloud. “Er… no. No, I don’t.”

“You were pretty out of it,” she admitted, not thinking anything of it. “We had a lot of extra veggies, so I made you soup.”

He swallowed at the lump in his throat to no avail as he watched the perfectly cubed pieces of vegetables floating in a golden broth. He could practically feel her efforts radiating off the bowl with every plume of steam that rose enticingly. “You cooked?” His voice caught slightly.

“Yeah. Don’t tell me if it’s no good. It took me forever to chop things, so I might actually cry,” she replied, only half serious.

He picked up the bowl and tentatively sipped at the broth, letting out an involuntary moan when the rich taste flooded his taste buds. “Charlie, it… it’s perfect. It’s delicious.” The satisfied grin she gave in response made the remainder of his pain float away like dandelion fluff. He sipped some more before letting out a contented sigh as his bones warmed. “You are a wonder of wonders, Charlotte Camden.”

Charlie snorted. “I went to the pharmacy and managed not to burn down the apartment. I am middling, at best.”

“Say what you want, but I am proud of you,” he whispered, enjoying the blush on her cheeks as he slurped down the rest of his soup.

He knew she was secretly pleased with the praise, even if she didn’t admit it. Loki was aware that he worried all too much about giving her extra independence with all the what-ifs that popped up in his head. She was always so eager to challenge herself and had proven time and again she was capable of so much more than what she did on a daily basis. Loki was still in her life because she desired it, not because she needed anything from him.

For goodness’ sake, here she was, minding him.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Charlie. I feel restored, already.”

“Finally, he admits illness!” She snickered under her breath while Loki grumbled. “Of course, Loki. It is my distinct pleasure.” She leaned in just enough to prompt Loki to proffer his cheek, skin warm from the flush that could only half be attributed to the warmth of the broth. Her fingers trailed over his scalp, making him shudder from head to toe. “Drink all your fluids and back to bed,” she ordered gently before disappearing back out the bedroom door.

Loki wasn’t used to being taken care of like this but… he could get used to it.

#Loki #Lover #Others #Submitted one shot #submission #the sniffles #fanfictrashdump

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that-sw-writer · 4 years

Text

No Second Chances

Summary: When addressing the Supreme Leader and Empress, it’s important to show them both respect.

Some must learn that lesson the hard way.

Word count: 1858

Warnings: slightly graphic descriptions of death

Notes: I started writing this ages ago and forgot about it, but today I finished it off so enjoy

You held your husband's arm as he escorted you to the Throne Room with him.

A few years ago you had been the First Order's Chancellor, handling all manners of diplomacy and interplanetary relations, and one day you had caught the eye of Commander Ren. From there a secret romance had began, one which was only discovered after the... untimely death of Supreme Leader Snoke.

Once Kylo had taken control of the First Order you were free to be together - he was the ruler of the galaxy, nobody could tell him what he could and couldn't do. Besides, it wasn't like you were a bad match for him. You had the background and skill in politics that Kylo was lacking, plus you were familiar and admired by almost all the leaders of the First Order's allied planets.

This was why when your marriage was announced members of High Command were largely onboard with the idea, and even if they weren't who would dare say no to Kylo Ren?

Not long after you became Empress Ren, and there wasn't a day you looked back and regretted. You and Kylo made the perfect pair for ruling - he would handle conquering the galaxy, and generally be off one place or another on missions, and you would handle the politics of it all, dealing with the grievances of your subjects.

Today was a rare day, you would be sat side by side in the Throne Room, when usually only one of you would be present at any given time. Today you were meeting senators from a planet who were keen on allying themselves with the First Order - that required both of your presences.

You arrived outside the Throne Room to see Allegiant General Pryde waiting, and he greeted you both with a small bow, "Supreme Leader, Empress."

"Are they inside?" Kylo asked, and Pryde nodded.

"They're awaiting your arrival." That's just how you both liked it, having people waiting on you.

"Is there anything we should know, politically?" You asked, always thinking it best to have some background on people before meeting with them.

The Allegiant General looked slightly hesitant before speaking, "They come from a largely male-dominated planet. Very proud, and don't like to be told no, but their planet has mining resources that we desperately need. Although the mines are currently run on slave labour."

You pursed your lips at this, and your husband was quick to sense your unease. He dropped his arm to grab your hand and give it a small squeeze, "You're the Empress, they won't dare disrespect you, and once we have control we can make the necessary changes." He assured you, and you looked up at him with a small smile.

"As if I'd ever allow them to disrespect me." Your smile turned to a smirk, and he looked very satisfied with your answer.

"Good." He mumbled, pressing a kiss to your temple before once again offering you his arm to take.

You graciously took Kylo's arm and the pair of you walked into the Throne room with a powerful, synchronised stride.

There were three men stood waiting in the room, and they watched as you and your husband made your way up the small flight of stairs that led to your two thrones - the pair of you looked so perfectly regal, you thought nobody would dare stand in your way.

Your husband showed you to your seat first, before taking his own. The three gentlemen took to one knee when you were both seated, and rose when Kylo gave a simple motion of his hand.

"Thank you for taking the time to see us." One of the men stepped forwards. He was rather short, slightly overweight and had slicked back blonde hair.

"Usually my wife handles these matters alone, so I hope you have something to offer that is worth both of our time."

You loved watching Kylo instil fear in people, to see him exercise his power in such simple ways... it was hot.

"W-we do Supreme Leader." The senator hastily spoke, "Our mines are currently producing double the resources of any other planet, and we wish to share them with you."

"And what would you gain from this exchange?" You raised an eyebrow, drawing the men's attention for the first time since you had entered. You'd be lying if you said their complete disregard for your presence hadn't irritated you - but it didn't show on your face.

"We request protection from the war, and sufficient financial compensation for our resources." Despite you having asked the question, they were still only addressing Kylo, and your growing frustration was becoming evident.

You were also suspicious. Between what Pryde had said about the slave labour, and their blatant disregard for you, you were getting a picture of the kind of operation these men were running.

"Before we agree to anything," you leant forward in your seat, "I'd like to ask a few questions about the operation you gentlemen run." Your tone still feigned a polite nature.

"Of course." The shorter man spoke, firstly refusing to use your title and secondly looking irritated just having to speak to you.

"I've heard you enforce slave labour, from where might I ask do you source your workforce?"

Silence befell the group as they exchanged glances, and they took too long to answer for Kylo's liking.

"My wife asked you a question, I suggest you answer it." He snapped, and it jolted them into submission.

"We, uh- we employ the women of our planet to harvest the resources, but I assure you they are a fine workforce." The spokesman for the group cleared his throat before speaking. His hesitance to tell you the truth simply proved that he knew these actions were wrong in the eyes of others, they just didn't care.

"I don't doubt that they are a fine workforce." You hummed, "considering that women are typically more competent than men." You spoke with the purpose of upsetting the proud misogynists in front of you. They seemed set in their ways, and if they truly wanted to be apart of the First Order, they would have to change.

"Excuse me?" One of the senators who had been silent until now stepped forward. He was of average height, well built, with a chiseled face. It was a shame, he could be quite attractive if he wasn't such an asshole.

"You heard me." You leaned forward in your seat, awaiting an answer. Beside you, Kylo remained silent, he could tell what you were doing and was proud to see it. He knew that this wasn't a moment to step on your toes, it would only cement the beliefs of these men that women were inferior. "I find that women are more competent than men, and far better suited for ruling. We are able to keep our heads straight when men tend to lose themselves to anger." Of course this wasn't true in every case, but your husband would be the first to agree that it was certainly true in your marriage.

"Women on our planet are no good for ruling, in fact no woman is. All they are good for is free labour and reproducing." The man who had just addressed you sneered, and the shorter man who had initially been their spokesperson agreed with him.

"This is the way of our people." He nodded.

"Well it won't be any longer." You snapped, rising to your feet. "If you want the protection of the First Order, you will implement an equal society. Miners will be paid for their work, and you will draft both women and men to work there. Women will have every right that you do, and they will be apart of your governing structure. These are our terms, you can accept them, or you can make an enemy of us."

"You cannot just change our planet's way of life, it has been this way for centuries." The shorter man spat, "We came here to speak with the Supreme Leader, not his whore."

Your mouth immediately opened to reprimand him for his words, but in a flash Kylo was up from his throne and stretching out his arm to slowly and painfully choke the man to his death. He clawed at his throat, but there was no escaping from his retribution, and within moments his lifeless corpse fell to the ground.

His two compatriots stared in horror at the body, his killer still standing mere feet away, daring one of them to test him.

"As my wife said, these are our terms. I would think very carefully before opening your mouth again." He spoke calmly, which only made the whole exchange more terrifying for the remaining two senators.

"I-I'm sorry Supreme Leader, but we cannot simply uproot the belief system our planet relies on because you and your wife asked." It was the man with the chiseled face who spoke, and his words were certainly bold.

"You mistake us, Senator." He slowly said, walking closer to the man who had spoken. He attempted to back away, but the Force firmly held him in place. When Kylo's red Lightsaber blade erupted from his hilt, sheer terror filled his eyes as he attempted to struggle. "We're not asking." Kylo said in a low growl as he plunged the blade through the man's chest, subsequently leaving two bodies on the floor.

Kylo retracted his blade and walked back up to the thrones where you remained stood, having not flinched through the entire ordeal which had just taken place. This wasn't the first time he had taken people's lives for disrespecting you, and you doubted it would be the last.

Now once again stood side by side, you addressed the final senator, who was cowering in fear for his life.

"And what will your fate be?" You toyed with him, despite knowing that you and Kylo weren't now simply going to allow this man to backtrack of what had previously been said just to save his own skin.

"I a-apologise for their disrespect Supreme Leader, and Empress." It only took two deaths for him to begin properly addressing you. "Please let me travel back to my planet and I-I promise we'll implement the new policies immediately." He continued to stumble over his words, barely able to speak.

"Unfortunately for you, we don't give second chances." You firmly said, glancing up at Kylo who continued speaking.

"We suggest you go back to your planet and mobilise your military. Either that, or prepare to surrender when our troops arrive to liberate the slave population on your world and take control by force; it will be a lot less messy if you do." He stated, and you both walked down from your thrones and swept past the senator, making your way to the exit together.

Pryde was waiting to greet you when you left, the hope on his face immediately being dashed when he saw both of your expressions.

"I take it negotiations did not go to plan." He sighed.

"Do they ever?" You responded in a dry tone.

"Send someone to clean up in there, we have an army to mobilise." Kylo then added, offering you his arm before you before stormed off down the corridor in synchronisation.

#kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #kylo ren x y/n #kylo ren x you #kylo x reader #kylo x you #kylo x y/n #kylo ren one shot

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anexplanationofunfortunateevents · 4 years

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democracy was on the ballot and it won

I am a slow-boring-of-hard-boards realist about politics. I am delightedly surprised when I get what I want AT ALL. Months and months ago, I said that my number one issue in this election was the desperate need to put the brakes on democratic backsliding in the United States. I’m not sure how to process the fact that I’ve started to get what I wanted even before the transition.

There is a real path forward for democracy reform in this country. EVEN WITH an aspiring autocrat doing everything he could to rig this election, EVEN WITH a pandemic raging, EVEN WITH malicious foreign actors still trying cause problems, EVEN THOUGH we still have not restored the Voting Rights Act, EVEN WITH all the structural imbalances built into our creaky eighteenth-century constitutional system:

Voter participation went way up! People voted over the course of several weeks from the comfort of their own homes, or on weekends, or on Election Day. And because people took responsibility and spread out their votes like that, it was safer to go to polling places. That was a huge collective choice to prevent a lot of suffering and even some deaths.

A big part of why they could do that is the enormous number of citizens who rallied to work at the polls so that the retirees who usually do the job could sit this year out.

Cities and states around the country took the time they need to count carefully.

Media gatekeepers, for the most part, had the discipline and the patience to be helpful to users about what we knew and what we didn’t. If anything, they’re erring on the side of being too cautious. This is after weeks of most media gatekeepers having the discipline to debunk a disinformation campaign by Trump’s allies and Russian backers, instead of aggressively participating in it.

Social media companies took the most aggressive countermeasures yet against election misinformation.

The person who got the most votes is also the person who won the election, which is pretty cool!

That is a huge improvement from EVERY PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION IN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY. Just in terms of how well the election itself was administered, my only major criticism is that we still did not do something called risk-limiting audits. In the case of an election, audits are basically a carefully calibrated statistical smell test. They’re not a recount. They are a reliable and cost-effective way of figuring out if a recount or some other type of scrutiny should be done for the sake of public confidence in the results – and that makes them a cost-effective deterrence against any bad actors who are considering sabotage. Audits are important whether an election goes your way or not, just like smoke detectors are important whether your building catches fire or not.

But that absolutely should not take away from the fact that we overcame all the new problems that were introduced this year and took some big steps toward solving a lot of old ones – despite the best efforts of Trump and all his enablers. Imagine what we could do under an administration that is helping democracy revitalization instead of aggressively hindering it.

The easiest way for us to make the most comprehensive change would be to win the Senate, which would allow a Biden administration to pass a revitalized Voting Rights Act and restore legitimacy to the federal courts. If you have any time or money to spare in the next few weeks, consider sharing it with the two excellent Democratic candidates in the Georgia Senate runoffs.

We should be realistic about the situation: we’re probably not going to get to do it the easy way, at least, not until after the midterms. But we’re not going to be doing it the hard way any more. The hard way is what we’re doing now. We’re about to get a Department of Justice that opposes civil rights violations and enforces what’s left of the current Voting Rights Act. The intelligence and military cybersecurity units are going to be able to work with the administration instead of around it. And we aren’t going to have to deal with a 24/7 fusillade of lies and voter intimidation coming from the Oval Office. To spin out the “it’s a marathon, not a sprint” metaphor: we’ve been running a marathon uphill carrying forty-pound backpacks. We’ve reached the top where the path levels out, and someone just took our bags and gave us protein bars.

