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percheduphere · 5 months

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LET’S TALK ABOUT EXPLORING LOKI & MOBIUS THROUGH THE LENS OF QUEER EXPERIENCE

Thank you for this request, @nabananab

Before I dig into this juicy ask, I think it’s important to note (however obvious the fact maybe) that an individual’s unique engagement with art is an inherent and integral part of art. The intention of the artist and the sociopolitical influence of culture, while important in our interpretation of a work, are not the sole source of drawing the work’s meaning. We are all artists in one form or another. I consider myself one of the pen, and nothing is more important to me than art giving someone a sense of emotional connection. I should hope other artists would agree, and for this reason I am an ardent believer in art taking on a life of its own once it has been created. The creator’s word, while it matters to some degree, does not supersede an individual’s relationship with the creation. Our histories, our desires, our fears, our likes, our dislikes, indeed our infiniteness as fragile human beings, allow us to create an elevated, spiritual interpretation beyond the confines of original intent. With art, there is no such thing as “reaching” or “reading too deeply”.

I leave this message with all of you as we look at these beloved characters through the lens of queer experience.

LOKI

Culture influences what we see and hear, which in turn influences artistic portrayal. Setting aside Norse myth, Marvel’s Loki is a classic example of a queer-coded villain (later canonized as a queer antihero). Deception, daggers, sexual temptation, transformation, and magic are all culturally tied to the “immoral” facets of femininity. Just as a strong, independent woman untethered to the control of man is deemed a “wicked woman”, a man demonstrating gender ambiguity and like qualities is similarly judged. Only masculinity is viewed as pure and good, and this no doubt was—and continues to be—a key force in white, western colonization’s destructiveness. It all but crushed our rich global history of divine femininity, gender diversity, and romantic and sexual expression.

Asgard, as Marvel portrays it, is without a doubt a masculine-dominant warrior society. Only two women feature prominently: Queen Frigga and Lady Sif. Whereas Sif embraces her masculine qualities and fits in easily with Thor and the Warriors Three, Queen Frigga embraces her feminine powers, though her authority is submissive to the All-Father, Odin. Her influence is most heavily seen in her adopted son, Loki, with whom she shared and taught magic in hopes that Loki might “feel some sun on himself” despite the “long shadows [Thor] and [Odin]” cast. The magic that Frigga gifts Loki, however, attracts scorn. The subtext here is that Loki’s specialness, his individuality, comes from feminine powers despite presenting as a man, and a gender ambiguous one at that. Unlike Thor and Odin, he is not masculine. While strong, he does not exhibit Thor’s brute strength. He is cautious, thoughtful, another feminine quality, whereas Thor’s courageousness often veers toward foolhardy and brash.

Thus, if Loki cannot be loved and accepted as he is (a queer person of another race), he will force love and acceptance through the power of the throne. Kings oft inspire fear, coercing subjects to love them whether they wish to or not. But we know Loki never truly wanted the throne. The throne is a mere distraction from, perhaps even a poor replacement for, what he truly wants: genuine love and acceptance that cannot be bought. Unfortunately, Loki believes he will never get these things, which is why, when Mobius questions him, Loki’s desire for control (Loki, King of the Midgard; Loki, King of the Nine Realms; Loki, King of Space) can never be satiated. Mobius challenges Loki for the exact purpose of revealing this to him. What do you really want? At this point, Loki does not have the words to form an answer. In S2E5, Syvlie raises the question Mobius originally asked in S1E1. It is then, after experiencing Mobius’s friendship and the other relationships that come to being as a result (including Sylvie’s), that Loki can articulate his answer.

Loki’s othering, even before the discovery of his true identity as a Jotun (an allegory for a villainized foreign race), creates a lonely environment in which Loki’s potential for goodness is quashed by centuries of resentment, bitterness, and jealousy. His attempts at masculinity take the form of violence, all of which are, as Loki admits in S1E1, “part of the illusion; the cruel elaborate trick conjured by the weak to inspire fear.”

Loneliness and the desire for love and acceptance are a universal human experience, but they are felt far more acutely within our intersectional queer communities.

MOBIUS

His fascination with Loki is compelling because there are many things we can infer about its reasons. The first, most obvious explanation is Mobius’s “soft spot for broken things”, which is in some ways tied to his qualities as a compassionate, forgiving, and supportive father. A secondary explanation is a wish for partnership. We know from S1 that Mobius’s friendship with Ravonna spanned eons. We later learn in S2E6 that he and Ravonna started out as peers, hunters. They were partners on the field, but where Mobius “failed” because of his humanity, Ravonna “advanced” because of her ruthlessness. This change in relational dynamics left him partner-less. Finally, a third, less obvious reason is Mobius’s desire to express himself in ways Loki does so effortlessly. That desire may come from the suppression and repression of his own softspoken queerness in order to survive the fascist culture of the TVA.

Mobius is captivating for many reasons. Whereas Loki is a textbook example of culture viewing “queerness as evil”, “queerness as flamboyance”, “queerness as stylishness”, “queerness as loudness”, “queerness as sexual promiscuity and deviance”, “queerness as chaos”, Mobius very much aligns with the image of a straight-passing, repressed queer individual. This is an identity that does not get as much attention or presence in artistic media as it deserves, for there are many who need this representation to reflect them. He is not stereotypically queer by any means: he is not colorful. He is not stylish, flamboyant, or loud. His sex appeal primarily derives from the viewers’ attraction to his personality, though it certainly helps that Owen Wilson is quite handsome.

Combine these three reasons, and it becomes easy to see how a character (or person!) like Mobius might fall in love with a character (or person!) like Loki.

There is a certain amount of beautiful irony in how Loki and Mobius affect one another and consequently their identities. Mobius, feeling compassion toward an individual who has been brutally othered and oppressed, seeks to free Loki from the confines of his narrative, as determined by the “Time Keepers”. The only feasible way to do this is to bring a variant of Loki out of the timeline and into the TVA. Mobius then provides Loki with the opportunity to change by: acknowledging Loki’s strengths, giving Loki the chance to use his strengths in productive ways, praising Loki when he does well, listening to Loki, believing in Loki, calling out Loki, and accepting Loki as he is, with all his history, without judgement. Mobius does not try to force change like Thor or Odin. Rather, he creates an environment in which change could happen naturally. This kindness and, indeed, what becomes unconditional love by the end of S1E4, allows Loki to embrace his authentic queerness with self-love and use his feminine powers for altruism rather than masking them with self-hatred and masculine rage.

FREEING LOKI

In S1E1, Mobius is enthralled with Loki’s hijinks as the handsome, charming, devil-may-care, D.B. Cooper. This minor escapade in Loki’s life, which was likely only intended for laughs by the writer, reveals something interesting about Mobius: Loki’s mischievousness, his magic, his cunning, are all quite endearing to him when no real harm is being inflicted. That is, Loki, when not under duress, is someone to be admired when he’s being himself. We admire in people what we wish we had in ourselves, and this, at times, may lead to powerful attraction.

Loki, for his part, does much the same for Mobius. The environment (the TVA) which allowed Loki to thrive is also the same environment that has abused and constrained Mobius.

The heat that Ravonna presses upon Mobius, however, changes his tone with Loki himself. When Loki asks Mobius why he “[sticks] his neck out for [him]”, Mobius provides Loki with two options to choose from: “A. He sees a scared little boy shivering in the cold, or B. He will say whatever he needs to say to get the job done”. Option A, while insulting, has compassion layered beneath the barb. Loki, an expert at cloaking truth with meanness, sees through this and indirectly chooses what he believes to be true in the cafeteria scene: that Mobius feels sympathy for Loki’s painful childhood. The subtext of this acknowledgement is that the true means to the end is reversed: Mobius doesn’t need Loki to catch the Variant on the timelines. Mobius needs the Variant to free Loki from the timelines. The Variant is an excuse and another agent of poetic irony: when Sylvie unleashes the multiverse, she literally frees Loki of his predetermined narrative.

The conceit of S1E1 is that Mobius intends to use Loki for the “good” of the Sacred Timeline. It is important to remember that characters, while not real, are meant to mirror human complexity. Multiple, seemingly conflicting things may be true concurrently. In S1E2, we see in Mobius’s conversations with Ravonna that he deeply believes in Loki’a capacity to be a wonderful person and wants him to have the opportunity to change. His enthusiasm for these things outshines his desire to catch Sylvie.

And, because the Variant is Loki, because Sylvie is Loki, because, as she says, “[they] are the same”, Mobius’s own freeing of Loki, his unconditional love for him, cascades from Loki to Sylvie. Sylvie would not be free to live as she pleases if not for Mobius’s compassion for Loki in the first place.

In S1E4, Loki reveals the TVA’s sham. Mobius’s sense of self becomes fragile alongside his sense of partnership with Loki. But because of our sociopolitical culture’s influence on capitalism, the creative voices of the Loki series self-censures what could be (what is) a queer romance. This self-censureship makes itself known in Mobius’s own self-censureship. His jealousy and heartbreak cannot be spoken directly. It must be spoken through the words of a woman, someone who presents as the opposite sex. Through a looping memory of a scornful Sif telling Loki, “You are alone and always will be”, Mobius makes known the nature of his feelings for him.

BUT WHO WILL FREE MOBIUS?

In the same cafeteria scene in S1E2, Loki asks Mobius if he’s ever ridden a jet ski. Mobius’s response is demure, saying him riding one would “cause a branch for sure”. The jet ski gives the audience another clue as to what Mobius seeks in life: something fun, thrilling, and reckless. Yet Mobius sets aside his desires for what he believes is for the good of the TVA, and thus humanity. This suppression and repression of authentic selfhood mirrors the queer experience of living within a heteronormative culture, especially one with religious doctrines that equate pleasure with sinfulness.

Because Mobius extended his heart, his partnership, his love (symbolized by twin daggers hidden in his locker [a closet]; notably a male phallic symbol of which there are a pair [partners]) and was soundly rejected, Mobius retaliates with the loneliness he himself feels. This loneliness may be interpreted as an allegory for the loneliness of being closeted as opposed to the loneliness of being out but othered.

Ultimately, Mobius’s love for Loki shifts from selfish desire to unconditional love when he chooses to help Loki save Sylvie. In S1E5, it is conspicuous that after delivering Sylvie safely to Loki’s side, Mobius’s partings words are, “Guess you got away again”, to which Loki replies, “I always do”, which echos the lover’s trope of “the one that got away”.

[It drives me absolutely bananas that I can't find the specific gif I need when I literally saw it multiple times earlier this week but didn't need it THEN]

Owen’s acting choice is interesting here. He laughs, smiles, then looks down before looking up again, his eyes shifting from fondness to what feels like longing. Mobius extends his hand, a sensible choice for someone who believes his love is unrequited and is unsure of how Loki defines their relationship. Loki, appreciating what Mobius has done for him, closes the distance with an embrace and thanks Mobius for his friendship.

In S2E1, upon Loki’s time-slipping into the war room, whatever apprehensions Mobius had about physical contact was wiped away by the collapse of the TVA and the memory of Loki’s hug. In this scene, it becomes clear to Mobius that Loki is panicking. He makes the executive decision to use his physical contact as a grounding force, relocates Loki to a quiet environment, asks after Sylvie with no bitterness in his voice, then prioritizes Loki’s physical well-being. Perhaps, in Mobius’s view, his love is unrequited, but there is nothing in place to stop him from expressing that love more freely while honoring Loki’s feelings for Sylvie. This regard, which may be construed as platonic, may also be viewed romantic, courtly love.

The fight between Loki and Sylvie in S1E6 sets the stage for Mobius to receive Loki and become a refuge for heartbreak.

S2E2 and S2E3 has Loki’s and Mobius’s temperaments when it comes to investigating flipped. In S1, Mobius was focused on the mission and often had to reign in Loki. In S2, Mobius is more casual, more willing to take his time and enjoy the sleuthing as it unfolds, while Loki administers pressure to stay focused. The question is why?

In S2E2, Brad attacks Mobius’s sense of self. He points out how weird it is that Mobius is not at all curious about looking at his timeline and stresses that the TVA, and everything in it, isn’t real. Brad calls into question Mobius’s reason for staying. Knowing that the answer is Loki, we can surmise through the queer lens that Brad also corners Mobius into potentially outing himself in front of the object of his affections, someone he believes does not return his feelings, and whose knowledge of those feelings may threaten their friendship. This is a traumatic experience for queer people in the real world, and this extra layer of emotional conflict adds depth to Mobius’s violent response.

Mobius influenced Loki in a myriad of ways. One that has not been discussed yet is an appreciation for focus and order. Loki, in turn, has cracked the door open for Mobius to explore pleasure. We can speculate that, in his own way, Mobius is testing what happiness could look like living a life between the TVA and the timelines. For him, this means cocktails at the theater, cracker jacks, and exploring the World’s Fair, all of which are pleasurable on their own but are even more so with Loki’s company. His queerness, once again, is quiet, mundane, but playful in its own right, and finally brave enough to explore. These scenes suggest that Mobius is indeed happy at the TVA and, as we see in the finale, this happiness is solely rooted in his relationship with Loki and the emotional intimacy they share together.

Loki expresses concern for Mobius, noting that he has “never seen him like that before.” Mobius, interestingly, deflects every concern by absurdly blaming Loki: “He got under your skin”, “I was following you!” The psychological undercurrent here is that Loki is the reason why Brad got under Mobius skin. Loki is the person that Mobius will follow.

Loki takes Mobius’s distress in stride, responding in a way the Mobius normally would. However, Brad’s question piques his interest, and his own care for Mobius prompts him to gently challenge Mobius’s lack of interest in his own timeline. Mobius’s reason for avoidance is, “What if it’s something good?”

In S2E5, it’s interesting that “good” in this narrative is defined as a heteronormative fantasy of a house, two kids, and (possibly) a puppy and a snake. The “good” in Mobius’s original timeline, however, is imperfect. There is a partner that is missing (partners being a recurring theme in the series, particularly in S2E3), pronounced gone not once but twice. The entire scene between Don and Loki has been discussed at length by many, so there’s no need to reiterate it here. However, let’s bring our attention to Mobius’s avoidance of this “good” because this avoidance resonates with another queer experience.

The TVA, for Mobius, is the place where he studied, saved, and developed a close relationship with Loki. The fear of the “something good” is the fear of being confronted with something Mobius “should” want more than the TVA, and therefore “should” want more Loki. The fear is wanting something (or feeling pressured to want something) other than a queer relationship with no children. The question of “choice” is impacted by what is considered the “norm”.

S2E5 very pointedly focuses on the concern of choice, especially Mobius’s choice, in the bar scene between Loki and Sylvie. “Mobius should get a choice now, no?” At this point, Loki’s regard for Mobius has finally caught up with the romantic nature of Mobius’s feelings for him. And Loki, living his own queer experience, is also afraid of his true desires like Mobius. In being part of the intersectional queer community, the psychological need to guard against disappointment is high and commonplace. Desires are easily disappointed by the expectations of oppressive social mores. This survival tactic manifests itself with our hope and heartbreak with mainstream media, Loki the series being among them.

But Sylvie, the harbinger of true and absolute freedom, takes on the role of supportive ex and challenges Loki to answer Mobius’s question in S1E1: “What do you want?”

In this, Mobius and Loki’s individual relationships with the TVA are identical. It was never about where (the TVA), when (time works differently at the TVA), or why (the timelines). It was about who. It was about each other. The TVA represents a liminal space which became home by virtue of the people who brought love into it. The TVA is code for Loki and Mobius when each speaks of it.

Again, the artists behind the media must self-censure. In this, Loki also self-censures while giving the truth. “I don’t want to be alone. I want my friends back.” It cannot be denied that Mobius is Loki’s first truest and closest friend. “I don’t want to be alone. I want Mobius back.” Sylvie appreciates and validates this desire, but also points out that showing the TVA is something that cannot be unseen. The implication of this response suggests that Sylvie believes that Loki’s friends will feel compelled to join the TVA out of moral pressure. She reiterates the true lives that are being lived, and Loki, loving his friends, loving Mobius, elects to not take that away from them. “You are just fine without the TVA.”

Yet, Loki must choose an act of profound selfless love to save everyone. In doing so, he saves and frees Mobius in the way Mobius saved and freed him. The tragedy and, once again, poetic irony is that they both would have chosen each other. In giving everyone freedom, the true freedom of Loki and Mobius is sacrificed. This double-standard reflects in our reality between those who identify as cis and heterosexual and those who do not.

When Mobius looks at his timeline in S2E6, he does so for one reason: that timeline survived because of Loki’s sacrifice. He must honor that sacrifice and see what Loki protected. Mobius appreciates what he finds, but he doesn’t belong there. It is not what he ultimately longs for. And there must be worry, shame, in recognizing he would prefer to give up the house and two children if a life with Loki were a viable choice.

We all experience loss in our lives. Loss without a goodbye is also commonplace but is another pain that is more acute within the intersectional queer community. I speak of missed opportunities for happiness due to external forces. I speak of loss of self. I speak of loss of friends and family and home. I speak of death, losing a loved one without a goodbye, because same-sex lovers are not considered next of kin, an impossibility without marriage. Marriage echoes back to Don, who has no spouse, and Mobius, who has no partner.

#asks #loki #mobius #lokius #loki season 2 #loki series #loki meta #my meta #loki analysis #my analysis #queer community #queer #queer representation #queer relationships #lgbt representation #lgbtq community #lgbtqia

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firecatvariant · 2 years

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How about the dateables falling in love with a demon!mc (sorry simeon :( )

Hi anon! This was a fun request! I decided to write it as MC is turned into a demon (there are many ways that could happen, I'll leave how up to your imagination) and how the datables react to that. (I realize now after writing it might not exactly be what you asked for because my brain saw "Demon MC" and "Datables", but I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. If it wasn't what you were looking for, feel free to let me know and I'll give it another shot!) 😊

MC Turned Demon (The Datables Reactions, + Luke)

Diavolo

- Initially rather upset, you being a human was so important to his exchange program and his dreams of the future.

- However, once he realizes he could now technically marry you without fear of repercussions, he rejoices.

- All he wants is for you to be by his side forever, no matter what you are. He loves you for who you are.

Barbatos

- At first he feels conflicted, being a human was part of what made you so endearing.

- But, becoming a demon also has its perks. He's happy you're a little more protected as a demon now (for instance, you don't need to worry about lower level demons attacking you anymore and you're strong enough to protect yourself).

- Finds your demon form very attractive, and thinks it suits you very nicely.

Simeon

- Is super conflicted. An angel in love with a demon? How in the world would that ever work? Sure it might make an thrilling romance story, but in real life it's much more problematic.

- Discovers that not much has really changed. You are still his beloved MC, just with a different form than before.

- Simeon will continue to love you, and will give up being an angel to continue to stay by your side. After all, being a demon wouldn't be so bad if you were with him for always.

Solomon

- To Solomon, it doesn't matter to him one way or another, he loves you for who you are.

- Might even be ecstatic, because as a demon your lifespan will be expanded which means more time together with him.

- He will probably bug you to make a pact with him, just so he can always keep you close no matter what. This could be a romantic gesture, or problematic.

Luke

- EXTREMELY upset.

- His beloved MC, a demon?

- However, once he realizes MC hasn't changed their true nature, he thinks back to the lessons you taught him - not to judge people based on what they are - and continues to be your friend/little sibling.

#obey me #obey me asks #obey me requests #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #omswd #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos #obey me simeon #obey me solomon #obey me luke

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oscopelabs · 3 years

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Isn’t Everything Autobiographical?: Ethan Hawke In Nine Films And A Novel by Marya Gates

When asked during his first ever on-camera interview if he’d like to continue acting, a young Ethan Hawke replied, “I don’t know if it’s going to be there, but I’d like to do it.” He then gives a guileless shrug of relief as the interview ends, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow. The simultaneous fusion of his nervous energy and poised body language will be familiar to those who’ve seen later interviews with the actor. The practicality and wisdom he exudes at such a young age would prove to be a through-line of his nearly 40-year career. In an interview many decades later, he told Ideas Tap that many children get into acting because they’re seeking attention, but those who find their calling in the craft discover that a “desire to communicate and to share and to be a part of something bigger than yourself takes over, a certain craftsmanship—and that will bring you a lot of pleasure.”

Through Hawke’s dedication to his craft, we’ve also seen his maturation as a person unfold on screen. Though none of his roles are traditionally what we think of when we think of autobiography, many of Hawke’s roles, as well as his work as a writer, suggest a sort of fictional autobiographical lineage. While these highlights in his career are not strictly autofiction, one can trace Hawke’s Künstlerromanesque trajectory from his childhood ambitions to his life now as a man dedicated to art, not greatness.

Hawke’s first two films, Joe Dante’s sci-fi fantasy Explorers with River Phoenix and Peter Weir’s Dead Poets Society with Robin Williams, set the tone for a diverse filmography filled with popcorn fare and indie cinema in equal measure, but they also served as touchstones in his development as person drawn to self-expression through art. In an interview with Rolling Stone’s David Fear, Hawke spoke about the impact of these two films on him as an actor. When River Phoenix, his friend and co-star in Explorers, had his life cut short by a drug overdose, it hit Hawke personally. He saw from the inside what Hollywood was capable of doing to young people with talent. Hawke never attempted to break out, to become a star. He did the work he loved and kept the wild Hollywood lifestyle mostly at arm’s length.

Like any good film of this genre, Dead Poets Society is not just a film about characters coming of age, but a film that guides the viewer as well, if they are open to its message. Hawke’s performance as repressed schoolboy Todd in the film is mostly internal, all reactions and penetrating glances, rather than grandiose movements or speeches. Through his nervy body language and searching gaze, you can feel both how closed off to the world Todd is, and yet how willing he is to let change in. Hawke has said working on this film taught him that art has a real power, that it can affect people deeply. This ethos permeates many of the characters Hawke has inhabited in his career.

In Dead Poets Society, Mr. Keating (Robin Williams) tells the boys that we read and write poetry because the human race is full of passion. He insists, “poetry, beauty, romance, love—these are what we stay alive for.” Hawke gave a 2020 TEDTalk entitled Give Yourself Permission To Be Creative, in which he explored what it means to be creative, pushing viewers to ask themselves if they think human creativity matters. In response to his own question, he said “Most people don’t spend a lot of time thinking about poetry, right? They have a life to live and they’re not really that concerned with Allen Ginsberg’s poems, or anybody’s poems, until their father dies, they go to a funeral, you lose a child, somebody breaks your heart, they don’t love you anymore, and all of the sudden you’re desperate for making sense out of this life and ‘has anyone ever felt this bad before? How did they come out of this cloud?’ Or the inverse, something great. You meet somebody and your heart explodes. You love them so much, you can’t even see straight, you know, you’re dizzy. ‘Did anybody feel like this before? What is happening to me?’ And that’s when art is not a luxury. It’s actually sustenance. We need it.”

Throughout many of his roles post-Dead Poets Society, Hawke explores the nature of creativity through his embodiment of writers and musicians. Often these characters are searching for a greater purpose through art, while ultimately finding that human connection is the key. Without that human connection, their art is nothing.

We see the first germ of this attraction to portray creative people on screen with his performance as Troy Dyer in Reality Bites. As Troy Dyer, a philosophy-spouting college dropout turned grunge-band frontman in Reality Bites, Hawke was posited as a Gen-X hero. His inability to keep a job and his musician lifestyle were held in stark contrast to Ben Stiller’s yuppie TV exec Michael Grates. However in true slacker spirit, he isn’t actually committed to the art of music, often missing rehearsals, as Lelaina points out. Troy even uses his music at one point to humiliate Lelaina, dedicating a rendition of “Add It Up” by Violent Femmes to her. The lyrics add insult to injury as earlier that day he snuck out of her room after the two had sex for the first time. Troy’s lack of commitment to his music matches his inability to commit to those relationships in his life that mean the most to him.

Reality Bites is also where he first positioned himself as one of the great orators of modern cinema.” Take this early monologue, in which he outlines his beliefs to Winona Ryder’s would-be documentarian Lelaina Pierce: “There’s no point to any of this. It’s all just a random lottery of meaningless tragedy and a series of near escapes. So I take pleasure in the details. You know, a quarter-pounder with cheese, those are good, the sky about ten minutes before it starts to rain, the moment where your laughter become a cackle, and I, I sit back and I smoke my Camel Straights and I ride my own melt.”

Hawke brings the same intense gaze to this performance as he did to Dead Poets Society, as if his eyes could swallow the world whole. But where Todd’s body language was walled-off, Troy’s is loud and boisterous. He’s quick to see the faults of those around him, but also the good things the world has to offer. It’s a pretty honest depiction of how self-centered your early-20s tend to be, where riding your own melt seems like the best option. As the film progresses, Troy lets others in, saying to Lelaina, “This is all we need. A couple of smokes, a cup of coffee, and a little bit of conversation. You, me and five bucks.”

