#i understand how and why so many succumb to that temptation and of course i get it ive been there but its POISON | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

probably-haven · 3 years

Text

Kaeya Alberich & Why his Failure is Inevitable

A theory on Kaeya’s reaction to- that event in his backstory.

take everything with a grain of salt , because it’s heavily based on assumptions, most of which are centered around his reaction to- backstory stuff, so gonna put that under the cut-. i actually originally said this in a reblog to someone asking the exact question awhile ago

im kinda in a content drought though so i might as well bring it back, hopefully some people find it interesting in this context though. Lol a lot of it is just seeing how angsty i can make it too so- ehe

actual content under the cut: (spoilers for kaeya’s backstory, diluc’s backstory, Khaenri’ah lore, and a bit of Childe’s backstory)

so the exact verbiage used in kaeya’s story for his reaction to Master Crepus’s death is: “Even someone like Master Crepus would submit to such a dangerous and evil power…” Sinister thoughts flashed through Kaeya’s mind, and he simply smirked— “This world is truly… fascinating.”

Now I’m actually pretty sure this quote ties in, not to the destruction of khaenri’ah, but to the cataclysm before it. Specifically, it deals with the Khaenri’ahn alchemist Gold who started it.

Canonically, Gold was an incredibly ambitious alchemist specializing in khemia 500 years ago. Their most well know achievement is corruption of the dragon Durin, but concealed much deeper in Teyvat’s history, a number of Gold’s legacies include incorporating the powers of the abyss into their alchemy(and eventually being corrupted by those very same powers, tho it might be a translation error), followed by the destruction of Khaenri’ah’s Eclipse Dynasty(including the royal family and the royal guards tasked with protecting the people of Khaenri’ah), and this was followed shortly by ‘using their talents to create an army of “shadowy monsters."’

these monsters, blood filled with the corruption of the abyss, would only continue pouring out of Khaenri’ah in waves until the fateful day that it was destroyed. The era of suffering these monsters caused would come to be known as the cataclysm.

taking those facts into account, it could be a remark about how even someone as kind hearted as Master Crepus could fall to the temptation and corrupting aspects of power that caused his people’s fall so long ago, even without the naturally corruptive effects of power from the abyss. that’s sad- but if you get into the theory of it its even sadder the further you go.

Now theory wise its important to make a few connections- I am under the impression that the “fall of the Eclipse Dynasty” that Gold caused through abyssal power was actually the first instance of Khaenri’ah’s curse, and the monsters of the cataclysm- were among the curse’s first victims.

a bit sadder with the fact that his statement can now refer to his feelings of there truly being nothing that could have been done to prevent the very same exact curse that has caused him so much suffering through his life. There was no resisting the corruption of power, only delaying it. It hammers in the fact that the reason he was sent to Mondstadt truly might be the destiny he had many times been told it was. A cruel joke from Celestia perhaps?

but not sad enough. let’s pull out the big one. The Khaenri’ahn Royalty Kaeya theory. (there’s a lot- im not gonna cover the explanation behind that one here)

Gold, the most powerful alchemist in Khaenri’ah would likely have worked under the Eclipse Dynasty, so assuming the theory of Kaeya(and Dainsleif) being the last member of the Eclipse Dynasty, its reasonable to say he would have known Gold. Now whether Gold was a good person or not is irrelivant because it remains the same either way. Kaeya has twice seen the corrupting abilities that come with power strip him of all those close to him, shouldering him with an additional responsibility to carry out in their memory that he never wanted. Yes this hurts more if he was close with Gold and Crepus managed to make him feel safe enough to get close to people even after that- but I’m here to provide the facts and theories, not the emotions, though theres a lot

but…. its a stretch(like a big stretch)… but for the sake of going all out on a limb, we can take this one step further.

In Childe’s story it references the abyss by saying “this dark realm had sensed the burning ambition in this boy’s heart” and it can be assumed that the powers granted by the abyss, as the natural opposition to Celestia(natural as in abyss magic literally opposes the magic of Celestia by nature) might just opporate in a similar way to the gnosises. Kaeya has no knowledge of gnosises though so for now lets use the word visions.

The powers of the abyss that were given to Gold would likely have been favored over visions from the gods in a godless nation like khaenri’ah afterall. and if he knew Gold, a known genius, he likely wouldnt have noticed anything off until it was too late. A sudden fall from his perspective. Visions, delusions, power from the abyss, what difference truly is there to a child raised to shun the gods. All are granted through ambition, and all will only end in suffering

afterthought:

However the main thing behind the Khaenri’ahn Royalty aspect of this angst fest- Kaeya would have been extremely young during Gold’s corruption and Khaenri’ah’s fall… like i cant help think of that one tik tok audio “that must be so confusing for a little girl” but it really does fit because now i can’t shake the imagery of Kaeya, faced with the imagery of the man who raised him dead as a result of a power he chose to use. And he finally understands what he was too young to understand back then. the world is not fascinating in a way that he is interested in it or wants to know more about it, but more interesting in the way that people’s eyes are involuntarily drawn to images of tragedy. It’s an expression of cruel irony, of truths he was forced to face, of knowledge he doesn’t want to know, but that he needs to know- if he plans on carrying through with his destiny- siding against Mondstadt. but siding with Mondstadt would cause him to turn against Khaenri’ah as Gold had all those years ago, and is that not fulfilling a cycle of fate all the same?

It’s an expression of mourning. He is chained by the legacy of Khaenri’ah and there’s nothing he can do to escape it. Either way the cycle will repeat. This fate gives him a unique power and even he will eventually succumb to it, doomed to be viewed as a corrupted betrayer no matter who he sides with, to doom yet another civilization in return. Such is his preordained role as the last hope of Khaenri’ah. The unescapableness, the way it all becomes so sure and clear and nauseatingly relevant in that very moment are what drive him to say that as he finally realizes that he cannot win.

of course a lot of this is a stretch and just theories, but the angst potential was there so i decided to run with it lmao

additional afterthought: this isn’t something kaeya would know, but the corruption of Durin by Gold was actually predicted by a priestess in dragonspine before Celestia destroyed it and made it like it is now.

just angsty because it reinforces the idea of a repeating cycle of foretold destiny that no matter hard hard Kaeya tries, he will never be able to escape. Really puts Mona’s “He believes he has made a clean break with his past, but one day fate will catch up with him” line into perspective.

233 notes · View notes

vivilove-jonsa · 3 years

Text

a song incomplete

A gift for @chispas-and-broken-bindings who is writing a lovely soulmate AU of her own on ao3 and for Day 1 of the @jonsaseasonalbash event ❤️

***

Soulmates had become incredibly rare the past few centuries and were considered a curse as much as a blessing by many. Jon Snow could see why.

To have a soulmate, you must have a soulmark, a mark upon the skin which formed the name of your soulmate. For every person who bore such a mark, there should be someone out there who bore your name as their mark in return.

That was the way of it barring a very few unfortunate souls who bore the mark but had no one carrying their name as well. They were a song incomplete.

His sister Sansa would sigh and weep when Old Nan would share stories of soulmates by her fire on cold nights but who wanted to be half of a pair of star-crossed lovers from opposing houses bound by forces beyond their control to meet, fall in love and, usually, die tragically? Or worse, the ones with no true mate?

Naturally, it was just his luck that on his fifteenth name day, his own soulmark would appear to mock him…and to shame him.

What difference did it make though when he was already a Man of the Night’s Watch, bound by his oath for life to a celibate order that only his death could free him from?

And what would anyone think if they saw that his soulmark, the name of his supposed other half, was his half-sister Sansa? He knew she would never be cursed with his name in return. Clearly, the gods loved making a jape of him.

However, in addition to being rare, soulmarks were thankfully small. As it was in a conspicuous location though, his hand, he was glad that here at the Wall no one thought it strange that he should wear gloves as much as possible.

On the night he fought a dead man in Lord Commander Mormont’s quarters, he was cried out from the pain brought by fire. Perhaps it was a blessing though. The burn had seared the mark to the point it was illegible. The puckered, reddened flesh healed but never completely and only the S from her name remained.

It was better this way.

The morning Sansa’s soulmark appeared, she experienced a strange pricking sensation at the small of her back. It was only upon her skin and yet it felt as though it went deeper than that.

“Would you look and see if there’s something there? A cut or something?” she asked Myranda Royce in secret at last. The pain had started a daybreak and had yet to recede.

“Oh…oh, dear. You have a soulmark, Alayne.”

“That’s…that’s…”

She didn’t know what to say. She was set to marry Ser Harrold soon. And though she’d once thought the tales of soulmates romantic, she’d since come to the conclusion that the songs were all lies.

“What’s the name?”

Was it Harrold? Somehow, she doubted it. He was not marrying her for love and she didn’t love him either. He’d be tolerable at best as husbands went.

Myranda read the name once, twice. Sansa shook her head, confused and angry.

Why would she have a soul mate if it could never be? And where was he? Where had he been all this time? More than likely, she was one of the unmatched ones, the horrible few who bore the mark but had no one truly meant for them in return.

“I don’t know anyone by that name. It must be a mistake. Please, don’t say anything.”

“But your husband may see it or…”

“I’ll think of something. Please, don’t say anything,” she begged again.

“Of course.”

Alayne’s fingers soon became perpetually stained by the dab of black ink she used every morning and every night to cover the name. She would call it a birthmark and pray no maid nor future husband would study it too carefully.

It was strange being back here again. Even after fighting tooth and nail to win it back, Jon would wake wondering if he’d dreamt it just as he sometimes wondered if he’d dreamt coming back from the dead.

That had been no dream. The wolf had woken inside him for good during that dark sleep.

How else to explain his sick fascination with the way the firelight would dance upon his half-sister’s hair? The way he burned with shame and desire in her presence?

His initial joy to see family again had soon been tainted by the twisted longings that assailed him.

But she bore no mark. There was no conscious guilt in the way she’d looked at him upon their reunion, no deep secret she’d hidden all this time. He was a song incomplete, not her. No matter what she’d lived through, Sansa was still pure and fresh as snowfall to his eyes. That old mark, the blurred one where only an S remained, had crept into his soul, his blood and yet he had no true mate. She did not carry his name upon her skin.

But when Ser Harrold succumbed to his wounds received during the battle for Winterfell, Jon Snow had gone to offer comfort to his widow.

It was innocent, brotherly comfort so far as she knew. But the beastling dwelling under his skin had held her close…and known its own form of contentment at long last.

“I…I have something to tell you.”

His eyes were empty, lost. The raging fire, that white-hot temptation she always saw in them was not there for once. She always burned so in his presence, since that night their bare hands had first touched. She could not understand it. She could not help it either.

Carefully, she stroked his beard, cupped his face with one hand and looked into his grey eyes.

“Tell me.”

They were alone here. Here, they could just be…no matter how wrong they both were.

He blamed his death and resurrection. She blamed her tragedies. Together, they blurred the lines of what was familial closeness and comfort and what was more and pretended not to notice.

She drew a deep breath, preparing for heartbreak, fearing he would tell her that he was leaving again, for good this time, that what they’d been doing was a mistake and must be at an end now, that he could never love her as she loved him, that it was never meant to be.

What else would she expect? She had a soulmark but no soulmate, it seemed.

Tragedy was her fate. Harrold Hardyng’s name hadn’t been etched upon her flesh and neither was Jon Snow’s. One had been her husband and one was her half-brother. That she’d barely tolerated one and deeply loved the other didn’t change the fact that she wasn’t meant for either.

“Bran and Howland Reed came to me tonight, they came to tell me things that have long been a secret.”

He looked so heartbroken and she felt as if she could bleed for him and whatever this fresh pain was.

“I am not the man I thought I was, Sansa. Everything about me is wrong. It’s been wrong from the start.”

“That isn’t true. What do you mean? How can you-”

“My name is not Jon Snow.”

The last thing he’d expected was a relieved laugh when he told her the full of it.

No, that’s not right.

The last think he’d expected when he told her the truth was for her to start unlacing her dress.

“Sansa…”

True, they were not half-siblings as they’d believed and yes, there was still that S upon his flesh that had once been her name but she didn’t have a soulmark. True soulmates both had the marks.

But when she stood before him bare and wiped at that little black spot upon her back, the size of a thumbnail, the one he’d stroked a time or two which she had named a birthmark, he saw it. A name. The one he had been given by his mother before her death.

His song was not incomplete after all.

And neither is hers, he thought before he asked her to look closely at his hand.

#jonsa #jonsa fanfiction #jonsaspringautumn #day 1 prompt-soulmates #jonsa fanfic #vivilove-jonsa fic

70 notes · View notes

teresa-of-ficwill · 3 years

Text

[Geraskier] In the name of love

Summary: Jaskier did not remember where but one day he heard a proverb that said something like "if you fall in love with a witcher - you will die." Then he considered it utter stupidity but now... It turned out that it was not just a proverb.

Or the story of why witchers don't fall in love.

***

Chapter 2 "It's better to burn out than to fade away"

Missed Chapter 1? You can find it on ao3 right now!

Jaskier woke up suddenly, emerging from the embrace of sleep. Dull pain in the temples was a little distracting so it took the bard a few seconds to understand where he was. The day was breaking. Julian wrapped himself in a blanket and unconsciously scratched his right hand but this simple movement suddenly hurt. Jaskier looked down and saw the swollen veins on his wrist again. He gently ran his fingers over them, trying not to cause more pain.

Geralt said he was dying. Memories of yesterday evening were blurry and indistinct but these he remembered clearly. He was dying but for some reason, he wasn’t scared at all although he should be. It should be by all the rules. Julian didn’t understand anything.

“I'm sorry,” a voice sounded from nearby and Jaskier looked up. Geralt sat a few steps away from him and had probably been watching him for a long time. In the eyes of the witcher were guilt, pain, and a bit of despair.

The bard shrugged his shoulders.

“We’ll all die someday,” he said, looking down again at the swollen veins. They were like a drawing. Beautiful drawing which was not finished yet. Who would have thought that such beauty is hidden under his skin?

“Please, don't be so calm,” the man said because such indifference was frightening.

“But I am calm,” Jaskier answered and hid his hand under the blanket. He felt that his behavior made Geralt nervous so he tried to pull himself together. He was okay. At least for now.

“How are you feeling?” the witcher asked, throwing more logs into the fire. Dawn was coming but it was still cold outside and the fire was the only source of heat.

Julian didn’t answer right away, listening to the sensations, but he didn’t notice anything except a dull pain in his temples and a slight throbbing in his wrist. Even consciousness seemed to Jaskier extremely clear.

“I'm fine,” the bard replied and reached for his clothes to get dressed. Geralt was watching him. “So, will you explain what happened to me?” asked Julian, pulling on a shirt and for the first time in many hours feeling himself in his body. It was like he was in control again.

“Do you remember what happened yesterday?” the witcher asked because of the state in which Jaskier was he could be barely called sane. Before Geralt kissed him, the bard was hardly conscious at all.