And while we have our protein bars, let’s look around, because the view is as clear and as beautiful as it’s going to get. Donald Trump had every intention of wrecking American democracy, and the entire Republican party had every intention of supporting his aspiring dictatorship. And, while Trump himself is and always has been a clown, the person occupying the Oval Office is the most powerful person on the planet. Actually, that’s an understatement. Since Truman gave the order to drop the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, our technology has grown stronger and our government has concentrated more and more power in the executive branch, which means that every holder of that office has arguably been the most powerful person in the history of the world. Every other holder of that office has at least wanted to think of himself as using that power for the advancement of democracy and humanity. Donald Trump affirmatively tried to use all that power to entrench himself there permanently.

We stopped him. We stopped him peacefully. We stopped him without further harming the many vulnerable people he holds hostage in a hundred different ways. We stopped him not by elevating an equal-but-opposite charismatic demagogue for a two-men-enter-one-man-leaves smackdown, but by building a vibrant, heterogenous coalition and finding competent, experienced, principled leaders who respect that coalition in all its raucous power. We stopped him, in short, by choosing to do democracy.

That feels good today and it’s enormously consequential. It is also proof of concept. It is something that can happen, because it has happened.

Something that political scientists and democracy advocates have been saying for the past few years is that Trump has been a propaganda gold mine for dictators. They use him as a cautionary tale against liberal democracy or even against hoping that things can ever get better: see, even the Americans are no better than we are! Dictators can artificially insulate themselves from accountability in the short term, which makes them ill-equipped to think about backfire. Train your people’s eyes on the aspiring American autocrat, and they can all see his humiliating fall.

To our sisters and brothers around the world, from Idlib to Hong Kong, from São Paolo to Moscow, and along every wide country road in between: this is the only true thing your oppressors have ever told you. We are no better than you are. We are no more suited for or entitled to liberation. Look what we have done. Imagine what you can do.

There’s kind of a false dichotomy going on where people swung from “Trump is going to successfully rig the election for himself” pessimism to “oh, Biden only ousted an incumbent by a freakishly large margin, it wasn’t an immediate electoral college landslide, why did Trump get so close.” This take has set in before deep blue California and New York have come close to completing their mail-in ballot counts, which tells you that it isn’t serious, but it’s also beside the point. Trump succeeded in making the election unfair. If he hadn’t illegitimately put a whole lot of thumbs on the scale in his favor, if we’d actually had the free and fair election we deserved, I think he probably would have lost in a landslide. We did the work and showed up in numbers that were ultimately too big to rig. That led to victory, although not a victory you can quantifiably measure against the dozen or so American elections that were more or less free and fair. That doesn’t mean the rigging didn’t happen or have any impact. It means we beat the spread. As the world’s most prominent train enthusiast once said, that is a big fucking deal.

A government of the people, by the people, and for the people has not perished from the earth. One day soon, it may even exist. That is our charge. That is our choice.

So take a moment to recharge. Enjoy the view. Breathe. We got work to do.

#2020 election #democracy

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hanadoesstuffbadly · 4 years

Text

‘Online’ ch I - RS&t7D University AU

Hello, I was looking for Red Shoes fanfiction when I discovered that there are little to no Modern AUs being written. So i figured, screw it, I’ll do it myself because I love modern AUs.

This is the first chapter and it is very long, so if you don’t feel like reading it, fair enough. I’m planning to write the whole thing anyway because I also love writing and it’s good practise.

Small warning if you do want to read this: Merlin is British. I am British. British people are very sarcastic and very moody all of the time. This entire first chapter is from Merlin’s perspective so there are a lot of British phrases and idioms used. If you are fortunate enough to not be an eternally grumpy Brit, don’t worry, the next chapter will be a very bad written impersonation of an American!!

Also, this is my first ever fanfiction so please don’t judge me too harshly, I am but a young peasant girl.

Sooooooooo.... Summary.

Merlin is a twenty year old student at Southend University. To combat his detrimental narcissism, his counsellor suggests online gaming. Merlin tries to cheat by using an ancient game called Fairytale Island, which designs your avatar to match a photograph. This plan falls apart when his laptop explodes, turning his avatar tiny and green. He ploughs on regardless, sure that he will encounter nobody. Little does he know, that a newly moved student from the States is coming online the very same night. :)

(It’s kinda switched so Merlin is the last of the F7 to get his attitude set right.)

With that done... I hope you don’t hate it!

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Merlin couldn’t stand mornings, especially Friday mornings. Because for the duration of his first year of Uni, Friday’s lessons had always begun at the reasonable hour of 2 o’clock in the afternoon. This left Merlin a good half hour to be awake, out of the door and on his bike, zipping past the crowded Southend beaches. In short, Merlin hated Friday mornings because he had not seen one in fifteen months. Needless to say, it was not a welcome reunion.

Approximately twelve minutes prior to commencing with today’s zipping -at the unlawful hour of nine in the morning- Merlin had been idly stirring shredded wheat into a depressing gruel (much to the disgust of the ever-vigilant, ever-attentive, red-haired cook,) basking in his own tardiness.

Had he asked for counselling? No.

Did he need counselling? None of their business.

Did he want to be dragged out of bed at half-eight by six overbearing housemates who apparently believed it was "necessary" or "overdue"; to be packed off to the Resource Centre so that they could “Evaluate any and all emotional or psychological issues which may have arisen for you, as a student whom we have identified as being at risk, before the beginning of this new academic term”? No, he did not!

Contrary to a promising forecast, the sky was a sapphire pool overhead. Thus, the fantasy of motorbiking down empty seafront roads, the brassy drumming of thunder and the gurgle of saltwater smothering his roaring engine (Hans called him a madcap but personally, Merlin preferred the term Raptor-trainer) was squashed. And given that a motorbike charging down the road in the wee hours of the morning was frowned upon, Merlin was forced to content himself with walking at a purposefully counter-productive pace to the bus stop down the hill. Stubbornly, he insisted on himself that he wore a cobalt-blue, long-sleeved shirt with grey trousers; dressing not for the weather he had, but the weather he wanted. This was a stupid idea and the sleeves were rolled up before he reached sea-level. He had to restrain himself from missing a bus entirely. It wasn’t crowded, because of course it wasn’t. Everyone else in Southend had better things to be doing.

Like sleeping.

The bus didn’t even go all the way to the college, stopping at least a dozen yards from the entrance like a noncommittal shrug. It took everything in Merlin to not keep his butt planted securely in his seat; let the busyness of British public transport whisk him away to the Leigh on Sea station; catch a train to Fenchurch street; disappear into Central London; never be seen or heard from again, especially by Dr- as a student whom we have identified as being at risk- LeFey; then inevitably die from water pollution at a ripe old age of thirty-five. It took everything in him, but he walked down to the building, through glass-doors ornamented by a million sweaty fingerprints, and into a waiting room that smelt of Sellotape.

Unsurprisingly, the stately woman at the desk gave him barely a passing glance, handing him a form to fill in with the enthusiasm of an automatic door sliding open. Also unsurprisingly, the assistant behind her paused in rearranging a filing cabinet to brush a couple of sandy hairs behind her ear and chew the end of a pen like it was made of liquorice. She even wandered aimlessly away from her task altogether, sidling up to the front desk most inconspicuously.

Merlin's mood brightened. While he leant down to scribble his name and address on the paper, he winked discreetly in her direction. In spite of definitely not looking at him, her cheeks turned beetroot crimson and what might have been a giggle or the beginnings of a small heart attack escaped her lips.

Against all of the shoddiness of his day so far, Merlin grinned inwardly, sizing her up with half of his attention. Tall, slender, twenty-one, twenty-two most likely. Stray blonde curls framed a thickly tanned face, the rest piled atop her head in a bun. In all, not a bad picture, although her wardrobe did leave something to be desired: Bell-bottomed jeans and a T-shirt reading "Darth Vader was framed", betraying that

A. She still thought that bell-bottomed anything was a good look, and

B. That she had never paid more than six quid for a shirt.

However, her figure and the hang of her hair more than made up for those discrepancies. Perhaps he could get something out of this counselling after all. With this in mind, he cleared his throat loudly,

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss," he waved the form vaguely in front of his face, "but I have a small problem."

Perhaps knowing exactly what he was doing and being used to it by this point, the woman, Ms Marion- who had decided that underneath a lace cardigan was the place for a name tag- ignored him completely, leaving miss bell-bottoms to round the edge of the counter and come to stand by his side over the offending form.

"What's the matter?" She asked, sincerely.

"Y'see," Merlin began, fixing her with a smile that even Jack admitted made anyone weak at the knees, "right here it's asking me for something that I just don't really get." He pointed accordingly, and bell-bottoms leant in closer. To get a really good look at the text, of course.

"We need your mobile number."

"Oh, I see, now here's the thing." Wearing a look of utter helplessness, he faced bell-bottoms completely. She appeared confused, her face becoming redder by the second. "I don't have one of those."

"What?"

"A mobile number." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "You wouldn't mind terribly giving me yours, would you?"

If he squinted, Merlin was fairly certain he would see her bell-bottomed soul leaving her body and fluttering out of the window. He took her lack of reaction as an invitation,

"Lin Pendragon." He extended one hand, still cloaked in a fingerless glove the colour of wet bark. Despite his housemates deciding otherwise, Merlin was in fact not his actual name, and he would sooner be caught dead than introducing himself with it to an attractive young woman such as this. "Part time Ancient Historian, full time Romantic."

Bell-bottoms took the hand and shook it with unexpected firmness,

"Gowlle Delocks. Part time assistant, full time, um..." She seemed a little lost, floundering like a GCSE English paper "Full time-"

"Doctor Morgan LeFey. Part time tolerator of tardiness. This is not one of those times Mister Pendragon."

Spinning on his heel and effectively knocking the form onto the floor, Merlin faced the speaker, who stood in the doorway of a side-office like a disgruntled flamingo.

One thing came to mind when Merlin looked at the counsellor and that was the smell created when someone burns popcorn in a microwave. Forehead too small; nose too large, a hairy wart taking up most of it; everything that should end in a curve ending in an acute, needle-like point. She looked like a bad imitation of a Picasso painting come to life. Yellow hair that might have been blonde hung from her scalp, which he could almost see for how thin the stuff was; and her olive skin was definitely closer to a pale, sickly green from where Merlin was standing. The murky, sky-blue gown that would have looked excessive in the nineteenth century certainly didn't help. Summed up, she looked like a creature one would throw something at if it approached them on a dark night. Merlin felt his nose wrinkle in disgust.

So, he had been forced into counselling by a literal witch. Today was just going swimmingly wasn't it.

Dr Lefey's "office" was exactly what Merlin expected. Save of course for a cauldron, broomstick and small children in display cases. Indigo curtains rather than blinds hung at each side of a wide picture window that looked out on a garden peppered by horrendous little gnomes. Their China faces were stained green by years of mildew build-up. Her wooden floor she had covered with gaudy, knitted rugs, and the sides of her desk had glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to them. On the off-white walls hung various, tasteless frames of all sorts and colours, each depicting a photograph taken by somebody who was evidently not a professional photographer. One such picture especially caught his eye.

"This you, Miss… Lefty?" The question was stupid, of course it was her, every other human being on the planet had at least managed to look like one. The photo showed the woman sitting in a cluster of children underneath a cobbled-together shack, a paper tiara on her head and a wand made out of several plastic straws. "The fairy princess in the mauve cardigan?"

"First," She answered, pushing the door shut behind her with her pointy hip, "It's Doctor Lefey, but you will call me Morgan in these sessions." Merlin couldn't help but smirk internally when she assumed there would be more than one of these nightmares. "Second, yes, that is me in the photograph, November, four years ago, Uganda, a recycling activity. And third," The slam of a hefty file being dropped unceremoniously on to a desk made Merlin jump. "I was the fairy Queen."

"Well, your majesty," he ducked his head in a mock bow, "you've aged..." At first, he searched for an adverb but then realised, he didn't particularly need one.

Morgan gave Merlin that pinched smile that he'd seen Arthur's girlfriend, Gwen, give customers at The Golden Goose Cafe when they told her she had no idea who she was dealing with. Also called the 'booting-you-into-next-Thursday-would-cost-twenty-pounds-an-hour-but-i-am-legitimately-considering-it' face. Merlin ignored her easily. He'd had years of practise doing so.

He plopped himself down onto a teal green sofa with a ketchup stain running up one arm. It wasn't a comfortable seat, but the garish pixie cushion did help somewhat. Morgan paid him no attention, leafing through the thick file which she had retrieved moments before. She paid him no attention for a little too long.

As aforementioned, Merlin was fine with ignoring people. Even enjoyed it sometimes. Unattractive waitresses, bin-collectors, overweight people at the gym, pedestrians. Being ignored, however, was a far less comfortable experience. Probably because it was such a rare one. He coughed into the pasty silence.

"Those your medical records?" The room was quiet enough to facilitate a pin drop sounding like a bowling ball being dropped. A long, controlled intake of breath was easily made out. “Cosmetic surgery?”

"No." She said shortly, continuing with her browsing, "but they are yours." Merlin quickly stopped ignoring her. "And your birth records and your parents birth records and every other detail of your stimulating life story, Merlin." He short-circuited momentarily.

"That's not my-"

"No, it isn't your given name, but it's what your roommates call you and according to them, the one you prefer going by." Alright, those googly snitches were going to pay later. He recovered from his surprise gracefully as always, but that left him no less indignant.

"I- I wasn't aware that you'd have access to that information."

"Several reliable sources have identified you as being at risk, Merlin, everything in this folder is strictly need-to-know." A smile that could have been genuine spread across her features, and it may have been nice if it weren't so nauseating to look at. He crossed his arms and sunk lower into the sofa, muttering to himself,

"You hardly 'need-to-know' about the name though."

"Obviously, anything said in this session doesn't leave this room and the values and standards of Southend University are to be observed at all times." With quick strides on legs like skipping ropes, Morgan left her desk and placed herself gracelessly on a trademark shrink chair.

The ‘So, Merlin.’ Was audible on her spindly lips before they left them.

"So, Merlin. First, I'd like you to relax," Difficult, I'm sitting across from a gorgon, I'm a man moments from death, "and tell me about your background, where you're from, your family." He gave her a blank look.