Like the character, Hawke was in his early twenties and as he would continue to philosophize through other characters, they would age along with him and so would their takes on the world. If you only engage with anyone at one phase in their life, you do a disservice to the arc of human existence. We have the ability to grow and change as we learn who we are and become less self-centered. In Hawke’s career, there’s no better example of this than his multi-film turn as Jesse in the Before Trilogy. While the creation of Jesse and Celine are credited to writer-director Richard Linklater and his writing partner Kim Krizan, much of what made it to the screen even as early as the first film were filtered through the life experiences of Hawke and his co-star Julie Delpy.

In a Q&A with Jess Walter promoting his most recent novel A Bright Ray of Darkness, Hawke said that Jesse from the Before Trilogy is like an alt-universe version of himself, and through them we can see the self-awareness and curiosity present in the early ET interview grow into the the kind of man Keating from Dead Poets Society urged his students to become.

In Before Sunrise, Hawke’s Jesse is roughly the same age as Troy in Reality Bites, and as such is still in a narcissistic phase of his life. After spending several romantic hours with Celine in Vienna, the two share their thoughts about relationships. Celine says she wants to be her own person, but that she also desperately wants to love and be loved. Jesse shares this monologue, “Sometimes I dream about being a good father and a good husband. And sometimes it feels really close. But then other times it seems silly, like it would ruin my whole life. And it’s not just a fear of commitment or that I’m incapable of caring or loving because. . . I can. It’s just that, if I’m totally honest with myself, I think I’d rather die knowing that I was really good at something. That I had excelled in some way than that I’d just been in a nice, caring relationship.”

The film ends without the audience knowing if Jesse and Celine ever see each other again. That initial shock is unfortunately now not quite as impactful if you are aware of the sequels. But I think it is an astute look at two people who meet when they are still discovering who they are. Still growing. Jesse, at least, is definitely not ready for any kind of commitment. Then of course, we find out in Before Sunset that he’s fumbled his way into marriage and fatherhood, and while he’s excelling at the latter, he’s failing at the former.

As in Reality Bites, Hawke explores the dynamics of band life again in Before Sunset, when Jesse recalls to Celine how he was in a band, but they were too obsessed with getting a deal to truly enjoy the process of making music. He says to her, “You know, it's all we talked about, it was all we thought about, getting bigger shows, and everything was just...focused on the future, all the time. And now, the band doesn't even exist anymore, right? And looking back at the... at the shows we did play, even rehearsing... You know, it was just so much fun! Now I'd be able to enjoy every minute of it.”

The filming of Before Sunset happened to coincide with the dissolution of Hawke’s first marriage. And while these films are not autobiographical, everyone involved have stated that they’ve added personal elements to their characters. They even poke fun at it in the opening scene when a journalist asks how autobiographical Jesse’s novel is. True to form, he responds with a monologue, “Well, I mean, isn’t everything autobiographical? I mean, we all see the world through our own tiny keyhole, right? I mean, I always think of Thomas Wolfe, you know. Have you ever seen that little one page note to reader in the front of Look Homeward, Angel, right? You know what I'm talking about? Anyway, he says that we are the sum of all the moments of our lives, and that, anybody who sits down to write is gonna use the clay of their own life, that you can’t avoid that.”

While Before Sunset was shot in 2003, released in 2004 and this monologue refers to the fictional book within the trilogy entitled This Time, Hawke would take this same approach more than a decade later with his novel A Bright Ray of Darkness.

In the novel, Hawke crafts a quasi-autobiographical story, using his experience in theater to work through the perspective he now has on his failed marriage to Uma Thurman. Much like Jesse in Before Sunset, Hawke is reluctant to call the book autobiographical, but the parallels to his own divorce are evident. And as Jesse paraphrased Wolfe, isn’t everything we do autobiographical? In the book, movie star William Harding has blown up his seemingly picture-perfect marriage with a pop star by having an affair while filming on location in South Africa. The book, structured in scenes and acts like a play, follows the aftermath as he navigates his impending divorce, his relationship with his small children, and his performance as Hotspur in a production of Henry IV on Broadway.

Throughout much of the novel, William looks back at the mistakes he made that led to the breakup of his marriage. He’s now in his 30s and has the clarity to see how selfish he was in his 20s. Hawke, however, was in his forties while writing the book. Through the layers of hindsight, you can feel how Hawke has processed not just the painful emotional growth spurt of his 20s, but also the way he can now mine the wisdom that comes from true reflection. Still, as steeped as the novel is in self-reflection, it does not claim to have all the answers. In fact, it offers William, as well as the readers, more questions to contemplate than it does answers.

The wisdom to know that you will never quite understand everything is broached by Hawke early in the third film in the Before Trilogy, 2013’s Before Midnight. At this point in their love story, Jesse’s marriage has ended and he and Celine are parents to twin girls. Jesse has released two more books: That Time, which recounts the events of the previous film, and Temporary Cast Members of a Long-Running But Little Seen Production of a Play Called Fleeting. Before Midnight breaks the bewitching spell of the first two films by adding more cast members and showing the friction that comes with an attempt to grow old with someone. When discussing his three books, a young man says the title of his third is too long, Jesse says it wasn’t as well loved, and an older professor friend says it’s his best book because it’s more ambitious. It seems Linklater and company already knew how the departure of this third film might be regarded by fans. But it is this very departure that shows their commitment to honestly showing the passage of time and our relationship to it.

About halfway through the film Jesse and Celine depart the Greek villa where they have been spending the summer, and we finally get a one-on-one conversation like we’re used to with these films. In one exchange, I feel they summarize the point of the entire trilogy, and possibly Hawke’s entire ethos:

Jesse: Every year, I just seem to get a little bit more humbled and more overwhelmed about all the things I’m never going to know or understand.

Celine: That’s what I keep telling you. You know nothing!

Jesse: I know, I know! I'm coming around!

[Celine and Jesse laugh.]

Celine: But not knowing is not so bad. I mean, the point is to be looking, searching. To stay hungry, right?

Throughout the series, Linklater, Delpy, and Hawke explore what they call the “transient nature of everything.” Jesse says his books are less about time and more about perception. It’s the rare person who can assess themselves or the world around them acutely in the present. For most of us, it takes time and self-reflection to come to any sort of understanding about our own nature. Before Midnight asks us to look back at the first two films with honesty, to remove the romantic lens with which they first appeared to us. It asks us to reevaluate what romance even truly is.

Hawke explores this same concept again in the 2018 romantic comedy Juliet, Naked. In this adaptation of the 2009 Nick Hornby novel, Hawke plays a washed-up singer-songwriter named Tucker Crowe. He had a big hit album, Juliet, in the early ‘90s and then disappeared into obscurity. Rose Bryne plays a woman named Annie whose longtime boyfriend Duncan is obsessed with the singer and the album, stuck on the way the bummer songs about a bad breakup make him feel. As the film begins, Annie reveals that she thinks she’s wasted 15 years of her life with this schmuck. This being a rom-com, we know that Hawke and Byrne’s characters will eventually meet-cute. What’s so revelatory about the film is its raw depiction of how hard it is for many to reassess who they really are later in life.

Duncan is stuck as the self-obsessed, self-pitying person he likely was when Annie first met him, but she reveals he was so unlike anyone else in her remote town that she looked the other way for far too long. Now it’s almost too late. By chance, she connects with Crowe and finds a different kind of man.

See, when Crowe wrote Juliet, he also was a navel-gazing twentysomething whose emotional development had not yet reached the point of being able to see both sides in a romantic entanglement. He worked through his heartbreak through art, and though it spoke to other people, he didn’t think about the woman or her feelings on the subject. In a way, Crowe’s music sounds a bit like what Reality Bites’s Troy Dyer may have written, if he ever had the drive to actually work at his music. Eventually, it’s revealed that Crowe walked away from it all when Julie, the woman who broke his heart, confronted him with their child—something he was well aware of, but from which he had been running away. Faced with the harsh reality of his actions and the ramifications they had on the world beyond his own feelings, he ran even farther away from responsibility. In telling the story to Annie, he says, “I couldn’t play any of those songs anymore, you know? After that, I just... I couldn’t play these insipid, self-pitying songs about Julie breaking my heart. You know, they were a joke. And before I know it, a couple of decades have gone by and some doctor hands me... hands me Jackson. I hold him, you know, and I look at him. And I know that this boy. . . is my last chance.”

When we first meet Crowe, he’s now dedicated his life to raising his youngest son, having at this point messed up with four previous children. The many facets of parenthood is something that shows up in Hawke’s later body of work many times, in projects as wholly different as Brooklyn’s Finest, Before Midnight, Boyhood, Maggie’s Plan, First Reformed, and even his novel A Bright Ray of Darkness. In each of these projects, decisions made by Hawke’s characters have a big impact on their children’s lives. These films explore the financial pressures of parenthood, the quirks of blended families, the impact of absent fathers, and even the tragedy of a father’s wishes acquiesced without question. Hawke’s take on parenthood is that of flawed men always striving to overcome the worst of themselves for the betterment of the next generation, often with mixed results.

Where Juliet, Naked showed a potential arc of redemption for a father gone astray, First Reformed paints a bleaker portrait. Hawke plays Pastor Toller, a man of the cloth struggling with his own faith who attempts to counsel an environmental activist whose impending fatherhood has driven him to suicidal despair. Toller himself is struggling under the weight of fatherhood, believing he sent his own son to die a needless death in a morally bankrupt war. Sharing the story, he says “My father taught at VMI. I encouraged my son to enlist. It was the family tradition. Like his father, his grandfather. Patriotic tradition. My wife was very opposed. But he enlisted against her wishes. . . . Six months later he was killed in Iraq. There was no moral justification for this conflict. My wife could not live with me after that. Who could blame her? I left the military. Reverend Jeffers at Abundant Life Church heard about my situation. They offered me a position at First Reformed. And here I am.” How do we carry the weight of actions that affect lives that are not even our own?

If Peter Weir set the father figure template in Dead Poets Society, and Paul Schrader explored the consequences of direct parental influence on their children’s lives, director Richard Linklater subverts the idea of a mentor-guide in Boyhood, showing both parents are as lost as the kid himself. When young Mason (Ellar Coltrane) asks his dad (Hawke) what’s the point of everything, his reply is “I sure as shit don’t know. Nobody does. We’re all just winging it.” As the film ends, Mason sits atop a mountain with a new friend he’s made in the dorms discussing time. She says that everyone is always talking about seize the moment—carpe diem!—but she thinks it’s the other way around. That the moments seize us. In Reality Bites, Troy gets annoyed at Lelaina’s constant need to “memorex” everything with her camcorder, yet Boyhood is a film about capturing a life over a 12-year period. The Before Trilogy checks in on Jesse and Celine every nine years. Hawke’s entire career. in fact, has captured his growth from an awkward teen to a prolific artist and devoted father, a master of his craft and philosopher at heart.

#ethan hawke #boyhood #before trilogy #before midnight #before sunset #before sunrise #reality bites #first reformed #dead poets society #a bright ray of darkness #film writing #film essay #musings #oscilloscope laboratories

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firelxdykatara · 3 years

Text

gods, ok, apparently i’m not done.

atla fandom? we need to have a chat.

(....ok that made me sound pretentious as fuck. and maybe i am, but this needs to be said, cause i’m getting....real, real tired of a Certain Corner of this fandom and as a result, this is gonna be a discourse-heavy post so feel free to scroll past if that’s not your bag. as always, my salt posts all carry the catch-all #salt for ts tag, which you’re free to blacklist/filter at your leisure. i’m Very Annoyed at the moment, which will probably come through in the following post, so just. yknow. be prepared for that. or ignore it, that’s perfectly valid too.)

under a cut bc i do care for my followers and their sanity i swear lmao

there’s a real serious issue in this fandom with not understanding what queer terminology actually means or implies, especially when applied to a fictional narrative.

i’m specifically talking about ‘coding’, here. (if i were in a more meme-y mood, i might have said ‘the atla fandom found out about the term “gay-coding” and haven’t shut up since’.)

to the people who say ‘zuko is gay-coded’, i have this to say: you keep using that word. i do not think it means what you think it means. because he isn’t. i’m sorry, but he’s not! and the fact that this is such a prevalent claim in this fandom is distressing, bc it says to me that none of y’all know what gay-coding is or when and how to apply it! please, i’m begging you, go and look up these terms and what they mean and when they should be used before actually trying to plug them into your critical analysis, because when you misuse them and then call other people delusional for disagreeing with you it casts a pall over the entire fandom and is, i think, the root of some of the worst toxicity this fandom has to offer.

and the thing is, there are cases where gay-coding would apply--for instance, a couple series that are famous for queerbaiting their audience by coding their main characters as being attracted to one another (sometimes even despite their openly stated sexualities) come to mind, but those shows bare no similarities at all to atla and how zuko was written and portrayed! (and it would be funny, if it weren’t so obnoxious and infuriatingly wide-spread throughout the fandom, because the only queer couple we actually seen on-screen in either show wasn’t even queer-coded in any respect, and they’re canonically bi! [yes, i’m shading korrasami, or more accurately i’m shading bryke for refusing to give ka the build-up and development they deserved].)

this absolutely isn’t to say that headcanoning zuko as gay is a bad thing or invalid in any respect. (although the tendency for zukka shippers to do this specifically to keep zuko away from katara and/or invalidate his canon relationship/attraction to girls is more than a little eyebrow raising. especially since sokka is usually allowed to be bi, bc fans have no problem letting sukka stay in the background bc it’s no real threat, while jetko shippers are happy to have both boys be bi. [possibly bc katara is less a threat to jetko bc jetkotara is every bit as valid as any single ship between the three, but zukka can’t exactly let katara join in, and if the potential exists for zuko to be attracted to her then canon giving them the far deeper emotional bond becomes a threat to zukka’s existence? idk for sure--you be the judge.]) i prefer to hc zuko as bi (and always have, long before the atla renaissance), bc i don’t think zuko being attracted to boys is outside the realm of possibility, and it isn’t a threat to my ship since zuko&katara had a deep and emotional bond in canon that is very easy to develop further into something that becomes explicitly romantic--but the headcanon itself isn’t really the problem (although what it’s often in service to can be).

it’s the strange insistence that this is the only way to read his character, bc he was coded that way and so anyone who doesn’t see it must be too straight to understand--and i really shouldn’t have to say why and how that is so incredibly fucking insulting. (the ‘hetero lenses’ comment wasn’t cute when it came from bryke six years ago, and the same sentiment being repackaged and delivered by zukka shippers ain’t cute now.)

calling zuko gay-coded not only demonstrates ignorance as to what the term actually means, and how to usefully apply it in critical analysis, but also validates the frankly bullshit insertion of institutionalized homophobia in the world of atla where it was neither needed, nor wanted, nor ever hinted at in canon. as a queer woman i’m still infuriated by one fucking comic panel shoving institutionalized and systemic homophobia into a world where it was entirely unnecessary (and doing this in the first installment of the franchise showcasing a queer relationship??? making korra and asami worried about ‘coming out’ when they could have just gone on to have cute adventures together and tell people ‘hey we’re dating’ and have everyone else be ‘that’s awesome =DDD’ [because it is, in fact, possible to just have a world without homophobia i promise!!!!!] double yikes, i’m still pissed at bryke about it), and i doubly hate that ‘zuko is gay coded’ has become so widespread that ‘ozai hates him bc he’s gay’ has become a staple in that part of the fandom.

not only does making zuko gay and implying (or outright stating) that ozai hated and abused him because of it completely undermine zuko’s character arc by making his abuse about his sexuality rather than ozai’s toxic pride and anger at seeing himself reflected in his ‘weak’ son, but it comes very close to outright stating that abuse and trauma are inherently gay experiences, and they aren’t!!! they really aren’t, i promise!!!

abuse and trauma narratives exist outside of ‘my dad hates me because i’m gay’. and, quite frankly, there are MORE THAN ENOUGH queer trauma narratives out in the world. we do not need to start trying to retroactively make them canon in a series where they didn’t exist! if you’re gay and see yourself in zuko and project your own experiences on him, that’s understandable and valid. that does not make zuko gay-coded. and honestly, the insistence that he is makes very little sense to me, because you’re essentially trying to give the show credit for work you put into interpreting the characters! why would you want to do that? why not own your own headcanons and take credit for them, rather than insisting they are canon and everyone else is wrong for not seeing them??? like, i’ve said before that i’ve always headcanoned zuko (and katara) as bi, and even support it with my interpretations of evidence from the show, but the difference between ‘i think zuko is bi’ and ‘zuko is definitely gay-coded’ is that i know that bi zuko is my interpretation of canon, and that it is work i’m putting into the show that wasn’t actually intended by the creators/writers, no matter how much sexual tension i read into the jetko swordfight.

and like, zuko’s character arc doesn’t actually parallel a queer one all that well to begin with. it’s easy enough to do the work and twist it sideways just enough to make the general points fit, but the fact is, zuko’s arc is not one of self-discovery. it’s not one of coming to understand something fundamental about himself that he can’t change, that he was hated for, and coming out to his father in a dramatic confrontation where he shows that he understands himself and doesn’t need his father’s acceptance to be fulfilled.

zuko’s arc is actually one of trauma and healing. and those can (and often are--like i said, there are more than enough queer trauma narratives in the world, atla really doesn’t need to be one of them) be part of queer narratives, for sure! but they aren’t uniquely queer. and zuko’s confrontation with ozai during the eclipse doesn’t read like a ‘coming out’ at all. (yes, i’ve seen that post. yes, i rolled my eyes and moved on, bc unlike some people, i’m capable of not clowning on correctly tagged posts i disagree with.) zuko is specifically confronting ozai over his abuse, because his arc wasn’t about discovering anything fundamental about himself (and therefore realizing that ozai was hating him for something he couldn’t change)--it was about realizing that he was not at fault for the way his father treated him. it was also about realizing that the fire nation was broken and corrupt at its core, and that his father was an aspect of that he needed to break away from so that he could help the world begin to heal.

he says it himself:

Zuko: No, I've learned everything! And I've had to learn it on my own! Growing up, we were taught that the Fire Nation was the greatest civilization in history. And somehow, the War was our way of sharing our greatness with the rest of the world. What an amazing lie that was. The people of the world are terrified by the Fire Nation. They don't see our greatness. They hate us! And we deserve it! We've created an era of fear in the world. And if we don't want the world to destroy itself, we need to replace it with an era of peace and kindness.

making this about zuko being gay and rejecting ozai’s homophobia, rather than zuko learning fundamental truths about the world and about his home and about how there was something deeply wrong with his nation that needed to be fixed in order for the world to heal (and, no, ‘homophobia’ is not the answer to ‘what is wrong with the fire nation’, i’m still fucking pissed at bryke about that), misses the entire point of his character arc. this is the culmination of zuko realizing that he should never have had to earn his father’s love, because that should have been unconditional from the start. this is zuko realizing that he was not at fault for his father’s abuse--that speaking out of turn in a war meeting in no way justified fighting a duel with a child.

is that first realization (that a parent’s love should be unconditional, and if it isn’t, then that is the parent’s fault and not the child’s) something that queer kids in homophobic households/families can relate to? of course it is. but it’s also something that every other abused kid, straight kids and even queer kids who were abused for other reasons before they even knew they were anything other than cishet, can relate to as well. in that respect, it is not a uniquely queer experience, nor is it a uniquely queer story, and zuko not being attracted to girls (which is what a lot of it seems to boil down to, at the end of the day--cutting down zuko’s potential ships so that only zukka and a few far more niche ships are left standing) is not necessary to his character arc. nor does it particularly make sense.

(and before anyone brings up his date with jin--a) he enjoyed it when she kissed him, and b) he was a traumatized, abused child going out on a first date. of course he was fucking awkward. have you ever met a teenage boy????)

anyway, uh, that was a lot of words, so have a tl;dr: zuko is not gay-coded. there is nothing uniquely gay (or even uniquely queer) about his character arc or characterization, and he was certainly not coded gay in an attempt to sneak a queer character past the censors. if anyone involved with atla was gonna try that, it would’ve been in lok, and as established, they didn’t even manage to queer-code the actual queer relationship before the last few minutes of the final episode. headcanoning zuko as gay is absolutely fine (though if it’s only done to keep him away from female characters he may otherwise be attracted to, that smells more like misogyny than anything else), but insisting that this reading is the only one that makes sense, and anyone who doesn’t agree must be straight (hello, queer woman here making this insanely long thinkpiece) is very much not.

ship what you like, but stop trying to invalidate other ships and other interpretations of characters just to make your ship seem more plausible. it’s really not a good look.

#atla #zuko #zukka salt #more like zukka shipper salt #atla fandom salt #salt for ts #zuko is not gay coded and im so so tired of seeing that argument in this fandom #it's fine as a hc but it's not canon and was never remotely intended and his arc isn't particularly evocative of a gay narrative #long post #queer things

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

Prompt: anything with Jiang Yanli, I’d love to see more of her PoV

part 2 of whumptober 20 (JYL/LXC field medicine)

ao3 link

It wasn’t that Jiang Yanli never thought about other men.

After all, she was a female cultivator, and her opinion was therefore one of the ones that was rather eagerly solicited when it came to naming the most attractive young masters in the cultivation world; it was only that it had never seemed to matter. After all, she was engaged, and always had been, to her mother’s dearest friend’s only son, and that, it had seemed at the time, was that.

Oh, her father spoke warmly about marrying for love and not for obligation, but Jiang Yanli had never quite understood what he meant. Even if she didn’t love Jin Zixuan, she loved her mother enough to want to respect her wishes, and it was easy enough to dismiss what negative things she’d heard about him – arrogant, self-centered, impetuous, but of course he was still young, and weren’t most teenage boys like that? – and instead daydream about the life she would have in the future.

When she was young, it was mostly daydreams of having some faceless man (she couldn’t imagine little Jin Zixuan, who at three years younger was barely more than a baby) bring her gifts and tease her and kiss her, then say she was the prettiest person he’d ever seen. The way she’d always heard was supposed to be how lovers talked, the way people said that a marriage ought to be like - the way her parents’ marriage had never been.

When she was a bit older, her thoughts drifted away from retreading romantic stories and to the actual work of being married, of being the mistress of Lanling Jin. In the beginning, her duty would be to first and foremost produce an heir and a spare, to remain healthy throughout the process, and to support her husband as he slowly began to take on the duties that would eventually become his, but later on it would get more interesting. A sect leader could not be everywhere, and his wife would often be left in charge when he was not at home – she would have to know everything about the sect, same as him, enough to make decisions in his absence; she would have to answer correspondence, make decisions, negotiate with traders, collect duties, enforce the peace, and she’d also have to manage the sect’s social scene on top of it all.

She probably wouldn’t have much time to cook, Jiang Yanli thought wistfully, thinking about how Lanling women prided themselves on never having to lift a finger for themselves, and threw herself into her favorite hobby now, while she still could. If she was clever about it, she might be able to get good enough at it that her future husband would find some dish of hers that he liked, something that only she could make, and then her cooking would be something done at his request – a charming idiosyncrasy, an indulgence of sweethearts.

When she got older still, and learned about Sect Leader Jin’s philandering and the iron grip of control Madame Jin imposed on Lanling in order to keep her position in the face of all the backstabbing and politics, she thought to herself that that sounded exhausting. But by that point, all of her childhood daydreams had Jin Zixuan’s name on them – although admittedly not his face, for all that he had grown up into one of the most handsome young men of his generation, and certainly not his mannerisms – and it was far too late to raise a fuss now. So Jiang Yanli studied willpower in addition to trade routes, learned how to exploit social norms in addition to how to manage a dinner party, taught herself how to play people just as well as she played the guqin, absorbed the lessons of both murder and mathematics, and above all figured out how to stand up for herself and what she believed in no matter what overwhelming pressure she might face.

Even though Jiang Yanli was pretty sure that Madame Jin wouldn’t appreciate that last part in a daughter-in-law, especially not one reputed to be as easygoing as her father.

(“Let her be upset,” her own mother had snorted when Jiang Yanli had tentatively raised the issue. “Are you supposed to ruin your own future because she’s a bitter old mother-in-law that’d rather not give up control so early? I may have agreed to marry you to her son, A-Li, but she agreed to marry him to my daughter. If she wanted easy and pliable, she should have thought again.”

“But she’s your friend,” Jiang Yanli had said, frowning a little. “Don’t you want her to be happy?”

Her mother had looked tired. “Once, more than anything,” she’d said. “But the chance for that passed long ago.”)

So it wasn’t that she didn’t notice other men. It was just that there was no point in allowing herself to look, and she knew enough of her parents’ marriage, and of Madame Jin’s, to not want to look.

And then, suddenly, there was.

Her engagement was broken. One could say that it happened at her own beloved brothers’ hands, at her father’s blind dislike of arrangements even when it was one his own daughter had long ago accepted and had even learned to long for, but in truth Jin Zixuan was a proper young master, old enough to make decisions for himself, to exercise some control over his own life, and the first bit of control he’d taken into his own hands was to decide that he didn’t want her.