“I confessed my love to you, you said something, and then we had sex,” replied Julian, listing only events he was sure of. Memories of the evening seemed to be shrouded in a dense haze and he hardly caught even the outlines.

“Was this what you wanted? Did you want to have sex with me?” asked the man and it seemed to be a really important question for him.

Jaskier looked surprised, “Of course, I did. I confessed my love to you.”

“You were delirious.”

“No, I wasn’t yet,” the bard replied, surprising even himself. But he really wasn’t. Before he spoke these three words, he was fine. But then it's ... weird. Why did he not notice such a dramatic change in his state?

Julian confessed impulsively because he is an impulsive person but he could swear that at that moment he was completely sane. And then things got worse.

Geralt sighed and hid his face in his hands. Jaskier watched him with concern.

“It's my fault,” said the witcher after a couple of seconds of silence. “You're dying because of me.”

“What do you mean?” the bard immediately asked because he still didn't understand anything and, for some reason, it wasn’t becoming clearer at all.

“Do you know why witchers don't fall in love?” the man asked, looking at Julian again, and he shook his head negatively. “Because our love kills. Take a look at your hand. You will die as soon as the poison reaches the heart.”

“But...”

“It's my fault,” Geralt repeated, staring into the forest. “I liked you, and I allowed this feeling to grow, become bigger, stronger. It's such a temptation to love someone and I just succumbed to it. I was sure that you would never love me back and I made a terrible mistake. Now you are dying.”

“I don't understand ... how does it work?” Jaskier asked, trying to figure out whether Geralt spoke so indistinctly or his consciousness has begun to grow dim again.

“The curse works only if the feelings are mutual. I could love you without reciprocity for the rest of my life, and you would be fine. Or vice versa.”

“Can it be cured?” asked Julian, pulling on his pants, but, in fact, he has already known the answer. His mind was not as clear as it had been after waking up and Jaskier just wanted to make sure that he was not missing anything.

Geralt shook his head, “You must stop loving me to survive.”

The bard nodded, pulled his boot over his right foot, and said, “Welp… then it can’t be treated.”

Julian loved his life but he wouldn't even try. It was pointless. It wouldn’t work. And Jaskier didn’t want to spoil the remaining days with unsuccessful attempts to stop loving someone who mattered so much to him.

The bard pulled a boot on his left foot, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe in deeply. The noises in his head became louder but were still tolerable. His state was as after good drunkenness so Julian swore not to drink anymore. Never.

“Jaskier?” Geralt's voice was worried and the bard realized that, most likely, he sat with his eyes closed for too long. He clearly did not fall asleep because he seemed to remain conscious but still fell out of time.

Julian opened his eyes and it took him a couple of seconds to focus on the witcher.

“It's hard for me to concentrate, I'm sorry,” Jaskier said knowing well that he had nothing to apologize for but he did anyway.

“It will only get worse.”

“You’re not helping,” the bard replied and then looked down and laughed for some reason. “I always liked the phrase that love kills. Moreover, it's true,” Julian grinned and got to his feet. “Who would have thought that fate would take it so literally?” Jaskier wanted to take a step but a sudden sharp pain pierced his head through he stumbled.

“Shh, Jaskier, I’ve got you,” Geralt picked the bard up, not allowing him to meet the ground. Julian clung to the man with both hands, feeling that the pain has softened. It was still throbbing in the back of his mind but it became easier to think. “I'm here,” the witcher said as gently as he could and carefully touched his cheek. Jaskier closed his eyes and enjoying the touch which made the pain go away.

“It gets easier when you touch me. Why?” he asked, leaning forward and burying his nose in the man's neck. It became easier to breathe.

“My love is killing you but eases the pain in the process,” Geralt answered and Julian felt that the man felt in pain only from a thought about it. “Fucking injustice.”

“Then help me,” asked Jaskier, wrapping his arms around the man's waist.

“I can’t cure you.”

“I’m not asking about it,” the bard replied, pulling back slightly and looking Geralt in the eyes. “Help me as only you can.”

The witcher smiled softly and then leaned forward, gently touching Jaskier’s forehead, nose, cheeks, chin with his lips, and then finally getting to such beautiful mouth. Julian held them open and immediately responded as soon as their lips touched. Jaskier didn't think about anything, just enjoying the sensations and letting the pain go away.

It seemed to him that an eternity has passed since he first felt it but, in reality, it was just one night. Even now, when Geralt was kissing him, Julian couldn’t think as clearly as he did before he became ill. There was no more fog in his head but time around seemed to slow down, distort, deform, making Jaskier an unreliable storyteller. He was no longer sure that everything that was happening to him was actually happening, or that he remembered everything that happened before right. His head was in a terrible mess

“Are you okay?” Geralt suddenly asked and the bard realized himself sitting on top of the witcher while the man lied on the blanket. Julian was not wearing a shirt again and he really didn’t remember how they ended up in this position.

Jaskier didn't answer, shook his head, and silently slide off the man. He asked for help, they started kissing and then there was emptiness, unintelligible noise, and echoes of old pain. The bard brought his hands to his temples and pressed lightly. He couldn't forget what just happened, could he?

“Jaskier?” Geralt took a sitting position and gently touched his shoulder. “Did I do something wrong?”

Julian turned and looked at the witcher, unconsciously combing the veins on his arm.

“I don’t remember,” he said, and there was more pain in this phrase than should fit in it.

“What?” the man asked because this was definitely not the answer he was expecting. Not even close.

“I don't ... I don't remember what just happened.”

The poison was playing with his brain. Geralt didn't say it would be like that but Jaskier was smart enough to guess on his own. The curse was not only killing him but also making the remaining days unbearable... and it would be only getting worse. The bard felt a tear roll down his cheek and he knew that the witcher saw it so he turned away. He had the right to cry, that’s true, but he didn’t want the man to see it.

Geralt leaned forward, hugged Julian, and kissed his temple, whispering incoherent apologies. He was the one to blame for this. Jaskier didn’t know that this can happen and he didn’t have to control his feelings. But the witcher was obliged: this was his curse and his burden. He shouldn't have fallen in love, shouldn't have let this feeling take root in him. He could have just walked away when he realized that it would be impossible to contain his feelings. But he stayed with Julian. Stayed from a selfish desire to love Jaskier, albeit at a distance, and now the bard was dying and Geralt could do nothing to help him.

“Please don’t apologize,” the bard asked, and the witcher stopped. “I'm glad that my feelings are mutual. Let me love you.”

“This is killing you.”

“I know,” the bard said and looked back at the swollen veins on his wrist. “But it's better to burn out than to fade away.”

Geralt chuckled. Jaskier was still such a Jaskier.

“Can I kiss you?”

“Of course,” Julian smiled. “I want to continue where we stopped.”

“If you suddenly feel bad, just tell me and I'll stop, okay?”

“I'll be fine,” the bard said, climbing back onto the man’s lap. “When you are with me, I don't feel pain.”

To be continued

💜💜💜

You also can leave your kudos here: Fic

You can see more of my works here 😉: Twitter and ao3

17 notes · View notes

buggie-hagen · 3 years

Text

Sermon for Second Sunday of Easter (4/11/21)

Primary Text | Acts 4:32-35

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

Dear People of God,

Water is thicker than blood. You have two families. One is your blood family. Generally speaking, these are people with whom you share DNA. And if not that, you are either adopted in or have become part of the family by some other means. Usually this bond holds for a lifetime. In an ideal world, your blood family is supposed to be a place where you belong. Such families bear things together and look out for one another. At least, this is the ideal and value I think many of us hold to and would want in a family. In this fallen world, a content and undivided family is not as plentiful as we would like. Dysfunction, alcoholism, adultery, and abuse are all too common. Nevertheless, the family is a sphere that God chooses to be active in—both to make upright citizens in society and also to raise up children to have faith and trust in God. Within your blood family God certainly calls you to share in all things, to build each other up, to love, and to ensure one another not only to make it by in life, but to thrive in life.

Now there is another kind of family you have. No sort of law binds this family together. Nor does DNA determine the bond. This family is your family by God’s sheer grace. This is your water family. By virtue of baptism believers in Christ belong to one another with a bond stronger than all other bonds. Baptism means we belong to the Lord, and if we belong to the Lord we belong to one another. The water in baptism is none other than the water of resurrection. The Bible speaks in endearing, familial terms about the relationship of believers to one another. We are brothers, sisters, siblings to each other. In the Book of Acts, which I recommend you read, you will learn how the earliest Christian communities were formed by the resurrection. For there you’ll see with what “great power the apostles gave their testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus” (Acts 4:33). And it is this testimony that normed and formed the earliest believers in Christ. And hopefully, by reading Acts you’ll understand why it is important in the Nicene Creed that we confess that we believe in the apostolic church. For us to say we believe in the apostolic church is to trust the testimony of the apostles—the very first messengers of the bodily resurrection of Jesus. To be an apostolic church, of which we are, is to be one with the apostles in what they taught and proclaimed. This is, of course, to be children of the light—the gospel that through the resurrection of Jesus Christ God forgives the sins of all those who believe in him.

In our First Reading today, we see that those who believed were of “one heart and soul” (Acts 4:32). Think of it as if we all shared one body. We would want to take care of our body. To do that we would make sure that our body is properly fed, has enough sleep, has clothes to wear, and a reason to smile. When we as the Christian church are of one heart and soul we are of one will, namely, God’s will. Can we truly say that the Christian church remains of one heart and soul today? Can we say that about the Christian church gathered as this congregation? The answer is paradoxical. Both yes and no. Insofar as we are formed and normed by the resurrection of Jesus we can say yes to that question. So that we might not boast in saying yes, we must recognize that truly it is not our own doing but the gospel that makes this so. It is true because when the Holy Spirit dwells in our hearts it is like putting fertilizer on a withering plant—we begin to become healthy plants and produce numerous good fruits as we believe rightly and do the will of God. We also must answer no to this question, we are not of one heart and soul. For daily we are weak and succumb to temptation and sin and division. We are of multiple hearts and souls when we want to place our heart and soul over and above everyone else’s. Or, when we speak ill of one another or we gossip or tear each other apart. Though we are family by God’s sheer grace in the waters of baptism we forget that and allow the squabbles of the world to encroach on our bond rather than the resurrection of the Lord Jesus to form us. When we hate one another, when we malign one another, when we judge one another we are no different than the world around us. We forget what Jesus said, “They will know you are my disciples by your love for one another.” May God preserve in us the one common, true faith so that we can love one another and boldly show the world that we belong to Christ.

The resurrection of the Lord Jesus changes everything. No longer do we operate according to the norms and course of this world—we operate according to the norms and course of Christ’s kingdom. It is a kingdom of grace. You have been rescued entirely by God’s favor. This is not done by any other means than by faith in the risen Christ. And you, dear people, have been given this faith without any contribution on your part. In Christ God chooses to overlook your sins. You are no longer under condemnation; you are under great grace. This grace, or God’s favor, is greater than all your sins, all your faults, all your blemishes. You belong to Christ. To belong to Christ is to belong to a God who is gracious and merciful. And because you belong to Christ you also belong to Christ’s community. Christ’s Church. Christ’s holy community is found wherever they are gathered around the word and sacraments. In this community, in this family we have through water, we take care of each other. We take notice of those in need so that among us it can be true what is written--“there was not a needy person among them” (Acts 4:34). We belong together with a bond stronger than blood, a bond of water—based on God’s promises in the risen Christ. It is my prayer and hope that you will truly experience God’s love as you love one another. Faith cannot help but love. Never be afraid and question whether you belong here; because it is the Holy Spirit who has brought us together, therefore no one earned their way in. We belong together, you belong here, because God has brought you in through the resurrection of baptism. And with the apostles, every day we have the opportunity to join them in great power by proclaiming the resurrection of Christ. Because Christ was raised from the dead nothing, not even death, can separate you from God’s love. Christ Jesus is God’s favor in flesh and blood, risen from the dead so that you may believe and so have the forgiveness of sins. Christ is risen! Christ is risen indeed! Be encouraged, you my brothers and sisters and siblings in Christ you belong because Christ is raised.

#keypreaching

2 notes · View notes

mehenxe · 4 years

Note

◈ ◈ ◈ ◈ & ღ & ♫ bc ur a slut for music ; & ✮ (i want explanaTIONS ...gET META W THIS SHIT )

◈ — share some head-canons you have for a muse of your choosing, but x4.

[ elijah kane ] ◈ — all efforts to get him into studying how to make robotics like hyacinth have resulted in a lot of miniature woodland creatures able to sprint across desks. it’s not exactly what anybody had in mind, but hey, you never know if ilya might not want to send in an actual animal for something he has going on. they can call up sugar kane industries ( big face-palm here ) to take care of the job. ( wyatt voice: seriously, you couldn’t think of anything better than sugar kane. ) / hyacinth kane has a nice ring to it. elijah has tested out several different nicknames: sugar kane also for them, mistah k, ( missus k? ), cinthy ... cindy ... ( sean: yeah! cindy k! like cindy crawford! / who the fuck is cindy crawford? / wyatt — / how old are you. ) / he’s had a life-long dream to be able to go scuba-diving off the coast of — some exotic island he can’t remember the name of. beforehand, it was one of those things that he was too afraid to do, but full-out war changes your perspective. in truth, he’s always been a water baby, growing up going swimming in the local rivers and running pellmell down the dirt lanes. he grew out of it, and then grew back into it. whether or not he’s going to be able to do that without monroe tagging along ( and then by default, ilya, and then probably hojin will want to come, and then ravi will have to, and then oliver will want to watch over them and then jinho will buy a whole yacht with his dumb vampire money — ) — ah, well, there’s worse people to spend an extended holiday with. his father will come along too: sit on the deck in a lawn chair and drink a virgin margarita as he deserves after putting up with this whole extended family. and with his son being a you-know-what.

[ alice bedi ] ◈ — there was a time where she was interested in wigs. she had percival sit down on her shack’s bed and watch as she perused through at least fifteen different styles of wigs. each one got a firm head-shake: too rough on your complexion; lilac looks good as a colour, but the style is horrid; why did they think it was a good idea to make a bob that length? a tough customer. she returned back to wearing veils, her preferred style being that of mantilla, or the veil that’s worn to chapel over a jade comb. due to the volume and length of her natural curls, she rarely wears the combs at all, but will if it’s a particularly formal occasion, like that time she accompanied percival to a ‘high-society event.’ ( translation: they crashed a party because he was bored, and she had a bad feeling about him going alone. ) / as the local librarian’s assistant, she’s the first to get in the way when someone is overtly curious: why are you asking so many questions? hmm? the irony is that she herself asks just as many questions — she insists that the difference is: she reads the room and knows when it’s inappropriate to ask them. ( and if she knows it’s inappropriate to ask them, and instead chooses to risk asking them regardless, it’s because she knows it’ll smooth out in the end. / despite what she wears daily, one of her most favourite colours is moss green. there are a multitude of reasons. moss is her favourite foliage. it’s similar to algae, another favourite foliage. and it reminds her of someone who she says is her sister; however, anybody who knows her, knows that she has no blood-siblings. one or the other might be a lie, or both might be the truth. when she’s in a mood, she’ll smear the moss at the base of her neck like a perfume, a splotch of green beneath white.