"You just told me that you have a massive file telling you that stuff."

"Yes, but I'd like to know that you also know that stuff. Reviewing your case will prove very difficult if we aren't on the same page. Now, if you please." With an exasperated puff of air into his cheeks, Merlin leant forward so that his elbows braced against his knees and his hands clasped together.

"Fine. I was born in Seoul, South Korea; my parents died in a car accident when I was three. I was brought to England to live with an aunt in Ipswich."

"And you were comfortable with this change?" The interruption caused Merlin to blank for a second.

"Wha- I was three. I was comfortable sitting in a tumble dryer with knickers on my head!" This retort was not appreciated, judging by the tapping of Morgan's pencil against a green clipboard that had seemingly materialised out of thin air.

"These are regulation questions, try not to overthink your answers." With this she returned to drawing writing utensils from the ether apparently, a silent signal for him to continue. Already, Merlin's mind was going through fantasies of sprinting down the hill, across the high street and off the end of Southend pier.

"Alright then, the aunt was arrested when I was six-"

"Why was she arrested?"

"Are shrinks meant to interrupt their patients?"

"I'm not a shrink, I'm a University counsellor, why was your aunt arrested?" Nothing about this experience was relaxing. Getting a Frostino with Miss Delocks, the part-time-assistant would have been relaxing.

"Possession of illegal firearms. Just a taser. Five years in prison under the law of the United Kingdom. Happy?"

"Yes, this is very helpful. So, your guardian was arrested and…"

"I went into care, obviously. Seven foster homes over six years. Adopted after my eleventh birthday by Igraine Pendragon and her husband. I moved into their home in York, Summered in Cumbria; went to school with their son. Igraine died when I was fifteen, Uther when I was seventeen. Arthur and I moved out to one of the cottages we own in Leigh two years ago. It was all perfectly fine and now here I am at Southend University in a counselling session I didn't ask for with a counsellor that I'm certain nobody has ever asked for." Okay, the last bit slipped out half unwarranted, but he might as well be honest.

Long, mole-flecked fingers curled and tightened around the edges of her clipboard, leaving dents in the malleable green cork like it was plasticine.

"Right." Came a snarled response from between smiling teeth. "Now, on to some more current information: Who do you live with during your time at the University?"

"Igraine’s son, Arthur, and the five student tenants who rent out rooms." That felt weird to say. For some reason, whenever Merlin thought about the six other occupants of Stanrocc cottage, it was hard to remember that they weren’t all related in one way or another.

“Right, and are you comfortable with these living arrangements?”

“I’m a University student who gets to live in a fully catered house free of charge, what do you think?” The pinched ‘threaten-to-speak-to-my-manager-again-and-I-will-hit-you-with-a-shoe’ smile returned.

“Okay then.” A rustling of paper signalled that the background questions were mercifully coming to a close, as, Merlin hoped, was this entire experience. Unfortunately, the next words out of the witches’ mouth weren’t, ‘thank you for your time, Mister Pendragon, I hope you and Miss Delocks have a splendid afternoon.’ Instead she intertwined her grotesque fingers and looked him in the eye. The fact that he didn’t turn to stone was a shock.

“Now, Merlin, I’d like to know what features you look for when meeting new people.” Alright, not what he’d wanted or expected to hear.

“Is this a personal interview-”

“Just-” Morgan closed her eyes and pressed her lips together until they completely disappeared into her face. “Answer the question, Merlin.”

“I look for the same things anyone looks for. Do they look approachable? Would I want to be seen with them out and about? Those kinds of things.” He darted his eyes from Morgan’s varicose ankles to her sloping forehead.

“So, you base the value of other people’s company solely upon their outward appearance and draw any and all judgements from those assets?” There were too many words in that sentence, was all Merlin could think in response. When he did finally puzzle out what the question actually was, he gave the woman a jovial nod. Finally, they were on the same wavelength.

“Of course I do, how a person looks tells you a lot about who they are, doesn’t it?”

Morgan must have been writing something down, but it still felt as though her eyes had not left Merlin for a second. An intake of breath through her wide nostrils filled the room.

“To some extent, maybe.” She shifted on her chair and the look in her eye of a person who had gotten exactly what they wanted was unnerving. “Merlin, do you think you feel this way about other people because these mentalities could have been forced on you in the past?” Her nasal voice had become one of understanding and professionalism, the Northern accent thinning considerably. Merlin didn’t like it at all. “Maybe you feel as though you personally are liked or disliked for nothing besides how you look?”

Throughout this entire, stupid session, Merlin had been wanting to avoid answering questions. Now all he wanted to do was say something so devastating yet so on point that it would shut this witch up for the rest of her career. And yet his tongue remained still, rooted to the floor of his mouth.

“I see.” The counsellor stood and shook out her skirts with the smug air of a woman victorious. Merlin wanted to throw something at her. Like a shoe. She went around to the back of her desk and retrieved a post-it-note shaped like a unicorn. “I’m giving until the beginning of the new term to combat this problem that we seem to have here." In one motion she ripped away the post it note and was making her way back towards him, brandishing it like a literal curse rather than simply the figurative one that it clearly was. She handed it to him unforgivingly.

"I'd like you to try a social activity that is purely audio based. Interactions with others that don't allow them to see your appearance." The urge to crumple the note into a ball was strong. “I’ll schedule another session three weeks from now.”

"And what if I'm perfectly happy with the way things are? I don't need to change anything." Merlin shot back, and control of the situation brushed his fingertips before Morgan's condescending smile dragged it out of reach again.

"Tell me, Merlin, how many reports do you think I received from your professors and peers of this self-important, judgemental behaviour?" Merlin was already standing as he milled the question over for a full couple of seconds.

"One or two, I'd imagine." He finally mumbled. The witch drummed her pencil against her crossed arms and shook her head. "Well," Merlin started, "it can't have been-"

"Twenty-four." She didn't look victorious now, just a little sorry. That was so much worse. "Twenty-four different people, who you have known for only a year or so. Still think you don't need to change anything?"

Merlin didn't want to look around at her ridiculous face again. He didn't think he even knew twenty-four people well enough for them to report him. Her voice carried on no matter how much he wanted it not to.

"If I don’t see improvement three weeks from now, regardless of how you feel about it, I won't have anything to present against a decision to remove you from your course entirely."

The facts stung like poisonous, green smoke in Merlin's head. He pulled at the ornamented door handle, dismissing himself. Then a question came into his mind and forced itself to be asked.

"What activities would you suggest, then?"

"Start an interactive podcast; volunteer for a University chat-line; Online gaming." Merlin's humourless scoff punctuated her list.

"Yeah, no. I'm not an ‘over the phone’ kind of guy." He stepped out into the hallway and noticed Miss Delocks' head spin in his direction. The last ten minutes had dampened any mood he might have been in for going out, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least try to cheer himself up. He heard one last reply from the witch before he strode off in the assistant’s direction,

"Keep that attitude up and you won't be a "Part-time Ancient Historian" either."

In case the presence of a pale pink fiesta with mermaid stickers running along the doors wasn’t indicative enough, the loud guffaws and scattered shouts told Merlin that his housemates had company. This was before he even reached the top of the hill. Night was creeping across the sky already. Merlin would have liked to stay out longer, but the witches’ words had stuck a little too keenly to him, and a college bar surrounded by five beautiful young ladies was not, it seemed, the best place to process things.

Stanrocc cottage was one of a kind really. It was called a cottage because it managed to be too small to be a villa but also too pretty to be a house. The walls were brick, covered in an artsy kind of cement stuff with shells mixed into it, then painted white. Kingfisher blue window frames peeked out from beneath an overgrowth of marble-like gladioli and ballet-slipper foxgloves. The diminutive front garden was mostly taken up by the wild-cherry tree that had looked hurricanes and landfalls in the face, released a string of angry expletives and stayed precisely where it was with zero intention of ever going away. Around its ankles sprung up Snowdrops every Winter, but right now, in the twilight of August, the space was taken up by a hoard of decaying daffodil corpses.

Through one of the windows, a blonde head was just visible. It stood up haphazardly and came to the door when Merlin knocked. Jack appeared in the doorway, but he’d barely laid eyes on Merlin before he was leaning back inside and shouting into the noisy fray, his accent thick, probably from laughing,

“Ee’s back!” With that he left the door hanging open. Merlin entered, a little disgruntled at the lack of welcome, until he got inside and found out why. Seated on the various beanbags, chairs, and sofas, were their usual six occupants, but with them were four less usual ones. Alright, not that unusual, three of them Merlin knew he recognised.

First was Arthur’s fiancée, Gwen. She was a common recurring visitor. Whenever Arthur wasn’t following her around the café, she was following him around the cottage. The other two present were less clearly defined by engagement rings or Facebook relationship status’.

Upon sitting back down on his very expensive armchair, Jack had one-hundred-and-fifty centimetres of pink-leggings wearing, ashen skinned vegetarian seating herself comfortably on his lap. That one was Viviane… Or Niniane. Merlin never actually paid attention when Jack gushed about her, but he was almost sure her name was one of those. She was Jack’s “study partner'', both of them being up and coming chemists. Funny, because to Merlin’s knowledge, studying didn’t usually involve reclining on each other’s laps; playing with each other’s hair (or her playing with his, at least) and going out on spa trips together. If they weren’t together, Merlin couldn’t blame Jack. All spread-out, round eyes and large lips, she did look a little like a fish with legs.

Lastly there was Briar. Nobody actually knew what Briar was. Was she Hans’ friend? His girlfriend? A kind of omnivorous goat? It was a mystery. Altogether they knew seven things about her: Like Hans, she was German; she took fencing lessons; her wardrobe consisted entirely of ankle-length, floaty skirts and a special talent of hers was tripping over literal air. She slept with a baseball bat, wore purple contacts in her eyes and, while you wouldn’t imagine so from her physique, she had the appetite of a full grown horse. They didn’t even know what she was doing at the Uni. With her legs folded in front of her, she leant on her maybe-boyfriend-maybe-friend’s signature bean bag chair, one hand holding a row of scrabble pieces. The other was surreptitiously burrowing through Hans’ homemade bag of steak flavoured crisps, which famously tasted like dog food to everyone but those two. The curly-headed bag-holder didn’t seem to mind at all.

There was one other girl with them, seated on a folding chair between Briar’s feet and Arthur’s elbow. Merlin gave her barely a passing glance however, taking in a round figure, cherry-pink shorts, and shoulder-length brown hair before he lost interest.

Maybe you feel as though you personally are liked or disliked for nothing besides how you look.

The counsellor’s stupid voice drove through his thoughts unbidden like an off-rail train. He shook his head and shoved them back down into his subconscious where they belonged, ready to be forgotten.

The ringing of the words, however, was replaced by his stomach gurgling irritably. A muffin and a salted-caramel hot chocolate were not enough to go on for a whole afternoon. His eyes fell on the Chinese food containers strewn about the coffee table and surrounding floor. A takeaway was a rare occasion in Stanrocc cottage. In the entire county of Essex, there were exactly four fast-food establishments that Hans trusted and respected, and thus, would allow them to purchase from. Two of these were fish-and-chip shops; one- Merlin’s particular favourite- did flame-grilled kebabs; and the last one was the Jade Dragon Restaurant. Very expensive- meaning Jack was probably to thank for it- and very, very good Chinese food. It dawned on Merlin a little late that this uncharacteristic treat might have been meant to make him feel better, judging by the sizeable stack of barbecue kebab boxes that could be seen just inside the kitchen door. Nobody else liked barbecue kebabs.

But he was too tired and too hungry to feel bad for not coming back. He’d been busy.

The energetic game of scrabble had come to a standstill when his arrival was announced. Now ten pairs of eyes were on him and six of them were concerned. Merlin made for the kitchen, the multitude of expectant faces making his chest knot.

“Don’t worry about me,” he insisted, half-heartedly when he noticed both Arthur and Hans shifting as if to get up. “I’m going to bed.”

Noki, the second of the triplets, swept up a container filled with Prawn crackers and extended them in Merlin’s direction. He waved them away dismissively.

“Really, it’s fine, I’ll grab something from the fridge.” And with that he left the room.

Much to his dismay, the fridge was a sorry sight, being mostly bare save for half a watermelon and an empty milk carton. It was a Friday, he soon remembered, which meant Hans would be grocery shopping tomorrow. Also, Briar was there.

Footsteps came thudding along the short passage between the living room and the kitchen. Merlin didn’t have to look up to know that an orange vest with arms was blocking the door.

“What do you want, Arthur?” Even in the fridge, Merlin could feel the glare in the back of his head. Crossed arms also wouldn’t be a surprise.

“I want to know where you’ve been, and why you didn’t feel the need to tell us you weren’t coming back?” Merlin finally selected a yogurt cowering at the very back with a best-before date of yesterday. He shut the fridge door with his foot, searching for a clean spoon on the draining board.

“You know you aren’t actually my dad, right?” He plunged the end of the spoon through the paper covering and started ripping the excess away. “I can go where I want.”

“No.” Arthur had now moved completely into the room. “But you’re still one of us, mate, and we were all worried. The triplets almost got in the truck to come pull you out of whatever ditch you’d fallen into.” Merlin actually looked him in the face this time. He was scratching his ghost of a goatee the way he always did when he felt in deep water. “You didn’t exactly leave in great spirits this morning.”

“Lurrk, uum fyrn.” Merlin said through a mouthful of yogurt. The stuff was absolutely repulsive, but it was the best conversation avoidance technique he had without a book to hand. He manoeuvred around Arthur, trying desperately to keep from openly weeping at the foul stuff. The best-before date ought to have been the may-not-kill-you-before date.

“Yeah,” Arthur sighed behind him. “I can see that. But you’re-“ Merlin dashed up the stairs, discarding the yogurt discreetly in the kitchen bin as he passed it.

Arthur had changed since meeting Gwen. It was like something had been plucked out of him. The thing that had made Merlin feel close to him while everything was happening: The adoption, losing both their parents. It was like Arthur had grown up, changed somehow. And had left Merlin behind.

And from what he had seen in the other room, Arthur wasn't the only one.