It was – not fine, no. She spent some time crying over it, and yet more time comforting Wei Wuxian who was distraught at having caused her pain, and the most time of all quietly wondering what the point of her existence was now that she was no longer useful as a marriage tool. She’d never been much of a cultivator, never been especially pretty, never been anything more than average – what was the point of her?

Maybe that was when she’d decided to pick up medicine.

Field medicine was womanly enough to satisfy critics, and yet it was something useful in a practical sense: she could save people’s lives, if she only learned enough, and studying she could do.

Sometimes, she even got the chance to save the lives of very attractive people, like when the First Jade of Lan lay crumpled in the cot before her as she patched him up. So this is the one they ranked first, she thought, examining him with her eyes even as she kept her hands busy, and she was forced to admit that the other female cultivators of her generation had good taste. He was devastatingly handsome.

Kind, too, she soon learned; gentle and courteous in his mannerisms. He smiled often, which she appreciated in a person (if one interpreted Jiang Cheng’s scowls as smiles, he smiled nearly as much!), and he seemed to genuinely admire her efforts at medicine, however rudimentary. Over dinner, which he insisted on sharing with her even after he was well on his road to recovery, the conversation between them flowed easily and well: they both had brothers they loved, which was a conversation topic of which neither of them would ever tire, and they both enjoyed art and music. He didn’t know the first thing about cooking, but enjoyed asking questions (especially after she’d made him a meal he particularly enjoyed, which was often), while she enjoyed the way he blushed when she teased him.

She didn’t think much of it, of course. If she couldn’t keep the husband that had been promised to her since before she could walk – if she was too dull, too plain, too weak, too average to be worthy of an untried young man like him – then she definitely had no hope of catching the most attractive and capable young master of their generation, a dashing war hero and sect leader in his own right.

And then, when they were both laughing over an especially hair-brained scheme they’d concocted to try to get Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian to spend more time together – Jiang Yanli had noticed how much Wei Wuxian talked about Lan Wangji once he’d returned to the Lotus Pier, and Lan Xichen swore up and down that Lan Wangji had been no better – he turned to her and said, “If you were in Gusu, your brothers would be sure to come to visit you.”

“Me, in Gusu?” Jiang Yanli was startled into a laugh. “Why would I be in Gusu? As your guest?”

Lan Xichen coughed. “I had been hoping for something – a bit more permanent than that. If that would be something you would be open to.”

It actually took her a moment to understand, and then she had to raise her hands to cover her suddenly burning cheeks.

“You don’t have to say anything now,” he said hastily. “Just something to think about, if you’re interested…and of course, if your heart is elsewhere –”

“It isn’t,” she blurted out, and had to turn away.

“I’d hoped that was the case,” he said quietly, his voice warm. “I’ll take my leave, Mistress Jiang.”

Jiang Yanli had grown up thinking of herself as the future mistress of Lanling Jin, with its riches and its beauty and its poisonous heart, and then she’d assumed she’d be nothing at all, an old maid that helped Jiang Cheng manage his sect until he finally found a wife to suit him.

She’d never thought about being the mistress of Gusu Lan.

Gusu Lan, which was not as wealthy as Lanling Jin but just as complex – with its own trade routes and subordinate sects and business to manage – with its beautiful and serene landscape, its culture that emphasized harmony and unity rather than backstabbing – with no overbearing mother-in-law that would have barely been tolerable even when her own mother would have been there to hold her back, but would have been impossible without such protection –

She hadn’t dreamt of Lan Xichen as a child, or even as a teenager, but when she thought about all those dreams with a faceless man that she’d named Jin Zixuan regardless of any similarity to the real thing…

Lan Xichen fit in much better to the idea in her head than the real Jin Zixuan ever had.

“I won’t live separately,” she told him when he came over the next day, before he could even say a word; it had been just about the only problem she could see with his proposal. “In another house, certainly, but not an entirely different dwelling, and if I have any children, I would want them to live with me regardless of their gender.”

“I wouldn’t dream of having you so far away,” he said, and he was smiling again, broad and bright and – somehow, impossibly – hers. “Might I kiss you?”

“You may,” she said, and he did.

“Mistress Jiang,” Lan Xichen said a moment later, “you’re the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met.”

Remarkable, Jiang Yanli thought to herself, was better than pretty any day.

#mdzs #jiang yanli #lan xichen #field medicine #no. 20 #my fic #my fics #macgyvertape

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imaginesandinserts · 3 years

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Irreverent Drabbles: Perils of Realization

Title: Irreverent Drabbles: Perils of Realization Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Rating: G Words: 6078

A/N: This takes place chronologically between chapters 28 and 29.

Irreverent Series Masterlist

You went on a date.

You realized that you were in love with Hotch, and your first instinct was to go on a date with someone else.

In all respects, it was a relatively good decision. Hotch was your boss and despite the close relationship you enjoyed with him, any romantic relationship between the two of you was impossible.

Miles Burton was a Senior White House Advisor whom you'd run into during your social obligations as a member of the Women in Service organization who had persistently flirted with you at the Griffiths fundraiser and had made it a point to say hello at the following two events you'd both been in attendance for.

Once you'd come to the fairly life-ruining conclusion that you were head-over-heels in love with Aaron Hotchner, you made sure to actually flirt back the next time you saw Miles Burton. That was how you found yourself on the date that had you questioning ever having harbored an attraction to men - dinner and drinks accompanied by a rendition of the 101 Life Accomplishments of Miles T. Burton.

This was hell.

After dinner, Miles had insisted on driving you home, and you cursed yourself for having taken a cab to dinner in order to avoid the lack of parking options in downtown. For some reason, he'd gotten it into his head that paying for dinner entitled him to having your mouth wrapped around his cock while he was parked in the street overlooking your house. You'd extracted yourself from the situation with as much contained outrage and dignity as you could muster, and having closed the front door, you find yourself leaning against it with only one thought in your head – Aaron Hotchner would never.

*------------*

"Rough night?"

You look over at Derek as he peers at you over his coffee mug, his eyes filling with amusement, no doubt having already taken in your slightly puffy face and the extra large cup of coffee you're carrying. After Miles had driven away - you'd watched from your window just in case - you'd needed a drink, which had turned into two drinks and ultimately falling asleep on the couch. You'd woken up late and having rushed out of the house - sans makeup - had arrived at work just in time. Hotch may no longer be upset at you being five minutes late, but he's still entirely stringent about punctuality and you hate to disappoint him.

"Bad date," you respond, dropping into your chair and whipping out the little compact and concealer from your bag so that no one else sees you looking like this.

Emily perks up at that, walking over to perch herself on your desk, the beginnings of a grin already forming on her face. "You finally went out with Burton?"

You look up at her, slightly shaking your head in disapproval at her glee. She'd warned you against him. Something about bad vibes, but since it hadn't been anything concrete, you'd impulsively gone against it. You should've known better. Emily's gut, when it came to men, was impeccably accurate.

Pursing your lips, you make sure your face no longer bears the telltale marks of having fallen asleep, drunk on your couch, before you look up at her and Derek once more. "He tried to Lewinsky me," you tell them ruefully, a scowl making its way onto your face as Emily unsuccessfully stifles a snort.

Derek's eyebrows rise in question. "It's fine, I'm okay," you assure him, before looking back at Emily. "You were right. He's an arrogant creep."

"I'm sorry," she tells you, scooching up further onto your desk and swiping up your coffee before you could stop her. "Everyday I continue to be attracted to men feels like a waste."

"Tell me about it," you mutter, careful to not allow your eyes to slip up to the landing where his office was.

"Oh come on, we're not all bad."

Both you and Emily turn to Derek with looks that say exactly what you think about that particular statement.

"Geez, tough crowd." He raises his hands in surrender, turning away from you both and back to his screen, no doubt to message Pen and fill her in on everything.

"I'd make a good lesbian."

You look up at Emily, who has a contemplative look on her face as she continues to take sips of your coffee. Your coffee. Your hot, perfectly sweetened and foamy latte.

"You would," you agree with her, reaching out for the cup, which she thankfully hands to you, before her eyes flit up to the landing. You turn and follow her gaze, eyes coming to rest on Hotch.

He's wearing the navy blue suit with the nice red patterned Gucci tie that you'd helped Jack pick out for him on Father's day. He has a folder on his hand and his brow is already furrowed, straining under the weight of the world far too early in the morning. His eyes move from the papers in his hand to all of you looking up at him, muscles tensed and breath held tight.

"Briefing. Now."

It takes only two words from him to get you all scrambling from your desks and rushing upstairs, his tone telling you everything you needed to know.

It was going to be a bad one.

*------------*

Five girls missing, three bodies found. Based on the pattern, it's already a foregone conclusion that the fourth girl was also dead. Not that you'd tell her parents that. Not until there was a body. All of your efforts were concentrated on girl number five.

You've felt the eyes of the entire team on you ever since the third body was found and Caroline Geller, lucky contestant number five, had been taken from the parking lot of a grocery store after work. All five girls were around the same age, pretty, low-risk, and had no connection to the unsub that you'd been able to work out.

You look up from the notes you'd taken while talking to Caroline's friends from work to see Hotch looking at you. When your eyes meet his, he's quick to look away, turning back towards the screen in front of him. You know why they're all concerned. While all of the girls are roughly the same age as you, Caroline Geller looked like you. Same hair color, similar features, comparable build – at first glance one might mistake her for you.

She taught ballet at the local dance school, volunteered at the soup kitchen every week, and had recently gotten engaged to her fiancé, a beautiful and heartbroken man who had planted himself on a bench outside the precinct and refused to leave his post.

You'd been at their home, combed through their life, seen the wedding invitation pinned to the refrigerator, held her pointe shoes in your hands as you looked around at everything left behind.

Your eyes stay fixed on Hotch's back as he continues to assess the screen of suspects and look at the evidence board, as though willing something to fall into place. He seems more affected by this case, this girl's disappearance, more than any other in recent memory. There's this childish, naïve part of you that's hoping against hope that it has something to do with you. Because she reminds him of you. More likely, it's the fact that he's had to walk past her fiancé, every time he's left the precinct. Hotch had been the one to speak with him, and the poor man had broken down into tears right in front of his eyes. It was enough to affect even the coldest of hearts and Hotch hardly fit the bill of a cold-hearted man, despite any misconceptions made based on his reticent exterior. Aaron Hotchner was one of the kindest and most sincere people you've ever met – devout father, responsible team leader. His very aura commanded the sort of respect reserved for those men, the kind of men everyone looked up to and knew they'd never be.

Somehow, he's permeated your entire life without you realizing it. Ever since the two of you had made up, it felt like things were back to normal, even more than before he'd left. You had dinner with them as often as possible. Both him and Jack slept over at least once a week when there wasn't a case going on. The sight of Hotch in pajamas, disappearing into your guest bedroom was becoming a familiar one. It's beyond normal coworkers, beyond a normal friendship – you can finally admit that to yourself.

How it had happened though - how the two of you had allowed it to happen - still remained a mystery. It had been innocuous enough in the beginning. Accompanying Jack and Hotch to the Zoo or the Smithsonian. Relieving Jess when Hotch couldn't get away and she had to go home to her own family. Keeping him company late nights at the office because you hated seeing him be the last one there.

You can feel a lump rise in your throat as your eyes stay on his frame, watching as he points out an additional factor for Reid to consider in his geographic profile. You didn't deserve him. You didn't deserve someone like him, even if he were to give you the time of day.

You've already thought through how it would go if you were to tell him. Blocked out what you'd say and how'd respond. The initial shock of your revelation would catch him off-guard. He'd falter ever so slightly. It would be quickly followed by a professional and kindhearted rejection. You were his subordinate. You were too young. He's sorry if he did or said anything that might have led you on. Of course, he understands if you need some time and space to gather yourself and make your peace with the matter. Of course you'd still see Jack, he'd never deny you his son again. And he wouldn't. He'd stay true to his word.

But you'd never be the same again. You'd never be able to look at him again and feel anything but the sting of that rejection. The confirmation – you weren't good enough. It didn't matter that you'd changed everything. It didn't matter that you'd tried and tried to atone. You weren't good enough. You never would be. Not for that. Not for him. Slowly, you'd start to withdraw. You wouldn't be able to help yourself. It would hurt too much, just being near him. Without meaning to, you'd lose him.

*------------*

Samuel Nolen, age 45, a landscaper who'd worked jobs around each of the women's workplaces in the weeks leading up to their disappearance. He'd been the only common link Garcia had been able to pinpoint and he fit the profile exactly. Older white male, non-threatening demeanor, rotating job that gave him the freedom to watch his victims uninterrupted. Grew up with a single father, mother left the family when he was nine years old and was never heard from again. Garcia had found out that she'd moved out to Vegas and had a relatively successful career as a cabaret dancer.

He was sat in the interrogation room with both Rossi and Reid talking to him while the rest of you watched from the other side. There was something almost gentle about how he held himself, how he shied away from Rossi and leaned more towards Reid, whom he perceived as non-threatening. The guess was that he'd lured in his victims under the guise of needing help, and based on the man in front of you, you could see how some women might fall for it. He seemed nice. If there's one thing this job has taught you, it's that men don't ask for help from women. If a man is asking you for help, run.

Neither Rossi nor Reid were having much success with him. You could all see the twitch in his fingers as they curled around something imaginary. All of the victims had died via strangulation. The hope was that you'd captured him before he'd managed to get back to Caroline and subject her to the same fate.

Derek and JJ had been the ones to pick him up, and as Derek had marched him past you, through the precinct, Samuel's eyes had caught yours and they'd lingered, sending a chill racing down your spine. He might be able to fake it long enough to lure those women to their deaths, but there was no hiding that look in his eyes. The look of a predator.

"I want to talk to the female agent. I'll only talk to her."

It was the first thing he'd said since the interrogation had started half an hour ago. You feel yourself tense, the eyes of the rest of the team on you immediately. None of you needed to ask which agent. From the corner of your eye you look at Hotch beside you. He isn't looking at you, still glaring at the unsub through the mirror, but you can see that his jaw is set tightly.

When Rossi and Reid exit, Rossi immediately looks to you before his eyes go over you and to Hotch. You don't have to turn to see that they're engaged in a wordless debate about the right next move.

You can't help but think of that lovely empty house. The despondent man still seated outside. Those satin shoes that had just been broken in. They deserved to be worn.

"Hotch," you turn to face him, making up your mind as you do. You're going in. You're going to get answers.

He's already looking at you and you can tell that he doesn't like it at all. His forehead is already wrinkled and you can literally see the dissent on his mouth. He's incredibly protective of the team and everyone knows that you're being asked for because you look most like the victim. His ritual has been interrupted and he's going to be eager to resume it. With you as proxy.

"I have to go in," you tell him, before he can say anything to dissuade you from the notion. There was no point in waiting. Every second you waited, your chances of finding Caroline worsened.

His eyes bore into you, silently speaking his every concern into existence. You didn't have to do this, there was always another way. You look so much like her. You look too much like her. If you go in there, he won't see you. He'll see her.

It is a tense minute as you and Hotch look at one another. He's giving you the chance to back out despite knowing that's the last thing you'd do. Finally, a nod comes from him.

"We still have the personal effects that were found in her car?" You're already walking out to the main office as you direct your question to Emily, who is quick to follow you. She guides you to a box of items, among which there's some pieces of clothing. Grabbing the box, you go back to the office overlooking the interrogation room. If he was going to think you were Caroline, then you'd play into it.

Quickly, you shuffle through the clothing in front of you, selecting a well-worn seeming crewneck with her alma mater on it. Slipping your blazer off, you pull the sweater over your head, adjusting so it hung off of you in a manner reminiscent of how Caroline wore it in the photos you'd seen. You shuck off your heels as well, finding a pair of low flats in the box, which you don instead.

Behind you, you can feel the eyes of the team on you as you slowly transform yourself. For the final touch, you take your hair out of your usually prim updo and let it down. Your hair was a little bit longer than Caroline's, but, as you part it down the left side just as she did, you figure it was close enough.

Turning finally to face the unsub, you take your first breath as Caroline Geller.

*------------*

Aaron watches, fists bunched tightly together, thumb itching to move, to do something that would accomplish something larger simply watching and waiting.

They all knew what you were doing - playing up the similarities between yourself and the victim to draw out whatever it was about these women that played to the unsub's compulsions. Prey on his weaknesses just as he'd preyed on them. It was a good tactic – one he could feel forming in your head as you'd searched through the evidence box in search of props for your scene.

You're good in the field, there's no doubt about it. But here, in the interrogation room, that's where you really shine. It was one of the hardest taught skills and it was the one that you had outperformed in beyond imagination from the very start. Your methods unpredictable and out of the box, but highly effective. Out of them all, you were always the best at getting inside the heads of the unsubs and finding that one little thing that made them break.

He's seen it before countless times now, been witness to each spoken word, well placed emphasis, timely pause. The interrogation room was a stage and you were always the star.

It had been the topic of some conversation between himself and Rossi – how you'd managed to convince some of the toughest unsubs to crack under the pressure of your presence. Aaron, personally, chalked it up to your childhood and upbringing. When your entire life was a performance, you know how to play your role.

Now, as he watches you, he sees how you've managed to mimic the mannerisms of Caroline Geller from the home videos you'd seen of her – the slight tilt of the head, the fiddling with the ends of your hair. Your voice has shifted as well, a slightly higher and happier pitch, more like what one might expect of a dance teacher with students in primary school. You've done your homework on this one, that one is easily clear. However, it's the slight pause you have as the Unsub addresses you as Caroline, the nearly imperceptible tension in your shoulders as the Unsub mocks Caroline's desolate fiancé whom Aaron hadn't the heart to look at. This one had gotten to you, and you wouldn't be able to deny it. Not to him.

At long last, you get what you're searching for. The docks by the east river.

The answer came at a price – twenty five long minutes with just you and the Unsub as he poked and prodded at your psyche just as you did to him.

The confirmation from Garcia, of a heat signature at the given location, comes within the minute and Aaron is quick to rap his knuckles against the glass, signaling your curtain call.

*------------*

You can't save them all. That's the one lesson every new agent learns at their own pace.

You can't save them all.

She'd suffocated before you could get to her. You'd been too late.

JJ hadn't let you see Caroline's body, dragging you back and away from the dock containers when Derek had emerged with a somber face, slowly shaking his head.

Your gun feels heavy in your hand, and it is only out of sheer rote habit that you manage to disarm and reholster the weapon. JJ stands with you as the flurry of people begin to process the scene, lit only by the red and blue flashing lights of the police cars.

You'd failed. You'd been too slow to extract the location, too slow to get there. You'd been too damn slow.

You've lost victims before. Everyone has. But you lived in this girl. You'd worn her clothes, her shoes, taken her name. You'd walked like her, changed your voice to mimic hers. It was as though, by pretending to be her, you'd taken in a part of her that now yearned to reunite with the rest of its whole, but it wasn't able to. So now a piece of Caroline Geller rattled inside of you, sobbing and crying out for the rest of itself.

Hotch and Emily finally emerge and you follow JJ to join them as Hotch assigns everyone their roles. One of the policemen interjects and informs him that Caroline's fiancé had insisted on coming along and was now waiting with a deputy by the barricades. You see Hotch nod, his eyes briefly moving towards the direction of the barricade, before refocusing on the team and instructing Reid to assist with the evidence logging.

As everyone starts to disperse, you can feel a lead ball drop into the pit of your stomach, knowing that Hotch now had the task of informing the fiancé that Caroline Geller was dead.

"Hotch," you begin, his name coming out full and heavy, sitting in your mouth like warm air.

He halts at your voice, turning back towards you. He'd already given you your assignment, so he has to be wondering what you could possibly have to say to him.

You look up at him. It's just you, him, and Emily left now, as she waits for you to help her with processing paperwork on the unsub that Hotch had tasked you both with. "I – ," you falter as you meet his eyes, and you can barely see a hint of him behind them. He'd already donned his mask to go face the fiancé.

"I'm sorry," you manage quickly, jaw tight and heart clenching at the awfulness of the job that he now has to do. The job he always has to do.

The only acknowledgement you receive that he had even heard what you said over the din of the police and ambulance sirens, was the barest of wrinkling to his forehead. The ever so slight slippage of the mask during which you thought you might get to catch a glimpse of him, but he catches it far too quickly and keeps it in place. As if it never happened. Not even nodding, he turns away and walks towards the barricade.

It's a miserable few hours for Emily afterwards, you're sure, as you monotonously follow her back to the police station and begin the task of coordinating with the local office to handle the case and subsequent prosecution.

Emily likes to talk while the two of you work together. Rarely ever do the two of you work without talking, however she seems to pick up on your mood fairly well and the two of you quietly go through all of the required processes.

"You know what your problem is?"

You look up at Emily, who had finally broken the silence, her sharp voice cutting through the small storage room that the two of you inhabited, gathering all of the files that would need to be sent off to the local office.

You swallow, bracing yourself for the worst. At your slight nod, she proceeds, her voice a calm fury like you'd never seen before. "Even after everything you've done, after everything you had to go through, you seem to harbor this delusion that you're not supposed to be here."

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you. Apologizing to Hotch. You think you don't belong here. That you aren't good enough. You think that girl dying today was your fault."

You scoff, shaking your head. "It was my fault," you retort, grabbing the box you'd just finished packing and making your way to the door before you're blocked by Emily, preventing your escape.

"No, it wasn't. The only person responsible for that girl's death is the guy who's going to rot in prison for the rest of his miserable, fucked up life."

You sigh, shuffling your weight from one foot to the other. "If I'd gotten – "

"You can't save everyone," she interrupts, barreling onwards. "We're going to try. We're going to try our best every single time. But we can't save everyone. None of us can. Not you, not me, not even Hotch. But that doesn't make it your fault."

Emily stares down at you, reaching out and grabbing the heavy box out of your hands and setting it down on the floor by your feet. You look away, up at the ceiling, tears pricking at your eyes, causing them to burn. Your chest feels tight and you take a shuddered breath. The lure of wanting to believe her was so very strong, struck against the waves of dissonance it posed in your head.

Emily softens her voice, reaching out towards you and wrapping an arm around your shoulders as she easily pulls you into her chest. "Hotch isn't blaming you. He doesn't think you have anything to be sorry for."

*------------*

The plane ride back was a somber affair, everyone on the team off on their own. Spencer was reading a new book whose title had caught your interest, Rossi was tucked away in a corner with his eyes closed but you're not sure if he's actually asleep. Both Emily and JJ were sitting close together, quietly sharing a bag of Cheetos while JJ worked on her presentation to Henry's class for Career Day and Emily bided the time alternating between reading the trashy romance she'd found left behind in her hotel room and staring out the window. Derek sat across from you with his headphones on, leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed. Across the way, you can see Hotch diligently working on his report for the case, the only sound emanating from his faint taps against the keyboard.

Emily's words still play in your head, now competing with that churning voice that you'd had in your head for the past few weeks – you would never be good enough for the likes of Aaron Hotchner. Her words were starting to put some minute cracks in the foundation of that particular statement, and you had no idea what to make of that.

You hear the tapping of the keyboard stop momentarily and watch as Hotch turns up to look at you, your eyes meeting for a long second, before he breaks his gaze, returning back to the screen in front of him. From your seat, you can barely make out a slight crinkling of his forehead as his hands hover above the keyboard, as though faltering in typing out his next words. You have to guess that he's arrived at the part of his statement around the interrogation. You turn away, following Emily's lead and staring out your own window, while unbeknownst to you, his eyes can't help but return to you countless times more.

It felt as though you'd thought of very little besides Hotch, since that day that your mother had visited. She'd left in the wake of one of the few times you'd seen him lose his cool with someone, and having it be done on your behalf, in your defense, had somehow unveiled this entirely ridiculous truth that you'd tried in vain to deny.

You were in love with Aaron Hotchner.

You had no idea what to do with that.

Dating other people hadn't worked out so well.

Trying to simply get over it had been an exercise in vain.

You've run miles in your own head, trying to make sense of it. The question begged itself – why Aaron Hotchner? If you merely wanted a husband and kids, you've no doubt you could have that with anyone you got along with well enough.

Your mind had briefly flitted back to that final date you'd had with Cedric Kensington. It had been highly promising, you'd finally felt it heading in a definite direction and you could see it. You could see yourself being with Cedric, marrying him, having children with him if you were so inclined. Had you not gotten the call from Garcia, informing you that Foyet was back on the grid, who knows what could have happened. Maybe you could've had that with Cedric. Having that perfect life with someone else was not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

You'd thought of John. How it had never been the right time when it came to the two of you. Then finally, when you could conceive being something real with him, you'd faltered. You couldn't go through with it. It hadn't been the right time to choose him. It hadn’t been the right time to choose anyone but yourself.