[ huang shen ] ◈ — he designed an irrigation system to work, specific to his farm, to be able to make rice paddies despite the surrounding environment. it’s a southern crop in the united states, but there was no way he was going to move to the south just to expand the business. his entire family was so relieved about it that they danced through the sprinklers and set off fireworks — and none of them are really into that kind of thing. it’s particularly incredible due to the area they’re in, being very prone to sometimes too much drought and too much rain, and both are responsible for driving out selling numbers of crops. his plan is to switch into an agricultural degree, and perhaps even expand it into engineering, so that he can continue helping this way. / one of his surprises for algernon was learning sign language. for the longest time, months even, shen made it out like he had no idea what was being said, and let damien, as surly as ever, be the translator when algernon was unwilling or unable to speak. in the background, however, he was working with a tutor and seeking to understand better what it meant to be both HoH and mute. then, when algernon’s birthday came around, everyone went silent ( holy god he was so nervous ) and he gave an entire romantic, long speech entirely in sign language. he’s sure that some of it got lost in translation due to how hard his hands were shaking, but the way that algernon kissed him afterwards, it didn’t seem to affect much. now, they communicate constantly on this even ground. / he’s started up horseback riding again — and has roped tobias into doing it alongside him. tobias might have grace on the stage floor, but certainly not on the back of a horse; he somehow ended up upside-down beneath the horse’s belly, and then fell down in a tangle of limbs. shen has taken to the western side of things, re-learning how to barrel race and rope cattle; but he and tobias have had to separate their lessons due to these antics. lucas isn’t allowed to come to any of them; his stupid remarks send them into fits of laughing. ( bold of us to assume he doesn’t just sit in the truck and shout anyways. )

[ deok bae ] ◈ — due to the empire no longer supporting his upgrades, nor looking in his general direction, he has had to find other ways to obtain new modifications. this is including, but not limited to, going and pulling them out of other people’s bodies as catharsis — but usually, he defects to yuri and silas to fix him up. to his chagrin, the LED-light in his forehead has absolutely no use whatsoever, only displaying his brain’s processing as a symptom of installation. he pulled it out himself via the tip of a knife’s blade. the next time that he’s seen by those who haven’t seen him in quite some time, he might be unrecognisable. i am not deok bae — perhaps deok bae is no longer himself either. if there was no connection to eli in his head, he would forget that; perhaps he would merely succumb to the machinery, perhaps he would succumb to the wolf-dom. there are several pairs of teeth in his mouth awaiting for their moment to bite. / when he was a teen, his version of ‘sneaking out’ would be to wheel his chair to the gardens at the back of the temple, where he would sit and think for hours and hours. his father would come and find him there; sometimes, master jhcor would instead. his father would return him back to where he needed to be, but master jhcor would sit beside him and gaze serenely until bae felt the need to speak what was on his mind: his angers, his fevers, his rages. one time, he was surprised to see that it was not master jhcor, nor master deok, but zan coming to sit with him. his heart had sat in his throat the whole time, half-expecting zan to laugh at him or say something particularly piteous. instead, the conversation was — well, looking back, absurdly normal, all things considering. when bae blinked tiredly, zan rose and took the handles of his chair and took him back. he hadn’t intended to ask him to do so, but it was done anyway. / bae drinks a lot of soda. it’s somewhat fitting, if you believe all that talk about how coca-cola can double as a cleaner due to the high carbonation and way it’s made. he does seem to get shiny after several cans — it’s also convenient that he can’t experience sugar-highs nor malfunctions of the liver or stomach due to too much consumption. he considers himself to be a soda connoisseur as a result. he offers a lot of hmm, that’ll taste disgusting comments that annoy the shit out of the others — but then kisung takes a drink and bae ends up being right, so there’s no regrets.

ღ ━ favourite canon ships for your muse(s). are there any you dislike?

there’s ... none that i dislike. there’s moments of come on, but that’s bound to happen. i think the favourite ships are the ... guardian / princess vibes ( whether it’s literal or not: akane / the samurai, quinn / sehrin, jian / elaine ). i also love the growing from previous immaturities towards each other ( grey / tobias, jihoon / wyatt, playboy / jordan ) — and himbos of course ( hojin / ravi!! ) there’s also the whole ... tsh, vampiric aesthetic that we get ( minzhe / yongha ) ... the ones like jisoo / mingfei, cyrian / ulysses, cadoc / pestilence ( exploring violence against but without the stickiness ). of course, if i keep going, i’ll end up listing all of them and then where would we be.

♫ ━ a small playlist for a muse of your choice

for nam jungsoo, because i actually once did make a playlist for him:

1. brand new — sic transit gloria ... glory fades 2. within temptation — what have you done 3. iamx feat. imogen heap — my secret friend 4. florence + the machine — shipwreck (the odyssey) 5. crown the empire — hologram

i mean, the songs are still kinda relevant considering his current character ...

✮ ━ top three favourite muses that you’ve played

but is it possible to pick three favourites ... that’s the real question. maybe. jianguo, because of catharsis, because of cultural exploration and similarities. grendel, because of the depth, the personal torment, the surrounding family. jinho & julius, because of exploring that darkness. and famine — man, now that’s something. there’s a lot more than three though. like blood and jisoo and tobias and arthur. but. the questions INSIST THAT I CHOOSE.

#mr: mine #moonbeam tag #v: we are engraved in our hearts

4 notes · View notes

emathevampire · 4 years

Note

Compass for team chaotic good

Compass: who’s the moral compass? in general: what are your OCs’ morality like? do they have high morals, or not? are their morals self imposed, or do they base their morals on religion/family/influence of others? Well, considering that they’re called Team Chaotic Good, that should give you a pretty solid idea of what they’re about! But not everyone is ACTUALLY chaotic good. Some aren’t even Chaotic. Or Good, in fact! Funnily enough, about half of them are Lawful, actually. So here’s the breakdown. Team Chaotic Good has quite a few members, so I’ll put it under a cut, as it’s a bit long.

Kíhyué: The team leader. Is Actually Chaotic Good. Has a very strong moral core, and while he doesn’t expect everyone he associates with to actually BE good-aligned, he damn well expects them all to act like it. The society he was raised in was largely Lawful/Neutral, but his outlook ended up completely different as a result of the mistreatment he suffered at the hands of strict laws and “neutral” stances that did more harm than good. “No such thing as an innocent bystander. You stand by and do nothing, you do not want to get involved, fine. But do not call yourself innocent. Do not say you did no harm when you could have done good instead.”

Inimicia: Sort of like his second in command, she’s Exalted Lawful Good. Not something you’d expect from the infamous Assassin Queen, or a half-vampire, or someone whose name literally means “the enemy,” but she’s had a long hard crawl up from being born chaotic evil and like hell she’s going to give up the good fight now. Her morals are 100% self-imposed, and she goes out of her way to find others in need of similar impositions and help them learn how to use objectively evil powers for good. Her order of assassins is ironically mostly good aligned, and she works very hard to keep it that way, sending them on missions to slay demons and devils and other undeniable evils who’ve managed to blend into society. This often leads to them looking like the bad guys, of course... nobility who keep their sinister deeds well hidden suddenly drop dead murdered in their own homes, and no one understands why. No one, except the victims of their cruelty whose pleas Inimicia’s spies overhear. She’s especially wary of religion, and any religion that claims to serve “the greater good.” A deity, of course, has the power to decide just what they think the greater good actually is, and cannot be trusted not to be acting solely in their own self-interest, or to actually do good deeds at all. “Go ahead. Paint me as your enemy. The world can believe you all it wants to, I’ll be the villain if you make me. I’ll still know the truth... and so will you.” Xadrea Shadowborn: Is Exalted Chaotic Good out of sheer spite and determination. Unlike Kíhyué, she absolutely expects Good out of everyone, even if she has to drag them kicking and screaming into behaving like decent human beings. Arguably this is the result of outside influence, though it’s... complicated. Essentially, she and her companions in a different universe had been given these artifacts that would tempt them into corruption in exchange for power, ultimately transforming them into an avatar of one of the Archdukes of Hell if they succumbed to enough temptations to lose their souls. Xadrea watched this happen to SEVEN of her party members. She outright refused to fall, ended up hosting the deity Heironeous instead of an archfiend, and saved the universe, all thanks to pure fucking spite and refusing to do as she was told by the voice in her head. Her sense of justice and honour don’t always conform to what one would expect of a literal divine embodiment of Valor, but she argues that’s what makes her best for the job, since she absolutely will not get caught up over doing the lawful thing as opposed to the right thing... something she and Kíhyué both agree is what makes their approach to fighting evil the best one. Her morals, ultimately, come from the shitty little slothful voice in the back of her mind that wants her to lie down and accept defeat, protect herself and forget the world... “Oh, you wish I’d quit, don’t you? Well it’s not gonna happen. NEVER gonna happen. You want apathy from me? Get bent, devil. I’m going to CARE. I am going to care SO much, ON PURPOSE, about EVERYTHING but you, and you can’t fucking stop me.” Anaziah the Kind: A paladin of freedom, Anaziah is another actual Chaotic Good member. If her former epithet of “the Wrathful” isn’t enough of an indication, she certainly didn’t used to have a moral compass, and it’s a testament to her strength of will that she’s managed to change and become a better person. She’s still pretty new at this whole “being a good person” thing, and looks to Faendys and the others for guidance, very grateful to all of them for giving her a chance instead of judging the Drow book by its cover. “I was raised to hate everything that wasn’t like us. To hate, to subjugate, to destroy. But... I was never really like ‘us,’ was I? All they ever really taught me was how to hate myself. The surface world isn’t like that. I’m free here. I’m allowed to love instead. It’s not easy, but, doesn’t everyone deserve the chance to try?” Faendys: Neutral Good, Faendys is the very calm one, who’s never trying to make any sort of deep commentary on anything on purpose, but often ends up making unsettlingly wise comments anyway. They rarely have to say much, and rarely do say much when things get serious, but their small voice piping up with something profound is always what gets the rest of them to shut up and act reasonably when their opposing alignments cause conflict. Even if it’s just a simple “That’s... not okay,” Faendys trusts their gut when it comes to tough ethical dilemmas, and the others generally listen to them. “I know it sounds hard. And it’s probably going to make us a lot of enemies. Even if we get away with it. But... we haven’t been afraid of that before, have we? They need our help, and we know it. What makes this time any different?” Arekos Aidoneus: A dread necromancer who’s also the party healer, Arekos is Lawful Neutral, and the only thing preventing him from being Good is the fact that many of the spells he casts are technically evil (see: raising armies of undead). However, he’s very careful to only use these spells for good purposes, and also has a few spells from the Book of Exalted Deeds on his list... his moral fibre is rather complex. His approach to the subject is based very strongly on his culture and religion: keep the balance in all things, use your dark powers only to serve the light, and defend the cause of good for the cause of evil needs no help to prosper. This creed is how he stays lawful despite actively working towards arguably chaotic goals, because dismantling the government brick by brick is, in fact, something he is required by his social and religious obligations to do, provided that the government in question is evil. Kíhyué and Xadrea absolutely hate it when he brings this up. “The world would love to prove that we cannot be good, that we cannot be kind, that we cannot be anything but evil and should not exist. I should very much like to prove them all wrong.” Amanthos Panideios: Also Lawful Neutral, with a heavy emphasis on Lawful, this librarian monk knows full well that he does not really fit in here... so he follows the others’ lead more often than not, managing to stay lawful despite the chaotic things they get up to the same way Arekos does. He also just... avoids getting directly involved with anything that would involve breaking the law in ways he can’t rationalise. Amanthos is not Moral, he is Ethical, and this is both a good thing (he’s able to rationalise many of the chaotic things he engages with as actually complying with the code of ethics he is meant to follow) and a bad thing (not everything has an easy answer, and it’s very easy for him to potentially fall into Lawful Evil behaviour if someone else isn’t around to check his work). “Oh dear... we didn’t cover this in any of my moral philosophy lectures... Arekos? Arekos, do you know the answer to this one?” Psamion: The bard, the sea captain, the Chaotic Neutral (but good-leaning!) one. He did his time as the hero, and quite frankly he hated every second of it, it traumatised him thoroughly, and he never wants to speak of it again. He’s perfectly content to continue doing his best to help people, in his own way, but absolutely does not want to let himself get dragged into another high-stakes demon hunt to the Hells and back, because he barely came out of the last one alive. That being said, Kíhyué is his closest friend in the entire universe, and he would do anything for him... so, naturally, when Kíhyué says “We have to save the world again,” Psamion just sighs, packs his things, and says “Can’t it just stay saved for once?” as he follows Kíhyué out the door. “Look, I don’t much care for this whole ‘getting involved’ thing, but if Kíhyué says it’s time to put up a fight, and he needs my help, you’d best believe I’m pulling out my knives and hucking a flaming bottle wherever he points me to. The world’s in trouble, and damn it all, by some miracle I’m STILL one of the idiots who lives in it, thanks to him... If I’m gonna fight, it may as well be a good fight.” Eomer: Is a gryphon. Kíhyué raised him from a hatchling, and their moral cores are as such pretty much identical... though Eomer is much more empathetic and often needs to give Kíhyué a kick in a more compassionate direction. “I think you very brave for trying. Maybe we fail, yes, happen some times. But what if not! Any thing can happen! Good thing, even! You would not even try for good? For happy thing? Stupid. Go try. Come try with me. I will go by myself, yes? No? Good! Together, we stand a chance, always worth a chance.”

#rixa writes #team chaotic good #whew this ate a good several hours #sorry it got so long #but thanks for the ask!!!#romulan-raptorstar

2 notes · View notes

5lazarus · 3 years

Text

Anders in Autumn, Ch. 13

based off of n.13 of @cozy-autumn-prompts! read on AO3 here. Anders in Autumn, Ch. 13: Fenris and Anders prepare to return to Kirkwall, and for whatever might come next.

Merrill sends a letter with Varric’s messenger. Messere Pounce-the-Second is fine, the two apprentices made it out okay, Samsom drank all the lyrium he left in the clinic, and no one has died yet. Varric has paid the guards off, the bosses off, and reached a compromise with the strikers. Only two people have died, and only a couple have been maimed for life. The dockworkers have won their demands. Those injured will be paid their pensions. The messenger also brings two fine Free Marches Rangers, for them to ride into town. Varric’s got a foot in the horseflesh market now. They are free advertising to his munificence. The Dalish left the house without saying goodbye, and took half the kitchen implements and an apple sapling with them. Fenris says it wasn’t personal. Imladris has never been good at goodbyes, and Mahanon has always been a magpie. Anders is slightly offended, and irritated besides. It is hard to make dinner when Mahanon took all the best pans, and he thought they would have at least tried to recruit him. “No,” Fenris says. “You’re doing good work in Kirkwall. For now.” “Not enough,” Anders says.