Merlin emptied the yogurt out of his mouth and gargled mouthwash to get rid of the lingering flavour of overripe strawberries. A knock at his bedroom door interrupted him.

“What did the counsellor say?” It was Arthur again. Merlin had honestly had enough of today. Why couldn’t everyone just leave him be? He wasn’t hurting anyone.

He poked his head out, startling his friend who still had his fist raised to knock again.

“She suggested I take up gaming.”

-*-

Hours later, Merlin turned over his pillow again, trying his absolute hardest to fall asleep. He’d tried relaying a movie in his head, but thinking about the ending just made him sad. He’d tried reading his new book, but Neil Gaiman wasn't particularly relaxing. At last he had just shut his eyes and told himself to sleep, with real authority and gumption. That just made him more awake because his brain hated him.

Eventually he sat up and tugged the string on his lamp. The clock on his desk told him it was 2:26. Merlin’s bones told him that he was actually in a void in which time was a construct of society, and he felt much more inclined to believe the latter. Seeing as somebody, probably Hans, had left a plate of reheated kebabs in front of his door, Merlin hadn’t starved, so he couldn’t explain the hollow discomfort that was plaguing him now.

Actually, he could, he just didn’t want to.

Twenty-four people thought he was a self-important, narcissistic idiot.

Walking around his room to clear his head quickly turned into walking downstairs and into the kitchen to get some shreddies. There were still a few chocolate ones left, them mercifully being the one cereal that Briar didn’t love more than life itself.

As he dejectedly spooned the stuff into his mouth, green smoke came unfiltered through his head again, spelling out: I won't have anything to present against a decision to remove you from your course entirely. Merlin groaned and pulled at his bark coloured hair.

Ancient and Medieval History, while not a popular course, was still difficult to get into. Only twelve or so universities in the country even offered it. And even then, Southend alone offered the module on folklore and mythologies. So many essays, so many projects, so much time spent reading about the sordid love-lives of ancient deities. For nothing apparently. All because some people he didn’t know thought he was self-obsessed.

Nothing added up.

And gaming? Really. Podcasts and chat-lines were an instant nope, but gaming. In his entire twenty years, Merlin had played one game and one game alone. And well, that one was…

Next thing he knew, Merlin had left the congealed cereal lonely on the sink and was fighting his way through a wall of cobwebs into the storage room. The lights hadn’t worked in there for years, so Merlin clasped a battery powered torch from Colchester castle like a lifeline.

With his finger and thumb he gingerly shifted bicycles, boxes of DVDs and even a taxidermy rabbit that had gone to holes, until he saw it. The shiny, green corner of a laptop-games-console-hybrid emerged from the darkness. And then was immediately plunged back into it when the torch exploded in Merlin’s hand, the light flickering away with a puff of smoke. Merlin had expected this, but that didn’t stop him from grabbing the game and high-tailing it out of the storage room before the shadows could grab his ankles and eat him. Safe in his own bedroom again, Merlin intrepidly opened the game.

Fairytale Island was created by Avalon Games nine years ago. In its entire run, localised in Southern England, it sold about three-hundred consoles. These consoles were box-like laptops, but a more accurate comparison would be an oversized Nintendo DS. The keyboard-space was taken up by the controls, while the screen was above. Graphics-wise, it was surprisingly ahead of its time. What you did was you uploaded a full body photograph of yourself, lined up the limbs and head, and voila, you had your avatar!

This particular console had been bought by an incredible woman named Igraine, for the eleven year old boy whom she had fearlessly rescued. Merlin ran a finger gently over the sticker, feeling the scratchy remnants of its glitter-glue border. On it was a simple little message, rounded off with a clumsy smiley face and the letter I, in wide swirling print.

For the most handsome Prince on Fairytale Island!!!

Obviously his avatar had to change, lest he wanted to continue with the slenderman-esque creature created by his imaginative twelve-year-old self.

Merlin had to stand on his bed to get himself into the frame of his plug-in webcam. Not really knowing what to do with his arms, he did the only rational thing and T-posed. In his pyjamas. In front of a game for preteens. At twenty past two in the morning.

If one of his housemates came in now he would kill them and dissolve the body in acid.

The screen counted down, readying the camera.

Three… Two… O-ghlowhfsajfhlsdkhlhdsjfh…………….Error………...rebooting, thank you for your patience.

Well. That seemed fair.

Hopping down as quietly as possible, Merlin watched the static clear from the screen like ghost lightning. He should have expected it. Motorcyclists had long said that ‘Love is when you like someone as much as your motorbike.” Merlin was inclined to disagree, because his bike was the one piece of mechanical equipment that didn’t figure it should explode whenever he dared breathe nearby. No bond would ever be able to trump that kind of loyalty.

Reservedly, he fiddled with a Rubix cube until the screen returned to normal. Nothing seemed that wrong with it.

Until his avatar loaded again.

A brief visit to the bathroom mirror was made so that Merlin could examine both his eyes, but when he came back they found the same sight.

Where there should have been a tall, thin, carrot-shaped, Merlinish mage character, there now resided a tiny, stout- if still Merlinish- one. And it was green. Not even a nice green, like fern or emerald or sage. This was a green that reminded a person of snot and nothing else… Except maybe a dehydrated basil plant.

Merlin bashed his head against the edge of his desk. What had that witch done to him? Why was he concerned about this?

Giving up on answering that question, he looked up to face the diminutive monster that bobbed in place like an excitable pea with legs. Maybe it wasn’t so bad, he tried to reason. If he didn’t focus, it almost looked like an obese, unwell Gollum. But hey, maybe the other players will like that kind of thing?

Without realising it, Merlin scoffed out loud at himself.

Other players? This game had a range of a thousand kilometres squared and was being handled by a technopollyon (a word that was not a word until Merlin discovered there was no term for a person who inadvertently breaks technology, but there were a multitude of Greek words that he could misuse in its place.)

The chances of another pathetic Englishman within his third of Essex being in possession of and online on Fairytale Island at two-thirty that night, were not worth thinking about. Because they were nonexistant.

With that in mind, Merlin took one last bitter look at his avatar, and continued resolutely on to game.

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Wow! Thanks for reading that!!! I hope you enjoyed it!

(Btw, Gwen, Viviane and Briar are my headcannons for the end credit characters and Morgan LeFey is the fairy princess)

Again, thanks so much. I’m putting the next chapter up at some point, this one from Snow’s perspective.

51 notes · View notes

bluewatsons · 4 years

Text

Aisling McCrea, A message to an unknown reader…, Current Affairs (July 30, 2019)

I want you to picture the following scenario: You are an archaeologist, and you are digging at a site about 125 miles east of Karachi, Pakistan. A lot of the terrain in Pakistan is mountainous, difficult to inhabit, but not the part of the land we’re talking about. Check a satellite image of the region on Google Maps, if you’ve got a phone or a computer nearby: You are in that rich green ribbon of land that snakes down through the middle of the country. This is the Indus river basin, a place that has fed and raised cultures for thousands of years. Humans have wandered everywhere, but it was places like this, with running water and fertile soil, that first lured us into the role of settler. It was places like this where the combination of bountiful resources and our growing ingenuity first allowed us to develop systemic methods of agriculture, build cities, and begin our struggle to achieve things beyond mere survival, or so it is said. Because of this, river basins are nicknamed “the cradle of civilization.” Civilization is what we call it when humans begin to think of themselves not as dependents of their environment, but as masters.

From the distance of the satellite, note that you cannot see Pakistan’s cities or factories, or any sign of activity from the 200 million people living within the lines we call its borders. All that stands out to your eye is that luscious green ribbon, swirling from the mountains to the sea, a gift from God or the earth or whomever you believe to be the benefactor. You are an archaeologist, and this is where you are digging. The site you are excavating was only recently discovered, a chance find by a construction crew. There are many sites in the region, all dating back to the Bronze Age, but we cannot discern the exact relationship between the settlements we’ve found, whether they considered themselves part of the same culture or were sworn enemies; part of the reason we do not know this is we cannot read their writing. Therefore, what you find in your excavation might be similar to other settlements in the region—simply an extension of the discoveries made before—or you might find something different. You are full of human curiosity, and ambition. You are hoping to find something different.

Here in the cradle of civilization, you find something buried. It is a bronze box covered in engravings, clearly designed by a skilled hand, and since you found it at the center of what appeared to be the site’s biggest temple, you judge it to be of some importance. You know the field well, and you know that this is unlike anything found before, and that excites you. The engraving contains a lot of symbols—part of the script no-one can read, it tells you nothing—and under the symbols, artfully etched, is the unmistakable image of a human skull.

For thousands of years and across continents, skulls have been used to signify danger. But history is long and full of turns, and even this most obvious and literal symbol could signify a multitude of things. You trace the skull with your finger, trying to connect with the intent of its long-dead creator. It seems designed to look intimidating, but when you first brushed the dirt from the surface and saw the graven image, you didn’t think for one second about danger—in fact, the first thing it reminded you of was the skulls on your brother’s goofy band shirts. (It wouldn’t make sense to think of danger. Whatever once threatened here is quiet. There is no danger here.) What could this skull have meant, you wonder, to the people who lived here? What’s the connection to the building, or the contents of the box? You think of human sacrifices, burial places, commemorations of wars.

Then you think of your career. You open the box.

In the 1960s, the U.S. Department of Energy began wondering what on earth it was going to do with all its nuclear waste. This question had never been highly prioritized before; in the years following World War II, the prevailing attitudes towards nuclear energy had run the gamut between sunny optimism and mortal fear, powerful emotions which leave little space for mundane concerns about the high-tech equivalent of garbage disposal. After research into nuclear fission had successfully served its first purpose—vaporizing and mutilating countless Japanese civilians—the U.S. government had been enthusiastic about the many potential uses of its superhuman creation, and invested heavily both in nuclear weapons and nuclear energy production for civilian use. It was predicted that nuclear power could do everything, from keeping the lights on to preserving food. A nation drunk on the promises of the atom had little interest in thinking about the hangover.

By the 1960s, however, the novelty of the so-called “atomic age” was starting to wear off, and the government realized it had a problem on its hands. The production of nuclear energy was creating large amounts of radioactive waste, which could not be converted into safe material, and which would remain dangerous to human beings for at least 10,000 years. (10,000 years is a conservative estimate. Many scientists have suggested that number should have one or two more zeroes on the end.) The waste was being kept in temporary storage facilities dotted around the country, and there was no obvious place where it could be safely deposited and sealed away. And even if a permanent place could be found, there was the question of how to keep people away from it.

The government’s concern was not so much for its contemporary citizens, who had been bombarded with enough Cold War propaganda to understand the threat of nuclear radiation. If a 20th-century American were to somehow get lost on their way home from the drive-in theater and stumble into a radioactive waste disposal site, all it would take to warn them off was a sign bearing the word “danger” and the image of the trefoil. (The trefoil is the internationally-recognized symbol for radiation, usually black on a yellow background, a circle surrounded by three blades. You knew the image before you knew the word.) Rather, the government’s concern was for the people who would come later. For comparison, the entire concept of complex human civilization, at least as we tend to define it, is about 5,000 years old. Now we had created something that would curse us for at least twice as long as that, maybe many times longer, and we had to work out not only how to bury it, but to protect whoever might disturb its burial place.

While Americans fretted over whether their grandchildren would grow up speaking English or Russian, the Department of Energy recognized that whoever came across their disposal site might be as distant to both those languages as we are to the dead scripts of the Indus valley. It was possible that they might not know written language at all. Perhaps they would have progressed so far beyond writing that the concept would be unthinkably primitive to them. Perhaps the opposite would happen, and they wouldn’t know anything of writing because the sum of human knowledge was lost to them in some catastrophic event—or even deliberately discarded, after the sum of human knowledge was examined and found, on the whole, not to have done us any good. No matter how desperately we wish to communicate with future peoples, there is no way to guarantee the sanctity of the written word, and it is considered likely that any written warning will be meaningless to them.

Communication through images seems an obvious choice—that’s the option we usually go for when we’re facing a language barrier—until you consider that the reader might have no concept of radiation. Right now the meaning of the trefoil is recognized across nations and languages, but that meaning is just an arbitrary one that we’ve constructed for ourselves, as fragile and temporally dependent as nations and languages themselves. To us, the sight of the trefoil signifies generations of scientific progress, terror, the future, something to be respected; an invisible energy that is sometimes used to kill hostile growths in our bodies, and in other cases will make them grow. None of that knowledge is communicated through the image. To our unknown recipient, it’s just a black circle and three blades. If you forget what it means to you, it could almost be a flower.

If one were looking for a hint at how these sites might be treated by our distant descendants, one might find it in the deserts of Egypt. Of all the myriad civilizations that ever lived and died in the “non-Western” world, Ancient Egypt is the only one most Westerners know much about, and there are two obvious reasons for this. First, Egypt’s exoticism and long history was a great source of fascination for the Greeks and the Romans—remember that the Great Sphinx was older to Caesar than Caesar is to us—and so it has somehow been pulled into Western canon, despite its location right in the middle of the region we are supposed to think of as the West’s eternal enemy. (This view is incorrect for many reasons, not least because nothing human is eternal.) Second, they left us the pyramids. The pyramids of Giza are not the world’s largest pyramids, nor the oldest, but for the last 4,500 years their image has captivated humanity across millennia and continents like nothing else on the planet. We cannot know the intent of the pharaohs, but one might guess they wanted to be buried somewhere that would assure they would always be remembered; by imprinting their deaths physically and unforgettably on the landscape, they were sending a message to future generations.

However, while the pyramids are still here, the meaning of the message is forgotten. Most people couldn’t tell you much about any individual pharaoh buried there. Almost no-one still believes that the pharaohs were gods. Some will want to tell you their own interpretation of the intended meaning or purpose of the buildings, or their theories about the culture in general; what was once a tomb for the world’s most influential figures is now reduced to a sort of personal amusement for amateur detectives. The burial chambers have been looted countless times. We unsealed the coffins and desecrated the dead, shipping them out to museums on new landmasses and displaying their bodies as curiosities, and no rumors of a curse could slake our thirst for trophies.