It had taken you some time but you think you've finally come to the right conclusion of why it was Hotch and no one else – the possibility of losing him was terrifying. Even when the two of you had been on the outs, you hadn't been able to leave, staying anchored to him despite being furious with him. Seeing him had been torture. Not seeing him had been so much worse, and you couldn't bring yourself to endure that again.

Given the absolute fact of the matter – you being in love with Hotch - there were really only two paths forward that you could see. Ignore it and hope it goes away, or tell him and pray you didn't lose him in the process.

The Pro/Con list to that second option had begun, unbidden, the week prior. Your mind going rogue and dreaming up ridiculous and absurd scenarios of you confessing your truth to him.

Pro: You're absolutely, unshakably, madly in love with him.

Con: There's a fairly good chance that he does not and will never reciprocate those feelings.

Pro: Aaron Hotchner was loyal to you. You had always felt he was, but your conversation a few weeks back had cemented that. He would do anything to help you, no matter what.

Con: He's twelve years older than you and has a kid.

Pro: You love his kid.

Con: Between the two of you, your past trauma could be its own wing in the Library of Congress.

Pro: You're both good at getting the other person to talk.

Con: You work together and workplace romances are frowned upon. He was your supervisor, and dating him would no doubt lead to rumors and malicious gossip, which would follow you the rest of your career at the Bureau. It could tarnish you entirely and it could also hurt him.

Con: You would not be alright if the two of you didn't work out. You know that you weren't even together, but the idea of ending things with Hotch, after knowing what it was to have him – that would break you entirely.

Con: He was going to say no, so it was all a moot point.

Towards the end, you'd run out of items for the Pros to balance out each Con, and as of now, the Cons were definitely in the lead.

*------------*

The two of you are once again the last two people in the office. Emily had been the last to leave, leaving her book from the plane on your desk, having already put sticky note bookmarks in all the right spots. She'd winked as she left, encouraging you to skip the rest of the book and skip straight to the good stuff. You had to smile at her attempts to cheer you up. Some friends bought you a drink. Emily Prentiss curated sex scenes that she thought you'd enjoy reading.

You glance up and see that Hotch's door is shut, the orange blush emanating through the glass windows, alluding to the fact that he'd given up on using the overhead lights. They were too bright for him and gave him headaches, so despite the strain on his eyes, he preferred to read by the glow of his desk lamp. With Jack away at sleepaway camp for Cub Scouts for the week, he's unlikely to leave early.

You grab your finished report and head up the stairs to his door, stopping and knocking before hearing his permission to enter. As you open the door, your eyes go immediately to his desk, however he's not seated behind it. Instead, you're greeted by a most unfamiliar sight.

Aaron Hotchner is seated on the brown leather couch in his office, a glass of amber liquid in his hands. You don't think you've ever seen Hotch not working in his office. Sure, he'll take a break here and there when you interrupt, but the image of him outright sitting on the couch, not a report in sight, was entirely foreign to you.

It feels as though you're intruding. Like you’ve stumbled upon something entirely private, because Hotch doesn’t strike you as the kind of guy that makes a habit out of drinking in his office by himself.

You could imagine this was something he did with Rossi on occasion, the two of them sharing a drink after a rough case or catching up and reminiscing about the so-called good old days, before the team had a plane on call.

"You can set that on the desk," he tells you, his voice deeper, made warm by the liquor. He doesn't look up from his glass, eyes fixed on something in the far off distance.

Unsure how to react to the sight in front of you, you quickly make your way across his office, setting your file on top of the already tall stack at the edge of his desk.

Turning around, you quickly walk back towards the door, eager to not bother him any longer than absolutely necessary. When you get to the door, you hesitate, turning back to face him. Before you can stop yourself, you can feel the words tumbling out of you. "Hotch, are you alright?"

He looks up in your direction, his expression entirely unreadable. He nods slowly, and you can see a deep sigh work its way through him, before he finally meets your eyes.

"It was a rough case. Telling the families isn't something I'll ever get used to, I think."

You nod sympathetically. It wasn't fair that it always fell on him.

"I'll be fine, though. Just need to be alone after some of them."

You nod again, not trusting yourself to say much. As you turn to leave, taking his words as your cue, he speaks again.

"You can stay."

You turn back, your head tilting in some confusion as you meet his eyes once more. He looks at you for a second longer, before reaching over to the side table and grabbing a second glass. He pours from the bottle of good scotch that Rossi had given him last Christmas while you watch him.

Proffering the glass in your direction, he beckons you forward. "You're easy to be alone with."

Somehow, in a slight daze, you manage to walk back towards the couch, reaching out and grasping the heavy crystal glass in your hand. He motions for you to join him and you sink into your usual spot, tucking your legs underneath yourself.

His eyes stay on you as you settle in and take a sip of the scotch, feeling it burn your lips, the tip of your tongue, before blooming into a subtle smoky sweetness in your mouth, settling into your stomach like dying embers.

"Are you alright?" he asks, watching you carefully.

You try not to squirm under his inspecting gaze, unable to offer much beyond a shrug. "I will be."

It's quiet for a moment as he continues to look at you and you distract yourself with a stray thread in the cushion stitching.

You hear him clear his throat, shifting slightly on the couch so that his leg bends at the knee as he turns his body to face you, arm stretched out on the back of the couch, fingers grazing the top of your shoulder. "You did everything you could."

You feel that heavy tug in your stomach, unable to look at him, knowing that your face would betray you entirely.

He says your name, soft on his lips, gentle with every part of you. He waits until you look up at him, meeting his brown eyes that held the warmth of an everlasting hearth.

"You did."

You nod slowly, because who were you to disagree with him. Because if Aaron Hotchner said you did everything you could, then maybe it was true.

Not much more is said that night, as the two of you sit side by side.

Pro: You could be alone with Aaron Hotchner.

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forasecondtherewedwon · 3 years

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In the Arms of the Anus

Fandom: Spider-Man, Thor Pairing: Roger Harrington/Grandmaster Rating: T Word Count: 8883

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, @spiderman-homecomeme!!!

Summary: While people all over the world are finding their soulmates, Roger Harrington can barely find time to grab a sandwich. Clumsy, anxious, and stagnating in a mediocre marriage, it's a miracle that he still believes in love.

Today's the day the universe rewards that belief.

Three things about Roger Harrington: he’d just tripped on the sidewalk, he worried daily that he was developing a bald spot, and, at the age of 36, he felt he still believed in love as strongly as did the little girl in his building who’d made all the residents Valentine’s Day cards the year before.

The cards—which Roger had found endearing while his wife had been baffled to the point of annoyance—had been wedged into everyone’s mailbox sometime on the afternoon of last May 19th, and maybe that was why he thought of them today, exactly a year later.

It was helpful, he found, to consider love in markers of time passing, or just numbers. The anniversary of those Valentine’s cards would always be 271 days early, leap year or not. Roger had been married twice, longer the second time. He had zero children, and that was alright with him because he wasn’t totally sure that he did want kids and, anyway, he was too profoundly stressed about the welfare of the teenagers he taught at Midtown to comfortably imagine himself as a fulltime parent.

His wife was cool. Significantly cooler than he was. She drove out of the city to hike every other weekend (he had never joined her and hoped to never be called upon for woodsy companionship), had once performed an emergency tracheotomy on a friend at a dinner party, and had a tattoo on her hip that predated their relationship, which made it consequently, eternally, enigmatic, no matter how many times she told the objectively trite story of its acquisition. Also, she was a casual shoplifter, which made him very, very nervous in a way that he found difficult to differentiate from how he felt when he was turned on.

He was the kind of person who consistently forgot to take his glasses off before stepping into the shower. She was the kind of person who would run into and recognize a famous race car driver at Whole Foods (that had happened) or fake her own death (that had not happened—knock on wood!). Essentially, what and who his second wife was was the natural successor to his first wife (the reckless young bride to his insomniac young groom), who had in turn been the natural successor to the only other romantic encounter of his life worth mentioning: a kiss on the cheek at a birthday party on the day the Berlin Wall fell. Roger had been seven.

So his romantic history was speckled and, in two out of three cases, spoke a little too loudly of a need for legally-recognized codependence. So he didn’t feel like a man anyone would ever get a tattoo in honour of. So his wife had been a little unkind in the long pause before her negative when he’d asked her if she thought he was getting a bald spot. Roger still felt that love was going to happen for him. Hopefully sustained in his current marriage, but if not, there was always what Julius Dell had taken to (highly unscientifically) calling the Love Wave.

If Roger decided to be really delusional, he could pretend that the Love Wave was to blame for his stumble over uneven concrete on his way to grab lunch. That he was finally feeling its cosmic tug. Not that he would be the last to sense it—the inexplicable force that had lately begun guiding people the world over to their new partners—but every day that he didn’t, he feared his wife would feel it first and go careening out of their life together in a Thelma and Louise-style launch that somehow left her intact and him feeling like he’d plummeted to his death at the bottom of a canyon. Sometimes, when he thought about it, he imagined feeling that impulse to go to this destined soulmate and pictured it leading him home. Not in some metaphorical way, but literally home, to the apartment he shared with his wife, to find her arriving at the same time, the two of them matched up, the universe endorsing their marriage.

The reality was that he was a man with clumsy feet (and knees and elbows) who’d forgotten to pack himself a lunch and had just enough self-awareness (though probably not dignity) not to believe that eating in the cafeteria with his students was something he would be able to socially recover from.

He thought about a poorly-cut-out pink heart glued to a fold of red craft paper. He went to buy a sandwich.

At the deli, Roger waited in line and didn’t so much allow his mind to wander—like a dog off-leash in a dog park—as feel his mind jerk insistently away—like a dog on-leash, trying to snap a dropped slice of pizza off the sidewalk. He was violently not present as his thoughts migrated from Valentine’s Day cards to lesson plans to the anxiety he always felt over the fact of never seeming to have enough power to go with the tremendous sense of responsibility he felt for all situations in which he was even remotely involved. He would have, should have, continued to shuffle vacantly forward in line, except that the man ahead of him grumbled something that drew his focus.

What he grumbled was: “Even the Sorcerer Supreme should be able to spare a minute to decide what kind of sandwich he wants.”

Now, Roger Harrington was a man of science, but he was also a man who had previously enjoyed a close friendship with the Hulk (and if anyone challenged him on specific parameters within that assertion, Roger knew that he would cry). Aliens swarmed the sky like clouds of bees. There were compilation videos of Spider-Man nearly getting hit by city buses that could’ve been designed expressly to see how hard Roger could flinch. For a clumsy man with the unathletic, knock-kneed gait of Pippi Longstocking, Roger did his best to roll with the supernatural punches. Hey, this was how science worked too: just because there wasn’t a precedent yet didn’t mean there never would be. Just because he couldn’t explain something didn’t mean no one could. Sorcerers? Alright. There could be sorcerers.

“Sorcerers?” Roger blurted to the man, overeager to expel the word.

All other words had fled to the back of his mind, twitching in an agitated cluster, leaving just the one to be snatched frantically from the surface. Like fishing. (Roger had never been fishing. One of his greatest fears was having a live fish somehow jump into his shoe and stepping on it by accident.)

“Uhhh,” the man droned. He looked uneasy. If Roger knew how to make his eyes a little less wide in situations like these, he would’ve done it.

“No, yeah, sorcerers, sure,” Roger swiftly backpedaled. “I’m a teacher.”

As if being a teacher equaled knowledge of sorcerers. As if that were a normal unit of the high school curriculum. Roger’s understanding of sorcerers began and ended with Mickey Mouse in a blue wizard’s hat. He wondered if that was sort of the standard look.

The man did not appear reassured. Roger thrust his hand forward.

“Roger Harrington, Midtown Tech.”

Face still wary, his deli companion shook hands.

“Wong.”

“So, this sorcerer of yours didn’t pick a sandwich?” The line shuffled forward and, now in reach of the long glass case of food, Roger attempted to lean his elbow casually against it, misjudged the distance, and jerked back upright again before he could fall over.

“No… You heard that part too?”

“If I could hear the part about the sorcerer, why wouldn’t I be able to hear the rest?”

“I think most people would’ve been so fixated on the sorcerer thing that they wouldn’t really absorb the part about the sandwich.”

“Just got sandwiches on the brain, I guess,” Roger said.

God, if Wong knew a sorcerer, odds were that he was a sorcerer too. (Roger based this on being a teacher with almost exclusively teacher friends and acquaintances.) He was making it sound like he cared more about sandwiches, he knew he was. He stared silently at Wong for a few painful seconds and wondered if the man could tell that he had worked for a sandwich shop as a teenager—the role of wearing a full-body sandwich costume and standing on the sidewalk, trying to attract people into the shop.

But Wong surprised him by nodding.

“You could get one of everything,” Roger heard himself suggest.

He was not typically one to make suggestions, but rather one to panic when other people did and he was in the position of having to choose between them. He could never decide on a restaurant for he and his wife’s now few-and-far-between date nights, or provide straightforward feedback when she asked for his opinion on her clothing choices… which movie they should see… what they should buy for her friend’s sister’s housewarming gift...

Oh god, she was probably going to fake her own death and his biggest anxiety was knowing that someone would ask him to choose the casket!

“I have like…” Wong jingled his pockets and extracted a fistful of coins that, when he opened his hand, Roger saw belonged to several different currencies. “…six bucks.”

Like a mirror with a delay, Roger patted his own pockets to locate his wallet. He flipped it open to reveal something promising and terrifying: he’d forgotten to return the school credit card after the last field trip he’d chaperoned. He shouldn’t, but… sorcerer.

“I think this’ll cover it,” Roger said. “It’s for emergency expenses.”

“Like lunch?” Wong asked doubtfully.

“I could be very hungry.”

“They sell seventeen different types of sandwiches here.”

“I could be very, very hungry.”

Wong shrugged in evident acquiescence and Roger marvelled that it was so simple for him to accept this act of generosity. Roger couldn’t recall the last time someone had been as generous towards him. Wait, yes he could. The Valentine’s Day card. Well, handing over a credit card that wasn’t technically his didn’t exactly equate to presenting his ticket at the Love Wave gates (not that there were such things—not that he’d know), but he was hoping to trade this generosity up for a different magical experience in the near future.

When they reached the front of the line for service, Roger ordered a total of eighteen sandwiches. (And received an undisguised groan of complaint from the people still in line behind himself and Wong.) While they waited, Roger buzzed like the posterchild for over-caffeination, doing his best not to let his excitement translate into erratic movements.

Of course, once the sandwiches were presented and paid for, it only made sense for Roger to help Wong carry them all. His own ham-and-Swiss was stuffed into one of the three bags and they were all bulging, threatening to spill. If one of them ripped on Wong’s journey back to wherever he had to take them, who would be there to gather the sandwiches into their arms so that Wong wouldn’t have to leave them on the ground? Roger was clearly the best (only) person for the job.

And if they talked on the way? That would be natural. If Wong stared at him with abrupt, unyielding suspicion the instant Roger attempted to negotiate a visit with this ‘Sorcerer Supreme’ in exchange for buying his lunch? Yeah. Yeah that suspicion would be fair.

“Not for my sake!” Roger defended as Wong blinked back at him. “For the kids!”

“The Sorcerer Supreme isn’t a birthday party magician.”

“No, I would never imply that! These are bright kids. They’d be there to learn, respectfully. They’ve had their own traumatic encounter with Spider-Man already so there wouldn’t be any clambering to meet another person with superhuman powers!”

“What did Spider-Man do to traumatize them?”

Wong looked interested now, in an entertained sort of way. Meanwhile, Roger was having a flashback of his life flashing before his eyes inside the Washington Monument.

“Actually, he saved us,” Roger explained. “That’s not the point. It would be purely educational. You and the Sorcerer Supreme would call the shots. As long as it wasn’t anything dangerous.”

“Dangerous? We would never put children at risk!”

Roger was about to clarify that he hadn’t meant to imply that they would when he realized Wong seemed to be taking this as a reason to prove himself, or to make the other sorcerer prove what he’d just said.

“I would hope not,” Roger said carefully, “because not all of the children I’ve taken on field trips have come back alive and that haunts me.”

“Well, what haunts me is everything I’ve seen and learned from in order to become someone who could now guarantee a safe field trip environment.”

“Well, that would be great.”

“Well, good,” Wong concluded.

Roger looked down at the bag he was holding as he dug out his sandwich. His wrist twisted and he caught the time on his watch. Oh wow, oh no, his lunch break was almost over.

“Ok, deal,” he said quickly. “We’ll come by next Tuesday!”

“I’ll be out here to let you in!” Wong agreed with a parting wave.

Roger took off running in the direction of Midtown and when that got too awful, he wheezed like an asthmatic and waited at the closest bus stop.

—

Roger had expected Principal Morita to say there was no room in their budget for this trip. That they were nearing the end of the school year, that parents and guardians would be reluctant to sign another form for an excursion that Roger could only give a vague, stammering explanation of. At the very least, he’d anticipated the journey via school bus in lurching, stop-and-start traffic to take so long that the kids would revolt; Flash Thompson would lead the complaints that they could’ve walked to their destination faster than the ride took and Roger would feel the primal horror of a confrontation with a self-possessed teenager who wielded the kind of peer influence Roger could only have dreamed of when he’d been Flash’s age.

But no.

Highly improbably (Roger didn’t like to consider it miraculous), things went smoothly. The trip cleared the budget assessment on zero notice because, besides renting the single bus to transport the students, their outing didn’t actually have any costs. Permission slips came back signed. Traffic was light. And dear, dear Flash—who usually gave Roger so much anxiety—slapped the hand Roger raised to shield his eyes from the sun as his students disembarked from the bus, rewarding him with a surprise high-five for getting them out of the classroom on a Tuesday afternoon. It almost knocked Roger’s glasses off.

They were ushered inside by Wong, who was now laying the mystical solemnity on pretty thick. He certainly wasn’t talking about sandwiches or complaining about the Supreme Sorcerer under his breath.

Before Roger could feel too good about himself though, he realized he’d had time to run through his headcount of the students three times without interruption. Normally, something would happen partway through his first count and he’d be uneasy for the rest of the day, sure that one of the kids had fallen down a manhole or been stampeded by a dog-walker’s unruly canine swarm. The universe shoved teenagers into the path of bike couriers with one hand and paired up soulmates with the other. That was just how things went! However, inside this house (or, no, Sanctum, Wong had called it), the air was still and quiet.

“Do you think he’s gonna make himself appear out of thin air?” Roger heard Ned ask at a whisper. “Or out of a wardrobe, or a trapdoor, or one of those boxes people get in to get sawed in half?”

“Those are cheap tricks,” Wong said loudly. He stared unsympathetically at Roger’s motley group, hand closed around his opposite wrist to maintain a serious pose. “The man you’ll be meeting shortly has capabilities that far outstrip those of the kind of magician-for-hire you’d find in a phonebook.”

From behind him, Roger heard Peter ask Ned what a phonebook was.

“What kind of capabilities then?” Flash demanded.

Roger sighed and was turning to reprimand his student when Wong said, “Like this!”

The man faked a sneeze of horrific volume and range, doubling over and cupping his hand around his mouth and nose. When he straightened up and presented his open palm, there was a raspberry sitting in it.

Roger closed his eyes for a moment to collect himself and his teaching career played on a fast-forwarded film reel behind his lids. The Sorcerer Supreme was a no-show; all Roger had accomplished was taking the kids to a weird building to witness a man pretend to sneeze out a raspberry. Midtown Tech was going to fire him. His wife would recognize his unemployment as a reason to leave him. Depressingly, Roger was thinking about how that would almost be a relief—an end to his incessant worrying that they were really kind of a mismatch—and he was thinking it while he blankly watched Wong eat the raspberry he’d just feigned dislodging from his nasal cavity.

He was really unprepared for a different man to come sweeping down the stairs, motion with his hand, and have a red sheet come whizzing down after him to settle itself on his shoulders. Roger blinked. He heard the mixed noises of fright and appreciation from his students.

Then Flash piped up with, “That’s just a trick. It’s wires or something.”

Roger backed into the cluster of his charges and, without taking his eyes off the obvious Magical Guy in front of him, reached over and placed his hand across Flash’s mouth.

Unfortunately, his censorship seemed to be too late. The Sorcerer’s narrowed eyes zoned in on Flash.

“Oh yeah? How ’bout this? Is this just a trick?”

Fingers splayed, the man moved his hands in a precise, practiced way and a window opened up in the middle of the room. No, not a window, but Roger was having a tough time wrapping his head around it. What this non-window showed was something that wasn’t the room, that wasn’t a view of the street, that wasn’t anyplace in New York, if he had to guess.

“You can’t just do it like that,” Wong said wearily. Roger felt himself and his students look from one of the men to the other as though watching a tennis match. “There should be a little more finesse.”

“Look,” the Sorcerer told him. “You don’t get to spring this on me and then expect me to ham it up for the kids. This isn’t a David Blaine show.”

“Maybe you should watch one. You might learn something about showmanship.”

“So, it’s fake, right?” Flash checked.

Dammit, Roger had dropped his hand, distracted as he tried to make out what he was seeing through what he was becoming increasingly comfortable with calling a ‘magic portal’ in his thoughts. He scrambled to take hold of Flash’s shoulder—yanking him back would be bad, but dealing with the fallout of him pissing off somebody who could make magic portals would be much worse—but Flash dodged him, swaggering forward to inspect the Sorcerer’s work.

“What is it? Mirrors? Greenscreen? You buy your tech from Stark?”

“Stark?” the Sorcerer spat out derisively.

Overcome with the terrible feeling that he was about to find out what it looked like when a wizard put a curse on a child, Roger sprang forward. As he did, three things happened: the Sorcerer rotated his wrist slightly, the scene on the other side of the portal changed, and Flash turned to the side.

Without a student to grab onto and pull to safety, Roger’s momentum sent him hurtling through the gateway currently connecting Midtown to parts unknown.

Of all the times to trip, he thought.

—

The world was bright and fast and bad. Actually, Roger was almost positive that what he was seeing wasn’t the world at all, but he couldn’t put a name to where he was any more than he could think of better adjectives to describe it. Unless the Sorcerer Supreme owned a magical slip ’n’ slide that operated at speeds designed to train prospective astronauts for space travel, Roger was no longer in his building.

The colour of the tunnel of light surrounding him turned from something like the intestinal track of a unicorn who ate lightning and nebulas to a dangerous, broiling red. Roger kept waiting for his skin to bubble, his face to melt off. Maybe he was the fabled frog in the pot of boiling water and had failed to notice the heat steadily increasing. Because he didn’t feel hot. He couldn’t tell whether or not he felt cold either and before he could work it out, he finally landed.

It was rough.

He curled his arms up around his head, protecting his face. He hit and tumbled, hit and tumbled, banging his shins and elbows, setting off a series of metallic clangs and thwumps like his body was playing drums made of the contents of somebody’s recycling bin. Roger could see—once, shaking, he was able to lower his arms and open his eyes—that his imagination hadn’t been far from the mark: he was lying in a heap of trash.

Trembling like a baby deer, he got to his feet and assessed his surroundings. There were piles everywhere. Piles of stuff. Roger could identify some of the battered objects, but most were utterly alien to him. This was like the time he’d found his wife’s sex toys all over again.

“Hello?” he called out, because he seemed to be alone. “Hel—”

His throat closed off abruptly when he swiveled in place and noticed the sky. His mouth fell open. Was that what he had just come through? That furious-looking, billowing, volcanic, enormous… disturbance? Weather pattern? Entrance to hell, if hell were a mountain of trash?

Oh man. Where was Spider-Man this time? Roger didn’t know which would come first, but if something distinctly reassuring didn’t happen in the next 30 seconds, he was going to either burst into tears or pee his pants. His cool wife was going to be so bummed to have to declare him dead instead of faking her own death. And his students would be traumatized, having just witnessed their teacher disappear before their eyes. He spent a frantic 17 of his 30 seconds wondering if this were Jumanji and he’d started a game without realizing it; being sucked into a board game was another of his greatest fears, ever since he’d watched the chilling horror film Jumanji in his teens.

“Hello?” Roger croaked a final time.

Some other scientist—a Tony Stark type—would thrive in this scenario, Roger knew. They would scavenge the surrounding mounds of metal, collecting and assembling pieces into some sort of technology that would either get them home or enable communication with a rescue team. Would there be a rescue team for Roger Harrington? Would anyone even try to get him back?

The cry/pee conundrum was looking more like cry with each passing second until suddenly, amongst the broken things Roger was aggrieved to consider the lone sentinels of his demise, some kind of spacecraft touched down. Based on his recent luck, whoever was at the helm was likely here to kill him, but he immediately elected to throw himself on their mercy, whether that meant rescue or just a swifter snuffing out of his life than he would otherwise experience on this sad island of garbage as he died from dehydration, starvation, and exposure to that infernal gateway in the sky.

He mouthed the word “help” more than said it as he staggered forward on legs he could hardly feel. A door in the side of the spacecraft slid smoothly open and party music blared out. Roger flinched back as though he had not heard the sounds of civilization in years.