“We’ll be home soon.” Fenris takes a bite from the one loaf of bread the Dalish left them. They’ll be able to subsist the day’s journey back to Kirkwall on apples, but still: they could have left some of the dried pork. Anders smiles at him uncertainly and reaches for his hand. He crept into his bed last night and they fell asleep together, that was it, and that was fine. Iit is fine, but he worries. Whatever is growing between them is still so fragile, and Anders worries that his luck will run out. Mages don’t get to fall in love and have a domestic routine. The whole situation is revolutionary, and he does not want Kirkwall to steal it from him. “Merrill says my cat is fine,” Anders says instead. “And she didn’t burn down the clinic, and no one’s run her out of town with pitchfork.” “Yet,” Fenris says. Anders snorts, and Fenris takes his hand in both of his. The tenderness sits between them. He’s happy. He does not want to leave, not yet, but he must. He always has to, he always has to move on. Fear wracks him and he draws back. This was all a moment of weakness. Fenris won’t want to take back up with him when they return home. The reality of their situation is too clear. He hates mages, or at least disdains mages, and hates mages who deal with demons. Justice isn’t a demon though Anders fears that he’ll make a demon out of him, but Merrill always says that it’s less about the Andrastian binary of good and evil and more about sacrifice. He isn’t like Merrill though. He believes in good. Anders looks at Fenris, ashamed. Does he know that? That he believes in good? Fenris looks askance. “Is something the matter?” He reaches for his hand again, and Anders closes his eyes. He likes the calluses of his hands “Are you comfortable?” Anders rushes. “Am I what?” “Comfortable,” Anders says, “with this. Continuing when we return to Kirkwall. With taking up with your local abomination. I thought you hated Justice. He isn’t going away. He’s a part of me. Magic is who I am. As much as the fight for freedom is. And I--I’m not like Merrill, I don’t condone blood magic, and I don’t go looking for spirits to pester. But this is what I am. I’m a mage. And if you’re not comfortable with this, it isn’t right for either of us to play at domesticity and pretend as if we’re not mutually opposed. Because we’re not. I don’t want to live in a world where the Imperium exists, and I’m going to change it.” Fenris takes that quietly. He brushes his thumb over Anders’ hand, a gesture so gentle it brings him to the brink of tears. He has lived his life on the edge of a precipice, from the Harrowing to his fugitive years, from the Wardens to Kirkwall, and now the wind is at his back and threatening to push him over. Anders almost says, say something. Please. Even if it’s you being an ass. I’ll take that over the silence. It’s unbearable, and he gets up and walks to the door. He wraps himself in Mahariel’s shawl. Hand on the door handle, Anders does not let himself look back. Outside the air is crisp and the constellations over the apple trees are bright. Anders walks to the orchard and lies down, arms crossed over his head, and watches the stars careen overhead. They were brighter at Weisshaupt. He really ought to have looked for his mother when Mahariel took him there. He sighs: but you can’t go home again. Everything is so fleeting, every bit of happiness. He wonders what it would be like to return home and hear his name called again. Perhaps his mother is dead: then his name is too, then. At least that is something the Chantry had not taken from him. He has kept it entirely to himself. Beyond the sky is the Brethren of the Air. That melancholy is Justice’s, Anders recognizes. The world is not as it should be. It can be righted. He can do it. He will do it. Not all mages are like the magisterium, and the magisterium will not last. Anders closes his eyes, brings his hands to his face, and sighs. He is not Danarius. He is not Merrill. He has not succumbed to temptation. He has kept Justice whole, even though there is no justice in the streets of Kirkwall--no. Merrill wrote that the dockworkers won. For once, something right, and he was part of that. He has healed the hurt and killed the killers. What does that make him? Right, for once, no matter what Fenris thinks. He opens his eyes and start. Fenris is staring down at him, eyes and tattoos glowing in the dark. “Maker’s breath, man!” Anders yelps. He scrambles upright, back against the tree. Fenris squats next to him. He moves as silently as a wraith, and glows blue like one too. Anders has always liked shiny things. Gloomily he thinks, maybe that’s why I like him. “Yes,” Fenris says. “What?” Anders has no idea what he is referring too. The night is cold, and he shivers and clutches the shawl closer around him. He likes the clothes Varric gave him but he misses his robes. “Yes,” Fenris says. “I am comfortable. With this. With a mage.” He pauses, and amends himself. “With a mage such as you.” Anders is silent. His brain has shorted out. He gnaws at his lip as Fenris slides next to him. He rests his head on his shoulder. “You know my life is for the mages’ freedom. For breaking the Circle. For liberation.” “As mine is to break the yoke of Tevinter slavery, yes.” Fenris kisses his head, and Anders blossoms at the touch. “As you said. These aren’t mutually opposed. I want you to know that I admire how you fight. For your people. For our friends. For people you barely know. Though I must admit that I am frightened of Justice and the power you wield. It is hard for me. But my sister is a mage. I remember...I need you to understand. This--I need time. I need this to be slow. I do not know what will happen to us in Kirkwall, but I am not used to...intimacy. With a mage or not. And I am not sure--I had another name, once. And I am trying to learn what that meant to me. I cannot give you everything. I need some time for myself.” Anders looks up at him. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Fenris. Are you saying you want me or not? I’m not asking you to marry me. Maker knows that’s illegal anyway.” He cannot help the anger creeping into his voice. It should not be illegal for mages to set up households. He should not have to look at what Mahanon and Imladris have and envy. It should be his right. He pulls himself up. The night is sweet and heavy with the smell of apples. There are a few more they have to pick in the morning, before they return to Kirkwall. “I will never pressure you into anything you don’t want.” He is insulted now. He has been as gentle as he can. He wants him, of course he does, but he is not a monster. He would never force someone to deal with him if they did not want to. He has had enough unwanted advances in his life, he would never do that. Fenris should know that. He should trust him that far, at least. He is not a monster. Fenris blinks. “No! I do want you.” Even in the darkness he can see him blushing. “I want this. This intimacy. But I need to take this slowly. I have known you a long time, Anders. I would like this to last.” Anders leans in to kiss him. Fenris runs his fingers through his hair. It is unthinkable that he has this tenderness. He is sitting under an apple tree, kissing a beautiful man, in a crisp autumn night as the stars blaze overhead and revolution broils in the streets of Kirkwall. In the Circle he never dared dream of this. Even in the Wardens he could not see this kind of peace, letting a crotchety elf from Tevinter make him tender. He undulates against him. He feels like he is melting. He has always fallen in love too easily. They break from the kiss and Anders rests his head against him. He says sadly, “I’m not sure how much time we’ll have. Things are getting worse in Kirkwall. And Varric can’t pay off the guards forever. If Meredith calls for the Right of Annulment, I’m going to burn that city down, Fenris. Cullen wants to make us all Tranquil. I won’t let them. I’ll bathe the city in blood if I have to, but I’m not going to let them fucking kill me and get away with it. Rip out my brain and sell me back to the Chantry. Do you understand? The Tranquil you see, selling trinkets for the Chanters’ Board, those are my friends. Were my friends. I can’t let that happen again.” Anger tears at him again. Karl deserved better. Karl deserved freedom. Karl deserved this sort of love, nuzzling under an apple orchard. Fenris says, “Do you think I will let them? Let alone my feelings for you--I know what they do to the Tranquil. I’ve seen Samson begging in the street. I know how the Blind Men get their wares. I know how many Tranquil pass through their hands.” He looks at him squarely, and Anders forces himself to meet the intensity of his gaze. “I did not escape Tevinter to stand idly by in the wake of such injustice. Magic is dangerous. We agree on that. But imprisoning people for life? Ripping families apart? Destroying people’s minds? No. Tevinter has chattel, Orlais has serfs, but in the Free Marches, you have the refugees and the Tranquil. I know a slave when I see one.” Maker he’s gorgeous, righteous in the pale moonlight. Anders swallows. “If you talk like that, I’ll fall in love with you,” he tells him. Fenris laughs. “Come to the community meetings in the alienage. My speeches are nothing compared to the hahren. And you never heard Mahanon speak. He could talk the dead into marching again.” He had not been able to hear the elf speak--Anders was too busy worrying to properly enjoy the action, before everything went to hell. He smiles wryly. He has always hated rallies. He can never hear the speakers, and staying so long in one place gave the guards time to prepare. He misses the sizzling fights with the other liberati from the Circle so much his heart clenches. He kisses Fenris: not alone for now, not alone right now at least. This tenderness exists. Anders says, “Have you ever read my manifesto? We’re going to try distributing it next month--it was supposed to be this month, but then, well, we had to leave town.” Fenris stills as Anders’s hands creep into his hair. The man’s even tense in his scalp. He strokes him gently. He can get him to unwind. “Mm,” Fenris manages. “Read it to me. When we get back.” When they get back: Kirkwall is sitting glittering down the mountain, hugging the bay, surrounded by those statues of tortured slaves. It’s horrible. There is so much work to be done. He needs to finalize edits, he needs to coordinate with the printer, he needs to find the liaison to that elf publication called Fen’Harel’s Teeth, someone called Slow Arrow wrote him and said they would publish a copy. Anxiety stirs up his heart beat. The Carta doesn’t like them trying to circumvent their printers, and there’s only one Carta clan who isn’t charging a legion’s worth of enchanted helmets, and they’re at war with the Thieves’ Guild right now. It can never be easy. No one can ever get alone. He should know. He’s the most obstinate out of all of them. “Can I stay with you tonight?” he asks. “I’m getting cold.” Fenris’ expression is almost unreadable in the moonlight. The wind stirs the applewood. The harvest is ending soon. Anders wishes he were a painter, to commit this to something more immortal than his memory, that he could enchant the smell of the woods and Fenris’ own earthier scent, the sound of the wind and his heart, and the crisp cold cutting away doubt. Justice says, a bit doubtfully, there is a way, but you wouldn’t be very good at it. Stick to your words. Justice is very judgemental. He snorts. Fenris says gingerly, “Are you talking to yourself?” “Justice thinks I would be a terrible painter,” Anders says, shaking his head. He detaches himself from him and pulls himself up. He offers Fenris a hand. Fenris takes it. Anders smiles and smooths Fenris’ hair, tucking a strand behind his ear. “He says I should use my words to tell you how beautiful you are. The way your eyes shine in the light, the set of your jaw…” Fenris says drily, “You certainly aren’t a poet. Try again.” They walk back to the house hand-in-hand, setting into bed. Fenris reads a little by candlelight as Anders combs his hair, frowning at the page. It is the first time they have decided to stay in the same bed together, rather than Anders just slipping in when it gets too cold. Anders hopes it is not the last. He cocoons himself in the blankets as Fenris traces the lines at the end of the page. Fenris looks down at him and snorts. “I’m cold,” Anders says petulantly. He thinks, you could warm me up. Fenris closes the book and snuffs the candle. He tugs at his blankets, so Anders loosens the wrap to let Fenris pull him in. Eventually they fall asleep, and Anders is smiling when he wakes up to Fenris looking at him wondrously. The tenderness in his eyes is so raw it hurts.

#co-zautumn #dragon age fanfiction #dragon age #fanfic #da2 #fenders #fenris/anders #anders/fenris #anders #fenris #5lazarus #hes5thlazarus #dragon age fanfic

1 note · View note

lena-in-a-red-dress · 5 years

Text

Cult of Luthor: New Clothes

Eliza is as willing as Kara predicts, and is in fact thrilled that Lena is willing to assimilate further, even if its only temporary. So they head out immediately for the mall, where they quickly learn that despite her willingness, Lena is NOT prepared for it.

There's too many things too look at, too much evidence that outsiders have in fact succumbed to the temptation of mindless consumption. There is a whole storefront devoted to candles, situated directly beside a shop full of lotions and soaps, and simply walking past overwhelms Lena's senses with artificial scents.

There's tobacco shops and candy shops and book shops and shops for privy clothes. It's too loud and too busy and when they pause in the center of the mall to ask where she'd like to start, Lena can only take a brief glance at the dizzying array of choices before she squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head.

"Why don't we start with my favorite shop," Kara suggests quickly, slipping her arm through Lena's in support. "And then we can go from there?"

Lena nods, gratefully, and the quickly make their way to the store in question. Inside it's a little less bright and a little less crowded, and the noise ebbs enough for them to hear gentle music playing softly over the speakers.

Kara shares a glance of relief with her mother when Lena instantly relaxes, and nods in edification before starting to thumb through the racks.

"Do you know who else has worn these?" Lena remarks after a moment, browsing through a tree of jeans.

"No one," Kara replies. "They're new."

"But they're all so faded," Lena points out. "And full of holes."

"Those are meant to be there. It's part of the new style lately. But they have some over here that aren't..."

In the end, even the shop's more modest styles are too plentiful, and Lena has difficulty settling on any one thing to try. Kara sees her getting discouraged, and suggests she wait in the dressing room, while Kara brings items to try.

The strategy pans out-- while Lena may not yet know what she likes, she quickly learns what she doesn't. She doesn't like sweaters with the shoulders missing, or anything ripped or torn. She doesn't like sharp or distracting patterns. She doesn't like plunging necklines, or skirts that stop above the knee.

In the process, she discovers that she likes floral prints, and cozy sweaters with wide collars that fluff up under her chin. She likes the comfort and freedom of leggings, but only when paired with a skirt (the only way she'll wear a skirt at all). She likes summery sundresses that swish around her legs, and make her feel like she's dancing.

She likes the feel of soft materials against her skin, likes the way some of them seem to mold to her body, as if they were made for her. But she disguises those under looser layers, obscuring the shapely figure that emerges in the mirror, unfamiliar in its vanity.

Lena tries to stop after three shirts and one pair of pants, but Eliza insists on more, enough for every day of the week, and then some. It feels wasteful to Lena, who promises to work hard to pay her back.

"Lena," Eliza says, taking both of Lena's hands in hers. "You don't have to earn this."

"But--"

"This is a gift." Eliza meets Lena's intense gaze with one of her own, connecting in a way Lena understands, and is familiar with. "Gifts aren't meant to be repaid."

Lena swallows, and finally nods. "Thank you."

Of course, that doesn't keep Lena from cooking dinner that night, or doing the dishes after, or beginning a load of laundry before Kara drags her upstairs to figure try on make up and hairstyles.

Make-up isn't Lena's favorite thing in the world. Though she likes the put-together looks of the women in the magazines, foundation makes her skin feel heavy, and the lining of lips and eyes and brows proves tedious.

She settles for light blush and a subtle lip color, complemented simply with a dutch braid that crosses the back of her head, and rests gently against the opposite shoulder.

"How did you learn to do this?" Kara asks as she sits under Lena's deft fingers as they weave a crown of braids around her head.

Lena smirks at her in the mirror. "What did you think we had under our bonnets?"

Kara shrugs. "Bees?"

A bark of laughter answers her absurdity. "Or snakes, like Medusa?"

"Yeah!" Kara chuckles, before shrugging. "But no, I guess... I guess I assumed braiding would be too frivolous."