Very occasionally, we have a moment of vulnerability, of self-reflection. When it was announced last year that a new sarcophagus had been uncovered, and that it was filled with a mysterious red liquid, many responded to the news with expressions of dread. Was it because we still had a little lingering respect for a culture that had achieved so much, a culture that had not quite revealed all its mysteries to us, and its production of an as-yet unknown substance filled us with awe? Were we afraid that our knowledge of science had missed something old, and abhorrent, something lurking under the sands waiting to be set free? The moment didn’t last long. A representative of Egypt’s Ministry of Antiquities pointed out the liquid was most likely just sewage, and our discomfort promptly evaporated. Someone even started a petition demanding people be allowed to drink the “sarcophagus juice” so that they could “assume its powers.” A joke, of course, but jokes often contain a grain of truth. Across the entirety of our history as builders of civilizations, all our sins and achievements have stemmed from our metaphorical urge to drink the sarcophagus juice: to salivate at the promise of new knowledge and power, to disturb and break open anything that is unknown, to ransack the earth and, giving no thought to the consequences, consume whatever we find there. ***

By 1980, “atomic optimism” was dead, or at least dormant, in the United States. Throughout the 1970s, the anti-nuclear movement had gained momentum, along with the rest of the counterculture. A partial meltdown had just occurred at the Three Mile Island nuclear plant in Pennsylvania, stoking further panic about the dangers of radiation. There was still no confirmed plan to build a permanent waste disposal site.

The Department of Energy knew it was time to face some difficult questions. They assembled a team of experts from fields as diverse as environmental science, nuclear engineering, waste management, semiotics, linguistics, behavioral psychology and anthropology. They called it the Human Interference Task Force, and their goal was to develop a strategy to prevent any future nuclear waste depository from being disturbed by future generations. Although there was technology available to design a well-protected depository, the Task Force knew that there was little hope of building something totally indestructible. They could try and discourage interference with the depository by drawing on the concept of “hostile architecture”—designing a site that was deliberately difficult and uncomfortable to navigate—but a species that insisted on going to the Moon was unlikely to be deterred by a few spikes or a maze. Therefore, the main focus of the Task Force was not fortification, but communication. We could not keep people out by force; we could only plead.

In 1982, the German Journal of Semiotics (Zeitschrift für Semiotik) posed the depository problem to its readers, who responded with admirable, if slightly over-optimistic levels of imagination. One suggested solution was the development of a new breed of domestic cats, whose fur would change color in reaction to high levels of radioactivity. The world’s governments could then promote the development of art and literature in which cats changing color were an oft-repeated symbol for danger; thus, when future generations came across depository sites and tried to settle there, their cats would change color and they would become frightened and leave. Another suggestion was an “atomic priesthood,” a group of people who vowed to live near the sites, and passed on the secrets of radiation from generation to generation, in mythologized and ritualized form if need be. A theme that crops up again and again with the depository problem is the need for the message to be distilled into something simple and accessible: Call it universal, if you like, or primitive if you prefer.

Stanisław Lem, one of the world’s foremost science fiction authors, proposed that botanists use genetic modification to encode information about nuclear waste into the DNA of flowers, which could be planted and nurtured near the site. Although he admitted it was risky to assume future peoples would know how to decode the DNA, there was a sort of logic to it. To take plants that grew spontaneously and manipulate them to our liking, breeding and growing them at our convenience so we could propagate our own species was, after all, civilization’s first trick. Perhaps it had some lasting power.

The Human Interference Task Force began to draw up designs. A multiplicity of images, symbols and words were proposed as part of the initial blueprints for the depository site, with the Task Force noting that any method of inscribing the messages at the site would have to outlast theft, weathering, and changes in climate. Because we could not predict any future civilizations’ level of knowledge, the danger would have to be communicated in a way that was comprehensible to any type of reader. There could be some complex, technical messages at the site, but in case they couldn’t be understood, there needed to be some simpler messages too, and repeated in a number of ways so the meaning was less likely to be misinterpreted.

A 1993 report by Sandia National Laboratories—charged by the Department of Energy with the task of researching nuclear safety—took this concept further, and proposed some specific messages that might work. Some of the images might include: A periodic table. A world map of all known waste sites. A diagram showing the precession of stars in the sky over tens of thousands of years, from which readers might calculate the date the depository was built. (The places where we build depositories tend to be far from human life, and therefore relatively free from air pollution; if you want a perfect view of the night sky, go to a nuclear silo and look up.) There was some measure of disagreement on what type of pictographs to use. Some researchers wanted to focus on more functional pictographs, while others gave more prominence to “human facial expressions (horror and sickness).” The messages would begin from the outside, becoming more complex as one got closer and closer to the center. The Sandia report gives a suggestion for one of the more complex written warnings at a location close to the center. It was more technical in substance, though still simple in style:

“This place is a burial place for radioactive wastes. We believe this place is not dangerous IF IT IS LEFT ALONE! We are going to tell you what lies underground, why you should not disturb this place, and what may happen if you do. By giving you this information, we want you to protect yourselves and future generations from the dangers of this waste. The waste is buried __ kilometers down in a salt layer. Salt was chosen because there is very little water in it…We found out that the worst things happen when people disturb the site. For example, drilling or digging through the site could connect the salt water below the radioactive waste with the water above the waste or with the surface…” The message goes on at some length, giving explanations as to the chemistry involved, the nature of illnesses caused by radiation, and the structure of the building. The writing would be inscribed on the wall, complete with instructional pictures. (Today, this scenario might remind one of an escape room or a puzzle in a videogame, amusing simulations of mortal danger made real.)

The writing would not be enough, though. The report also noted that the site would need to convey in its physical form a feeling, something that would touch the basest instincts of a living being. The authors noted in words, as best they could, what that feeling was:

“ This place is not a place of honor… no highly esteemed deed is commemorated here… nothing valued is here. What is here was dangerous and repulsive to us.

The danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours. The danger is to the body, and it can kill.

This place is a message… and part of a system of messages …pay attention to it!

Sending this message was important to us. We considered ourselves to be a powerful culture.”

At the end of the Sandia report, the writers quote a poem. If you’re into poetry, you might be able to guess what it is, and maybe the lines have already whispered through your mind as you’ve been reading this article.

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert… near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear:

‘My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Ozymandias by Percy Shelley was published on 11 January 1818, at the height of what was called “Egyptomania,” the burning obsession of Western aristocrats with finding and swallowing up all the treasures of the Nile. Shelley might have been inspired by the romance of the desert for his setting, but the underlying message of his poem—even the greatest empires fall and are forgotten—can also read as a warning to his own nation’s empire, to the new wave of philosophers and scientists, to anyone so caught up in the heady power of 19th-century Britain that they forgot they were only mortal. Just 10 days before the poem was published, his wife, Mary Shelley, published a work of her own, a novel about a scientist who creates a monster he cannot control.

Not many paid attention to the warnings. The allure of power—power from knowledge, from technology, from resources, from land—dominated the mindset of those who ran empires, and those who ran empires dominated the world.

The same year Frankenstein and Ozymandias were published, Egypt conquered the Arabian Peninsula. This was a critical victory, because it put the holy cities of Mecca and Medina back under the control of the Ottoman Empire, the great power to which Egypt was subordinate. The Empire had held the holy cities for centuries, yet inexplicably, for the previous 13 years, Mecca and Medina had been out of their grasp, having fallen into the hands of a small upstart tribe with their own version of Islam—an extremely strict and literalist doctrine that seemed totally at odds with the rest of the world’s tendency towards modernization. But the recapturing of the cities meant balance was restored to the world, after this strange temporary interlude. The upstart tribe with its fundamentalist religion was brutally crushed, its leaders executed, and all was in its rightful place. If one were to go back in time to 1818, and ask a well-read man about the civilizational struggles in Arabia, it is likely he would have thought a lot about the strong, old, Western-facing Ottoman Empire—which had changed the shape of the world and produced so much of interest—and very little, if at all, about a defeated family called the House of Saud.

But the path of human history isn’t a straight line, and we can’t see what lies ahead of us. 100 years later, in 1918, the world’s most brutal war ended and the Ottoman Empire turned to dust, leaving the House of Saud space to consolidate their power. In 1932 the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was born. One of the king’s first moves was to invite American geologists, engineers, and businessmen to plunge through the sand and drill holes into the earth, suspecting that the ground beneath their feet was hiding black and glistening treasure that could make them rich.

In 1938, the Americans found what they were looking for, and the House of Saud turned from an upstart tribe to transformers of the desert, with the wealth and power to do anything they wished. Western cities grew upwards and outwards, feeding off the oil under the surface of Saudi land. In 1984, an exiled Saudi national named Abdul Rahman Munif wrote a novel about the oil boom called Cities of Salt, and when asked the meaning of the name, explained that one day the glimmering Saudi cities would dissolve and be forgotten, like salt in water. All this happened within a fraction of human history, and the finest minds of the early 19th-century could never have foreseen it—just as they couldn’t have foreseen how our lust for oil would cause the temperatures to rise.

The Department of Energy still does not have a permanent depository site, but it’s had a location picked out since the 1980s: Yucca Mountain, Nevada, 100 miles northwest of Las Vegas. Yucca Mountain is just by the Nevada Test Site, where nuclear weapons have been tested off-and-on since 1951 (the last test was in 2012). In this desert, workers would build mock neighborhoods of picture-perfect brick houses, sit families of mannequins at the dinner table, and see what remained of them after the mushroom cloud had dispersed. (No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. What is here was dangerous and repulsive to us.) The location was partly chosen because almost no one lives there now, though remnants of the gold and silver mining industries have left the sands strewn with ghost towns. A lot of the names around here tell stories: Gold Center, Eureka, Saline, Chloride City, Hells Gate. Occasionally, you’ll see an indigenous name.

The Sandia report said the depository should send the message: We considered ourselves to be a powerful culture. This raises the question of who the “we” is supposed to be. It could mean the contemporary world in general, if we wanted to label ourselves one culture (we don’t know how apparent any differences would be to future readers between the United States and anywhere else.) Or it could mean the United States government. But there’s another “we” with a claim to this land. As far as the Western Shoshone people are concerned, Yucca Mountain doesn’t even belong to the federal government. The government claims to have legally purchased the land during the Civil War, when they needed it to acquire gold. The Western Shoshone dispute that the government has rights to the land, since the government only made a fraction of promised payment after it was appropriated. (This is not a place of honor.) Shoshone activists, as well as other peoples indigenous to the area, express their outrage both at the theft of their land and the polluting of the environment, but it does little good.

At any given point in time, some civilizations have power, and some do not. At the moment, the United States has power and the Shoshone do not, because in the European settlers’ quest to take the land, they had killed the majority of the people who were already there, wiping entire societies off the map as they went, whether intentionally by murder and cruelty, or unintentionally, by disease. (The danger is to the body, and it can kill.)

The Yucca Mountain plan is currently at a standstill, lacking in funding and lurking low on the priorities list, and for the moment, the permanent site shows no signs of being built. In its place, waste is temporarily being stored at the Waste Isolation Pilot Plant (WIPP) in New Mexico, which one day might become the permanent site. If the site there is developed for permanent storage, its written warnings are to be in seven languages: the six official languages of the UN, and Navajo. One might interpret this as the federal government throwing a tiny token to the people it knows it has mistreated. Or one might consider it a recognition of the impossibility of predicting history’s twists and turns: We have no idea who might be here 10,000 years from now, and who might not.

When reading through the Human Interference Task Force and WIPP documents—after overcoming the initial wave of eldritch horror brought on by the sight of chapter headings like “Menacing Earthworks” and “Forbidding Blocks”— one starts to get the sense that something is unusual about these reports. For starters, the sheer level of vision on display is quite remarkable, making them at times seem more like science fiction novels than a government report. What’s more, from the perspective of our era—when the humanities and social sciences are frequently defunded, dismissed, and derided—it’s surprising to see an unquestioned faith in the essential relationship between “hard” science and social science. The U.S. Department of Energy understood that the nuclear waste disposal problem could not be solved by technological innovation alone; no alloy or neat little locking mechanism would save us from our future selves. Only by examining human nature, and allowing ourselves to conceive of a world beyond all contemporary understanding, could we attempt to protect the planet from the magnitude of what we’d done to it.

Perhaps, damaging though it was in terms of its siege mentality, there was something in the Cold War mindset that allowed the U.S. researchers to think in such epochal terms. The older researchers on the initial project would have grown up in the midst of the Second World War, the near-apocalyptic battle between inextricably opposed ideologies—fascism, communism, liberal democracy—that had all still been in their cradle just a century before, and had then grown into giants, who in their battles spilled blood into the earth and left cities in shreds. The younger researchers were bathed in the spirit of the Cold War, a Manichean atmosphere wherein the fate of the earth depended on the outcome of a constant struggle between two opposing forces, and where children learned that at the press of a button in Moscow, they might one day simply evaporate. This ingrained knowledge of the knife-edge fragility of civilization, a sense of an America proud and strong and wealthy and yet always teetering at the edge of a precipice, might have instilled in those researchers a quiet understanding that they, their hometown, their country, their planet was a place where all could be annihilated. Perhaps this enabled them to look calmly in the face of their own civilization’s destruction, and accept their obligation to do whatever they could for those who came next.

After the early ’90s, reports continued to come out, occasionally, but there were no big breakthroughs in the communication side of things, or any more radical approaches to the problem. This period, after the fall of the Soviet Union, is what Francis Fukuyama called “the end of history”: the epic battles between visions for humanity’s future were done, the West had won, we were all to put our imaginations away in safety deposit boxes and get to focusing on technocratic tweaks and institutional tune-ups for the rest of time. It is remarkable to note the difference in attitude toward the nuclear crisis in the Cold War, and the climate crisis today. Moderate proposals for a Green New Deal are hand-waved away as “unrealistic”; in response to suggestions of a move to renewable energy, sensible people shake their heads and point to their graphs of electricity prices, jobs, and GDP, graphs that stretch back 20 or 30 years, which is as far back as anyone can remember. Quietly, without fuss, long-term survival slips further and further down the priorities list.