A woman exited the craft. She wore an expression about as kind as the murderous upside-down mushroom cloud in the sky and when their eyes met, she barked, “Back!”

Roger executed an awkward reverse lunge, pleading hands raised. Ok, now that his time had come, he didn’t want a quick death. Put out of his misery? No, he would learn to live with his misery, the way he’d learned to live with his college roommates, or his wife’s collection of handmade bowls! With food and water to sustain him, he was suddenly confident that he could be successfully miserable for years if this intimidating woman would just leave him to his own pathetic devices.

But then, like a visitation from a tan, eye-liner-wearing angel of indeterminate age, a man in gold robes emerged from the vessel. He beamed like he had always been beaming, and always would be.

Just like that, Roger Harrington got it. He got what Hot Chocolate meant when they sang that they believed in miracles. He got the meaning of Kylie Jenner’s year of realizing stuff. He got why a child would send out Valentine’s Day cards in May and why his wife was so dedicated to her hiking group and why he was here.

“Now, what did I say about that before we left?” the angel seemed to be asking his companion, though he’d locked his eyes on Roger. “Did I say to harass our visitor or did I say to be nice?”

The woman narrowed her eyes at Roger, which he felt more than saw; it was possible that he was crying after all. Tears of joy.

“Harass,” she answered flatly.

The angel chuckled.

“You know, I do like having you around. Before you, I said to myself, ‘Next time, get an enforcer with a sense of humour.’” He sighed as his laughter dwindled. “But you can, uh, skedaddle back onto the ship now. That’ll be all.”

“What if you want to melt him?” she queried.

That was enough to tear Roger’s gaze away from the man and send it zipping nervously to the threatening almost-smile the woman was now directing his way. He’d preferred the murder face.

“Melt him!” the angel said, in a tone that implied her suggestion had been ridiculous. (Roger relaxed. A little.) “Topaz, don’t you realize who this is? Don’t you know?”

She shrugged.

“Trash.”

“No, he’s not trash! Do you think I would’ve left the Grand Arena to retrieve a new gladiator by hand? All those Scrappers don’t do my bidding just so I can dig through the garbage looking for fresh challengers for my champion! I wouldn’t even assign Scrapper 142 this task, and you know she’s my favourite!”

When the woman only grumbled, the man pressed, “You have an unbelievable poker face. Do you really not know why I flew all the way out here for this guy?”

“I’m his soulmate,” Roger blurted, because that was the one thing he did know.

He had no idea what a Scrapper was, or whether the man in front of him was more or less important than the ‘champion’ he’d mentioned, or how his homicidal sidekick planned to melt Roger, but he understood what was happening here. Forget the Love Wave—what had come for him had yanked him violently across solar systems, maybe galaxies. He’d been sucked under by the Love Riptide.

The angel pointed at him and proudly proclaimed, “Correctamundo!”

Then he strode forward and folded Roger into a hug. Roger thought this must be what it was like to be a piece of antique furniture, tenderly wrapped in gold leaf.

“I’m the Grandmaster,” he said.

“Roger Harrington,” Roger offered, feeling that his life was entirely surreal as he cautiously returned the hug.

“As soon as I felt you land on my humble little planet here, I came looking. My orgy guests were disappointed, naturally, but I had to put my interests first. What was I, elected? If they wanted a leader who would pretend to care about everyone equally, they should have organized themselves into a viable political party capable of rivalling my dictatorship, am I right?” He drew back slightly and laughed. “You should see your face! I’m kidding. I would’ve had anyone involved in such a thing put to death. Don’t you worry, Hairball.”

Roger cleared his throat. He’d learned so much in the last few sentences alone. Death. Dictator. Orgy. Any one of those things was a lot to confront and yet… he was calmed by the Grandmaster’s presence. He was alive and unmelted. He’d managed to find his soulmate—a man he’d been almost certain to never meet as things stood with Earth’s individually-impressive but cosmically-insignificant progress with space travel. At long last, the universe had smiled on Roger Harrington.

“Just Roger is good,” he said. If last names ever came up again, he would tactfully correct his soulmate, but with a name like ‘the Grandmaster,’ he doubted they ever would.

“Roger. Anything you say.” Gripping Roger’s shoulders, the Grandmaster leaned in and planted a sound kiss on his forehead with a loud, “Mmmwah!”

He asked Roger if he would like to go aboard his ship, apologizing that it wasn’t the one where he’d just been having the orgy and appearing to check Roger’s face for disappointment. Roger didn’t know what the Grandmaster saw in his expression, but he knew it wasn’t that.

Inside the spaceship, Roger looked around with huge eyes. He hadn’t felt this kind of wonder in a room jammed with so much beyond his understanding since the first time his mom had taken him to the New York Hall of Science as a kid. Everything was bright and white and immaculately clean, and Roger could concentrate on all of it because the Grandmaster had Topaz drop the volume of his party playlist until it was just a low pulse of background noise. Seemingly amused by his awe, the Grandmaster allowed him a peek at the controls before gently herding him into a chamber with seating arranged for socializing. A pneumatic hiss sealed them safely inside and away from the woman’s scowl.

“I really just wanna sit here and, uh, just look atcha, but that look on your face tells me you’ve got about a million questions.”

The Grandmaster settled back into the bench seating, resting his long arms along the top of the seat. Across from him, Roger fidgeted, experiencing sensory overload. Soulmate. Spaceship. Alien planet. He found it hard to decide what to ask first. Was that even polite? Was the Grandmaster just saying that Roger could ask questions when he really wanted Roger to say or do something else? There was an awfully flirtatious look in his eye, the likes of which Roger hadn’t seen directed towards himself in several years.

“What is this place?” Roger asked before he could stop himself. “Where am I?”

“Oh! This is Sakaar! Are you saying you didn’t come here on purpose? I figured you weren’t aiming for a pile of trash, but you really didn’t know where you were going at all?”

Roger shook his head so hard that he had to nudge his slipping glasses back up his nose.

“It was an accident. I fell through a wizard’s—uh, I mean, a sorcerer’s—magic portal. That kind of clumsiness must sound pretty farfetched to someone who’s so obviously…” Roger motioned spastically towards his soulmate, the dictator, with both hands. “…in control of their life.”

The Grandmaster laughed, transparently pleased and preening.

“Oh, Roger, you flatter me.”

He stretched out his leg to playfully tap his shoe (gold) against Roger’s (plain, brown, frayed shoelace). Roger jumped, giddy from an alteration in sea level, possibly, plus life-changing events.

“But it really isn’t so uncommon for people, beings, things… to end up here without meaning to,” the Grandmaster went on. “A lot of junk passes through the Anus. Not that you’re junk, obviously.”

With a winning smile, Roger’s soulmate leaned forward and patted him on the knee. He was a touchy-feely guy, it seemed, and it made Roger cognizant of how very lonely he’d been in his marriage, in the last year especially. How skittish around strangers, how unaffectionate with his friends. This was what he needed, and the universe had understood that.

It took his brain a few seconds to catch up with what his soulmate had said, distracted by the comfort he was taking in his easy warmth.

“The Anus?” Roger asked in a choked voice.

“The Devil’s Anus, to be exact. That enormous, horrifying wormhole out there in the sky!” the Grandmaster explained, gleeful. “Best I can guess, it acts as a funnel for accidental travelers, like yourself. And boy, are we ever grateful for that thing. I’ve never had to post any ‘Help Wanted’ flyers, I’ll tell ya that. We need more people serving drinks? Boom. More entertainers? Boom. More lubricators for the orgies? Boom, the Anus provides, baby.”

Roger didn’t inquire what the duties of a person with the job title ‘orgy lubricator’ entailed; it seemed sleazily self-explanatory. He just nodded.

“And now,” his perfect, golden match continued, “the portal brings me my soulmate. I love that thing. It’s really somethin’, huh?”

“It’s really something,” Roger agreed. “Really, really something.”

“You’re looking just a little stunned there, Rodge. Can I offer you something to eat? A drink? I promise, I’m usually a much better host. I feel like I’m positively, uh, bumbling right now.” He beamed.

This man was so many things at once—possibly too many—but bumbling was so far from being one of them that Roger actually laughed weaky in his state of happy, semi-delirium. He accepted the cold glass that was pressed into his hand, the brush of the Grandmaster’s warm palm across his forehead. He had moved to sit right next to Roger.

“You can get used to this place at your own pace, within reason.” His soulmate chuckled. “Heck, we can stay right here a day or two. My plans are cancelled, and when I stop, the world stops. That’s how it is, being the Grandmaster, and that’s how it’s gonna be for you too. You can give all your worries a big, wet kiss goodbye, my love. You’re living a life of luxury now. A court of sycophants, fights to the death in the evening, orgies on a lazy afternoon. I’m talkin’ a life of pure class—”

“Class!”

“Yeah, baby, that’s what I said.” The Grandmaster was wearing a languid smile as he traced the back of his fingers along Roger’s jaw.

But Roger was suddenly too alert to be lulled by welcome caresses and delicious, exotic beverages.

“I was teaching a class before I fell through the portal,” he said. “I’m a teacher. My students are probably terrified. Some of them might be messed up for life after watching me disappear right in front of them. What have I done…”

“So you gave them a cool story to tell their friends! You don’t need to think about that anymore. Now that you’re living here—”

“I can’t live here!” Roger said, seizing the Grandmaster’s hands in his as he tried desperately to explain. “I have responsibilities as an educator! Jesus Christ, I’m married!”

“Roger. Rodge. Rodge. Hey,” his soulmate said, finally disrupting Roger’s spiral of panic. “That’s all in the past. Do you know how many creatures from just, uh, every darn corner of the universe I’ve made slaughter each other for my entertainment? Thousands, Roger, ok? Thousands. And it’s taught me oodles about life. What I’ve learned is that love is the only thing that matters. What all of those poor bastards scream for in the end is their mom, their partner, their best friend. Now, that doesn’t help them, but it helps us. It helps us understand that we’ve done it—we’ve achieved the one thing in our lives that was worth a damn to achieve. I’m not gonna, gonna now be parted from you, sweetheart. You are the point of me.”

Roger felt himself growing teary at the speech. Yes, this had been a whirlwind—they’d met no more than 15 minutes ago—but he was feeling something just as deep as the love the Grandmaster described. It was a fantasy in the best way, the life his soulmate pictured for them (most of it… maybe not the part about slaughter). But it was a fantasy in the worst way too, something so impossible that Roger felt sick for getting as attached to this man as he already had.

“I can’t,” he said softly. He let his head hang down, solaced when the Grandmaster guided it onto his shoulder and wrapped a protective arm around him.

“Can’t you? For me? Roger, if I put you on a ship and send you back through the Anus, we may never meet again.”

Roger squeezed his eyes shut. He wanted to be selfish, but there were people he couldn’t leave in the lurch. People who maybe didn’t care about him in a way that was equal to how he cared about them, but that was how any kind of relationship was, apart from soulmates. There were imbalances. He knew he might not be the most brilliant scientist, the most inspirational teacher, the husband a woman would prefer over the outdoorsy hunk in her hiking group, but he knew who he was: he was someone who couldn’t just walk away.

“We’ll be together again,” Roger said, clutching the Grandmaster’s robes. “After.”

Though he didn’t yet know what ‘after’ would mean.

—

It wasn’t as unexpected as it could have been—Roger had always had a feeling he’d die on a school bus.

The difference between his fears and reality was that he wasn’t departing this world in a fiery crash or zooming out of control between the steel trusses and into the East River. There was confusion, there was chaos, there were screams and the violent honking of horns, but there were elements he couldn’t have predicted. Primarily, the giant alien spacecraft hovering over the city. The ship immediately moved into first place of the most ominous rings in his life (he and his wife were not in a good place). Since its sighting, things had quickly spiraled out of control. Julius had radioed Roger from the other bus of students they were chaperoning to MoMA to report that Ned Leeds had ‘flipped his shit’ and Peter Parker was currently missing. Roger had nearly passed out. The only thing that had kept him conscious was his jittery concern for the rest of his students.

At Midtown Tech, they had drills for almost every eventuality. As of 2012, hostile outer space invasion was actually part of their repertoire, but it had always been assumed they would be at school when it happened, not out on a field trip. The most Roger had been able to think to do was get the kids to a secure location. Which meant getting the buses to a secure location. But the buses were on the bridge, and all over the bridge drivers were panicking, mindlessly stomping on the gas and attempting to swerve around the rest of the vehicles. Above the blood rushing in his ears, he’d heard crash after crash, until their bus was hemmed in and, through the smoking, crumpled hoods of their fellow commuters, the alien ship hung stationary in the sky. Disturbingly tranquil as New York City went to pieces to the tune of apocalyptic dissonance just below.

In the end, the spaceship hadn’t stayed put, but Roger had. The lanes around them were crowded with smashed cars. Glass from shattered windshields glittered on the pavement. Still, more vehicles surged forward as drivers attempted to use the bridge to flee the city; this wasn’t NYC’s first alien rodeo. He hadn’t attempted to force any of his students to remain on the bus—they were some of the smartest and the best of their generation, and he trusted their survival instincts far more than his own—but he did direct the ones who fled to first climb up onto the roof of the bus instead of dropping directly down onto the street and risking injury. Yes, he worried about minor cuts and bruises. Even now.

He thought that Flash was staying with him, and was touched. But then he realized Flash was just gripping his shoulder for leverage as he jumped and grabbed for the emergency roof hatch with his free hand. Roger knew the boy was somewhat neglected by his parents, and so, for the first time, he was happy go hear ‘Hotline Bling.’ It was Flash’s ringtone and it played incessantly as his phone rang and rang until the song, and the sound of Flash running, faded into the distance. Somebody wanted to see that he was safe. Somebody cared about him.

Alone, Roger hunkered down between the seats, knees bent in front of him. He scraped one hand anxiously through his hair and gripped his phone in the other.

He should call his wife. He knew he should. Only, he was afraid that she either wouldn’t pick up or she’d answer and be with the guy from her hiking group. Roger wasn’t even upset; he was glad she had someone, if this was it.

Ever since he’d returned from Sakaar, he’d been different, he was aware that he had. In the past, his wife had been largely responsible for the sundering of their marriage, but Roger knew that he was now pulling away too. It had begun inside him—the tear. He wanted to be with two people for two different reasons. In two places, on two worlds. Commitment clashed with longing. Logical rightness fought emotional rightness. He’d been weak, persuading himself daily to tough it out with his wife (even as he slept on the couch every night because lying beside her made him unhappy), when, for once in his damn life, he wanted to be fulfilled. Somewhere out in the stars, there was a man with blue eyeliner and an entire planet at his capricious command and he was the person for Roger.

If only, he thought, picturing the face he shouldn’t have been able to recall so clearly for the brevity of their encounter months ago. Roger shut his eyes to better remember the Grandmaster, and so he wouldn’t have to see his phone clatter to the bus’s dirty floor when the hand that held it turned to dust.

—

As with his life on regular, non-apocalypse days, not much happened to Roger. Despite his paralyzing breakdown on a school bus, he wasn’t among the billions scattered to the wind like sentient dandruff. He picked himself up and went home. Sure, he was shivering almost out of his skin from the shock, but he didn’t collapse into wracking, snotty sobs until he was safely in his living room, listening to his neighbours’ wails through the condo’s walls.

Roger’s wife wasn’t there, didn’t answer when he called her, and, three weeks later, still hadn’t made contact. It took another two months to hold her wake; the funeral business was booming. Never had so many words been spoken over so many vacant graves. Some members of his wife’s hiking group attended, some had even helped him select the right music and flowers beforehand. They knew her preferences. It felt surreal to be burying a person he couldn’t prove—in any meaningful way—that he’d really known.

With a queasy sense of being very lucky, he accepted that, apart from his marital status, his life hadn’t been upended. His windows weren’t broken, his car wasn’t stolen, the few family members he was out of touch with anyway had also survived. He went back to work before anybody called him in. There weren’t any students at first, just the echo of Roger’s clumsy footsteps tripping over the rug in the staffroom, half-solved equations on the whiteboards in the math classrooms, and the unholy stench of unwashed pinnies when he poked his head into the gym storage room to see if Coach Wilson was around. One day, Roger tipped back in the chair at the front of his own empty classroom and spotted a gigantic cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. It made him think of Spider-Man. He guessed that guy was gone too.

The most important thing for keeping sane was establishing a regimen. Work was a big part of that, but Roger also traveled daily into Manhattan to visit the Sorcerer’s place. It became a kind of pilgrimage. Early on, Wong would come out to say hello, but it was eventually less about commiseration and more of a perfunctory thing. Roger knew (assumed, hoped) that if the Sorcerer ever did return, Wong would let him know and welcome him inside. And then… a portal? And then the Grandmaster? He tried not to think about it too hard. Yearning took up a lot of energy and, when his students began to come back to school in distressingly low numbers, Roger needed to reserve that energy for teaching.

Everything was the same, every day, until it wasn’t.

For a reason he couldn’t rationally explain, Roger knocked on the Sorcerer’s door. While he was waiting—just a few seconds, he planned—a man materialized on the sidewalk right next to him. He tottered and Roger reflexively said, “Whoa!” and grabbed his shoulder to keep him on his feet. Before Roger could hypothesize or ask the man any questions, a teenage girl returned to existence a few feet away. Then a woman holding a toddler tightly in her arms. A little boy. A man with a dog. A bicycle-less bike cop, still wearing his helmet. Releasing the man, Roger spun and pounded against the door with his fist.

Still, no one answered.

Fighting the urge to show up at Midtown Tech, Roger made himself stay put, right there on the Sorcerer’s doorstep.

He waited a long time. As the sun set, New York City rose around him. He watched people hugging, running home down the middle of the street. He fielded unfinished questions as the newly returned began to ask him what had happened, what time it was, what year, before jogging away, more purposeful with every step they took. Roger’s foot began to bounce on the sidewalk and his clammy hands twisted fretfully. It was still another 12 hours before the door opened.

Roger fell backwards into Wong’s shins, delirious from the sickening seesaw between urgency and exhaustion. Everywhere, people were reconnecting. He scrambled to his feet because he wanted to be one of them.

“Is he here?” Roger demanded.

Wong narrowed his eyes slightly, holding the door so it couldn’t be pushed open further.

“Might I remind you that it’s me you’ve been seeing here the last five years.”

“Yeah,” Roger agreed, trying to see past.

“I thought we had developed a rapport.”

Finally, Roger met Wong’s eyes, his own pleading.

“No, yes, you’re right, we have,” he babbled.

“We’re friends.”

“Yes, of course, we are friends. Definitely.”

“So when is my birthday?”

Roger’s mouth hung open as he searched his brain for a piece of information he knew wasn’t in there. A few seconds later, Wong turned mirthful.

“Did you spend the Blip hiding under a rock where there are no jokes? Come inside. We just got back.”

None of the thousands of times he’d come to the door mattered—Roger hadn’t been inside the Sanctum since that first time. He hoped the Sorcerer remembered him.

When he saw the man, Roger’s steps stuttered. The Sorcerer appeared grim and wiped out. He was dirty and he looked older, though Wong whispered to Roger that the Sorcerer had been among the Snapped. Roger understood that, for something to go right and bring everyone back to life, something else had gone wrong. He could dwell on that and awkwardly bow his way back out of there, or he could convince himself that things had gone wrong for him too, and that he’d like them to be righted. He remembered that his soulmate was a dictator and tried to channel that sense of entitlement.

“What do you know about the Anus?”

The Sorcerer blinked.

“What.” The word came out perfectly flat.

“The Anus.”

“I wasn’t that kind of doctor.”

Roger strode eagerly towards him, hands gesturing before his words caught up.

“When I was here about, um, five and a half years ago, I fell through your magic portal—”

The Sorcerer snapped his fingers in recognition and turned to Wong.

“Oh, that’s who this is. I always wondered what happened to that guy.” He looked at Roger again. “How did you get back to Earth?”

Roger hadn’t been prepared to answer this question, just make his demands, and he began to explain what had happened to him, all out of order. The words ‘orgy ship’ had barely left his mouth when the Sorcerer was waving him into silence. His expression told Roger he was sorry he’d asked.

“So you went through the portal…” he prompted instead.

“That’s right! And for a while, I was just falling. I don’t know where I was.”

The Sorcerer stroked his chin.

“The connection must’ve been unstable. I know—one of your students distracted me.”

“That’d be Flash,” Roger said.

“Jesus. This is why I prefer not to be a field trip destination. Normally, the portal would allow you to pass cleanly through one place and into another.”

“And instead he passed cleanly through the Anus,” Wong summarized.

“…Yeah.”

Roger glanced from one man to the other.

“So,” he said, “could you do it again?”

The Sorcerer stared at him.

“The short answer is no. The long answer is also no, but it contains a great deal of vernacular to do with the Mystic Arts, so I’ll save us both some time.”

The last time Roger had defended his intellect and qualifications had been years ago, and he was out of practice. Anyway, he didn’t want a lengthy debate.

“Can’t you just open a portal and shove me through?”

“If you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a lot going on today. I’ve only entertained you this long because you and Wong seem to be friends. I’m not just going to mess around to humour you.”

“What if you had to do it?” Roger asked quickly, beginning to feel desperate and preparing to metaphorically jam one of his clumsy feet into the closing window of opportunity.

“Uh, let me think about that,” the Sorcerer droned disinterestedly. “No.”

“What if I attacked you and you opened a portal in self-defence?”

The Sorcerer squinted at him in disbelief and befuddlement.

“What?”

But Roger was already gracelessly throwing his weight into a wild, uncoordinated punch.

For once, he didn’t think critically of himself; he told himself that the Sorcerer’s portal sparked up between them because he was intimidated by Roger’s tenacity. And that it didn’t show a clear destination because the Sorcerer’s reaction speed was no match for Roger using the element of surprise. And that he dove purposely through the portal—on a mission for love and science and the unknown—instead of tumbling into it sideways because the momentum of his unpracticed punch had gotten the better of his balance. It didn’t matter. His feet went out from under him and he was on his way.

Roger had forgotten how intense the trip was, but he completely recalled the rough landing, bouncing down through a stack of the universe’s lost garbage. He shut his eyes to the whooshing and the brightness and braced himself (probably too early, but he didn’t think he could be too careful on this reckless endeavor).

He felt his body hit open air and gasped as he fell, trying to keep his limbs tucked in. The hat he’d been wearing was torn from his head. Didn’t matter; it wouldn’t have offered much protection anyway. At any moment, his poor elbows and knees would be battered by space junk. Between his velocity and his fear of the coming impact, Roger could hardly breathe.

Music. A familiar voice singing, It’s my soulmate! made his eyes fly open. Right in time to land on his back. Whatever was beneath Roger was soft, but he’d still had the wind knocked out of him and was struggling to fill his lungs. His eyes clamped shut as he began to cough.

“I have no idea how you survived that thing twice, but I sure am glad I caught ya.”

Finally sucking in a stronger breath, Roger opened his eyes and looked up. His glasses were askew. Above him was the opening in the ceiling of a hovering spacecraft, but closer than that, leaning over him, was the face of the Grandmaster. He was beaming.

“Any trouble with the Anus?” he asked.

Roger grabbed for the hand his soulmate had rested on his shoulder and moved it to his chest, right over his heart.

“The asshole who got me here will probably be thrilled to never see me again, but the Anus treated me just fine.”

“Ha!” the Grandmaster barked. His free hand lovingly patted Roger’s windblown hair back into place. “Welcome home.”

#my writing #MCU #spider-man #thor: ragnarok #Roger Harrington #En Dwi Gast (the Grandmaster)#their ship name is Mr. Master and they're what G deserves on her birthday

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chamomileteainabuttercup · 3 years

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18, 20, 39 and 41 for reyrose please? Thanks :)

Nice! I don't get to talk about them all that much (the sequel trilogy turned out so poorly that discussing it just isn't much fun) but I really like to imagine a life they could have together. A lot of this requires ignoring stuff I didn't like, primarily from The Rise of Skywalker. We're going to an AU where Rey is most certainly not Palpatine's granddaughter; she's a "nobody" in the positive sense that she doesn't carry the baggage of being descended from anyone with a significant history. Whatever she does, she's doing of her own accord. Plus, she certainly did not have a romantic attraction or attachment to Kylo Ren. She was simply trying to do what she thought might work to bring peace, despite her natural aversion to him. Also in this AU, Rose got to do stuff that mattered! I don't have many specifics because it would require writing a whole different plot for the movie, but she did!

(oh and the big bad/puppetmaster was Jar Jar, but that's well beyond our scope here)

On to Rey and Rose!

18. What are their dates like? How long do/did they date? Do they ever feel the need to take a break from each other?

For Rey and Rose a really good date is a day out rummaging through junkyards and pawnshops. Rey is great at finding things, Rose is great at fixing things, and together they find all kinds of technological curiosities that they repair, restore, or refashion into something new. They don't necessarily have a lot of dates as such because they're both pretty busy working with their friends to re-establish peace and democracy across the galaxy, but when they have a day off together that's how they like to spend it. Rather than needing a break from each other, during their busy times they wish they could see each other more, and not be too tired to enjoy their time when they do. (It's like having a partner who's going through medical school, but both ways.) When things aren't so busy but they can't take a whole day to do something nice, they work on their fix-it projects together, share a meal, or have a movie night in with Finn and Poe.