Lena tilted her head, neither denying nor confirming. "It fosters nurtures our sense of community, and teaches mutual generosity. Even after we're old enough to braid ourselves, we braid the hair of our sisters, and they us."

Watching Lena in the mirror, Kara sees her smile.

"Some of my earliest memories are of discussing principles of physics with the caretaker braiding my hair. It's... peaceful." She puts a final pin in Kara's hair, and steps back, sitting on the edge of Kara's bed as Kara turns to look at her. "It must seem very strange to you."

Kara shrugs. "A little. I understand the value in the intimacy of it, but I'm surprised a group so focused on scientific advancement finds that sort of fulfillment in the mundane."

"Idle fingers are wasteful fingers. But braiding is simple work, and frees our minds to explore in a more relaxed setting. And it is a time only for women, which..."

Lena trails off, lips pressing together. Kara waits, watching, until Lena shrugs.

"In our community, we pride ourselves on providing our family the same opportunities to contribute to our endeavors. But at times it can feel as though the contributions of men are valued over those of women. It can be a challenge to be heard. But when we're braiding, that struggle isn't there."

"Yeah," Kara echoes quietly. "I can see that."

"And your hair," Lena changes the subject abruptly, dispelling the sudden sadness from her features, "would be the envy of all LuthorCorp. It's lovely."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. It's so thick, and the color is just beautiful. I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it."

Kara smiles. "Would you do it again sometime? The, uh," she motions to her new crown, "I mean."

Lena nods, smiling back. "I would love to."

---

The next day, Lena steps off the bus with her head high, crisp but comfortable in a paisley collared button-down and white jeans. With her slip-ons traded for a pair of lavender converses, she looks almost like an entirely different person.

No, Kara amends, when Lena catches her eye with that same intense gaze. Not different. Just new.

"I'll see you at lunch?" Kara asks.

Lena nods.

"You'll do great today, I promise."

"Oh well... if you promise." But a smile tugs at Lena's lips, betraying her humor. "Hey, Kara?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For helping me."

With a grin of her own, Kara elbows her in a gentle nudge.

"That's what friends are for."

Continued: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Appendix A

#cult of luthor #supercorp #new clothes #heart to heart #soft and fluffy #ladies supporting ladies #lena has choice anxiety

59 notes · View notes

itsamiraculous · 5 years

Text

Chat Blanc Predictions

Okay, so my recent post I was talking about Miraculer and Copycat. With that, I was thinking about the upcoming episode of Chat Blanc and I’ve been asked to expand more on what I was saying- I was planning on doing so anyway.

So I’ve been thinking a fair amount and I have concluded that I really can’t see Chat succumbing to Hawkmoth’s temptation of doing evil. We have seen Chloe fight of the Akuma in Miraculer, and considering I said about how similar Chat and Chloe are in their devotion to Ladybug, I really can’t see Chat giving in.

Let me explain and expand:

We have seen Chat be angry and hostile toward Ladybug before over rejection from her, as we see predominantly in Glaciator. The thing is there, it was miscommunication and Chat being too hopeful. In the end, he ended up hurting himself, but he comes to a conclusion on his own after Ladybug apologises.

Chat was too hopeful, but at the end when Ladybug explained and apologised (again), he understood and took her friendship instead. We know that he is still hopeful, but I would say he isn’t as bad. He knows his boundaries (we see him moving off from Ladybug quicker etc)- whenever he says anything now, it is a part of their game.

However, we have also seen him be hostile towards Ladybug in the aspect of retaining secrets. Not necessarily the Secret identities, he is only distraught over that. The episode I mean by this (keeping secrets); was Syren.

He didn’t feel like he was trusted, as you are meant to with being partners; especially ones that are saving Paris every day.

Ladybug knew of Fu, she always had hints to go to him and he was left in the dark, which leads to my next and final point...

Feeling useless- Chat thought he was being left in the dark and therefore Ladybug didn’t need him, or that they weren’t being a proper team. Which I would argue they weren’t in that instance, but the situation was unwarranted- Ladybug didn’t want to keep him in the dark, it was for his protection.

In Sandboy and other episodes, we see that Chat feels useless in comparison to Ladybug.

“...I’ll never love you. I’ve always wanted to get rid of you”

That she doesn’t see him properly. There are so many episodes now that this is coming up in. In Anansi she says “you know you’re irreplaceable”

I am saying all of these things as they are themes which crop up a lot with him, and can make their communication go off the rails as he has gotten hostile before etc.

Chat has never retained hostility for too long, as Ladybug has picked up on them and has tried to express her reasoning, or to help him not be left in the dark or feel second-best. They are a team and they need to communicate.

He is very quick to accept apology or encouragement etc from her. I can’t see Chat turning against Ladybug, he is too loyal and he won’t give into the temptation. This is why I think it’s interesting that we see Chloe fight off the Akuma because of her devotion... but we know that she has fallen out with Ladybug and is more susceptible to being Akumatized now. This leads me to think that an event has to happen, that isn’t resolves, or resolved properly to make him so angry, but I truly can’t see that happening. He has only truly had hate in his heart from Dark Cupid and Ladybug was shocked to hear him say that stuff.

However, the only thing that I could think of that is overwhelming, is the feeling of being useless. I sympathise. Even if Ladybug says that he is irreplaceable etc, in my experience (anxiety and depression) you can still feel useless. Appreciative of the person trying to help reassure you, but don’t believe they are genuine. I have no idea if this is a plot point for Adrien/Chat as we still need to dig into his character more, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Feeling useless... it can be from neglection. It can also coincide with how he always wants to help people, even if they are as bad as Lila. He wants to amount to something. It’s why he loves being Chat Noir, but is never actually in the limelight. Still, I don’t think he would be capable of letting Hawkmoth in.

So let’s look at it from two other angles.

So one angle I’ve seen some people approach is Adrien’s family situation. Let me iterate in how I also don’t think this is plausible.

Despite Gabriel being a terrible father, he cares about his son (to a degree, however skewed). From what we can tell from Nooroo mentioning to Gabriel about the negative emotions probably being his son’s, he washes over it (because he’s a dick of a father) but also it indicates to me that he wouldn’t think of Akumatizing Adrien. That is, unless he was very, very, very desperate.

Even then... it would be hard for Gabriel not to see that Chat Noir is Adrien if he pastes Chat Blanc on Adrien. One, it would bring back his suspicions from Gorizilla like “Oh, I thought you were Chat Noir once, lets see what that’s like”- lets just say it would give away that Adrien is Chat Noir. And Two: Chat Noir wouldn’t be there! It isn’t a situation like Gorizilla where Adrien was still in civilian form and could get someone to pretend to be him.

Then if Hawkmoth/Gabriel akumatized Adrien whilst as Chat Noir, and it was off of his family situation, it wouldn’t be plausible. Chat Noir would have to have a spike in that instance, if it is his family situation, it would mean Chat would be directly involved, not as Adrien. Then if it was an outsider looking in, then Gabriel would definitely tell that it is Adrien who is Chat (does that make sense?That was hard for me to explain).

So, my prediction.

I think it’s a possibility that Chat Blanc is not Chat Noir Akumatized. The synopsis for episodes can be misleading, and this is one of those episodes which can easily be manipulated. There is a reference to Copycat, so it’s a possibility that there is a mimicking. We also are expecting to see a sentient of Ladybug, as well as there is a lot of “copying” as a theme in the latest Miraculous episodes that have been released.

I know in S1 we always saw Ladybug utilise Chat when he had accidentally gone over to the other side (Puppeteer, Dark Cupid etc), we know that Ladybug actually can’t do it all on her own; she needs Chat. Their partnership has been building more and more throughout the seasons and we have seen them practically in sync (in Timetagger they were inadvertently and in Frighteningale they literally were tied together). but also...

I understand that it’s difficult to know who it could be and what they would have against Chat Noir or Ladybug etc. But I honestly can’t fathom seeing Chat being manipulated or tempted to betray Ladybug. And that’s another thing, Master Fu will question if Adrien was right for the Miraculous- it would go against why Adrien was given the miraculous in the first place (from being compassionate and caring, but also ultimately giving up something he wanted. From leaving his post on the stairs of the school, he inadvertently gave up pursuing what he wanted). Adrien and Marinette were chosen for a reason and if their negative emotions get the better of them, they could be seen as unfit for the task at hand.

Of course this is only my opinion, so I don’t know exactly, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

I would like to see what other people’s prediction/theories/opinions

#MLB #miraculous ladybug #chat noir #ml season 3 #chat blanc #adrien agreste #ml #ladybug #marinette dupen-chang #ml theory

182 notes · View notes

fifiliphile · 5 years

Text

Don’t Give Me Flannel (Cherik Ficlet)

[AO3 Version]

“You’re my roommate who’s super cute and it’s the middle of the night and you’re cramming for your exams in your flannel pajamas and disheveled hair and it’s becoming increasingly hard for me not to kiss you” AU

So, yeah, here we are. It was supposed to be a shorter one-shot, around 1,000 words or so, but I sort of took that prompt and ran with it, because apparently I cannot write something without any world-building in it. But it was a pure pleasure to write, even if I should've been working on my other WIPs. *sigh*

Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this short—yet still somehow almost four times longer than intended—ficlet.

It's not beta-ed, just edited and proofread by myself, so you know the drill—and I'll be really grateful for any valuable remarks!

“Can you finally go to bed?”

Although Erik’s voice is hoarse, his annoyance seeps through very clearly. As a result, the question sounds more like an order, despite it not really being Erik’s intention. Nonetheless, he’s too groggy to care.

Generally, Erik Lehnsherr has always prided himself in being quite a heavy sleeper, capable of sleeping through anything and everything ever since he remembers. Even when he was just a few years old, he would occasionally wake up to hear about the storm roaring through the night, which did little to disrupt his sleep. His mother used to joke that the bomb blowing up nearby wouldn’t manage to jolt him awake. The manifestation of his powers in the early teenage years disrupted his routine for a while, but he managed to go back to it by the time he started university, and this time he hasn’t let anything get in the way of getting a healthy amount of sleep.

Willing himself to fall asleep has never been problematic either, even with a lot of background noise. Unfortunately, it seems like the light is his ultimate weakness. He’s been struggling to doze off for quite a while now, but a small lamp still kept alight turns it into a truly challenging feat. Facing the wall that his bed was pushed to, his eyes closed shut, he’s desperately trying to force his mind to finally shut down, having already given a shot to counting sheep and focusing on his breathing. Sadly, without the comforting darkness to drown out any unwanted late-night thoughts, he is unable to succumb to sleep. The worst thing is, he’s slowly growing more and more desperate and the thought to just ask Charles—the very culprit behind his current predicament—to do this for him keeps lingering at the forefront of his mind.

A quiet groan escapes his lips as Erik turns around, towards the rustle of paper behind him. Charles Xavier, his roommate, the fellow student who also happens to be a mutant, is sitting on the carpet between their two beds, surrounded by an array of textbooks and notes. He is, by far, one of the very few people whom Erik tolerates and who somehow tolerate him in return, which is still somewhat unbelievable to Erik—how such a person as Charles, so unbearably idealistic and impossibly kind, would like to as much as simply be in his presence continues to escape his comprehension.

Nevertheless, here they are, Charles spread on the floor and Erik failing to fall asleep. Overall, Charles is quite a nice roommate, certainly much better than the previous ones that Erik was unlucky to live with. (Or maybe it was them who were unlucky enough to cross his path, Erik wonders sometimes.) Although a chatter, Charles doesn’t bother with meaningless conversations and he has a quick wit, which is even more prominent over the chessboard that they sometimes use to play, all of which make him a pleasant enough companion even on the worst of days. His bright big eyes, with their remarkable blueness only accentuated by the flannel pajamas he is currently wearing and with his floppy hair falling over them, make him look rather appealing, as a quite impressive group of both male and female students can corroborate. Despite that, Charles’s favourable looks are no more than a pleasant addition, or so Erik tries to convince himself of.

He cuts that train of thought short, though. They are friends, even though this label hardly conveys the depth of their bond. Charles may be the closest person Erik has ever been to, other than his parents, which makes him just about the only family Erik has left. To ruin the most meaningful friendship in Erik’s life due to his irrational sexual urges is just unthinkable. So he proceeds to do what he’s been doing for weeks now, burying the budding attraction deep enough that the telepath won’t see it.

“I can’t fall asleep with the light on,” he grumbles, seeing that Charles has hardly reacted to his previous question. When that doesn’t work either, Erik continues, his brows furrowing, “I have an exam tomorrow, too, you know.”

Charles finally looks up at him, and his eyes are sparkling in the warm light of his bedside lamp, his liveliness evident despite the dark circles under them. Erik shouldn’t find that sight so endearing, and yet, he’s mesmerised all the same, almost forgetting his own annoyance.

“Yeah, sorry,” Charles says apologetically, gazing down at the notebook he’s just been leafing through. His lips, even redder than usual, what with the way Charles continues to chew at them, curl into a little self-deprecating smile. Erik can’t help but trace their movements when his friend adds, “Just… five more minutes.”

It’s clear how tired Charles is, leaning on his hand which is perched up on his lap and visibly fighting off the urge to let his head drop on his notes. Erik rolls his eyes, irritated with Charles’s insistence even more so now that he sees his exhaustion. It may even explain why Erik’s own tiredness feels so profound; if Charles is on the verge of falling asleep, his shields are prone to get weaker and sometimes he starts projecting his feelings, as if his mind was trying to get rid of the sense of fatigue simply by pushing it away.

In truth, Erik doesn’t mind it as much as he thought he would. He minds feeling more tired than he actually is, that is, but not the mental contact itself. It never fails to surprise him, how much he actually enjoys having someone brushing against his thoughts. Of course, he believes that all mutants should be treated equally, regardless of the nature of their mutation; and yet, telepaths are often facing quite a lot of resentment, even within the mutant community itself. For many, it is one thing to pass someone with a tail or a pair of wings on the street without batting an eye, and something else entirely to have a stranger overhear your thoughts—something intimate and meant to exist only for you to listen.

Erik can understand where such reservations might come from, even though he himself doesn’t view telepathy as so problematic. In fact, the anti-psionic bias seems to be chiefly the product of ignorance—there aren’t that many telepaths, most of whom not even powerful enough to fully enter someone’s mind without touching that person or at least being in a very close proximity to them, but people nevertheless are afraid of feeling so exposed, with more than unfavourable portrayal of telepathy in the media as manipulative and exploitative only feeding their fear.

Not that telepaths are actually interested in reading or controlling everyone’s minds; the fact that is obvious to anyone who has actually met a telepath. It would be exhausting, after all, to listen closely to every thought that comes your way. Not even mentioning the fact that a lot of people think they’re incredibly interesting and worthy of attention, while, in actuality, their thoughts are mundane and their secrets nonsignificant.

Erik has crossed paths with enough telepaths to know that. Besides, if telepaths truly did always listen to one’s every thought, Charles would already bloody well know how annoyed Erik has been for quite a while now.