The United States understands danger in the form of external threats, but not the danger within itself: the desire of civilizations to consume the land they perch on, to draw resources out from the ground and use them all up, to create great pestilences as a byproduct of its inventions, and realize (too late) the ramifications of what’s been done. There is something different between the inventive, enthusiastic way the U.S. Department of Energy reacted to the nuclear waste problem in the 1980s, and the timid, bounded way it reacts to climate change now. We have lost the ability to imagine the future. Our nuclear waste sits in silos, waiting for a home; the question of what to do with them is in stasis. The Department of Energy has ensured that on a technical level, when they are eventually buried, they will survive any war or terrorist attack within the short-term—which, no matter how painful they might be to us, are bound to be mere scratches on the surface of the earth’s history. Wherever their resting place—as the situation stands, it will be somewhere quiet in the Southwestern deserts—when they are buried we will probably hear about them on the news, and there may be a wave of excitement, and then the dirt will be shoveled over them, and we’ll forget. A thousand crises will come and pass. Nations will be formed and abandoned, the sea will sweep in, the deserts will get hotter, the riverbeds will dry up. To think about a time 10,000 years from now is frightening, and bleak, knowing what we know about the current trends, but a stretch of time that long has room for faith as well as despair. Hopefully humanity will save itself, somehow; we will turn our desire to shape the earth to a good purpose, and build a new way of existing on the land, something none of us can predict. We can only pray that they will not be as greedy as us. We can only hope they hear our message.

Somewhere beyond any distance we can picture, an archaeologist is digging. The sand stretches all around him, to all horizons. He has hit stone, a monument to something, and after some time, it is revealed in its entirety. It it etched all over with lines of different shapes, that he cannot understand, but he understands enough to realize this was once a special place. To either side of the words, he recognizes drawings of human faces: one has a mouth open in terror, the other twisted in pain. This could be a memorial to some horrific event, or it could be a curse meant to punish unwanted intruders. Intruders were not well-liked by these people, or so the archaeologist has read, though he finds it difficult to understand their concepts of property and trespass.

Exhausted from digging, he sits at the foot of the monument, and he spends a moment taking in its magnificence, trying to connect with its makers. At the top of the monolith is a mysterious symbol—a circle, surrounded by three blades. The archaeologist smiles. He has never seen it before, but it fills him with a sense of serenity. It was a plant that grew in their time, perhaps, or the insignia of a nation, or a representation of a god. Whatever it was, it’s long gone now, but in any case it’s pretty. Like a child, he traces the trefoil in the sand, digging his thumb into the earth to make the center, dragging his fingers outwards one, two, three times. The ground moves easily for him, giving way to his desire to destroy the surface and create something new. He looks down at the trefoil he has drawn, his little sign that he has been here. He is just the latest in an immeasurable line of human beings who desire to put some sort of mark on the earth.

He is proud of his creation, but he forgets that it is drawn in sand. It’s visible only for a minute, before the winds blow it away.

#nuclear semiotics #The Future #disaster #communication #linguistics #stories

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starwarsfic · 4 years

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Gai'se bal Mande 5: Tarre Vizsla (1)

Originally posted October 1, 2020 (shhh I know)

Summary: There's one basic fact of the galaxy that lots of people agree on: Qui-Gon Jinn does not deserve to raise Obi-Wan.

Details: Time Travel during the Mandalore Mission. For the Punch Qui-Gon and Adopt Obi-Wan challenge

xxxxxx

The nights in the desert outside Sundari were freezing cold. With nothing to block the wind, Obi-Wan and Satine desperately looked for shelter each day, sometimes even backtracking despite the dangers, just to stay out of the elements. They huddled together in caves and crevices, trying to raise Qui-Gon or any of the New Mandalorian loyalists on their comms.

Today they had cut it close, the sun already dipping low on the horizon as they trudged through what looked to be ruins of some once-great building. Between the bombardment and the elements, there wasn't anything identifiable left, nor any buildings that they could use.

Obi-Wan stretched out with the Force as much as he could, senses flowing over what might have once been pillars, what might have once been statues. He almost stumbled when the ground dipped under his senses, too deep to just be a ditch in the sand.

"Sat'ika, I think I found something," he called softly, voice gruff from a day of disuse but Mando'a still flowing easily enough.

She hurried to him--tired, malnourished, but still bristling with righteous energy wherever she went these days. "What is it?"

He took her hand and guided her to what he'd felt, a good few minutes of walking away from his original location. When they got there, he thought perhaps their current lifestyle was playing with his mind, because it just looked like more sand. Cautiously, he pushed it with the Force and...it sunk down, a door hidden beneath opening and the sand flooding through the hole until they could see it.

"A basement," she murmured, her pleasure echoing in the Force. "Can you get us up and down?"

There were no stairs, no sign of any ladders left, but the fall wasn't very far. He nodded in agreement and she wrapped her arms around him as they'd done so many times before.

Obi-Wan descended slower than he would have if it were just himself, not wanting to frighten her no matter how much she now trusted in the Force. They landed softly in the pile of sand. Without needing to speak, they separated as soon as their feet were steady, Obi-Wan pulling out his lightsaber to light their way, but also for protection, as Satine aimed her blaster around them.

"I don't sense anyone else," he murmured.

Though, that wasn't entirely true. There was something about these ruins that made them not feel empty. Maybe some creatures, he pondered, already worrying about all the ways this unexpected boon could go badly the same as all the others before it.

"Can you close the door?" Satine pointed above them. "Sand should cover it again during the night, if anyone comes looking...."

He shot her a smile before doing as she'd suggested, glad she'd thought of it while his mind was elsewhere. As soon as it shut, they were plunged into darkness, his lightsaber the only source of light.

Reaching behind him, he caught Satine's hand, then started deeper into the building. Technically, they could stay in that room all night, but in case there was another entrance they needed to watch, he wanted to know where they were.

The only way out was a narrow hallway, nothing about it screamed danger in the Force. After walking through, they found a large set of doors, faded carvings all along them.

Figures in beskar'gam were easy enough to pick out, along with other clearly Mandalorian depictions. "This must be old," Satine murmured, "old enough we all forgot."

Old enough the New Mandalorians didn't know it was here to destroy, Obi-Wan though, ungenerously, but didn't speak.

A noise rang like a bell from beyond the doors and he startled. From Satine's questioning look, he knew she hadn't heard it.

Again, he could feel some oddness, some presence, but no danger. So he kept going forward, pushing open the doors with the Force and continuing inside.

Beyond was a gigantic space and as they walked they discovered the edges weren't walls, but buildings. Shops or homes, maybe, with doorways and windows. In the center was a field of dirt where crops might have once been raised. Further in, there were steps leading up to a grand building that even in disrepair spoke of reverence.

"Is this some sort of hidden city?" Satine pondered, studying what could be seen in the glow of the lightsaber.

Obi-Wan just shook his head, drawn up those stairs, towards another set of doors. "No. It's a Temple."

She hesitated now to follow him and he sensed unease from her. "To which gods? The Mandalorian ones aren't the most welcoming."

Biting his tongue--because he'd studied plenty of religions and there was nothing overly bad about the Mandalorian gods--he answered, "It's a Jedi Temple. Or...something like it. A Force tradition, definitely. Not Sith."

No, Sith would have...a feeling to it. He'd been around darksiders and Sith holocrons, he and Qui-Gon had even had an eventful mission involving a Sith Temple, but this was different. Maybe not Jedi, but closer.

The presence was here, he realized. It was the Temple...something in the Temple.

It tugged on his mind, nothing screaming "danger" but it was so powerful that he was worried, regardless. But even then, he found himself walking deeper into the building, drawn despite himself.

"Hey! Obi-Wan?!"

He wanted to reply, he did, and yet he couldn't. Step by step, as though he were in a trance, he moved forward, barely registering the doors and hallways.

Around him, the Force pulsed, growing more powerful with each step. It felt almost like the Temple on Coruscant, but without the cloudiness in the Force or the rot from the city around it. Pure energy.

A nexus, he realized, when he finally reached it. An unknown nexus in the Force, on Manda’yaim, that had somehow managed to survive the Dral’Han without turning Dark.

This was a massive find, one Temple scholars would be celebrating for decades, maybe centuries. And, yet, it wasn't documenting the details of it that drew Obi-Wan ever closer.

"Obi-Wan!" Satine grabbed his arm, gasping as the nearness of the Nexus made even her sense it. "I don't think you want to go in there!"

He did, now that he was here, had it weaving through his own signature, cradling him like a beloved child. Another step, then another, Satine refusing to let go and being dragged along.

And then...then it surged up around them and for one brief, brilliant moment, Obi-Wan felt as though the entire universe existed within him.

***

There was noise, frantic and mostly familiar, worried Force presences surrounding him. Obi-Wan groaned, forcing himself to come awake, checking immediately on Satine as had become his habit--beside him, also just coming back to consciousness from whatever had just happened. He wondered if her head ached as much as his did, though part of his issue was the Nexus seemingly digging through his mental shields.

They were lying on beds, people all around them. A not small amount were in beskar'gam, but before Obi-Wan could react he realized it looked nothing like Death Watch's, nor even like some of the traditional clans that they'd encountered.

The armor--in fact, every piece of clothing people were wearing--looked old, like something out of a historical holo drama.

"It is good to see you awake, Padawan," a voice intoned from above his bed, speaking an archaic Mando'a that Obi-Wan could just understand.

He sat up, swaying just a little from the movement, and studied the person who had said that. Fully armored, tall, imposing, with shields in the Force that would impress even Master Yoda.

Now that he noticed, he realized everyone in armor still had their buy'ce on, even the ones performing rudimentary tasks around what seemed to be a Healers' Ward.

Had they stumbled on some hidden fundamentalist Mandalorian Force cult in the Temple? That would be just as big of a find as the Nexus.

Which...Obi-Wan realized he didn't feel anymore. He searched, reaching out, knowing he couldn't possibly not feel something that powerful now that he'd known it so well.

It was gone, somehow, impossibly, but what he did find...that was even more impossible. Because not only was the Temple stuffed full of people, almost all of whom seemed to be Force sensitive in some way, but...the planet around them pulsed with healthy, powerful Life.

Had the Nexus brought them somewhere else entirely? To a sister temple on another planet?

"Padawan?"

His attention whipped back to the man. "I apologize. I was just..." he hesitated, then realized these people probably know he wouldn't know anything, "where we are."

The man cocked his head to the side. "You are among the Ka'ra Ga'anle." When Obi-Wan just looked at him blankly, he gave the forward tilt to his shoulders that indicated something like a frown, though Obi-Wan didn't think he was displeased with him. "The Jedi of Manda'yaim?"

"...Jedi...of Manda'yaim?"

"I've never even heard of that," Satine interjected, awake and aware enough to be inching closer to Obi-Wan and have the good sense to use Mando'a.

And worried enough that her hand was hovering in that way that said she might just reach for her blaster, even if the stun setting wouldn't do much against the beskar'gam.

Now the armored man, and not just him, shifted stances, as if they weren't particularly pleased with Satine's existence, let alone her words. Obi-Wan frowned at that, trying to decide what could have given them a bad impression of her already. If they were some secret cult, did they have enough contact with the outside world to know about Satine? They didn't feel like a threat, but with the shielding, it was still a possibility.

"Why would an aruetii have heard such things?"

They both tensed, Obi-Wan shifting as much as he could on the bed to be between Satine and the man. "You expected me to know," he pointed out.

That, at least, drew the attention in the room back to him. "You are a Mando'ad Padawan."

And...Obi-Wan now remembered he was still in beskar'gam, himself, having grown so used to it that in the current situation he'd...just overlooked that fact. "I...but...not whatever way you're practicing," he decided to go with.

If someone in a full suit of beskar'gam who barely moved could project smug certainty with just a shift of his body, that's what the man was doing. Obi-Wan was getting more worried every minute.

"You have the potential to learn."

That sounded ominous, Obi-Wan decided.

"You shall have accommodations for as long as you wish to stay. Your rooms, Padawan, will be in the Learners' wing, which is better shielded so that you might relax better."

"And my...friend's rooms? She'll be where?"

The man seemed to consider the question. "She will have a room in the guest section."

Learner versus guest, another ominous detail. They'd have to be very careful not to let these people separate them more than this.

***

"We're at the mercy of some sort of cult," Satine hissed, back to using Basic, as soon as they were left alone in her small, bare guest room.

Obi-Wan didn't reply, nervous about surveillance and not sure that the people there didn't know Basic. Instead, he looked over her rooms for any sort of unknown devices or hidden doorways before finally taking his buy'ce. He took a deep breath, noticing without his filters how different even the air seemed in this place.

"We need to find out where we are. This isn't Manda'yaim. It feels...totally different."

He didn't want to frighten her, but she needed to know. When her eyes widened and fear spiked through the Force, he grabbed her arms, steadying her.

"We'll find out where we are, find a way to get out of this...compound...and get to a ship. We've been in worse situations than this--they're not trying to kill us, I can't sense any danger. They're definitely not Death Watch, whatever they are, they'd never accept Force users."

She didn't seem very convinced. He couldn't blame her.

***

It was days before he saw the man who had been hovering over him when he woke up again. He was still clad in full beskar'gam (and Obi-Wan had been careful to keep his own on at all times, too, just in case there was some taboo he would be breaking).

Obi-Wan was wandering down a corridor that he was fairly sure led to the hangers when he felt the familiar presence. He'd explored what he could in the meantime using a pass he’d been given to open the doors, unsurprised when he compared mental maps with Satine to find out that she was much more limited than he was. Everyone had seemed to stay out of his way, though they were ever watchful.

What he had found so far was...odd. As though this cult really had been out of contact with the world for centuries, all of their tech ancient in make but somehow new and working very well when investigated. He had so many questions.

"Padawan," the man greeted, politely and somehow pointedly.

"I never caught your name." His tone was polite, as well, and he bowed with the deference one would to a foreign leader, but he mostly just wanted to know something concrete.

"I am Tarre Vizsla."

Obi-Wan blinked rapidly behind his buy'ce. "Like the old Mand'alor?"