So whether that qualifies as "dating" or not, mileage may vary, but that stage of their relationship goes on four or five years before they decide together to make it permanent and get married.

20. What does their home look like? Their room?

Once things calm down enough that they can have a home of their own and spend a lot of time in it (so a few years on from when they meet, a little after they marry), they buy an old scrapyard and set up Rey and Rose's Salvage and Repair, and live in a house they build at the back of the yard. I'm not sure what planet this is on, and it might well be Tatooine; I'm happy with Rey going to live there but I don't want her to take the name Skywalker. After all, Tico is a good surname, if she needs one, and again, it doesn't have baggage.

The house is by no means beautiful; it's functional and sturdy and designed to largely keep itself warm or cool depending on the climate. Their room is sunny and always a little messy and dusty because neither of them is particularly houseproud, but it's not dirty or chaotic. They always have a few rescue droids around the place that they're rehabilitating - ones that have been abused or badly damaged and need some TLC both to get them running smoothly again and to help them regain trust and confidence. Some go back out into the world to find new jobs and some become permanent residents - one of those is Professor Huyang, who they found on a scrapheap during the alternative third-movie plot I haven't fully figured out, and who helped Rey to make herself a better lightsaber and taught Finn how to craft his own too. Huyang is the closest thing to a Jedi mentor they have - since Anakin's lightsaber was cut in two in The Last Jedi, I wanted a new lightsaber quest to be part of the story, and it was meant to tie in with Finn's Force sensitivity coming to the fore and Rey trying to help him get to grips with it while still learning about it herself.

39. Who initiated the relationship? Who kissed who first? When did they realize they were in love?

This is very much a romance that grew out of a friendship which had a bit of an inauspicious beginning. When Rey needs to go on her quest, Rose, having recovered from her injuries, volunteers to go with her so she doesn't have to do everything alone. That's a good reason but it's also a way to get some distance from Finn, who she's realised is in love with Poe, and now she feels mortified about her grand romantic gesture for him. Finn is a Good Boy who's grateful for her feelings although he can't reciprocate, and doesn't want Rose to feel badly but it's not really in his power to help her with that. She needs time to get over the disappointment and embarrassment without having to see him being all in sync and starry-eyed with his extremely handsome and dashing fighter-pilot boyfriend who is all (bites lip) at the sight of him.

To begin with she also feels awkward with Rey, because she's Finn's best friend and also has this whole legendary magical vibe about her that's a bit intimidating - but a few days on the Millennium Falcon with her and seeing the Magic Knight Hero who floats rocks with her mind also chews with her mouth open, and will happily eat a brick of uncooked noodles as a snack, and has the most delightful scrunchy-nosed smile, and is just as much of a greasemonkey and gearhead as she is (and they need to spend a lot of time just keeping the Falcon going, and there's nothing like solving problems together for making friends), and she soon gets over any awkwardness and realises Rey is a kindred spirit.

Both of them are conscious of their liking for each other growing into a romantic attraction, but they're awfully busy avoiding the First Order and fixing their ship in flight and questing for kyber crystals and encountering Jedi ghosts and realising the Falcon's computer with the "peculiar dialect" is sentient and building a new droid body to transfer L3-37 into so she can live again, so it's a bit hard to find a good time to talk about it. At the end of a tiring day they're sitting in the lounge of the Falcon where the holo-chess table is, feeling pretty exhausted, and Rose leans her shoulder against Rey's, and then her head, and Rey takes her hand between both hers, and they sit quietly for a couple of minutes more, each becoming sure that the other feels the same way, before something goes bleep and the lights go off and they have to get up and find what's wrong and fix it.

While Rose has both hands busy with tools, her hair flops over her eyes and she asks Rey, who's holding the flashlight for her, if she can get that. Rey gently brushes it back with her fingers and pauses with her hand on Rose's cheek, and Rose looks up at her, and the first soft kiss is mutually initiated. And at that moment the whatchamacallit Rose is trying to reset gets its act together and the lights all flicker back on very prettily. It is nice.

Incidentally, Rey has no idea Jedi weren't supposed to have romantic relationships or get married. Either Luke didn't know either or he didn't get around to telling her (it's not mentioned in the ancient texts she saved because they predate that rule, which cynical people say really had a political rather than spiritual purpose, preventing the concentration of power in the hands of Jedi dynasties). It doesn't become a problem. Over the years Rey gradually rebuilds a reinvented Jedi Order (one that's a lot less hierarchical and order-y), finding people of all ages with talent that went undeveloped during the dark period, and a few who've had some training and have been living off the grid - like this one little green kid who lives in a flyspeck on the map called Mos Pelgo with his elderly dads who are nevertheless younger than he is.*

41. Are they party-goers? What are they like when they’re drunk? Does it happen often?

The Rebellion/Resistance does love its victory parties and peace celebrations, and naturally they go to a lot of those. There's also Finn's birthday party. Finn doesn't know when his actual birthday is. Poe has picked one out for him and throws him a rager of a party every year. They don't get drunk with great frequency, they're more likely to have a drink or two to relax together and leave it at that, but Finn's birthday party is the annual occasion when they predictably do.

When Rose gets tipsy, she gets very red in the cheeks and laughs till she snorts - it doesn't take much. She's a happy, friendly and cuddly drunk who everyone wants to take care of. Also kind of sweaty.

Drunk Rey can go one of two ways, giggly and silly along with Rose, or feisty and belligerent. Everyone hopes for silly Rey, who won't do anything worse than jump in a pool with all her clothes on. Belligerent Rey wants to prove how much she loves her friends by fighting anyone who she thinks she overheard saying one word against them. Belligerent Rey has to be pushed in the pool to cool her off.

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

*I haven't decided why he stopped attending Luke's school before disaster struck and as a placeholder will use "Expelled for drinking ink."

#ask box meme #reyrose #'expelled for drinking ink' is the only Cruella de Vil backstory I care about #long post (apologetic)

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trashcatsnark · 3 years

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You have mentioned river a couple times and your opinions of Johnny vis-à-vis jealousy - he’d be a handsy little shit obvs, but do you have any thoughts about how they would interact? part of me says given how river pretty much falls for every single v and how little he’d likely care for Johnny , I think there might be a *touch* of jealousy there too more of “a seriously this guy???” sort of thing,l

Okay, so, like I do think as like a woman who has an attraction to men (I’m bi) there’s always a tendency for me to compare and how the two are so dynamically opposed. But, works for masc V or a nonbinary V too, btw. Aint not exclusionary bullshit in this house.

River just offers V such the polar opposite of Johnny. River is like the domestic sweetheart former cop and Johnny is a feral terrorist rockerboy. Johnny represents chaos and disorder; River represents a more controlled fight against the system, more order than Johnny for sure. Cause River does turn against the system and sees how unfair it is, but his response to withdraw from it and fight for what matters to him most, trying to help people. And Johnny turns against the system by sending a big explosive message, but is shitty to people on an individual level. River wants to help change people’s lives on an individual personal level; becoming a private eye so he won’t be bogged down in doing so by the constraints of the system. Johnny has this vision of changing people’s lives by destroying the system that hurts them. Johnny is ruthless and River is more contained. They both have values that are important to them and a desire to help in some way; but go about it in very different ways. And when it comes to V and romance, River falls quick and isn’t afraid to put it on the table. Johnny doesn’t have that freedom, constrained by circumstance, or the emotional maturity. River isn’t burdened by guilt or the reality of V’s shortening lifespan.

And to me, at least playing as a fem! V. River is by far the most blatantly romantic and upfront about his feelings for V. Like I never got the feeling Judy was into my V until the cheek kiss, then its up to V to make a move in the cabin. I dont even think I get the chance to flirt with Panam as fem V and while everything feels flirty; obviously Panam isn’t romanceable to me. But I do believe I was shown that masc V is expected to initiate and then she’ll give a return kiss the next morning? (correct me if wrong) And I know with Kerry, you give the option no matter what to try to romance on the balcony, fem V getting shot down. Then I was downright shocked when me helping Kerry break something was treated as a romantic advance. Whereas River is just; his whole ass family being like RIVER WANTS TO KISS YOU!!!!!!!!!!!! and him being like...”they’re not wrong...”

So, Johnny has a lot of jealousy imo about how River offers something so different then him, can be open and honest with his feelings in a way he can’t. AND River has a silver hand too, what the fuck, copyright infringement much!?

And then Johnny’s back and River was assumably respectfully rejected by V. And he can see that V likes Johnny but....he’s kind of a dick????? At least Johnny’s a bit of a dick to River (for reasons) and he’s kinda unreliable and all over the place, at least to River. But V likes him and also Randy likes Johnny, cause tell me a teenage delinquent who loves rock music wouldn’t like Johnny, and he’s like, V, he taught Monique and Dorian to swear and called their favorite game cop propaganda. He’s loud, he’s gross, he’s childish at times. And, really V...really???? He’s the guy you wanna spend all your time with????? Really???? Are you sure there wasn’t left over brain damage after mikoshi???

And me and my friend @tender-wounds have joked a lot about how picking Johnny when River is like right there, is basically any incel or “nice guy”’s worst fucking nightmare. Not that River is any of those things because he’s obviously not. But like, you have this nice domestic, sweet guy, just wants to do the right thing, he cooks for you, he’s even like 6′5, good looking fellow, AND YOU CHOOSE THE GREASY ROCKER BOY WHO SMACKED YOU ON DAY ONE, CAUSE WELL, HE CHANGED.

LIKE ITS ACTUALLY KINDA HYSTERICAL BUT LIKE, I LOVE HIM.

#cyberpunk 2077 #cp2077 #johnny silverhand #river ward #silverv #Anonymous

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thegyusorcerer · 3 years

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I've been wanting to write down some thoughts & look back at my 'aroace lesbian' discovery so I'll try to write that. Feel free to scroll though, because it may get long. No hard feelings :))

tw // homophobia, religion.

So... as you may know if you've been on my blog for a while now: I'm asexual. I don't experience sexual attraction and I honestly never have, I can't recall a moment in my 19 years of life where I have ever felt or thought about having sex with someone specific or to do sexual things with someone... no one regardless of their gender. Discovering asexuality was like giving that blank feeling I had felt for years, a name. 🥺💜 "I really am ace." The journey surrounding my romantic orientation and other parts of me... aren't as clear-cut so put your seat belts on.

Growing up, I never had the desire to be in a romantic relationship and never liked anyone that way. No matter how close friends we were with someone I didn't want to kiss them or do romantic things so I should've connected two-and-two. I didn't experience romantic feelings... aromantic was fit, you know? 👀 I never had a crush; though I thought I did bc I always chose the prettiest person in the room and name them "my crush" but I never thought of dating them or being in a relationship with them I just wanted to like... admire them from afar.

So when I heard aromanticism it felt like me, like the word I was missing about my identity. "I must be aromantic bc I have never experienced romantic attraction. And I'm asexual so... I'm aroace?" But you know, these things are never that easy. Because I knew I didn't want a romantic partner but I did want a companionship... a life partner of sorts. And it confused me a lot for a while bc I thought I still wanted romance but understanding that feeling I had, made me come to terms with who I am.

Here's where it becomes complicated...

Living in a very religious household made me be very involved in church and its doctrines so I thought, for years, that homosexuality was a sin. And this really made me struggle with internalized homophobia for a while because I was very mean to myself (I recall very well how whenever I saw a pretty girl or spent time with a girl and really liked her I told to myself things like "no, you can't. That's sinful. You don't like girls"). It took me quite a while to deprogram everything I'd been taught; but when I did, I was able to acknowledge: "Yes, I like girls." I've always liked girls. 🥺💖 Even if I have never experienced sexual attraction towards any girl in my life... or explicitly romantic attraction, I have always liked girls. Which can be confusing for people that don't know about different types of attraction but that's who I am.

I know it, deep in my soul that I really like girls. I don't feel the same way about anyone, how I feel attracted to girls. I'm aromantic and asexual, so I know what this feeling is and it is not either. I like them in many ways and even if I do not want a romantic relationship or stereotipically romantic things with anyone... I think I do want a life partner, a companionship. And I can only visualize a future that makes me happy next to a girl I'm close with. I'm a lesbian 💖

Girls always caught my attention first since a young age (ALL GIRLS ARE SO PRETTY 🥰) and I've always felt more comfortable around girls, being affectionate with girls and being myself. I like girls. And it feels right to say it. 🤍

Learning about the different types of attraction helped me understand that yes, I can indeed, like girls even if it's not sexual or romantic. It just feels right to be close with a girl, spent hours talking, laughing and be affectionate with them and treat each other kindly. So it has to mean something. For me it does mean something. That I'm able to feel this way about someone I'm close with even if it's not romantic or sexual. 🤍 That's why I am a lesbian. Because I like girls in some ambiguously romantic way. Maybe alterous is the word I'm looking for. Yeah.

If you've read until here, THANK YOU! really. I know it got long but I've been wanting to share this for a while now. 😅 I hope it can help someone out there to know they're not alone in this feeling 💖 To my lesbian/sapphic oriented aroaces, aro/ace, aspec sapphics: I see you, I love you (platonically) and I'm here for you! You're more than enough and valuable. For you: 🌸

#storytime #your local aroace lesbian #self discovery journey #aro #ace #aroace #lesbian #sapphic #wlw #pride #💚🤍🖤#🖤🤍💜#🧡🤍💖#oriented aroace

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hellomynameisbisexual · 3 years

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“Personally, I think choosing between men and women is like choosing between cake and ice cream; you’d be daft not to try both when there are so many different flavours.” This endearing analogy, uttered by equally endearing Icelandic icon Björk, stresses her steadfast opinion that “everyone is bisexual”. But even if bisexuality doesn’t describe everyone, it makes up the largest proportion of all people non-compliant to the adjective ‘straight’. Simply put, bisexuality is a term to describe individuals who feel romantically and/or sexually attracted to both sexes, meaning their preference is neither exclusive to men nor women.

But despite its sizeable demographic, and the numerous studies which conclude pure hetero- or homosexuality to be a myth, bisexuals often fall victim to social ostracism. Too gay for straights, too straight for gays, bisexuals are too frequently labelled as frauds or experimentalists, incapable of committing to one sole party. And as society’s understanding of sex and gender progresses, leaving little room for binaries, ‘bi’sexuality becomes increasingly complex.

Bisexuality Pride LGBTQ David Bowie Lady Gaga Freddie Mercury Music Pop Culture Pride 2019 Pansexual Queer Think Piece

A constant and bothersome companion to bisexuality is its apparent ambiguity—society’s inability to grasp the potential for erotic or amorous interaction with not just one of the two sexes has wrongfully made bisexuality a matter of superstition. A recent study found that bisexuals, of all sexual minorities, are the most likely to suffer from mental illness along the lines of anxiety and depression, stemming from both internalised and externally inflicted biphobia on account of stigmatisation and discrimination induced not only by straight people, but by members of their own community as well. The most prevalent vehicle for intolerance of bisexuals is (surprise, surprise) the narrow-minded idea of there only being two sides to pick from, leading to nonsense-assessments à la “bi people are repressing something”, “bi people are on the verge”. Moreover, male-identifying bisexuals are regularly pigeonholed as gay men who want to feel more “normal” every now and then by strutting alongside a woman, whereas many bisexual women endure belittlement, their experiences reduced to mere trial and error phases of rebellious college years.

But what does being bi even really mean in an age when dating apps such as Tinder offer more than 20 options to describe one’s own identity? How timely is the concept of bisexuality when we’re on the cusp of throwing out expired definitions meant to mathematise human sexuality and identity politics? Connecting the dots—ranging from those force-feeding frequently surreal interpretations of bisexuality to the rusty roles and rules of gender coinciding herewith—brings along another, very new problem for and with the titular term. Bisexuality is rooted in duality—its name is predicated on the ‘fact’ that there are two genders: male and female. Present day’s discourse, however, has done its best at dismantling said duality, pushing the notion of gender as a social construct. What makes bisexuality a problem for mainstream culture to comprehend is the underlying, subtle reality that it ultimately caters to everyone but the straight cis-man—unfathomable for a mindset cemented in patriarchal convictions. It, with other things, then leads to a phenomenon called bi-erasure, and furthermore to bigotry at its broadest, sourced from wide-spread disregard for sexual fluidity and refusal of the concept that one doesn’t feel exclusively drawn to one thing in favour of the other.

It’s this exact type of treatment that exhibits the general populace’s insufficient degree of sensibility in dealing with matters “out of the ordinary” and why, despite it’s historic prolificacy (ancient Greek, Japanese and Roman depictions of bisexual relationships were fairly common), sexual fluidity didn’t gain mainstream momentum until the 70s, when Freddie Mercury and David Bowie emerged as two high profile beacons of the cause. Where previously bisexuality had been the product of retrospective speculation—Hollywood figures such as James Dean, Marlon Brando and Greta Garbo were ‘outed’ after their careers ended—pop music popularised bisexuality in the present—and for an audience beyond the queer underground.

That’s not to say Bowie’s take on bisexuality exactly exuded ‘Pride’—in fact, the artist explained more than once that officially coming out did him more harm than good. Still an undeniable legend in- and outside of the LGBTQ+ cosmos, Bowie—just as other people in his shoes—had difficulties with the term in question, revoking or minimising claims again and again—to the point that, to this day, biographers, fans and exes alike remain unsure wether or not he felt honestly attracted to women and men, or was merely intrigued by bisexuality on a shock value- or curiosity-level. It resembles the kind of borderline sensationalism that brought forth Madonna and Britney’s VMA kiss, vague-at-best comments by celebs in interviews and other question-worthy instances of how bisexuality has been brushed up against, but rarely embraced on a genuine level by people of public interest.

It all charts back to what is referred to as the male gaze—the filter through which we’ve been taught to consume our environment, particularly by way of media. Even the little bits and pieces one does see tapping into alternatives to classic hetero monogamy are mostly blemished by negative stereotyping and bizarrely hypersexualised scenes fresh out of frat-bro wet-dreams. Going against this grain is Desiree Akhavan’s series “The Bisexual”, in which the 35-year old actress, director and HBO’s “Girls”-alumna has managed to entertainingly and thoughtfully depict what might be be one of the first examples of how to pop culturally handle the often conflicting topic of being bisexual with care.

Aforementioned proceedings considered, execution and a heightened awareness for cause-and-effects are why a new generation of vocal youth has, across all platforms, boosted a conversation to crack open the boxes we are either placed in, or choose to place ourselves in for fear of bad resonance. More modern, more inclusive designs like pansexual—the tendency to sexually or romantically like someone in spite of biologically- or self-ascribed traits of gender or sex—are on a rise. To many, ‘queer’ is the least restrictive of all labels, indicative of liberation from the binary. In this instance, it seems as though bisexuality in its traditional sense no longer remains the most politically correct of all notions.

But that being said, we mustn’t forget: labels can do harm, but they also set free. The ability to engage in conversations like these is a privilege we’ve been afforded in the West—a privilege that’s important to remember at the time when our part of the globe celebrates Pride, while others in the LGBTQ+ community elsewhere are being imprisoned or even killed for their sexual identities. Bisexuality, and everything that has branched from it to articulate sexual fluidity, needs to be taken seriously within our own, local spaces—just as serious as every other letter in the line-up that constitutes the LGBTQ+ umbrella. Resisting to defy suppressions of any kind—even if you’re not personally vulnerable to their consequences—results in nothing. It’s only through efforts to increase visibility inside our already comparatively progressive realms that we can transport Pride’s cause to places still at unease with non-heteronormativity, and actually feel proud.

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enthusiasticsobrietyabuse · 3 years

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Re-post from r/MeehanSurvivors Reddit Community. An Enthusiastic Sobriety Counselor Survivor Story.

TW: References to child pornography, conversion therapy, homophobia, masturbation, and sex.

I would love nothing more than to preserve my admiration for the program, if only for the reason that it would be easier to do so, but after years of being deceived, I find it utterly absurd to disregard any contempt on the basis of the misplaced gratitude that it saved my life. While the program undoubtedly contributed to my success in a number of ways, it has nevertheless become clear that I’ve walked away with trauma that, even after all of this time, I fail to wholly understand. What I do know, however, is that my disillusionment with enthusiastic sobriety is heavily rooted in how I was treated, as the people who claimed to love me evidently made it their mission to eradicate who I was and, likewise, transform me into a duller, lesser version of themselves. I will never know who I could’ve been had they honored the parts of myself that needed nurturing, only who I am today and the damage I’ve since been left with.

From the moment I joined the program, I knew exactly what its expectations were. It was made abundantly clear throughout the treatment process, where I was bombarded with endless conversations about what it meant to be a winner - a concept given context far beyond a sober individual working the twelve steps. I was not only told how to behave, but what to believe about every area of my life. It did not matter if those areas were deeply personal, as evidenced by the countless discussions related to sex; in fact, I would not only learn who we could and could not fantasize about while masturbating, but what we could and could not do sexually - as if we could not be trusted to determine for ourselves the actions we take in our own bedrooms. I also found myself on the receiving end of many conversations revolving around whether or not it was acceptable to shave one’s own pubic region, as was a commonly held belief that a shaved pubic region was not only unnecessary, but a product of one’s own vanity that, incidentally, mimics child pornography. Perhaps more disturbing, however, was the ideology surrounding pornography, in general, that we were ordinarily subjected to. We were first told that no self-respecting woman would want to be with a man who’s actively watching porn; then, we were told that it alters a man’s behavior so much that women will be able to recognize whether or not they watch it. The possibility of romance was used as a weapon against us by the counselors, as well as group members, to conform to their principles, rather than allowing us to establish our own and when that didn’t work, personal attacks were their next best option. I remember being asked if I really wanted to be the guy who’s strung out on porn the rest of his life, as if it was some kind of crippling addiction that would keep me from getting anything I ever wanted out of life. Even more importantly, however, it was through these frequent exchanges that I became familiarized with “Pavlov’s Dog Theory,” a scientific study so bastardized by the counselors that it existed solely to explain away the possibility of any non-heterosexual orientation. Being insecure with my own sexuality, it was of course music to my ears to discover that my attraction to the same sex, a perversion as I then recognized it, was the result of watching too much porn and could be easily resolved by the work outlined by the program. For the next few years, I would work endlessly to alter my sexual orientation back to “normal” and apparently did so well enough that I was eventually asked to attend the Meehan Institute of Counselor Training.

When I was in counselor training, most of what we discussed had very little to do with counseling; in fact, the information required to pass the state-mandated test was tossed aside in exchange for the radically inappropriate teachings that came directly from the program itself. Examples of this, of course, include the explanation that non-heterosexual orientations were not only “unnatural” but an expression of one’s perverse desire for instant gratification, usually resulting from either their addiction to porn, as I had already learned in outpatient, or their unresolved childhood trauma. It was also reasoned that an attraction to the same sex was often a natural consequence of being in an abusive relationship with a member of the opposite sex, a belief supported only by the theory that the person, in question, had unlikely resolved their own fear of getting hurt again. Some people were just “pussies” that had decided to seek the “easier, softer way,” an almost comical assumption given that there is nothing “easier” or “softer” about being queer. I would actually be referred to as a “pussy” while sharing to one of the program's many directors that I had sexual thoughts about other men. His solution for me was that since “there is nothing romantic about two men butt fucking each other,” I should spend the time wasted fantasizing about that on where I would like to take a girl on a date. It’s these ways of thinking that we, who’s families spend $5,600 to send us to counselor training, learn for the three months that we’re there. It’s these three months, where we are taught that absurdity is a natural substitute for science, that earn us the right to then counsel others, many of whom are children. I never could've imagined the abuse that would follow, despite the seeds that had been sown throughout the better part of my recovery.

A few weeks after I graduated from counselor training, when I was working the Step One shift, a couple of the program's directors took me away from it to smoke cigars with them. It was there that they talked to me about how I needed to work on developing more masculine qualities, perhaps by engaging in a hobby that was, according to them, “outside of my comfort zone.” Later on, one of my coworkers would lecture me for the way I had reached out to a girl in the group, explaining that she, along with others, might think that I’m gay for agreeing to watch a “chick flick” with her. Another coworker would make fun of me for crying to a song that reminded me of my dead parent, for the reason that it was, according to her, a “gay” thing to do. In one of the monthly purpose meetings, the director made jokes about me being “inside” of another male counselor - something that was received only with laughter. Bob Meehan himself would even tell the training class following my own that while I deserved the upmost respect for taking everyone’s shit, I was probably gay. When I would share how I felt, in reference to these incidents, I was told that my options were either to “change it” or to “own it.” I began to internalize all of this and, due to my own desire to be accepted, I began working even harder to change these qualities that had been deemed unacceptable by those around me. I would later be celebrated in a purpose for denouncing a dramatic television show for the reason that when I watched it, it made me feel like a “faggot;” however, even that wouldn’t satisfy those around me, as my sponsor, who was also my coworker, would suggest that I stop watching Friends, as well, due to the fact that it was the kind of show his wife watched. I would experience similar criticism from yet another coworker who suggested that I only liked “girly shit” for “shock value” and that it was nothing more than my ego attempting to differentiate myself from everyone else. If by now you’re wondering why I even participated in these conversations, all I can say is that it was always in pursuit of becoming a better man and I trusted that the staff had those answers. I couldn't have been more wrong, as I can't help but notice today that what I was subjected to is in direct opposition of the very laws that protect employees from this kind of treatment by their employers; however, in the program, what’s illegal is classified as “spiritual.”