“You’ve been cramming it for—” Erik reaches out with his power, tugging at the magnetic lines surrounding him, and feels the hands of Charles’s watch which is still wrapped around his wrist.

The soft hum of its metal is pleasantly familiar. Charles takes it off only to sleep, and its constant presence allows Erik to sense him, even if his friend is out of sight. It never ceases to surprise Erik how comforting he finds it, the possibility to feel Charles’s warm skin against the stainless steel of the watch anytime he wishes, wherever he is.

Erik reads the hour and groans resignedly, “—for six hours straight. You know everything that you need already.”

“I have to ace it,” Charles mutters, his gaze fixed back on his notes.

He bites his lower lip, again, and it’s truly infuriating how captivating it is. Erik spends entirely too much time looking at those plush red lips of Charles’s, wondering distantly if they’re as soft as they look and if their redness would be even more intense after a thorough kiss…

It’s getting ridiculous. He shouldn’t allow himself to think such things, especially not about a telepath.

“Did you even touch the tea I made you?,” Erik demands instead, resisting the temptation to ask another question that sits at the tip of his tongue, one that is as improper as it is stupid.

A quick glance at Charles’s nightstand confirms what Erik has already suspected. The green mug with a cat and a silly chemistry pun printed on it is standing exactly where Erik put it three hours ago.

Charles looks up once again, his lips rounding in a way that is both adorable and infuriating. What’s more, the sudden movement makes his hair, ruffled from the way Charles runs his hands through them every now and then, fall down his forehead, and Erik barely battles the urge to reach out and gently brush them away.

“Oh,” Charles breathes, his wide eyes making him look like a puppy whose owner has just scolded them for something that they are absolutely guilty of. “I’m terribly sorry, my friend,” he says sheepishly, averting his gaze. “I’ve got too immersed in all of this.” His hand flies around over all the books, the sleeve of his slightly too big flannel pyjamas tumbling down his forearm and falling over his wrist.

Why Charles insists on sleeping in that atrocious thing, whose only saving grace is its nice blue colour, remains a mystery to Erik. Their dorm room is relatively warm, even in winter, and yet Charles seems to be perpetually cold at night, sleeping under a pile of blankets all year long. Erik is reluctant to admit it, but it worries him that although the summer is about to start, Charles’ nightwear hasn’t yet changed. If he’s so cold, perhaps there could be a way to warm him up a bit. Which is hardly the best line of thinking for now, because the only solutions Erik can think of involve things that he’s pretty sure Charles wouldn’t want.

A small shudder runs down his spine, and Erik has to clear his suddenly dry throat, forcing his mind to think about something else—anything else, really. He ends up recalling the details of a few cases which will most probably prove to be useful during tomorrow’s exam, trying not to wonder how it would be to wrap his arms around Charles and pull him under the covers.

Frustratingly, even repeating in his head what he already knows by heart isn’t tedious enough to put his mind to sleep.

“You can’t keep doing that.” Erik’s voice sounds annoyed even to his own ears, more so than before.

“I know, I know…,” Charles says under his breath, clearly having completely recovered from his previous mortification.

“You should’ve started earlier.” Erik’s tone might be a bit too harsh, certainly more than he intended. He can’t help himself but be frustrated, though, what with everything that watching Charles raise his hand and gently tap his fingers against his lips does to Erik’s insides.

Charles sighs, burying his face in his hands. “I know that too.” Erik can barely hear him, his voice muffled by his fingers, but he can tell that Charles must be annoyed with himself too. “Just… this isn’t half as interesting as the project I’m working on,” he explains, with an edge to his tone.

Erik rolls his eyes, though there’s hardly any malice behind the gesture. “I can believe that, but it’s getting annoying,” he says a little less sternly, despite his patience seriously dwindling.

“Sorry.” But Charles doesn’t look so sorry as he grabs one of the textbooks and opens it, back in that study mode of his.

Taking a deep breath, Erik barely refrains from raising his voice, his irritation only worsened by the worry about Charles’s awful sleeping habits. “You know all of that. Go to bed already.”

Charles’s thoughts are clearly far away from their conversation when he mumbles, “Just… let me finish—”

“Charles, you’re overtaxing yourself.” Erik’s tone is yet again harsh, though this time he can’t keep worry out of his voice.

The telepath doesn’t even respond, his whole attention at the textbook on his lap. Despite his immersion in the text, Charles’s head continues to be drooping, his back leaning heavily on the frame of his bed, and Erik doesn’t know what to do anymore to make this man finally get some sleep.

It’s still somewhat bewildering to him, to care for another person’s well-being so much that he starts completely brushing aside his own. It’s not like he is uncaring, but ever since his parents passed away Erik hasn’t allowed himself to get too close to other people. His wounds haven’t properly healed yet, and the thought of losing anyone else is so unbearable that he’d rather isolate himself than face the prospect of going through that again. Yet, he finds himself growing more and more fond of Charles with every passing day.

Although everyone seems to love Charles—that goes without question—Erik isn’t like everyone and a creature of very little trust, so he can’t be easily swayed into liking someone, even if confronted with the smoothest of flattery. But Charles isn’t like anyone else either and hardly an overconfident and snobbish smooth talker that Erik thought he was upon their first meeting. It took more than a couple of heated discussions during quite a few classes and the mutant rights club meetings and one memorable party, however, for Erik to start appreciating Charles’s seemingly endless enthusiasm, his infuriating idealism and the admirable faithfulness to his own ideals, and, most of all, his unconditional kindness.

As a cynic and a firm believer in the need for separation between baseline humans and mutants, Erik naturally would never agree with Charles’s integrationist ideas, though deep down he has to begrudgingly admit that such an approach might be beneficial in some instances. Besides, it’s not his fault, really, that Erik can’t resist that warm laughter, the playful quirk of that red mouth, and the mischievous glint in those hauntingly blue eyes. If he didn’t know much about telepathy, he’d think that this endearing charm is just a trick, but he knows better. Charles really happens to be just as charming, as if having the magnetic personality of an opposite pole, whose call is quite hard for Erik to resist.

Which doesn’t make Charles’s late-night study sessions any less irritating.

Erik must do something to make Charles finally go to sleep, and if the Charles way of talking and negotiating doesn’t work, it’s time for the Erik way. He slips from under the covers and jumps to the floor.

“Erik, give it back!,” Charles shrieks the second Erik snatches the book away from his hands, though his protests are much weaker than usual.

“I need sleep and so do you,” Erik says stubbornly, hugging the book to his chest. “So, just put it all away, or I’ll do that for you.”

Charles looks at him for a long moment, the exasperation in his expression mixed with something else, something odd. There’s a heaviness to his gaze that makes Erik shift minutely, slightly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of those brilliant eyes.

“You’re insufferable sometimes,” Charles says eventually, although he doesn’t sound resigned, only mildly amused.

“You’re the one to talk,” Erik snaps back, albeit good-naturedly.

Signing once again, Charles just shakes his head, a small smile creeping on his lips. Then, he fixes Erik with a stern gaze.

“I’ll go to sleep when I finish this chapter,” he says seriously, and the determination that is colouring his eyes suggests that he won’t step down this time.

Erik purses his lips and regards him for a moment, contemplating the offer. The chances for negotiating conditions more favourable for Erik are scarce, and now is not a good time to pick up a fight. It seems best to relent.

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it,” Erik decides, slowly releasing the book from his grasp.

Charles quickly goes to grab it before he can even let go of it, the telepath’s fingers brushing against Erik’s forearms and leaving a trail of the pleasant tingling sensation behind. Erik can’t help but sit here transfixed, the plush carpet soft against the bare skin of his shins, as Charles goes back to studying. There’s something enthralling in watching him in his element—because as exhausted as Charles is, there’s still so much passion in the way he’s practically devouring what is written on the pages before him. His eyes are alight again, and his lips are moving—lightly, captivatingly—as he’s quietly repeating the crucial tidbits of information.

Erik has never wanted to kiss someone so much in his entire life.

Although the book is once again laying open on his lap and stealing all his attention, Charles looks up from it, apparently having noticed Erik’s dumbfounded expression. “You can go back to bed now,” he points out lightly, his brows drawn in mild confusion.

“Not until I tuck you in first,” Erik responds before he has time to think much about his words.

He doesn’t even get a chance to start feeling self-conscious, however, as Charles is seemingly taking it all in stride. “That won’t be necessary, my friend,” he says, giving Erik an amused look, the corner of his lips—so distractingly red—rising in a half smile, and Erik finds it hard not to stare at them.

Instead, he narrows his eyes. “We’ll see.”

“You’re unbelievable,” Charles snorts and glances down at the book, his fingers finding their way back to his mouth.

The tip of his thumb begins to slowly trace the outline of his lower lip, back and forth, drawing all of Erik’s attention to that one delicate motion. He cannot help but be hypnotised, wishing against his better judgement that he could reach out and replace Charles’s fingers with his own. To map those lips with his touch, to explore the softness against his fingertips…

Erik looks up abruptly, his eyes boring in the ceiling. Breathing out, he almost groans, but refrains from doing so not to distract Charles. It’s really of no use, allowing himself for such mental escapades. This absurd infatuation has already made Erik’s life miserable enough, there is really no need to add fuel to the flames.

Except, he finds himself unable to stop. Everytime he sees Charles, hears his warm laughter, feels his fingers brushing against his own arm, is confronted with a clever and spot-on counterargument during their arguments, or witnesses a particularly cunning move during the game of chess, Erik can’t stop his mind from being consumed yet again by the thoughts of his best friend. It’s truly a miracle that Charles hasn’t picked up on those thoughts yet, and for once Erik is grateful for Charles’s strict moral code.

Nonetheless, Erik knows he has to put an end to it. It’s just a silly crush, after all, nothing worth putting their friendship on the line. No more foolishness from now on—he’ll just focus on getting through his studies, pushing all the other matters aside.

After some time, which seems to have stretched from mere minutes to long hours, Erik abruptly hears Charles close the book. He drops his gaze in time to see his friend put it down and then proceed to gather all the rest of the study materials into a pile.

“Okay, I’ve finished, happy?,” Charles says, pushing the pile closer to his bed. “You can tuck me in now.” He looks up and momentarily furrows his eyebrows. “Erik?”

Somehow, the earnest look of those beautifully blue eyes makes Erik’s resolve snap. So much for an end to all the silliness. Before he can stop his traitorous lips from moving, the question is already leaving his mouth, the one he’s been longing to ask for so long.

“Can I kiss you?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, as Charles’s eyebrows slowly rise, disappearing underneath his dishevelled hair. He’s still for what feels like an eternity, and Erik can feel the tendrils of the telepath’s thoughts retreating from his mind, folding in on themselves, which can’t possibly bode well.

Panic begins to rise in Erik’s chest. With his breath quickening, he does his best to slip on a mask of indifference over his face, hoping against hope that Charles hasn’t seen anything damning in his mind, especially not any of those lewd thoughts he’s been having lately. But before dread can consume his mind like a wildfire, Erik sees Charles’s expression soften and then the telepath is leaning in, stopping only when his face is a few mere inches from Erik’s.

He’s so close that Erik nearly goes cross-eyed, Charles’s breath ghosting over his lips. Erik remains frozen, waiting for his friend’s response, anticipating and dreading it in equal measure. He sees that Charles’s eyes are flickering all over his face, filled with… Is it excitement, or rather nervousness? Regardless, his look is clearly inviting, so Erik lets himself hope that maybe his friend does want the same thing.

“Yes.”

For a second, Erik isn’t sure if he has heard it correctly. It was barely a whisper, and Charles agreeing to such a ridiculous request sounds too good to be true. It soon becomes clear, however, that Erik’s ears were not playing tricks on him when Charles gives him one last smile and leans in farther to close the distance between them.

Erik’s eyes close on their own accord, and it takes a heartbeat for their lips to meet. It doesn’t feel like a particularly world-changing moment—or maybe it does, just not in the way Erik expected. It’s not like a lighting strike, turning his world upside down and igniting a raging fire inside of him, but it rather feels as if long-lost puzzle pieces finally fell in their proper places.

Kissing Charles feels like coming home.

His lips are just so soft, pliable against Erik’s, the warmth of their gentle touch spreading through Erik’s whole body like little electric shocks. The kiss is rather chaste, close-mouthed; even so, Erik can feel the air between them slowly changing and starting to crackle with the kind of tension that has barely reached the surface before. The wave of excitement mixed with lust that swiftly encompasses his mind proves that he’s not the only one who notices it.

Erik senses something else, however, something much deeper and warmer, as his hands find their way to Charles’s face. He runs his fingertips over the expanse of smooth skin, gently stroking Charles’s cheeks, and he can feel the warmth rising there. He can’t help but smile against his friend’s lips, feeling an affectionate nudge in his mind in return.

And then Erik hears it, a soft murmur permeating his thoughts.

I thought you’d never ask.

If anyone's interested, here's the mug Erik was reffering to (I found it funny, don't at me ^^').

And I'm considering perhaps writing more in that 'verse, so if any of you has any ideas, prompts, or requests, I'll be more than happy to oblige ;)

(Generally, I have more in store for Cherik, especially after Dark Phoenix (we'll always have Paris, after all), but those works are also getting longer than expected. Still, I'm cautiously optimistic about finishing them in August.)

#cherik #erik lehnsherr #charles xavier #x men #xmcu #x men: dark phoenix #xmdp #fluff #fluff with traces of plot #kissing #cherik au #cherik college au #cherik fanfic #my fanfiction #my writing #hanshaped writes #and mumbles

44 notes · View notes

thisbitchinthecorner · 5 years

Text

Roughly 7 minutes after the End of the World that wasn’t part 2

“We’re fucked!”

Aziraphale turns to look back at the group of children clustered together, Pepper, Brian and Wensleydale watch, eyes wide with fear, as the Archangel and Prince of Hell transform into their celestial forms. Adam Young, The Antichrist, stands right behind him and Crowley, the young boy quietly absorbing all that is unfolding around him, but his only concern seems to the be supposed Hell Hound trembling at his feet. Do something Crowley! He thinks to himself. He closes his eyes and as he opens them, he feels an intense light shining down from Heaven, one he has not felt for 6000 years.

“Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, I see you found the sword I gave you.” God’s voice broke upon him like the crescendo of a symphony; leaving him shaking with both joy and despair.

“Oh! Well, yes.” He stumbled over his words. “But that’s not important. You got my message! Thank the Lor...I mean, thank you!”

“Aziraphale, what is it that you want me to do?” God asked plainly.

“What I want you to do? Right! What I want you do is to stop this! The world doesn’t need to end!” He waved his arms erratically. “That boy is The Antichrist, and by some miracle, he refuses to start the apocalypse. But Gabriel is convinced that this war must happen, and now he and Beelzebub will stop at nothing to see that Heaven and Hell have their way. But you can stop this, all of it!” He pleads with desperation coursing through his voice.

“Aziraphale, what if this is the Great Plan, the Ineffable Plan, and all of this is meant to happen?” God asked calmly.