Amusement clouded the Force. "You still haven't accepted where you are?"

They stood in silence, Obi-Wan unsure what to say to that. Finally, Tarre gestured for him to follow and they were soon in a part of the Temple that he hadn't had the chance to explore, yet.

More people milled around here and when Obi-Wan spotted a few holoscreens, he decided it must be some sort of common area. He didn't recognize anything playing on them nor any of the flimsibooks he could see lying around. Again, everyone was in odd looking clothing or very old styled beskar'gam.

His mind...was going to places he didn't know what to do with.

When they reached an otherwise indistinct looking door, the Force began to tense around him. Not with the danger he was still waiting for, but with anticipation.

It opened onto the outside, a complex of buildings with grass and trees interspersed, and beyond a healthy, large forest stretched.

"Do you know what planet this is?" He shook his head. "Feel with the Force, Padawan. See if you can't find something familiar."

Tarre sat down on the grass nearby and Obi-Wan followed. It wasn't as though he could make a run for it, without Satine.

He settled into a light meditation, reaching for the Living Force as Qui-Gon always directed him to. The planet was as he'd felt that first day, brimming with life and energy. Beyond the Temple there were villages and beyond them, hazy in the distance, were what could only be cities.

Beside him, Tarre's presence gently nudged him, requesting to join in his meditation. After a moment of weighing the risks and possible consequences, Obi-Wan slowly lowered his shields.

It was the first time he really had since soon after waking up, no matter what he was told about the shielding in his rooms and he realized his mistake almost immediately.

Where once had been a weak training bond with Qui-Gon was a deep, strong connection with the man next to him. One that should have been impossible to forge so quickly, and especially if it were forged only by one of them.

Before he could pull away, build back up his defenses and try to figure out a way to break the bond, Tarre was there, pushing memories of places and events into his mind.

He'd done this in the reverse, Obi-Wan realized hazily though he didn't know how. Before Obi-Wan had woken up, that's why he'd felt so drained--Tarre had watched his memories to find out more about him and Satine...and the time they came from.

Because there was absolutely nothing modern about what Tarre showed him--not the Temple on Coruscant or the Capital itself, not Manda'yaim and Keldabe, not the people.

The Nexus didn't exist yet and Tarre only had the slightest guess as to how it had formed. But he thought Obi-Wan had been sent to help him, to save Manda'yaim from the fate it suffered in his time.

Something shifted and the Force within them moved with it, suddenly becoming different than Obi-Wan had ever felt it before, foreign and so very powerful here among the Mandalorians. It flowed through him like air, leaving him dizzy when Tarre finally pulled away.

"You are more powerful in the Manda than the Force itself, it is why that Nexus called so strongly to you. It was not the Force as the Republic Jedi perceive it," Tarre explained from beside him, leaning close. "To not train you would be shameful and that useless Master of yours would have seen you ignore these ties."

"I...I need to get home. Satine and I, we--"

"Don't worry, Obi-Wan, this is where you're meant to be. You are home, now, my Padawan."

He must have passed out at that point, because he woke some indeterminate amount of time later, tucked into the bed of his large rooms, completely out of his beskar'gam.

***

Did the Force want him there, Obi-Wan wondered, a refrain of the question floating through his mind near-constantly at first. Was that why it refused to acknowledge any threat from the people around them? From Tarre?

Could being back here mean they could stop the Dral'han? How many lives would be saved, just by giving a Mand'alor foreknowledge of the event that he could pass onto his successors?

He, reluctantly, started training with Tarre, never feeling entirely relaxed (feeling too connected to him, learning from him feeling too right). Satine disapproved, but she didn't entirely believe Obi-Wan about the time travel and, perhaps worse, she'd been relegated to a position with the Temple servants, as she had no marketable skills for the time period and none of her political connections yet existed.

Secretly, Obi-Wan thought the experience would do her some good. She hadn't been incapable of helping out when it was the two of them on the run, but he remembered how she'd been while they were still in Sundari, before they'd been forced to flee. She'd acted more like a Coruscanti noble expecting to be served than the traditional Mandalorians around them ever would.

***

They were there months before Obi-Wan started to realize they weren't getting back to their time. There was no conveniently placed similar Nexus to use, even if he could recreate what had happened and control when they reappeared. And for as much knowledge as the Ka'ra Ga'anle had, the actual means of time travel, as opposed to the study of it, was not known.

After a year, Obi-Wan more or less accepted his place. As the Mand'alor's Padawan, he was able to travel and learn things that he'd never experienced, could have never hoped to experience. And while the training was harsh, sometimes like the worst parts of Mandalorian and Jedi training mixed into one, he improved in leaps and bounds.

This was how it was supposed to feel, he was coming to realize, this was how being a Jedi was supposed to have always been for him. At the Temple on Manda'yaim there were no arbitrary limitations on what people could learn or practice, no mismatched Master-Padawan pairs that were allowed to keep struggling instead of improving.

He found himself envying those who had grown up there, who had never known another way of life.

When he mentioned it to Tarre, his Master had been surprisingly gentle in his response, letting Obi-Wan cry out the grief he had for what he missed and, worse yet, what he didn’t miss at all.

Tarre held him, talking to him throughout it all, and when he quietly recited the words that meant adoption in Mando’a, Obi-Wan didn’t even try to interrupt.

There wouldn’t be any return to the future, but he could make a life in the past. Maybe a better one than he would have had.

***

Sometimes, he passed Satine in the hallways. Neither of them tried to speak.

***

Tarre spoke of the Nexus to Obi-Wan only once more. He’d found a way, he thought, of creating one, but it would involve sacrifice. The Dral’han had to happen in order for the Nexus to exist, the Manda creating it through the sudden, horrific deaths of so many Mandalorians and the power released with their souls.

They argued, briefly, over whether it was even necessary. If the Nexus didn’t exist, that didn’t mean some sort of paradox had to happen when it reached Obi-Wan’s mission to Mandalore--time was not so weak a thing, it would adjust and repair. And what did it matter, if the Nexus existed, but Obi-Wan’s travel didn’t save Manda’yaim?

“It is not the Dral’han you were sent to stop, my Padawan. Of that I am sure.”

Obi-Wan was reminded of his early months at the Temple and how ominous everything about Tarre had often seemed. He’d forgotten, somehow, that Tarre was a Taung-blooded Mand’alor, and what he felt and what the Ka’ra showed him could put his motivations far beyond Obi-Wan’s reckoning.

***

In Obi-Wan's time at the Temple, only one other person seemed to have come through the Nexus-that-would-be. The body was tall, humanoid, but so twisted and burnt by the energy of the Nexus that it was unrecognizable.

xxxxxx

A/N: I actually had another idea for this fifth and last one, but multiple people in multiple places wanted more Tarre so I decided...why not? Lol

Technically, this is set prior to the first Tarre fic in this collection--Obi-Wan warns Tarre of what Mandalore will be like in Obi-Wan's time (far from the Manda, ever becoming more and more like the Republic, etc) and Tarre uses that foreknowledge to put in place what's needed for the Dral'han to create the Nexus that would bring him to the future next time haha

Mando'a: beskargam - Mandalorian style armor buy'ce - Mandalore style helmets with the T-visor Ka'ra Ga'anle - Made up term, meaning Stars' Chosen, Ka'ra is stars but also like the collective souls of past Mand'alors/leaders. Manda'yaim - Mandalore aruetii - traitor/outsider Mando'ad - a Mandalorian

The Dral'han is also known as the Mandalorian Excision. The Mandalorians had been recovering and reviving and the Republic decided a pre-emptive strike was in order. They all-but destroyed the planet and sent Mandalorian politics spiraling under the control of basically a Republican puppet government lol

"gai bal manda" is the Mandalorian adoption rite, it means "name and soul." This is me doing my best to pluralize that into "names and souls"

#character: obi wan kenobi #ship: satine & obi wan #character: satine kryze #character: tarre vizsla #ship: tarre & obi wan #theme: mandalorian culture #theme: jedi culture #verse: time travel #theme: mandalore mission

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anteroom-of-death · 4 years

Text

Life, For Dummies p6

a/n: so the words just flew out and boy. much thanks to all who read and commented and reblogged/liked! im sorry ahead of time! it will get uptempo again.optimism, babes.

You stood in the console room in wait, you had no clue the punishment that lay waiting. You didn’t know what was going to happen and that was worse than knowing. There had to be worse consequences for a consummate freak out that bordered on betrayal.

For a snap you thought of just reverting back to being her companion just to smooth things over. To stop all the madness that was bound to ensue. But you didn’t. You held your ground, despite having to run away.

You shivered involuntarily. You felt like a freezer that happened to be left open all night. You let yourself be crippled by everything. Seeing them left you blindsided, if you were a quarterback it’d have been a sack at the tenth yard line.

Did that make the Master the coach?

You ended up stripping off your blazer and leaning over the console, mildly hyperventilating. Your arms glistening with sweat in the ambient lights.

The door swung open and you hunched up. Jaw clenched your ringing in your ear came back, drowning all else out.

You swore he was speaking but your mind was so swirled with thoughts and crackles and the persistent ring you ended up trying, “Get on with it, punish me. Kill me. You know I’m no good to you now.” but it came out garbled, as if you suffered a stroke.

Maybe you did.

You started a brief list of stroke symptoms but decided, was no use. If he was going to do what you thought, he’d probably use your own laser screwdriver against you.

You suddenly remembered ages ago yourself in a similar situation. You disrespected him. You’d’ve done it three times now.

If going by the sudden need for sports metaphors you were currently riding, third strike- you’re out.

He wasn’t doing anything and that drove you absolutely insane. Clutching your sides, you spun around and met his eyes. Those eyes, so large and so beautiful and emotive were virtually unreadable. Your vision was getting blurry and your eyes started stinging. You were aghast with the day. It was a simple scheme. How could it go so wrong. You had heartburn. The acid was rising in your stomach and you tried to not hurl. The anticipation was getting to you on all levels.

You elected to allow yourself to black out. You were headed that way, so you just gave into it without a fight.

When you came to, you found yourself at your house, on your couch. Your favorite mug with your favorite tea blend was waiting for you and across the room leaning on your wall was him.

The Master. Your Master.

“Nice touch, passing out. Noble even.” His eyes yet again unreadable voids.

Your head pounded and the back of your skull was a dull pain.

You did notice and take appreciation from the pillows cupping you and your feet up.

“We need to talk.” His voice was just as unreadable as his eyes. The sentence flooded your throat and dropped into your stomach. You clenched your eyes and relaxed your jaw as you brought yourself up and cupped the mug gingerly.

“Thank you.” You gave him a meager smile in genuine thanks.

“Don’t think of it.” He waved it off.

He was uncharacteristically devoid of emotion or passion. Stoic.

You took a few sips, letting the warmth and the taste give you strength and some comfort. You had lots of experience where this was going. Why fight it? He was an ageless alien and you were a human. The fact that he gave you all you got was phenomenal.

You could feel your heart stop when you put it down. The silence was starting to get to you.

“I need some time.” He murmured, voice silky.

“How long?” You hoarsely whispered.

“No clue. I just need to process this.”

What was processing time? Feasibly for him? You could be just here for a few moments and he could have taken centuries. Or he could have taken a day or 36 hours and you could already be dead.

Maybe he was just telling you this to shake you off and stop more damage.

You wanted to fight him on it. But how? Your jaw unlocked and lay slack.

“You have a concussion. I’ve dealt with the necessary care. I put some pills that’ll take a week to heal you up properly.” He pointed towards the vicinity of your bathroom before pushing off your wall and headed towards a curio cabinet you really didn’t notice until now.

Obviously, more than a week.

“Text me?” You said.

“Maybe.” He looked at you, his eyes were big and seemed filled with nothing but agony and resolve.

You swore you saw his mouth move and a whisper of something you couldn’t make out. A different language.

He stepped in and the curio cabinet vanished from your living room.

You leaned back, the Fam mentioned that your place was dusty, but obviously he must have broken out the dust buster. That was sweet of him to take care of the place before you were unceremoniously dumped on your ass. You went for your neck. The collar that you usually stroked in times of stress was gone, along with him.

What was the date? You had no clue. Days passed, flooding into weeks. This agony of not knowing outweighed anything. You vaguely remembered the Covid-19 “shelter at home” but that was truly another life entirely.

Twenty-twenty passed on and you had to get a new job, but nothing seemed to take for you. You’d either get fired for lackadaise or not showing up or quit out of the blue because you felt deep down you deserved better. Dozens of civilizations across the stars probably still spoke of you in hushed tones as a haughty goddess, or Queen sent by the divine.

The nights were the roughest. A few times the cops were called because you were wailing in your sleep. They soon just stopped coming, unless your neighbors just accepted it as the new normal.

If you could joke, and if you were in a joking mood, you’d probably remark how this was just like Bella Swan in New Moon “sksksksksk jksk lol!” But you weren’t anymore. You weren’t in a joking mood no matter what at the time.

Life, without the Master, simply wasn’t worth living.

How could you go back? After all those stars seen? People met? And emotions felt.

You felt your heart harden and break.

You half thought of trying to push through the pain and see if you could somehow contact him. At least see if he was okay. Especially since you overheard the news at a metal bar you started working at that some strange lights followed by a subsonic explosion happened in a small city far away and there were confusing footages being leaked on social media of Daleks and death. It went away in a day, but still. You swore you heard a TARDIS in a few of the Facebook Lives people did as they died. People thought it was a hoax. People were so dumb.

It made you ache.

Maybe it was the Doctor, or the Master convincing them to go destroy somewhere more important.

It was more likely her.

You didn’t know which one would be worse, just in case more footage was released and you saw a flash of a face.

You broke again, dropping the heavy drink laden tray on the ground and locking yourself in the walk-in fridge. Rackus sobbing came out of your chest like a snarling animal. You had to get yourself together before you lost the only job you made good tips at. You knew it was purely because the uniform was trampy, and not your sparkling personality or wit. You placed your head between your thighs and screamed through it, trying to see if that would stop you from your tears. It was literally more time that had passed than you had actually ran away with him at this point.