For years, I felt relegated to a subclass of human existence and for what reason? I spent years working on the things that made my life unmanageable primarily because the people around me decided that it was. Furthermore, I was promised that if I stopped watching porn, which I did for years, my brain would rewire itself and I would no longer be attracted to men. As stupid as that sounds now, why wouldn’t I, as an 18 year old, believe what I was hearing from who I only presumed to be trained professionals? I trusted them and really worked hard to take their every suggestion, going as far as becoming a member of Sexaholics Anonymous, despite the fact that I had never even had sex at that point. It was nothing if not incredibly painful to do the same thing over and over again, only to be told to get up and try again by the very people who would describe that as insanity in any other case. I was never once told that what I was doing wasn’t working for me; instead, I was told to try harder. In all of the time I spent in the program, I was never even given the option to try something different until after quitting, when someone told me that my sexual orientation, whatever it may be, was perfectly acceptable and far from a determining factor in my ability to effectively work a program. It took years to hear that, the majority of which were spent somewhere that I definitely should have. That is not only unacceptable but they should be absolutely ashamed of themselves.

Alas, the problem I have with the program is not necessarily that they’ll never apologize to me, but that they lack the self-awareness to even consider it. When I shared my concerns about the program with one of their counselors, he dismissed them with the statement that it’s a perfect program ran by imperfect people and that I should judge them not by their actions, but by their intentions, which coincidentally, contradicts the program’s reliance on a quote from the big book of Alcoholics Anonymous that states exactly the opposite. He also told me that I was angry and resentful, despite the fact that I was neither. When I shared my concerns with another counselor, he dismissed them with the suggestion that perhaps the counseling I received, in regards to my sexual orientation, resulted from how I presented it to the staff. His feedback was not only highly insulting, but a complete bastardization of the facts. Not only was I brutally honest about that area of my life, so much that it's all I spoke of, but I was the client and it was far from my role to ensure that the counselors did their job. I was little more than a child at the time; nevertheless, the implication that my negative experiences were all my fault only served as evidence that any attempt to cooperate with the program, and convince them of the ways in which I was harmed, is futile. Why would I want to, anyway, after years of watching any criticism of the program be rationalized as the delusions of “bailed kids” or “disgruntled ex-staff?” The only answer would be to prevent it from happening again, although to think that outcome is even a possibility appears naïve at best. They’ve made it abundantly clear where they stand, that they’re right, everyone else is wrong, and there’s no reason for them to change anything - lest of course it threatens their credibility, which in that case they only become more insidious in their transgressions.

TLDR: The program not only intrusively dictates the sex lives of their clients, but has proven itself to be particularly unloving toward those who are LGBTQIA+. It is a cultural issue that can not be reduced to a few examples of bad counseling. It is clear that they see no reason whatsoever to change this.

#the insight program #the cornerstone program #the pathway program #the crossroads program #the full circle program #believe survivors #breakingcodesilence #troubled teen industry #clint stonebraker

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stubbychaos · 4 years

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Princess

Summary: You and the Mandalorian relax and reflect after a long and tiring job on Cantonica.

Rated: Explicit for sexual content and language.

Word count: This was supposed to only supposed to be 2,000 words and it somehow turned into 5,700 because I wanted more chemistry between reader and Mando lol. There’s obviously an established relationship between them and I just wanted to, y’know, expand a little on that bc I’m a hopeless romantic.

Warnings: Brief mentions of reader being harassed by Burg. Other than that, this is mostly fluff and smut lol

Notes: This is literally the first time I’ve ever really written smut that I’m somewhat happy with and even though I’m terrified of putting it on Tumblr, I sincerely welcome any advice or constructive criticism. I just ask that you keep your comments somewhat polite because I’m a sensitive bitch lol. I have like half of a second part outlined if you guys want another chapter of this <3

You aren't sure where the sudden surge of audacity comes from as you and the Mandalorian make your way onto the Razor Crest after a long day of work on Cantonica.

You watch as he gingerly tucks the little one into his secret little cubby and closes it so he can sleep more peacefully; your heart swells in your chest at how gentle he always is with his foundling--his son. The sun is now setting over the horizon and a cool breeze wafted into the hull of the ship, causing your dress to flutter a little, ultimately exposing your thighs through the long slits in the dress you wear. Your long waves tickle your collarbones and you’re not used to exposing so much skin, the wide, dipped neckline coming to a stop right at your sternum. Despite the cool breeze that intrudes the normally stale atmosphere of the Razor Crest, your skin feels like it’s on fire as he turns to gaze at you through that unforgiving Beskar gaze, his eyes undoubtedly taking in all of the exposed skin that you only ever let him touch.

The beautiful dress you’re currently wearing had come in handy for a job in Canto Bight where the Mandalorian had been asked to capture a quarry that owed over a few thousand credits to an owner of a wealthy casino. It was the kind of job where you and the green bean had been dragged along for the ride, not having the choice of staying on the ship because Din had deemed it too dangerous to stay on the Razor Crest in such a populated city. It wasn’t often that the notorious bounty hunter urged you off the ship whenever he took a new job, but whenever he asked you to follow him to whatever destination his bounty was currently residing at, you knew it was imperative to listen to the Mandalorian.

The quarry he’d been hunting all day enjoyed frequenting a high class casino and while your Mandalorian’s Beskar armor already established him as a wealthy, notorious hunter--despite living from paycheck to paycheck most of the time--the flimsy fabric of the thin black tunic and leggings you usually wore weren’t up to standards with what an established woman should look like in a wealthy city like Canto Bight.

The thought of you trying to be an ‘established’ woman nearly makes you giggle, knowing damn well that there was nothing established and respectable about a young woman traipsing through the galaxy with a bounty hunter and a green toddler with astounding abilities.

You were sure you would never be Canto Bight’s expectation of a wealthy woman.

Not that you or Din cared, but that being said, you both knew you needed to blend in and he had surprised you months earlier with a dress that he had bought for you when they had been on Brentaal IV after a close call with a few Imps trying to take down the Crest. He had seen you eyeing the beautiful white fabric in the marketplace, tracing the hems and jeweled straps with admiration, though you had refused to buy it, insisting that you needed to save the credits for the baby and ship repairs. Realizing that you hardly ever spent your credits on little things for yourself, the Mandalorian had told you that he had some business to take care of and would meet up with you by the twilight hour--your favorite time of the day, no matter what planet they were on.

Needless to say, you had been in tears when you found the dress on your stiff cot later that night.

“Thank you for the dress,” You murmur and slowly approach him, stopping halfway when you finally notice the way he lowers his helmet with a slight tilt and you know he’s gazing at you attentively, “You never told me if you liked how I look in it. Do you think I look pretty in it, Din?”

He stares at you through the safety of his visor and you nearly rip off his helmet right then and there, though you restrain for the sake of whatever flushed expression he’s currently wearing on his scruffy face.

The white dress is pretty simple and falls to your ankles, slits going up to the middle of each thigh; the neckline of the collar exposes more cleavage than what you are used to and had been embroidered in a beautiful yellow floral pattern by a talented seamstress. Shimmering gems had been carefully sewed in the center of each yellow flower that seemed to shine brighter with the golden rays from the sunset that bathed you in its ethereal light. You had seen him glancing at you periodically throughout the evening and it wasn’t until the third time a man came up to where you had been standing at the bar--your eyes carefully scanning your surroundings as you held the curious green bean--that the Mandalorian decided to put you out of your misery and come to your aid. You had jumped a little upon feeling a familiar, leather-clad hand on the small of your back and was surprised to find that his helmet was tilted downwards a little more than it normally was when he would look at your face.

You wondered if he had been looking at your cleavage and the thought had you blushing the whole night.

“You look...” The Mandalorian lets out a strange noise that sounds garbled through his modulator and you hope it’s because he’s overwhelmed in the most pleasant way by what he sees through that emotionless visor. Typically, you weren’t one to fish for compliments, especially from him because you know that the normally stoic bounty hunter isn’t the best with sweet words, doing most of his talking when he has his head between your legs or his cock buried deep inside of you.

Most of what he usually says is either incoherent babbling or hushed compliments in his native tongue, not that you ever mind his inept way with words when it comes to certain matters. Something about watching a fearless Mandalorian--someone that most felt an overwhelming sense of fear just upon sight--getting nervous when talking about his feelings or giving you compliments always reminds you just how human he was.

He was endearing without even realizing it most of the time.

Your scruffy Mandalorian had shyly admitted numerous times in the year and a half you’d been working for him that he found you to be physically beautiful, but the thought of someone genuinely finding your personality and soul attractive made your toes curl and your cheeks heat up. The intimidating bounty hunter always insists that you meant a lot to not only the kid, but to him as well, and even though you had been initially hired to take care of his foundling, you found yourself taking care of the reckless bounty hunter as well.

Where once he would begrudgingly admit he didn’t need your help, he slowly started to cave in and grew warmer towards you whenever you would bring him a warm, cooked meal to the cockpit, rather than a cold ration bar. Gratitude would fill his voice whenever you would treat his wounds with soft hands, numbing gel, and precise stitches if they were out of bacta, rather than making him take care of it himself with an old cauterizer that caused him unnecessary pain. Instead of constantly feeling exhausted because he rarely got to sleep consistently before you showed up, he taught you how to pilot the ship and would let you take care of navigating the Crest while you took care of his mischievous foundling so he could get some rest after a particularly rough job.

He always insists that you need to look after yourself more, but you’ve never had a family of your own and you want to take care of the tiny clan that the Maker had for whatever reason blessed you with.

You want to take care of the man that had given you a job when you had been at your lowest, along with a sense of purpose and hope for the future.

You want to take care of the only human being that has ever truly loved you.

Din makes his way closer to you, his footsteps slow and he seems to hesitate before he takes his gauntlets and gloves off and lets them fall to the floor with a loud clunk; you’ve been with him for so long, yet he still sometimes fears he’s going to accidentally hurt you, as if you were made of cracked glass. A bare hand reaches out for you and you feel courageous and beautiful as you stare up at him, shivering with delight when his calloused fingers brush along the thin strap that had kept falling off your shoulder all day and evening, his palm moving up to cup your jaw with the utmost softness instead. He leans his helmet down a little when you stand on your tippy toes, a smile spreading across your lips when you feel the cold press of his Beskar forehead against your bare one--a Mandalorian’s version of an affectionate, tender kiss--and the two of you remain like that for a few peaceful moments.

“May I?” You murmur politely with a tilt of your head when your fingers cautiously curl under the lip of his helmet, only lifting the heavy Beskar off his head when he nods his approval with a small chuckle, making you pout a little. Despite being his wife and owning the privilege of seeing his face when you two are alone, you can’t stop yourself from always asking him if you can remove his helmet and armor, or instinctively closing your eyes when he removes himself in the cockpit or his private quarters. You had convinced yourself for such a long time after being hired by him that you’d never see the stoic Mandalorian’s face, let alone watch him bare it willingly to you.

How he had certainly proved you wrong about that.

Stars… he always seemed to surprise you and you loved him even more for it.

Thinking about it now--given everything you two had been through together--you find it funny that you had once been intimidated by the fearless bounty hunter and had struggled to even meet the expressionless gaze of his helmet. For at least the first month, you would merely stare at his shiny cuirass whenever he would ask about his foundling after he would come back from a job, only answering in a meek voice until he seemed satisfied. Suspecting he wasn’t much of a talker, you were more than happy to sit in silence in the hull of the Crest, just past where he kept bounties in carbonite, and you would only venture up to the cockpit to put the child in his pram or give your boss a warm meal.

It wasn’t until the Mandalorian had defended you against the terrifyingly huge Devaronian, Burg, and the rest of Ran’s band of misfits that had been assigned to help Mando on a job, that you found yourself trusting him more.

Your face grows warm as you remember how furious Din had been when he’d climbed down from the cockpit to find you backed up into a corner near the armory, shaking with fear as the Devaronian inspected you with a massive hand painfully squeezing your cheeks hard enough to bruise your sensitive skin while the rest of the team cruelly taunted you. The Mandalorian had immediately expressed his anger--his fury--as he easily ripped the massive man away from you, slamming him into the metal ladder before crushing him into the secret compartment where he normally kept the child hidden against unwanted visitors.

You remember how frantic he had sounded when the group eventually departed the ship, his voice only softening when he noticed the tears in your eyes and the shame burning bright in your red cheeks as you weakly apologized to him, though the shame belonged to Burg--something he would later remind you of after having a bad nightmare of the whole incident. At the time, Mando had merely shaken his helmet at the tremble in your voice before urging you and the child to stay in his private quarters, despite you never being allowed in there.

He had left you on the ship with the untrustworthy droid, but not before cautiously cupping his leather palm to your sore, crimson cheek, your eyes finally meeting his visor for the first time as his thumb traced your cheekbone and the gentle slope of your nose with a pleasant touch that was far softer than the ruthless Devaronian’s.

You found it easier to look at his helmet after that, finally trusting the quiet Mandalorian after he had physically shown how protective he was over you two.

“Ner kar’ta,” Din breathes out before leaning down to press his lips to yours and you immediately melt at how he always kisses you so passionately and slowly after taking his helmet off at the end of the day, like a moon slowly beckoning gentle waves to a sandy shore. You briefly wonder if he’s the ocean and you’re his moon, lighting up his dark, endless nights and you know he wouldn’t hesitate to cause destruction and chaos if you unwillingly disappeared or someone dared to even think about harming you

You shudder when he moves his other hand to the Beskar pendant that hangs between your collarbones and you listen to the soft sigh that leaves his modulator at the implication of the familiar, mudhorn signet that shows the galaxy that you belong to his little clan. In a similar gesture, your hand finds his pauldron as he gazes at you with intense reverence while you carefully trace the outline of the signet as if it’s going to break despite being made of Beskar; you don’t even realize you’re smiling so fondly, tears threatening to burn your eyes.

‘The Djarin Clan…’

This was the only family you ever had and he reminded you nearly every day that even though the green bean wasn’t theirs by blood, it made him no less of a son.

‘Aliit ori'shya tal'din…’

You never doubted him for one moment.

Din seems a little startled when you gently grab his wrist, his helmet tilting up a little to look into your eyes through his visor, probably worrying that he had already done something wrong even though he’s merely grazing your collarbones and shoulders so tenderly.

He doesn’t seem to realize that you want more and you know it won’t take long to get him to be a little rougher with you--just the way you both enjoy it after a particularly taxing job.

A strange, delighted noise comes from the back of his throat when you firmly guide his hand lower, his fingers splayed wide and you feel your eyelids flutter a little when his calloused fingers graze the swell of your breasts underneath the beautiful dress. The two of you both let out a little moan when you gently maneuver his hand further down underneath the scooped neckline until his rough hand is firmly palming your breast. Immediately, your nipple peaks from the familiar sensation and he tilts his heated gaze to regard the half-lidded, blissful expression on your flushed face.

He can sense the yearning rolling off of you in waves and you know it by the way his thick cock twitches against your thigh.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes,” He groans, not sure whether you are talking about the dress or your body, but he doesn’t seem to care at that moment, only saying what comes to his mind, “That dress is… you’re an angel--with or without it.”

“Something tells me that you prefer to see me without it.”

“It doesn’t matter to me what you are or aren’t wearing, mesh’la,” His voice is barely there and it almost sounds similar to the occasional crackle that leaves his modulator; you can’t help but to squeeze your thighs at how raspy he sounded, “I fucking want you all the time.”

Slowly, you brush the thin straps down your shoulders and arms, not tearing your eyes away from his face as the swishy material pools at your feet and leaves you vulnerable in front of him.

The first time he’d seen you like this, you had felt self conscious and had tried so hard to cover yourself from him, not sure if he would like what you had to offer.

Now, as he lowers his head a little and stares with half-lidded eyes at all of the flushed skin he wants to explore with his fingers and his mouth--despite memorizing the map of your body long ago--you feel like the most beautiful woman in the galaxy. Your body is completely nude, save for the tiny white shorts that leave nothing to the imagination and the pendant he had given you long ago that rests between your collarbones.

His rich brown eyes meet your sparkling ones before flickering up to the silver circlet crown that rests loosely around your head, the beautiful metal adorned with jeweled stars and a crescent moon that rests against your skin just inches above the center of your brows. A matching armlet that he had gotten for you as a late birthday present was wrapped around your bicep, the diamond encrusted stars shining brightly in the remnants of the vividly rose gold sunset that filters into the Crest. You had been mad at him at the time for spending his credits on something so materialistic, though he insisted that he had more than enough credits after turning in a high class criminal with a hefty price on his head.

You never took the beautiful gift off and it always warranted unrelenting teasing from your partner.

“Never gonna get tired of you. So beautiful, ner riduur," He whispers in a strained tone and you merely continue to stare up at him with those wide eyes as his warm hands graze your bare shoulders and arms, his fingers lightly tracing your beloved armlet, “These stars could only ever hope to be as beautiful as you are,” He continues when you blush furiously from the charming compliment, “They could only wish to shine as brightly as you do.”

Tears form in your eyes and you don’t know why, but you suspect that the pure tenderness of his gravelly voice has something to do with it. You’re not sure what to say as he cradles your cheeks and gazes at you in a way that is somehow softer and sweeter than the compliments he had just showered you with, so you silently let him caress your warm cheeks for a few moments before his mouth is on yours again.

“Mesh’la,” He coos, saying it over and over as he kisses the corner of your mouth before his lips find purchase against your jaw instead.

You half expect him to remove the pieces of jewelry, but he merely skims his lips along the underside of your jawline in search of the spot that he had long ago discovered was sensitive. A needy whimper beckons him to sink his teeth into the delicate skin and you can feel his cock twitch against your belly as whimpers turn into heavy moans when he makes sure to leave a deep mark behind.

“You look like a fucking princess with that crown,” Din groans against the slope of your neck as he corrects himself, “No, you look like a queen and they all thought so too,” he informs you, leaving another crimson mark that would later turn into a bruise at the curve of your shoulder, “Bet all of those dirty men in that casino would have bowed at your feet just to get a taste of you, cyar’ika.”

You huff out a laugh at the jealousy tainting his usually cool and calm voice, though it quickly dies down and is replaced with a choked sob when he drops his head to nip the swell of your breast. Immediately, you drag a hand up between the defined valleys of his shoulder blades and up his nape; a shudder wracks your body when he brings a hard nipple between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue.

“Something tells me you wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Would have fucked you in front of all them to get the point across,” his hands grip your hips so tightly that you’re sure they’ll bruise and the thought makes you warm and wet, “That casino was too disgusting for someone as beautiful as you to be in--too disgusting to fuck you in that pretty white dress.”

You grab his cheeks firmly, efficiently halting him from where he was currently grazing a constellation of freckles underneath your breast, and bring his scruffy face up until his parted lips are pressing against yours, his tongue licking into the hot tavern of your mouth. The kiss is nothing like the one you two shared earlier when you had taken off his helmet, instead, it’s now sloppy and dirty; it’s a silent promise that he’s going to wreck you in the most pleasurable way.

Much to your amusement, Din pouts a little when you pull away from him before you playfully tease him by taking his earlobe between your teeth, causing his already rough grip on your hips to grow slightly painful. He learned long ago that you didn’t mind it, that even though everyone perceived you to be tiny and meek, you were anything but when it was the two of you behind closed doors.

“Yet you’ll have your way with me against the wall of this dirty ship,” You remind him, amused by the grunt he lets out as you tug his earlobe a little painfully.

He traces his hands down your hips and roughly grips the soft globes of your ass, pulling you flush against him until all you can feel is cold Beskar steel and a cock against your belly that feels just as unyielding.

It leaves you lightheaded.

“Tell me then, mesh’la,” He pins you until the middle of your back is pressed up against a long shelf bolted to the wall and your heart pulses with anticipation, “Where would you prefer me to fuck you on our ship?”

You mewl faintly when he grabs your sore hips again, effortlessly lifting you until you’re sitting on the long metal shelf bolted to the wall and he’s surprisingly cordial enough for once to not tear your shorts straight down the middle, instead helping you to shuffle them down your legs before unceremoniously launching them in the general direction of your discarded dress. Your breath hitches when he remains kneeling down where your feet are currently dangling in front of his face and he makes quick work to remove your strappy sandals, untying the thin leather straps from around your calves and letting it fall to your ankles. A single dimple appears on his scruffy cheek when he removes the sandals completely and watches as you lightly roll your ankles around now that they’re not restrained and being chafed by rough leather.

“You never answered my question, princess,” He places a tender kiss against the inside of your sore ankle and you think it’s the first time he’s ever called you that, but it makes you grow wetter and your cheeks burn like coals as your cunt flutters and clenches around nothing, “Where would you rather be right now? You don’t want to be pressed up against this wall with my face between your thighs--eating that pretty pussy?”

“I quite liked the--Din!” You whine and squirm when he roughly nips your lower thigh, just above the inside of your knee where he somehow discovered long ago was another sensitive spot, “I uh, the c-cockpit was kinda fun, yeah?”

He huffs out an amused sigh against your smooth skin and as he continues his tortuously delicious ascent, you don’t hesitate to wrap your thighs around his scruffy face when he gets dangerously close to the apex of your thigh, “Yeah, until you fell onto the control pad and almost blew up the damn ship.”

“That w-was--” A sharp bite at your lower hip is a warning, one that you choose to ignore in hopes he’ll punish you, “Your fault for making me ride you backwards.”

His mustache tickles and burns your skin as he moves his head until he’s just centimeters from your throbbing clit, “Thought you’d like to see the stars while you fuck yourself on my cock, princess.”

You open your mouth to backsass the stubborn Mandalorian, but all that comes out is a breathless sob as his mouth covers that little bundle of nerves that he seems so obsessed with every time he ends up with his head between your legs. When the two of you had first started becoming intimate, even before he had asked you to be his ridduur and you two had taken your vows, Din had always been so insistent on tasting you and could do it for hours on end if he had it his way. It must pertain to him wearing the helmet for so long and never having the opportunity to be selfish and take it off during sec, you briefly think before he licks a hot stripe up your slit and ultimately lands back on your clit.

You nearly lose all thought as your fingers thread through his curls, damp with sweat from donning his helmet all day, though you don’t care and hold on tightly to keep him in place, “P-Princess? I thought you said I looked like a queen.”

He removes his mouth and before you can whimper at the agonizing loss, you’re stretched around two of his thick fingers and you nearly concuss yourself when you throw your head against the wall behind you, feeling his lips curve into a smile against your belly button before his tongue grazes the tiny divot in your abdomen. You don’t know whether to moan or laugh--what with his fingers curling so deep inside of your slick heat, but his tongue teasing such a ticklish spot on your body--and the noise that comes out of you is an awkward whine of a chuckle. His shoulders shake under the back of your thighs and you know that smug asshole is laughing at you.

“You always look like a queen, mesh’la,” He’s still laughing breathlessly as he slips a third finger inside of your intense warmth, making you painfully arch your back at the delightful stretch of his thick digits, “Sometimes you act like a bratty princess though, especially when it’s just us.”

“Maybe I--” You think he’s ignoring you as he lowers his head and roughly grabs your hips, drawing you forward until you’re about to fall off the shelf before eagerly spreading your thighs wider to get a better look--a better taste--of you, “M-Maybe your attitude rubbed off on me.”

His unforgiving fingers dig into your thighs and you yelp at the punishing gesture, your own fingers curling tightly into his unruly curls when he licks so deep inside of you that it makes you lose your breath. The Mandalorian is good at punishing you in the most pleasurable way, coaxing you to the brink of your orgasm before pulling back and leaving you crying from desperation; it’s something that you simultaneously love and hate, though it’s mostly the former. You try desperately to wrap your thighs around his head, but the esteemed bounty hunter refuses to let you have it your way and tauntingly spreads your legs wider, earning him a loud whine and a painful tug at his hair.