“I cannot believe that you would destroy humanity just to settle a proverbial score.” He argued, his voice shaking. “They do not deserve to die. Humans are inherently good and filled with wonder. They have created so many beautiful things; music, art, language, food and books, so many wonderful stories they have told over the centuries! They are curious and constantly seeking understanding and knowledge, and that has given them grace and their lives meaning. How can you destroy so many miracles made from their own hands?”

“Aziraphale, you, more than anyone, must know how much the human mean to me.” God’s voice offered him some measure of comfort.

“So...you will stop all of this then?” He asked hopefully.

“Yes, Aziraphale. I will stop this and set things right.” God soothed.

He let out a shriek of joy; his hands clasped together and a brilliant smile flashed across his face. “Oh thank you my Lord! You truly are merciful!”

“I will return the world to the way it was yesterday. What has been done will be undone. I will return the angels to Heaven, with the exception one exception, and banish the demons back to Hell.” God declared triumphantly.

He paused for a moment. “All...all the demons will be sent back to Hell?”

“Yes,” God replied. “All of them.”

“But what about Crowley? Surely you do not intend to banish him to Hell.” The very thought made him ill.

“He is a demon, he belongs in Hell, Aziraphale.” God stated coolly.

“Crowley doesn’t belong in Hell! I mean, he is a demon, but he’s not...he’s not like the rest of them.” He protested.

“Aziraphale, are you saying that he belongs in Heaven?” God’s voice raised in tone ever so slightly.

“Oh goodness no!” He nearly laughed at the idea of Crowley strolling into Heaven with his ridiculously tight pants, low cut shirt and flashy watch, asking Michael for a high-five and languishing seductively over a plush chaise he miracles into existence. “No, he belongs on earth, he’s been living among humans for well, for as long as I have.”

“He has,” God began. “And he’s been corrupting them for as long as he’s been on earth. You remember it was Crowley who tempted Eve to eat the apple. It was him who set all of this into motion. So, in reality, everything that is happening now is directly his doing.”

“In his defense, you did put the forbidden tree in the very center of Eden. Seems to me they would have succumbed to temptation even without Crowley’s influence.” He daringly argued.

“Aziraphale, Crowley is a demon, he is Fallen, and despite what you believe, he deserves to be in Hell.” God reasoned.

“But Hell is angry with him over this business over the mixup with The Antichrist. They will not be pleased with the canceling of the apocalypse.” A shudder went down his spine as he considered what Hell would do to Crowley as a result of his betrayal.

“Aziraphale, I fail to see how that is a concern to you.” God remarked. “What Hell chooses to do with one of their own shouldn’t concern you.”

“Except it does, in fact, concern me. Greatly.” He could hardly conceal his growing anger. “They will destroy him for what he has done for humanity. For what he has done for me.”

“And what has he done for you?” God asked.

“Crowley has been there every time I needed help. He’s saved me more times that I can even count.” His memories go back to the little village decimated by the Black Plague where he nearly discooporated due to illness, to The Bastille where he was nearly beheaded, to Nazi occupied London where he was nearly shot, to a dark alley in the late 1980’s where he was nearly beaten to death; every single one of those moments could have been his last, had it not been for the miraculous appearance of a certain demon. “He’s been there for me. He’s always been there for me.” The words kept coming, and he could scarcely stop himself from speaking. “It was Crowley who came to my rescue time and time again. Crowley who convinced me to try to stop the apocalypse. Crowley who was there for me when Heaven turned their backs on me.”

“Aziraphale, it sounds as if you have affection for him.” God questioned, and he could feel God’s judgement upon him. But he would not be diminished, not anymore.

“If it sounds that way, it’s because I do.” He snapped. “I have more affection for a demon than I do for my own kind. When was the last time an angel offered me any kindness? Heaven treats me like a joke; they belittle and mock me.”

“I am not altering my decision on this, Aziraphale. If you want to save the earth, then Crowley must be sent to Hell. With demon influence, this same scenario will continue to occur, time and time again.”

“You’re asking me to sacrifice Crowley, to damn him to utter destruction at the hands of Hell to save the world?” He clenched his fists and nearly drew blood from biting his lip so hard.

“I am. But for that sacrifice, you will have the earth and all its splendors. You will have it’s music, art, language, food and books. You will be free from Heaven’s scorn and free to enjoy yourself. Be thankful that I am giving you this opportunity, thankful that I have not cast you out for your indiscretions. I am giving you this reward for your many years of loyal service to making humanity inherently good. Choose carefully, Aziraphale.”

“Then my answer is no. I won’t sacrifice Crowley. I won’t abandon him! You might not care what happens to him, but I most certainly do.” He is filled with defiance now, filled with an anger that he had never experienced before, but now that he had unleashed it, there was no stopping him.

“Not even to save all of mankind? How can one demon be worth all of this?” God’s voice roared back.

“Look at him right now! Just look! Crowley is going to fight Gabriel and Beelzebub with nothing more than some busted car part, and you have the nerve to say he is the cause of humanity’s downfall? He is their savior and protector! He and I, we are the only ones fighting for the earth. We’re the only ones fighting for what is right!” He gestured to the frozen scene playing out before him: Gabriel about to unfurl his final wings, The Prince of Hell raising his cursed bow and Crowley, still in human form, brandishing a bent piece of metal with as much menace as he could muster.

“Surely you know you cannot win against them. But if you somehow make it out of this alive, Gabriel will see you punished for siding with a demon, and he will not show mercy.” God said with a knowing arrogance.

“I would rather face Heaven’s judgement and die a traitor’s death than betray Crowley!” He spat bitterly.

“Why would you choose to die for this demon?” God roared angrily.

“Because I love him!” He screamed as loudly as he could, and he immediately gasped at the boldness of his own words. He repeated them quietly to himself. “Because I love him.” He looked at Crowley, frozen in time, standing beside him in triumphant glory; poised to defend him and everything he holds dear. He studied the sharp angles of his face, the cascade of fiery red hair that seemed almost ablaze in the evening sunlight, the intensity in his eyes visible even under his dark sunglasses, the trail of freckles that formed over centuries of sunshine that traced along his cheek, spilling onto his neck and down his clavicle. He sighed, drew in a breath and steadied himself before continuing. “I know who I am and I know where I belong. I was afraid before, afraid of what Heaven would think, about what you would think, but I’m not afraid anymore. I love Crowley, and I have loved him for so long that I cannot remember a time when he did not hold my heart. Where he is is where I belong. For you see, I am not only the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, I am the Principality Aziraphale, and along with Demon Anthony J. Crowley, we are the Protectors of humanity, and we will stand together to defend the earth against anyone or anything that threatens our home. Because that is who we are, and earth is where we belong, and we belong together. Me and him. I would rather die fighting by his side, than live in a world without him. For we are together; we are on our own side. I don’t care what Gabriel thinks, he can lick my ass if he doesn’t like it!” He thought for a moment, or was it kiss?

“That is your decision then, Aziraphale?” God asked flatly.

“Yes. That is my decision.” He stood proudly, chest heaving as his hand still firmly gripped the sword. “Furthermore, if you’re going to damn me and cast me out, could you kindly wait until all of this is finished, because I’m in the middle of something important. I cannot simply die without telling Crowley that I love him.”

“Very well.” God’s voice softened. “And Aziraphale, it’s about time, don’t you think?”

“Oh?” He fumbled for words, unsure how to respond. Just as he attempted to process God’s final words, he felt a wave of intense love wash upon him; sending him reeling and filling his eyes with tears. “Thank you, my Lord.” He whispers quietly and as soon as it began, the bright light radiating from the clouds dimmed, and time began again.

He turns his attention away from the terrors before him, and shifted his gaze towards the slender figure beside him.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley began. “There is something I must tell you.”

“I know.” He says, as he lowers his sword while turning towards the demon. “There is something I must tell you too. And I’m afraid it cannot wait.” He swallows hard before continuing. “I’m sorry, my dear, I’m sorry for being a complete fool and for making you wait. I love you. More specifically, I am in love with you, and I have been for a very long time. I was afraid of what Hell would do to you and what Heaven would do to me. But none of that matters anymore. All that matters to me right now is you.”

Crowley smiles as he removes his sunglasses, revealing his golden eyes. “Took you long enough.” Crowley laughs while reaching out his hand toward him. “Angel, you are, and always have been, the love of my life.”

He reaches towards the demon-his demon and gently threads his fingers between Crowley’s, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Time to finish this?” He asks with a smile.

“I believe it is, my angel.” Crowley says as he raises his tire iron and points it towards the wrathful creatures in front of them. “Ready to die?”

“I am now.” He nods as he grips Crowley’s hand tighter. “By your side.”

......

#ineffable husbands #good omens #crowley #aziraphale #justenoughofabastardtobeworthknowing

23 notes · View notes

ethereal-not-occult · 5 years

Text

hhh okay I need a few moments to yell about This Scene:

What strikes me the most about this particular exchange is just how much Aziraphale’s response reads like my own dysfunctional, OCD-driven thoughts when I’m having an episode. It’s actually so scarily similar to how my OCD manifests that the first time I read Good Omens -- several months before I was diagnosed and in therapy -- I nearly put it down again because that particular description was so triggering.

I’ll elaborate. Obviously OCD appears in a variety of different forms and symptoms, and it’s not the same for everyone. But one symptom that can appear in OCD is all-or-nothing thinking. Basically it becomes impossible to look at the “in-betweens” of a subject -- there are Only Two Sides of Right and Wrong and Nothing Else (sound familiar?) Maybe the one logical part of you can recognize that this kind of thinking is not quite right, but that part is drowned out by the brain gremlins yelling that it can only be one or the other and you’re evil and wrong for ever daring to think outside that box.

Now, as to how this applies to Good Omens, and this scene in particular. Aziraphale has his world divided neatly into Good and Evil. If something is said to be Good, then it is Good, and anything that is not considered Good must therefore be Evil, with no room for exceptions or error.

Crowley here is the voice of logic, the one that some part of Aziraphale secretly knows has a solid point. But Aziraphale is unable to accept it. One part of him wishes to, but another part of him so deathly fears that he would be sympathizing with “Evil” if he agrees that he immediately retreats into denial as a safety net. It must be bad. Even if he doesn’t understand why it’s bad precisely, this is what he knows to be true, so he shouldn’t argue against it because otherwise that means he’s Evil too, and God knows he doesn’t want to be Evil.

When it comes to OCD subtypes like scrupulosity (c’est moi), this kind of thinking can be so overwhelming that you basically get caught up in a perpetual moral argument with yourself, trying to find one “right” answer or condition that doesn’t exist. Eventually you retreat to the “safety” of extremes; if you just stick to the Good side, then you won’t be Evil. Of course, that also means that any questioning of the Good side whatsoever automatically = evil, and the fear that that causes makes it difficult to break out of these harmful patterns of thinking (and that fear is very strong, and the guilt of thinking you have done “evil” is even stronger).

I always felt that Aziraphale’s struggles with Heaven and the ineffable plan throughout the book mirrored OCD’s distorted lines of thinking in a way that was painfully familiar. He makes mistakes based off these thoughts -- making excuses for Heaven’s conduct (because questioning it otherwise must mean he is allowing Evil to happen, or else committing Evil himself), retreating behind the safety net of extremes when his firmly drawn lines are threatened.

But at the same time, let’s consider incidents like the flaming sword. For all of Aziraphale’s internal debate over whether the banishment of Adam and Eve was the right thing to do, he still gives them the sword to keep them safe, then lies to God about it afterwards. Then, of course, we come to the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, in which Aziraphale finally shakes himself free of the tangled web of all-or-nothing, good-or-unforgiveable ‘logic’ that has kept him trapped for millennia, steps forward, and dares to say, “This Great Plan... this would be the ineffable plan, would it?”

There’s a lot more I can say here, and I’m not even sure if what I wrote makes sense or not. I’m just... emotional at how he manages to break himself free of that futile cyclical way of thinking and forge his own path. At a time when so much seemed hopeless with my own mental health and no help was forthcoming, and I was breaking down over believing I was a fundamentally unforgivable person, Good Omens was such an anchoring story.

Many thanks to @goodm-omen-ts for their wonderful post here that finally motivated me to write this meta.

Now for some miscellaneous Aziraphale with OCD headcanons:

Intrusive thoughts. Just lots of images and urges and thoughts that are so horrifying and contrary to Aziraphale’s morals pop into his head all the time and no amount of trying will make them go away. When it gets really bad, anything that reminds him even distantly of these thoughts can be a trigger, and if he isn’t careful he can get lost in his head struggling to get rid of these thoughts for hours at a time. But what helps with this are mindful activities that keep his hands occupied and his mind focused on the present, which I feel is how he got into doing stage magic. He gets so focused on executing the tricks and being in the moment that it allows him to forget (or at least sufficiently ignore) the intrusive thoughts until they subside on their own.

Also consider Aziraphale getting involved with other mindful crafts, like knitting.

I feel like at some point Aziraphale would also have distressing intrusive thoughts about Crowley. Cruel whispering thoughts and urges implanted into his mind, saying this is a demon, you must smite harm hurt, along with old prejudices popping into his head that he knows are untrue but somehow he’s thinking them anyway -- the thought of harming Crowley in any way shape or form is simply sickening, and Aziraphale argues against the thoughts constantly, presents all the evidence he has at his disposal (over six thousand years of it) that Crowley isn’t evil, that those are all lies, but of course OCD refuses to listen to logic. The guilt of thinking such terrible things about his friend is crushing, so Aziraphale starts avoiding Crowley out of fear that he will succumb to those awful thoughts and hurt him. Of course that just makes him even more miserable, but the shame prevents him from telling Crowley what’s wrong. Eventually Crowley knocks on the bookshop door himself, and when Aziraphale, teary-eyed and shaking, finally confesses, Crowley holds him and says I’m not angry, angel. I know you never actually believed those things, and I know that you would never hurt me or anyone. Those thoughts don’t represent who you are or what you believe.

Compulsions. okay but also Aziraphale fearing that his relationship with Crowley will get Crowley punished by either Hell or Heaven and dealing with the crushing guilt that comes with that, and the rituals he sets up in an attempt to avoid such a thing from ever happening. Spending hours brooding over short notes from Gabriel trying to determine if the wording of that particular sentence means Gabriel knows something he shouldn’t, or combing repeatedly through his memories of the Arrangement to see if he’d ever somehow accidentally betrayed to the Powers That Be that it was he, Aziraphale, who had carried out that particular temptation in France instead of Crowley who was in China at the time... just lots of questions of what if, what if, what if. Through this, he also tends to blame and beat himself up over any small thing that goes wrong.