You should have moved on. If not moved on, repress it enough to worry any mental health specialist. This wasn’t like you.

So you tried therapy.

The big mistake there was dumbing it down and humanizing the Master and the Doctor so you didn’t sound like you needed inpatient care or to go on some watchlist somewhere in the universe. Let alone your planet.

Some people somewhere might want to abduct you and harvest your organs for the residual artron energy. That could be valuable on certain markets.

Or your brainwaves. Some planets would pay rogue Time Agents to harvest them and the knowledge you knew and technology you learned.

You became more skittish when walking at night. You had gotten so used to just blasting anyone who’d try to wrong you with your screwdriver. It was a crutch you missed. Every moving shadow scared you.

You also had to consider someone, somewhere might be angry enough with him enough and see that his little human whore was no longer velcroed to his side and go look for you. Penance for his actions, delivered unto you.

Not like he would care, obviously he was far gone and far away.

Your manager came in and gave a quick look at the sight before him.

“Why are you in here? People at table 6 were complaining. Had to give them vouchers and comp their bill.”

You wiped your eyes and got out from your hutched state, “The news. So much death.” You snorted up the snot threatening to leak out.

Strange cognitive dissonance coming from someone who aided in toppling empires and had a past of executing people.

It wasn’t that, but my goodness, you had to sell it. It was a human thing to say.

“Oh, wow. I’ll give you a minute, then get back to work.” He closed the door gently and let you be.

You paced and paced and thought, “What would he do?” But all the answers involved space tech you didn’t have in a five by eight cooler. Or loud theatrics and sass.

You had none of those.

For the first time in a while, you went to your neck and rubbed at it, wishing you still belonged to him, and you knew what to do. Anger flooded through you and honestly, you didn’t know who it was directed at. The anger felt good. A blistering difference to the waves of agony and silence in you.

You bratted off and knocked down a row of premade salsas and stomped out before heading to table 6.

“Oh, so you didn’t fancy me dropping the drinks? Or whatever? You were complaining about the shape of the wings earlier? Anything else, your highnesses,“ You false curtsied before straightening out and untying your apron and tossing it on the ground, “Anything?” You spat.

They recoiled.

The paunchy middle aged man asked, “What the fucks your problem? Like, what do you want? Cause you’re definitely not getting a tip now?”

An idea shot into your brain, “What do I want?” You jabbed a finger at yourself, “I want you to kneel!” You pointed at him and made a vague “get down” gesture with your index finger.

“Kneel?”

“Kneel!” You ordered, all the chutzpah of a former self radiating through. You tossed a glass at that man’s head. It was no laser to the stomach but would do the trick. “I said, kneel for me, love.”

The blood streaming from his head as he obeyed you, his fatty neck blubbering in pain and tears streaming down his face filled you with nostalgia. It felt good to be in this position again. Someone obeying you, the fear in their eyes, the sense of power it gave you knowing that you held the keys to their fate in your hands. A small pool of wetness nearly started between your thighs. Power was just so good, and feeling the fear come to him? Icing on a perverse cake.

Him kneeling was almost as natural as it felt for you to kneel ages ago. A labored, pleased breath escaped your lungs as you smiled and let off a laugh.

You turned to your manager and gave a grimace, “I quit, I just can’t take the pressure, dock my pay for the damages. Bye.”

You grabbed your stuff from behind the bar and ran out again from yet another job.

At the back of your brain, you knew that possibly you’d go to prison for this. You assaulted a man. Out here in the real world, not the magic little world of madness, assault meant fines, sharing a prison cell with someone called Big Irma, ugly orange jumpsuits and a permanent record. Something that would prevent you from life.

Not that you had a life anymore.

You arrived home and finally allowed yourself to let out all the true amount of tears you felt. You fell asleep on the linoleum of your entrance hall waiting for the cops to show up and take you away.

You were out for over a day, you woke up so sore and dehydrated.

But the brunt of your emotions, you felt were over.

You knew you had to consolidate who you were, who you had been, and where you were now. Make yourself one person, not a section of phases altered by the presence of Time Lords.

But who were you before you’d met the Doctor and been the Master’s?

That was the hard part.

Jogging that memory up.

You massaged your temples and went over to chug water directly from the kitchen faucet.

A normal human just couldn’t force people to follow their every whim. Or flit from here or there.

Well, unless they were a politician or born to extreme wealth.

You needed to be able to hold down a job, you needed to move on. He wasn’t coming for you. You finally and truly got it through your thick, pathetic human skull…

You wiped the water off your face with your bare hands and ripped off the bar’s uniform. You hunched over in your kitchen and cursed the day you ever met either Time Lord. Cupping your face in your hand you let out another massive groan and shook yourself free.

Those topics were not to be verboten.

You had a traitorous thought, unless you worked for a government organization or paramilitary that dealt with the extraterrestrial. The job prospects for that seemed slim. You were formally in league with them. People might argue a conflict of interests or claim you were a double or triple agent. There was no true way to prove to a stupid ape that, you, another stupid ape weren’t giving off trade Earth secrets to known enemies of the planet. The list of aliens on watchlists was getting larger in the 21st century by the day. The Master definitely had to be on at least most of them. If not all. Though, the money would be quite good…

It was thought.

You were Earth-bound and just had to reintegrate. There had to be some books you could read. Life, For Dummies? Men are from Gallifrey, Women are from Earth? Something, even an obnoxious celebrity and an ill-trained life coach making a podcast on how to cope with a break up. Something.There

Easier said than done.

It had to be done, however how hard.

What a pity, what a sham.

To paraphrase a comic, you were young, shiney and dumb. Easy to fool.

You felt yourself utter, “If I ever see you again, first I’m going to kiss you, then I’m going to kick your ass.”

You pulled yourself back from those unhealthy words and bit your tongue.

This was bound to be hard.

But not impossible...

#personal #i wrote this #dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #master x reader #doctor who self insert fiction #angst #fanfic #self insert #the master

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aion-rsa · 3 years

Text

Doctor Who: Why Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor Needs an ‘Everybody Lives!’ Moment

https://ift.tt/39pw5MX

Doctor Who! The children’s own show that adults adore.

Doctor Who, as a format, requires an intrinsic joyfulness in its stories to be so adored. If adventures become too continually grim, or not sufficiently fun, then ultimately there’ll be a tipping point where it becomes implausible for the story to continue. Why, ultimately, would the character keep travelling if they weren’t enjoying it? And even if they did, would this be something that would sustain a family audience?

It’s not that you can’t have darkness in Doctor Who, it’s just that it can’t be sustained and eventually something has to give. As such, there’s an inherent optimism in a lot of Doctor Who, even in episodes where it isn’t high in the mix. For the show to make sense, there has to be some hope that wrongs can be righted.

For example: even though William Hartnell’s Doctor starts off trying break his own programme by getting rid of Ian and Barbara as quickly as possible, the show quickly settles into “a great spirit of adventure”; the Second Doctor comforting a grieving Victoria by pointing out that “nobody else in the universe can do what we’re doing” followed by the Doctor letting Victoria leave the TARDIS because it’s the best thing for her. In both cases, the gesture is one of compassion. The Fourth Doctor refers to Sarah Jane Smith as his best friend and she only leaves because he has to go somewhere she can’t (His home planet of Gallifrey, something that on original broadcast had more dramatic weight as he’d only visited it once before in the series and then been forced into regeneration and exile).

When Russell T. Davies relaunched the show in 2005, the unspoken idea became explicit. “Can I just say: travelling with you…I love it,” says Rose Tyler, who – despite portentous trailer statements – survived her travels. In episodes of The Sarah Jane Adventures Russell T. Davies expanded on the Tenth Doctor’s victory lap in ‘The End of Time‘ to make it more celebratory, giving past companions happy endings (some in stark contrast to their grim fates in Nineties’ spin-off media). The departures of Rose and Donna are tragic, but the journeys to get there are framed in terms of joy and excitement.

The next showrunner, Steven Moffat, preferred happy endings. Companions had previously been married off (Susan, Vicki, Jo, Leela, Peri) as they left the show. Amy Pond got married and stayed, travelling with her husband. This was a leap forward, but unfortunately the following series’ pregnancy storyline was handled poorly and attempts to deal with its repercussions were not successful either. Clara, the next companion, dared to be like the Doctor but unlike Donna managed to both die and have a happy ending.

Moffat enjoyed Immortal LGBT+ Women Having Adventures in Space so much that he used it again for Bill Potts in Series 10. An important aspect of both characters’ storylines is that they suffer a terrible fate, but the version of Doctor Who in which companions die is rejected in favour of one where they get what they live happily ever after. Moffat, a comedy writer to his core, was unwilling to make Doctor Who a story where travelling on the TARDIS left you in a worse place. Davies also tried to give his companions happy endings of sorts to ameliorate their loss.

If we look at the populist peaks of the show, Doctor Who has never been overwhelmingly cynical. Whenever it’s been taken in a darker direction it usually rejects that approach in favour of a lighter balance. In Season 21 the show put its characters through a series of almost unrelenting grimness (‘The Awakening’, the story where a demonic entity attempts to get an entire village to slaughter each other is the light and fluffy one) culminating in the Fifth Doctor’s heroic regeneration story ‘The Caves of Androzani’– voted the best Doctor Who story in several polls – where the Doctor goes to extreme lengths to save his companion and distances himself from the violence that surrounds him.

And then in the next story ‘The Twin Dilemma’, the Sixth Doctor strangles his companion.

Why Doctor Who can’t sustain dark storytelling

By Andrew Blair

Doctor Who : Revolution of the Daleks to Air on New Year’s Day, Trailer is Here

By Louisa Mellor

Taking ‘Grimdark’ storytelling to mean stories in which violence and misery is perpetuated throughout the story universe in a seemingly never-ending cycle, that period in the show’s history is a perfect example of it. Why diminish one of the finest stories ever by immediately negating the heroism involved? Why would you have the main character reject the violence that he’d become a part of only to immediately embrace it again? Among the many problems it means we have a Doctor/companion relationship that seems grim at best. Why would you keep travelling with someone who strangled you, refused to apologise and then continually harangues and shouts at you? I don’t watch Doctor Who to see the companion trapped in an abusive relationship. I also don’t think it’s a coincidence that the ratings went down as the production team systematically removed as much hope from the show as possible, ridding it of that great spirit of adventure. After ‘The Twin Dilemma’,the show was put on hiatus, and ultimately cancelled.

Which brings me to the current version of the show.

I don’t think Jodie Whittaker is miscast or that the current version of the show is woke nonsense – which is a relief because I think using the phrase ‘woke nonsense’ unironically is quite the red flag. I think that the enthusiasm Jodie Whittaker has for the part hasn’t been used well, because we currently have a Doctor who is great at showing unabashed joy travelling the universe, but whose stories lean towards grimdark and don’t give her anything approaching ‘Everybody lives!’

One of the most lauded episodes in Series 11 is ‘Rosa’, which was co-written by Malorie Blackman and showrunner Chris Chibnall. In it, the TARDIS crew see Rosa Parks in the run-up to her being arrested for violating segregation laws, and need to stop Krasko – a mass murderer from the future – interfering in this event and stopping it from happening.

The inclusion of Krasko makes an interesting and depressing point in this story, and I’d be fascinated to know the villain’s development in the writing process. For what we have here is a story about an important act of defiance that changed human history, and is celebrated for its impact, alongside an acknowledgement that there will still be racists in the future. In fact, there will be racists who murder 2,000 people in the future. Racism and its associated violence is not, the episode says, going to go away.

In isolation this might seem like optimism tempered with caution, but since Chris Chibnall became showrunner, edgy, provocative ideas have crept in and given stories a cynical edge. Small moments have a cumulative effect, such as Epzo’s story about his mother in ‘The Ghost Monument’, Robertson surviving ‘Arachnids in the UK’ without learning any moral lessons and indeed likely to cause more suffering, ‘Kerblam!’ ending with the system that blew up an innocent woman being allowed to continue (while closing the warehouse for four weeks and offering employees two weeks’ holiday pay), Daniel Barton escaping freely in ‘Spyfall’ while the Doctor wipes the memories of someone doomed to die, ‘Orphan 55’ shows us the unavoidable destruction of the human race, as does ‘Ascension of the Cybermen’. Under Moffat, we had some episodes ending with cynical quips that left a bad taste in the mouth, but under Chibnall the bad taste is there before the outro quip.

Series 11 showed us a joyful Doctor in a nasty universe, and the latter regularly overwhelms the former, but at least ended with Graham and Ryan clearly rejecting murder as a solution. Series 12 was less focussed on real-world evils, and uses them on the fringes of its storytelling (with the Doctor now seemingly embroiled in the universe’s cynicism, using Nazis to imprison a Master now played by a British Indian actor), but we’re still getting real issues reflected back at us along with the message that the Doctorcannot sort this, which is based on the false assumption that this is what Doctor Who is for.

I hope that this is building towards a reversal, that the Thirteenth Doctor gets her Androzani moment where she gets to take a stand against everything that she’s seen. However, we have now had a fully grimdark finale as the lasting impression of Doctor Who for nine months. ‘The Timeless Children’ has proven controversial for its approach to continuity; as well as the retcon of the Doctor’s history this was a ‘Twin Dilemma’(also the last story in its season) to ‘The Day of the Doctor’s Androzani. The heroism is now nullified. When we watch ‘The Day of the Doctor’and the day is saved at the end of the story, now we know all the Doctor has done is defer those deaths (those two billion children’s deaths) and the cycle of violence will continue. At the end of ‘The Timeless Children’the following is presented to us as the good guys winning:

The heroine cannot bring herself to destroy the animated corpses of her entire species, so Joe from Derry Girls has to do it for her. An entire planet now a lifeless husk. The main character’s centuries of trauma are revealed. Their best friend is now a genocidal maniac.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

This is Doctor Who in 2020: violent, cynical, cyclical. A mirror when it should be a window. If Series 13 repeats these trends then I fear history may repeat itself once more. But then, what is Doctor Who mostly about if not seeing a cycle of oppression and then breaking it?

The post Doctor Who: Why Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor Needs an ‘Everybody Lives!’ Moment appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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