“Din, please!” You cry out when he eases the pressure off of your clit and his fingers slow down, “Please, please--”

He barely lifts his head, but it’s enough to make a tear trickle down your cheek from the loss of his talented mouth, “What’s wrong, princess?” He chuckles when you clench around his fingers upon hearing the new pet name he’s bestowed upon you and you want to slap that smug, dimpled grin off of his stupid stubbly face, “Suddenly you decide to have manners? Is this all I had to do to get you to say please and thank you? Shove my fingers in your wet--”

“Just fuck me already,” You wail, eyes screwed shut as he curls his finger deep inside you and the muscles in your thighs tense as you desperately chase your release, “Please! I need to… I need you to…”

Your voice trails off with a needy cry when he huffs out an amused chuckle against your sensitive skin, “You’re gonna cum in my mouth and then you’re going to thank me for it, princess, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yes, I promise! Just--”

He cuts you off by burying his face against your pussy and you cry from relief when he lets you squeeze your thighs around his head, further muffling the mouthy Mandalorian and his sweet praises. The bounty hunter can be cruel sometimes, but you’ve learned that if you beg or cry hard enough, he’ll almost always give you what you want--what you need--and he always knows how to give it to you. Always eager to please, Din had learned pretty quickly where you liked to be kissed and licked, how hard to press his fingers or thumb to your clit, when you wanted to be fucked hard or when you wanted him to make love to you. Your riduur knew how to make you squirm just by saying sweet praises to you in that low, guttural voice and he knew how to bring you to the brink of pleasure with his mouth alone.

You don’t even realize you’ve closed your eyes until you hear--and feel--Din moaning against your cunt and you pry your eyelids open to gaze at your lover.

The sight of him leaves you wrecked and heaving, eyes landing on the thick and achingly hard cock he’s currently fisting in a tight grip, his own eyes closed in bliss. Something about him getting off to the pleasure he’s inflicting upon your trembling body has your cunt clamping down like a tight glove around his fingers and you curl forward to press your hands into his broad shoulders.

“Right there,” You let out a breathless sob when his fingers curl deeply inside of your slick heat, “F-Fuck, right there. Please don’t stop.”

His hand pumps his length faster and more erratically at the sound of the desperation in your voice, pre-cum leaking from the tip when you tighten your thighs around his head and your nails dig into his taut shoulders, leaving red scratches in their wake. Tears are threatening to fall down your cheeks from all the overwhelming sensations and emotions--from the way his own moans and whimpers grow desperate as he continues to taste and lap at your pussy like it’s a tall glass of water and he’s been trekking through a Tatooine desert for weeks on end.

“I’m gonna--”

“Fuck, d-do it, princess,” He finally opens his eyes, though they’re still half-lidded and filled with desire as he observes the way you’re unraveling beneath his mouth and hands. You lose yourself in him and the way he attentively coaxes you closer and closer to your sweet release, your hair standing up pin straight on the back of your neck as the muscles in your thighs grow unbelievably tense and sore, despite your lover being nowhere near done with you for the night.

His thumb swirls the few beads of pre-cum over the head of his cock and down his length, his rich brown eyes never leaving yours, and you’re absolutely done for.

If you weren’t so wrapped up in the way you convulsed around his thick fingers or how sensitive your throbbing clit felt between his lips, you would have been more mindful of how tightly you squeezed your thighs around his head or how hard your nails dragged along his shoulders. You felt like such a greedy little thing as you focused on how good he was making you feel and how easy it was for him to make you cum in his mouth, seeming to care more about your needs than his own as he fervently stroked his hard cock.

“There you go, mesh’la,” He groans when your toes curl so tightly that cramps threaten to numb your feet and your head falls back against the steel wall, mouth agape as your body simultaneously grows numb and burns with absolute bliss. You’re not even aware of how you’re pathetically repeating his name like a desperate prayer--like you’re suffering and he’s the only one that can stop the pain.

You suppose he is the only one that can relieve the intense ache and he has no qualms in doing so, gladly guiding you through it all and offering you sweet praises as tense muscles eventually relax around his head and your hands move up his neck to gently stroke the curls there. Tears are shimmering in your eyes as he easily kisses his way up your stomach, earning a breathless whimper that sounds similar to a chuckle as he rubs his stubbly cheek against your belly button.

Your chest is still heaving when he carefully guides you off the sturdy shelf and you’re grateful for his strong arms as you nearly buckle under the weight of your shaking legs, already feeling sore as he lifts you until your thighs are wrapped around his hips instead. How he has the strength to hold you up after all of that, you have no idea, but you don’t complain when he gracefully carries you to the cot that you used to sleep on before you found yourself crawling into his private quarters more often than you should have.

As he gently lies you down on the uncomfortable surface of the stiff padding, you remember his words from earlier when you had been begging him to let you cum around his fingers--in his mouth.

Din covers your relaxed body with his much larger one and you’re quick to press your lips against his earlobe, making sure not to break your promise from earlier.

“Thank you, my riduur.”

He huffs out something reminiscent of a laugh against the curve of your neck, “Don’t know why you’re thanking me when I haven’t even begun.”

Ner kar’ta= My heart

Aliit ori'shya tal'din= Family is more than blood

Ner riduur= My partner, spouse, husband, wife

Cyar’ika= Darling, sweetheart

Mesh’la= Beautiful

#mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #my writing #im so sorry if this is shit lol #it's literally all just foreplay #loool oh well

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jinxthequeergirl · 4 years

Note

1-20 for Ash since he's your groovy boy.

I'M CRYING THE TERM "YOUR GROOVY BOY" MADE MY HEART MELT TO A PUDDLE (i've had a real shit day this is the only think keeping me sane)

In other news i wasn't sure if you meant like 1 through 20 or like just 1 & 20 so i went with the first option just so i could talk about him more(1 through 19 cause two where pretty much the same) I also made sure to make sure this was as gender natural as possible so

Enjoy

1: Cuddling

Ahakakab

Ok firstly Ash?

Biggest cuddlier ever

He just loves the close contact

Spoon wise

He is the big spoon cause he feels like even when sleeping hes protecting you

He also likes two other ways

A: His head on your chest with your arms around him

Because lets face it he also deserves to feel safe and protected

B: facing you with yout limbs in a tangle

Cause he likes to look at/ admire you

You look so peaceful its one of his favorite sights

2: kissing + Favorite kiss

Ash can be a pretty rough kisser

Almost kinda like a "we might die and or never see eachother again so this is my last chance to do this" type of kiss

Sometimes you have to remind him slow down and that everything is ok and as it should be

When he remembers that hes a very passionate kisser

Like he kisses you slowly but just rough enough to be perfection

She said sighing wistfully

They can also be really playful

He'll dip you while kissing you

But also he peppers kisses all over your face while tickling you

his favorite kisses are french and neck kisses

3: Injured

He likes to make jokes about it

To lighten the mood

Just cause seeing you worried about him breaks his heart

But also to make himself feel better and help to not worry bout it to much

He secretly likes getting injured

You're always so sweet and gentel with him

And you give him special treatments ( ;) ya know what i mean?)

He also pretends he doesn't like it when you kiss his injuries cause its "childish"

But he loves it

When you are injured however its a completely diffrent story

Hes not as calm and collected as you can be

Hes angry, worried and very guilty

You can tell he blames himself because he doesn't crack any jokes like usual and hes always very quiet while he's trying to patch you up

"Kiss me better?" You ask

That makes him smile and he kisses your injuries softly just like you would

You don't blame him and you tell him that much

4:First Date

Ashely J. Williams is not

A fancy man

classy

Or a rich man

He's not one for flashy/fancy dinner dates

Your first date was some sort of take out

In his trailer

You actually really enjoyed it

Only because he made it enjoyable

After dinner the two of you kinda just laied on the floor and talked

Which was weird for ash cause he was more of a

Take someone on a date and get down to bussnies type of guy

But he actually felt connected enough to just sit and chat

5: First kiss

It happens on the hood of the delta on your second date

You where sitting there star gazing

Just talking again and when you looked over you saw him staring at you

"What?"

"Nothing...it's just...your so amazing.."

You only laugh at him

Before suddenly you felt his lips on yours stopping you

That was one of the first and only times hes ever taken his time kissing you

It was one of those gentel kisses that you just melted into

He cupped your cheek with his hand and his other pulled you closer

It was one where when he pulled away you chased after it not wanting it to end

*cheifs kiss* twas perfection

6:Training

Ash really did his best to keep you out of that part of his life

He didn't want any one else he cared about dying on him because of it

He loved you to much

But it came to a point where he decided it was better to be safe then sorry

He taught you how to use the boom stick

And you quickly became pretty handy with it

That along with teaching yourself how to use a series of other tools

Like knifes and axes

He found it really attractive to watch you work like that

7: akward moment

The first really akward moment between you was probably the use of "i love you" too soon

To be fair though everyone thought they where about to die

So when ash blurted "I love you!"

And found that you where still intact

It was slightly uncomfortable in the room for everyone when you responded with

"You've never said that to me before."

And nothing else

Not that you didn't love him back

You where just unprepared for it to happen like that

After avoiding eachother him mainly trying to play it off as if he didn't say that

And acting as if Ash williams never told prople he loved them

Once you finally git fed up enough with it you had to basically yell it back to him

He was very relieved and happy to hear it

8: Fighting

Fights can go one of two ways usually

One being no one gets anywhere ever in the argument

Your both so stuborn

And ash being ash who hates to admit when he's wrong and never owns up to his own actions

Just makes you more angry

Making the argument get heated further

This type of fight usually ends in an angry make out session where your both apologizing like crazy

The other way is again ash being ash

But instead making you cry

This ends the argument pretty quickly because the only thing that can make him own up to any thing is you crying

You tend to use this strategy a lot in order to keep him quite

But sometimes it can really make you cry

He always apologizes right away and pulls you in for a tight hug where he kisses the top of your head

And wipes away your tears

You both actually hate fighting and hate that it ever (though rarely) gets to that point

9:crying

Like I've mentioned before

Ash cannot stand the sight of his baby in pain of any type

Crying is one of the worst things hes ever had to deal with in his life

And hes delt with a lot

His only goal in life is to make sure you are happy, healthy and safe

He's also kinda shit when it comes to dealing with emotions

He won't ask whats wrong right away

Just kinda stand there awkwardly attempting to make you laugh

When and if that doesn't work he'll finally sit down next to you and put a protective arm around you and ask whats wrong

If you don't wanna talk?

Thats ok hes there when you're ready to

Hes not leaving any time soon until your happy again

He'll hold you close to him

Pulling you into his lap to hold you properly

And just lets you cry

When you do tell him whats the matter

Bet your ass that its taken care of right away

Cause anything that makes his perfect partner cry? Dosen't even get the right to exsist anymore

10: sleeping

You better believe ash has nightmares

And feels bad for waking you because of them

But you're very well aware it can be hard for him to sleep

So you are more than happy to stay awake with him for as long as it takes

Even if that means until the sun rises

Or you fall asleep in his lap hes ok with that its the thought that counted

Nights like that are nights when he likes to cuddle you with his head on your chest

You'll kiss his head, smooth his hair

And even sometimes talk or hum to him to calm him down

That usually does the trick of getting him back to sleep for a little while

Sometimes he'll wake up gently and find you peacefully asleep beside him

And he'll kiss your cheek, cover you up and lay back down

Cause knowing your still safe is enough to help him sleep too!

11: bathing/ showering

I don't think ash would get or understand the want and need for a bath

But if you can convince him to take at least one with you

Boom

Thats all he'll ever wanna do

Man has never once in his life had time to sit and relax

But this is something else

To have you with him to

Either sitting across him

Or laying against him makes it Much more enjoyable

Baths are very rare very special occasion things though

Showering is a more often occurance and also a spontaneous thing

And its a plus cause its not Always a sex thing with him

It can be a nice and romantic thing as well

Especially on rough days when he wants to relax in the shower but also talk

Your there to keep him company

12: First time

Honestly the first time was well into your relationship with each other

And it happened in the Delta

It wasn't like rough, extremely passionate or even a serious matter

It was More fun and... vanilla with lots of laughter

It was sweet

The purest form of sex honestly is when you can laugh and or talk during it

And you two being the two people you are

Plus car sex being a horrible idea to begin with

Made it all the funnier but better

I don't think ash ever knew you could actually have like legitamie fun doing it

Just another thing you helped him realize

His heart like seriously skipped a beat hearing you laugh the way you had that night

Yet another reason he knew he loved you

13: soft spot/ weakness

Ash's soft spots include

Tummy

Hips

Neck

Jaw

And that lil spot behind the ear but just under it

Kiss him there and hes Tapped out

Ashes weaknesses are

His partner just in general

If you've been with him this long

He warships you

Definitely an ass/leg guy though

Wear something reveling enough tonshow case both ass and leg

K.o.

14:Pregnancy/ Birth

You wouldn't ever have to worry about ash not wanti g to be a dad or not

So you'd tell him almost right away

Ash is gonna get teary eyed

He'll make some jokes

But he will get watery eyes

And you know how happy new dads get when they find out they are gonna be a dad?

That whole "I'm gonna be a dad!? I'M GONNA BE A DAD!"

Yea 100% ash

Hes lifting you off the floor and spinning you around cheering

About how theres gonna be a lilttle Ash jr. Running around

Hes definitely the kinda guy who likes to talk to the mommy tummy all the time

Bump or not

Everything is suddenly about the baby

Hes always on the look out for baby things

Buys everything

Hes probably the dad who wants to mix the parents names together and name the baby that

Which is kinda gid awful and you tell him that

If its a girl you agree to name her Cheryl after his sister

Which lowkey makes him teary eyes again

You agree to let him pick the boy name though

He jokes about picking names like...idk hulk or something

But you picked a meaningful name he wants to do the same

You can trust him with that much

When the baby is born

He almost refuses to let it go

Hes got that new dad worry/ slash haze

"Where are they taking them?"

"Are they ok!?"

Loses his shit when the baby does grabby hands and holds his prosthetic finger

Hes so proud of his new kick ass family

15:Touching

When ash touches you its usually soft, slow and gentle

No matter what

That’s it

He lets his fingers gently run across your skin

Mainly because 👏he 👏worships👏you👏

And you deserve to be treated like the holy entity he sees you as

He hold your hand firmly though as not to lose you

16 : Undressing:

Its either slowly piece by piece

Taking his time to do so

Or extremely fast

17 what “turns them on” :

ash is horny by nature

do anything around him when hes in the right mood easy enough

but other than that ash likes being in control of situations

makes him feel powerful

so give that man even the slightest bit of power and hes ready

he also finds it supper attractive when you are in charge and calling all the shots

18 domestic life

once everything with deadits is finally over and is at peace

the first thing ash does is marry you

then moves you to Jacksonville Florida likes hes always wanted

then thats where you would have your baby

the both of you get good jobs

send your kid(s) to good schools

all of yours childrens friends love being around ash and hearing him tell stories

19 farewell/ how they say goodbye

he always gives you a good solid kiss

before softly telling you to have a good day and to not miss him to much

hes always extra careful to throw in one last quick peck on the lips or cheek before you leave

#ash williams x reader #ashley williams x reader #evil dead x reader #horror x reader #horror imagine #slasher x reader #slasher imagine

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amethystiridescence · 3 years

Text

I debated a lot about whether to post this as I'm worried about it being misconstrued but I feel there's a lot of points that merit discussion. I'd definitely be open for people's thoughts on it.

tl;dr: society has an unhealthy deeply interwoven obsession with sex/romance as a be all and end all, and I think it's a large contributor to sexual violence against women.

Regarding the discussions that Sarah Everad’s case has reawoken, there are few voices trying to invalidate the most common argument by saying “there’s no point telling men not to rape/murder because the messed up men will do it anyway”. But this is an extreme simplification of the matter at hand. The issue lies with the perpetrators of course and NEVER the victims. But we need to explore what breeds the mentality of the perpetrators as SO many women have recounted their experiences, so it’s obvious that the problem is widespread at varying levels. The levels range from the simplest catcaller to cases like Elliot Rodger and Sarah Everad’s killer.

My belief is that a lot of the mentality surrounding the violence and aggression towards women stems from male entitlement. That phrase alone is a buzzword, and again its often used with a simple-cut phrase with “women don’t owe men anything” which is entirely true, but whilst unlearning entitlement is a step further than telling men “don’t rape”, its still not tackling the problem at its roots.

Men in our society have been exposed to lifelong conditioning through mass media and social-engineering. We are more than familiar with movies/tv series where romantic/sexual attention from a woman is often a reward/end goal for the male protagonists. Sometimes there are men pitted against each other vying for the affections of a woman like it’s a coveted prize, and it’s normalised with humorous portrayal. Or sometimes sexual/romantic interest is not a reward, it’s a given, no matter what kind of person the male character is; see any series where a conventionally unattractive/unpleasant man always keeps his devoted, conventionally attractive wife despite his obvious flaws (Peter Griffin, Homer Simpson, Fred Flintstone). Then of course there’s the normalising of not taking no for an answer and constantly persisting and being rewarded eventually for it; for example The Notebook is considered a very romantic film but the male character literally threatens to kill himself to make her agree to date him. And of course there’s very damaging concepts presented by films like the 40 Year Old Virgin, but we’ll come to the negative sex-shaming in a tick.

Luckily thanks in huge part to movements like #MeToo, the idea of consent and ‘no means no’ is being more consistently normalised in modern mass media. Netflix’s Sex Education explores this but it’s still guilty of making the female love interest the end prize goal for the male protagonist.

Now it’s not just in media that this environment of coveting sexual/romantic affection as the ultimate goal is encouraged. Its a socially-engineered thing. A lot of us are aware of the double standard in which men are revered/congratulated by their peers for being sexually/romantically popular with women whereas women are shamed, but we often don’t talk about the poisonous culture in which men who aren’t sexually/romantically active or “successful” are shamed and humiliated. How many times have we witnessed people shaming or embarrassing their mates for not having a romantic partner or ‘not getting some’ or even worse, for being a virgin? The culture surrounding virginity is disgusting, it’s both shamed and coveted. This also ties into insults surrounding size/functionality of genitalia and how men are taught that’s one of the worst kind of insult they can receive. Same goes for insults surrounding “haha you can’t get laid/get any”. Plus some men deliberately pass down this mentality and on top they encourage younger male peers/family members to “keep at it” and “don’t take no for an answer” as if teaching younger men how to ‘get women’ is an important lesson that must be passed on.

One thing that’s also alarming is that this taught drive for sexual/romantic attraction is so inbuilt that men are taught to bypass a lot of principles for the chance of it, such as lying about their interests or faking a personality to keep a woman interested. I’ve also seen men forgiven for tardiness because they ‘got lucky the night before’ (that expression itself feeds into this ‘covet/reward’ culture). Only last week I was watching a video about how women were sexually harassed with deeply unpleasant/objectifying comments online whilst doing Twitch streams and I saw a man reply “Women complain all the time about getting attention, they have no idea how lucky they are, I’d kill for a woman to desire me like that”. Men are inherently taught by both peers and media that their entire self-worth is largely determined by whether they receive romantic/sexual attention, no matter how insincere/damaging it is. Hell, even when discussions about men who’ve committed atrocities against women come up, instead of sympathising with the women who have been hurt and those whose are more scared as a result, men instead tend to lament “men like this guy ruin it for other men, they spoil my chances with other women because women assume I’m like him”. A lot of this is a large part of why incel culture is more dangerously rife than it should ever be. The mere words ‘involuntarily celibate’ are all that’s wrong with what I’m discussing.

Lets be clear, society’s inbuilt social hierarchy around sexual/romantic frequency is poisonous to everyone, especially women and the way so many shape their lives around how ‘attractive’ they’re perceived as, and of course the damage it does to the barely-fledged self esteems and images of teenage girls.

Plus both genders suffer in nearly equal ways under some lenses. People who choose to live without a romantic partner are assumed to be “unable to find love” or “unfortunately lonely” (although its worth noting the semantic sexism of bachelor vs spinster). People who are virgins beyond their teens, hell even just beyond legal age, are pitied/shamed. And people stay in abusive relationships because society's taught us that being unhappy is better than being alone. It’s impossible for people to pass through life without being subject to the social perception of how ‘successful they are in love/sex’.

But in particular with men, it’s incredibly dangerous as it destroys how men perceive themselves, teaching them that women are a given or a prize and if they don’t receive, they’re shamed. Combine that with social engineering of which in general, men are taught to express their anger/frustration with physical exertion or violence. This lays groundwork for male entitlement at its most damaging and dangerous, because not only does it wreck the mental health of men who constantly wonder why they’re not getting what the world taught them they should receive, it also sows the seeds of violent thinking in some. How many times have we as women (as is our basic right) refused the advances of men in public and they’ve responded angrily, and sometimes they’ve been laughed at by their peers as it happens. Humiliation is a degrading and powerful thing and for those who’ve been taught to react aggressively to situations, those with weaker self-esteems (thanks to a myriad of sexist reasons eg 'man up') and those with lack of proper mental health help (again, a huge male-centric problem eg;'boys don't cry'), it can lead to breeding resentment, self-loathing, sometimes suicidal tendencies but more crucially, the anger/vengeance/entitlement that resides in would-be stalkers, rapists and murderers. Elliot Rodger called his murderous rampage a “Day of Retribution” as he lamented “having been at college and still being a virgin” and said he had “no choice to exact revenge on the society that had “denied” him sex and love. He targeted a sorority whose members he had deemed the “hottest” at his college, “the kind of girls I’ve always desired but was never able to have”.

You can see I’ve been carefully trying to toe a line between not excusing the behaviour of men who treat women horribly as a result of all this and more, but also understanding the damaging conditioning in which society has woven. Teaching men “don’t rape” and “women don’t owe you anything” are basic steps, but we need to tackle issues deeper than that. We need to stop teaching everyone that being sexually/romantically desired is NOT the be all and end all of life, that being sexually/romantically desirable is not the sum of someone’s self-worth, and that there is NO shame in being without a partner or not being sexually active.

I understand that society’s obsession with sex/romance/attraction is deeply interwoven and its not going to be unlearned in a day, but can you imagine a world where teenagers are raised being told that their attractiveness/desire popularity doesn’t define their worth to others. Can you imagine a world where women don’t constantly make the majority of their concerns about how attractive people perceive them as before how kind/intelligent they’re perceived as? Can you imagine a world where people don’t feel pressured into sex as virgins, or pressured into relationships where they’re unhappy because it’s better than being alone? Where someone can be without a partner and be their own person without people assuming that its chosen solitude and not liberated independence.

I know romantic/sexual companionship is very central to how the majority of people operate. But consider this, a world where sex/romance isn’t a heavily pressurised must-do, but an opt-in and opt-out path where people can explore at their own pace and with their own limitations and boundaries without people constantly passing judgement on it. Its an idealistic idea, and seeing the way that asexuals are mistreated is another factor in just how society shames those who opt-out of sexual activity. But I believe a lot of this discussion can lead to more practical steps than saying “don’t rape”

How about;

Don’t shame anyone for being a virgin at any age.

Don’t shame anyone for not having a partner.

Don’t shame anyone for not being sexually active.

Unlearn phrases like “get lucky” and “winning the girl/heart”.

Don’t use insults aimed at size/functionality of genitalia.

Don’t insult people based on their appearance.

Just a few ideas to start undoing the entitlement culture that puts so many women in danger.

And of course, wearily I’ll state the disclaimers.

None of this behaviour discussed excuses even the most ‘harmless’ of catcalls, let alone the reprehensible behaviour of the worst offenders. I just think it’s important to understand the finer points of what breeds this consistent societally inbuilt violence and hatred against women. I really really cannot state this too much, this is not a victim-blame, women do not deserve a single infinitesimal part of anything they've gone through just because they insulted some dude's penis.

Being sexually/romantically active is never ever a bad thing of course provided it’s legal, safe and fully consensual. It just shouldn’t be the only path that people feel forced to take.

Briefly, someone might argue that its okay for me to promote that being sexually inactive is all peachy keen is hypocritical when I'm in a happy relationship, but if I was single, you could just as easily argue that I'd be trying to validate being without a partner for my own gratification.

And yes. We know. Not all men. I know plenty of people, not just men who see past a lot of the shaming and conditioning, and continue to liberate themselves from society’s warped expectations of what they should be doing with their lives. But try this, YES ALL MEN are subject to this sexual/romantic obsession that the world forces on them. When a director chooses to have a man portrayed as the butt of a joke because he’s rebuffed by a woman, he’s sending out a message to all men that some of their worth is determined on whether a woman accepts their affections. Whenever a man snidely jokes to his friends that someone he knows can’t get a woman, he teaches his friends that their lives are only validated on whether they can attain partners. Not all men may not be predatory. But all men are targeted by this conditioning. And as a result of all this, all women are afraid.

Followup: Men receiving non romantic affection is largely shamed as well and as a result its not nearly as common as it should be. Men receiving platonic affection doesn't happen nearly as much as it should, because men are taught that platonic affection is never platonic because if it comes from men it must be gay, and if it comes from women, it must come from a place of attraction. This can tie into the larger discussions already at hand regarding men's mental health and the lack of support it recieves.

#metoo #survivor #thoughts

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