When Aziraphale is overworked or overtired it gets worse, and he finds himself slipping into his head more and more often. That relaxing sit-down with a book becomes three fraught hours of second-guessing his actions from an event that happened two centuries ago, or he’s at the Ritz with Crowley but can’t focus on the conversation because every time he blinks he sees horrifying images behind his eyelids, and the crowds of people at the tables around them aren’t helping to clear his muddled mind. But then he’ll be roused by a touch to the shoulder, worried yellow eyes beneath dark sunglasses and a questioning “Angel?”, and they’ll pay the bill, drive back to the bookshop in the Bentley while Aziraphale presses his flushed face into the cool window and tries to focus on Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy playing softly on the radio instead of the frantic nest of bees in his brain. He can’t stomach any more food that night, but Crowley miracles up a pair of pyjamas for him (tartan, though Crowley would deny it if you asked) and grooms the tension out of Aziraphale’s wings until the angel manages to fall into a sound sleep.

Just... Aziraphale with OCD. It traps him in a snarled web of indecision, terror, and guilt, and the abuse he receives from Heaven only worsens it. And later, when he realizes his past mistakes, the crushing remorse that that causes makes it difficult for him to forgive himself and move forward. But he works at it, and learns to break out of those lines of thinking, and it’s never a quick nor easy process, but he’s getting there. He’s staying afloat.

(I also have lots of thoughts about Crowley dealing with similar symptoms, especially after his Fall. In my mind he’s more accustomed to dealing with it by now than Aziraphale, and has developed good coping mechanisms, but it still gets hard at times. They help each other.)

#good omens #aziraphale #crowley #ineffable husbands #hc #otp: ineffable #weiwritesfic #sorta #ocd!aziraphale #ocd tw #intrusive thoughts tw #compulsions tw #ocd mention #actually ocd #mental illness #please let me know if you need anything tagged #scrupulosity tw #meta

42 notes · View notes

bamon4bamily · 5 years

Text

TVD 9x05 Halloween Special (part 1 of part 2) Enjoy! =)

Cut back to – 1921, Halloween Ball at the secluded hotel. Stefan, Klaus, and Rebecca are having drinks at a private booth.

STEFAN: Well this is quite the party, loving the decadence.

KLAUS: Oh, my friend, the fun hasn’t even begun.

REBECCA: (To Stefan) It seems like your plus one found something or someone to entertain him, he’s been gone for a while.

STEFAN: He’s a curious guy, he’ll be back eventually.

KLAUS: Remind me again why you brought him along? Or why we haven’t torn into his vanes?

STEFAN: He is off the table, so lose the temptation.

REBECCA: Why do you even care?

STEFAN: He’s a close friend, let’s just leave it at that. Anyway, what are we having for dinner?

KLAUS: Trust me, you will find it to be plenty tasty (snaps his fingers, a woman walks into the booth and sits beside them).

STEFAN: You know my taste…

REBECCA: And mine. (They tare into her neck; when they finish they leave the dead body sitting there as if nothing had happened).

STEFAN: (As he is wiping the blood from his mouth) Lovely appetizer, but I’m ready for the main course.

KLAUS: Patience, mate, have another drink. Let’s get someone to clean our little mess, first.

STEFAN: Well, make it quick, I’m still hungry.

REBECCA: (Serves him more champagne) Don’t worry, love, I’ll go find someone to take care of this (kisses him, then leaves).

KLAUS: So, Stefan, are you sure it is safe to leave your “friend” to wonder about?

STEFAN: He can handle himself.

KLAUS: If you say so…

(A breathtaking woman comes into the booth, they both freak out given the scene).

LADY: Relax gentleman, nothing I haven’t seen before (winks, then casually sits next to the dead body and licks some blood from her neck). Yum… Care to offer this thirsty lady a drink? (Both, completely hypnotized by her beauty, head for the champagne bottle, Stefan gets to it first).

STEFAN: (As he pours her a drink) Can I just say you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. (Looks at her hands) Love the glove… looks beautiful, and dangerous (smirks)…

LADY: (Flirting) Just as I am, dear (winks).

KLAUS: If ever I have seen true beauty… (kisses her hand).

LADY: Thank you, gentleman, you are not bad on the eyes yourselves. Listen, I brought you a gift from the Mayor (hands them a black box), a small token of his appreciation for attending tonight. (As they are about to open it) Not yet, my dears, they must be opened at midnight; trust me, they are worth the wait. In the meantime (she snaps her fingers and two beautiful women come into the booth; she kisses them on the lips then cuts their throats with her glove, licks some of the blood and kisses Stefan and Klaus), enjoy, boys.

STEFAN: Wait, you are leaving? Please, stay, indulge with us.

LADY: I’d love to, but I have some business to attend to. I’ll be back for dessert, I promise. (When she walks out, Katherine, who has been lurking outside the booth, catches a glimpse of her, then vamps away).

Cut to Matt’s house. Tyler and Khuyana are having breakfast. On the background, playing on the TV is a breaking news story about a couple that has been found brutally murdered in a cabin outside Mystic Falls.

TYLER: So, he left early this morning?

KHUYANA: I think so… I’m not even sure if he came home at all. I went to bed alone and woke up alone.

TYLER: What do you think we should do?

KHUYANA: I know this might sound awful, but I think we should have a backup plan just in case he’s a no show.

TYLER: This is so strange, and totally out of character… we need to figure out what’s going on with him. When did it start?

KHUYANA: I guess I started noticing some strange behavior when I came back from a trip… after the massive aneurysms’ attacks.

TYLER: Bonnie told me about that, it happened before the Darius linking ritual, right?

KHUYANA: Yes.

TYLER: So this must be related to Darius… maybe his under some sort of spell?

KHUYANA: Can’t be that, Bonnie put a spell block on all of us after the linking incident.

TYLER: There is a spell against being spelled?

KHUYANA: I guess so, I still don’t understand how the witchy woo stuff works…

TYLER: Okay, well, Darius is also psychic, so, mind control?

KHUYANA: Can’t be that either, Bonnie psych-blocked us against that too.

TYLER: Doesn’t make sense… if he’s not under a spell or mind control… (Matt walks in).

MATT: Wow, you just won’t let it go… mind control, really? I told you guys, I’m fine, just exhausted, irritated, and under a lot of stress. All I need is some sleep to recharge, then I’ll be good to go.

TYLER: Are you sure, man?

MATT: I’m sure. I’m gonna go take a nap (kisses Khuyana; as he is walking out, turns around) and please, stop talking about me behind my back, it’s annoying (leaves).

Cut to – Mikaelson mansion, Klaus and Danae in the living room.

KLAUS: I still think you should have told them…

DANAE: What for? Sometimes it’s better not to know.

KLAUS: Well, that is true… Are sure you are up for this? Your migraines seem to be getting worse, love.

DANAE: I’ll be fine… it’s probably because subconsciously I’m nervous about being so close to my brother.

KLAUS: You have my word that you will be safe; under no circumstances will he find out you are alive.

DANAE: Thank you, dear, you are my knight in shining armor, always and forever. (Kisses him on the cheek). You know, if I didn’t have a thing for the ladies, I’d be madly in love you.

KLAUS: I know, love, as would I (winks, gives her a tender hug). Everything will be fine, I promise (kisses her forehead).

DANAE: What about Bonnie? Do you really think she will be able to keep control? Once her psychic-block is released, there is no doubt that she will be overwhelmed; and yes, I can help control her energy levels but there is no guarantee that it will be enough. One psychic blast and she can wipe us all out…

KLAUS: Bonnie is very strong-willed; I reckon she will find a way to keep it under control. To be honest, what worries me most is if she will be able to resist the temptation of not succumbing to her dark side.

DANAE: And if she does?

KLAUS: Well, if it comes to that, we’ll deal with it…

DANAE: As in, kill her? That seems a bit harsh, dear.

KLAUS: No, of course not, I mean contain her.

DANAE: With that kind of power, how on earth are we going to be able to do that?

KLAUS: Emotions always have a way to control us, and I’m pretty sure I know her weak spot; we make her connect with those feelings so she doesn’t lose her hold...

DANAE: Whatever happens, let’s hope it ends well… I really like her.

KLAUS: (Gives her a smirk) Oh, do you now?.

DANAE: Not like that, dear, I mean, if I knew I had a chance, don’t doubt for a second that I wouldn’t try… she is a spitting image of Marie… (becomes nostalgic).

KLAUS: I know...

DANAE: (Teary-eyed) No matter how many years go by, the hurt just doesn’t seem to go away (Klaus holds her tight).

KLAUS: It’s understandable, she was the love of your life. What happened to her was tragic, of course, the pain lingers, but eventually, you will find your way back to each other.

DANAE: Dear, I am immortal, how is that ever going to happen?

KLAUS: Never give up hope, love. After all, who would have thought there would be a way for the dead to make their way back? Look at Stefan, Tyler, Lexi, Katherine…

DANAE: They all had a connection to Bonnie, that’s the only reason they were able to come back.

KLAUS: I hardly think Bonnie wanted Katherine to return.

DANAE: It might have been a bad connection, but it was still a connection…

KLAUS: Well, there is no stronger connection than blood...

DANAE: Yes, but Bonnie never knew Marie, probably doesn't even know she existed ... Anyway, let me stop with the self-pity, we have more important things to focus on right now. Listen, how about I start preparing everything for the “party” while you go get us some costumes, otherwise your friend Caroline is going to flip.

KLAUS: Oh, she most definitely will. Any special requests?

DANAE: You’ll be lucky just to find any so we really can’t get picky; whatever you can find will work.

KLAUS: Okay, love, let me know if you need anything else, I’ll be back soon. (Kisses her forehead, then leaves).

Danae starts reminiscing about her past love. Flashback scene to a 1920′s party…

youtube

MR. NORTHCOTT: Ms. Bennet, I must say, I find your views on Baudelaire’s work rather controversial, and, if I’m being honest, somewhat unstudied.

MARIE: Well, he was way ahead of his time which is clearly, not your case...

DANAE: Marie is quite the literary scholar; you can trust she knows what she is talking about, Mr. Northcott.

MR. NORTHCOTT: I mean no disrespect, but you must admit that it is not often that you find a woman with such views… it is somewhat intriguing.

MARIE: Really? (Rolls her eyes).

MR. NORTHCOTT: Please, don’t misunderstand me, if anything I respect you even more. But, enough with controversy, let us have a toast... to literary masterpieces!

DANAE: (Whispers to Marie) Want to disappear for a while? This man is really getting on my nerves.

MARIE: (Whispers back) I’ve been waiting for you to say that all night… (they excuse themselves from the table and find a cosy spot to share some lovin’).

Cut to – Elena and Sam in his apartment, he hands her a plate of chilaquiles.

ELENA: You spoil me too much... (Gives him a lustful look) Come here... (kisses him).

SAM: Mmm... or we can just skip breakfast...

ELENA: (Composes herself) No, no, we need to eat at some point ... Wait, am I going to have to jug a gallon of water like the last time?

SAM: You are such a wus! Don’t worry, I turned it down a notch.

ELENA: I mean, I loved them, but I seriously thought my brain was going to explode.

SAM: We are going to have to do something about that… when we go visit my mom, she won’t be as a lenient as I am.

ELENA: Great, now I have another thing to worry about when I meet her.

SAM: She is going to love you (kisses her). (Looks at his packed boxes) So, I’m pretty much ready… we are actually doing this…

ELENA: We are! And I’m excited about you meeting the rest of the gang tonight, even if it’s just for a brief hello, goodbye.

SAM: Is this the first time you are going to see Stefan and Tyler since they… well, came back?

ELENA: Yes… wow, I hadn’t even thought of that!

SAM: I’ll be honest, I’m kind of psyched about meeting more of your supernatural friends, it’s like going to Comicon but for real!

ELENA: (Laughs) I have no idea what a Comicon is, but I guess so?

SAM: Okay, just so I don’t mess things up, let me see if I got this right: Bonnie is a psychic-witch; Caroline, a vampire; Tyler, an undead hybrid; Stefan, an ex-vampire undead human; your ex, a vampire turned human; Alaric, a vampire hunter turned vampire then human again, Indiana Jones type of thing; Matt, a human, and the town Sheriff… am I missing anyone?

ELENA: Nop, that’s pretty much the main core. God, hearing you makes me realize just how insane my life has been… I love them all but I have to admit that I’m happy to be leaving that craziness behind… I just want a normal, human life, you know?

SAM: Well, normal and human is all I’ve ever known, so I’m no point of reference… what about Jeremy, is he going to the party too?

ELENA: No, no…

SAM: Aren’t you going to say goodbye?

ELENA: We are, just not in person… I’m afraid that if I see him, I won’t be able to leave, so, we decided video chat was the way to go…

SAM: Are you sure?

ELENA: Trust me, I’m sure.

SAM: Okay… So, I went to pick up our costumes earlier (looking very excited), I can’t believe you agreed to go with it!

ELENA: Couldn’t bear to break your geeky heart (kisses him, looks at her watch). Listen, I need to go to the administration office to finalize some paperwork, we’ll start getting ready when I come back. Love you (kisses him, then leaves).

Cut to – 1990, Halloween night, Mystic Falls General Hospital. Paramedics bring a bleeding woman into the E.R.

E.R DOCTOR: What do we have?

PARAMEDIC: Multiple stab wounds to the back, massive blood loss, heart rate erratic, pulse dropping fast… and Doctor, she is pregnant. Fetal heartbeat detected but it’s very low.

E.R DOCTOR: (To the Medical staff) Quick, prep the O.R for emergency surgery. (After a few hours, the Doctor comes out of the OR to talk to Police Officers).

E.R DOCTOR: Officers, there was nothing we could do; time of death was 24:05. Were you able to contact any family members?

POLICE OFFICER 1: The only family member we could track was her mother, but she has no idea who she is. She has been locked up in an insane asylum for years… other than her, she has no family.

E.R DOCTOR: Well then, I think you need to call child services, the victim was with child. Thankfully, we were able to save the baby, but he is in critical condition.

POLICE OFFICER 2: How on earth was the child able to survive?

E.R DOCTOR: If I’m being honest Officer, I have no idea, the child should have been dead upon arrival. I don’t believe in miracles but if I ever did, this would be the moment to make me doubt my beliefs.

POLICE OFFICER 1: If the baby makes it through, child services will take custody. For now, Doctor, we will need your, and your staff’s statements.

E.R DOCTOR: Of course, anything you need Officers.

Cut to - the Mayor’s house. Edward walks into his room and finds his costume laid out for him, along with a black box tied to a red balloon. He looks puzzled, somewhat scared. He slowly takes the box, unties the balloon and opens it. Inside, is the same chess piece he had sent Darius earlier, along with a note that reads: “Tasty, tasty, beautiful fear. Who is checkmate now?” He leaves the box and note on the bed, walks to his turntable and plays “Mr. Sandman”. Then, walks to the mirror, and stares in a daze…

youtube

TVD 9x05 Halloween Special (part 2 of part 2) coming very soon! Hope you stop by, read and enjoy! =)

9 notes · View notes

loki-godofmischief-myking · 5 years

Text

Love Is For The Foolish (2)

Loki x Asgardian!Reader

The story of Loki, god of mischief, and a dark seamstress. The chapter fic for Love Makes Fools Of Us All

<== Previous | Next ==>

Chapter 2: Indebted

In the solace of your shop, after hours, you looked down at the black gem that hung from the long silver chain around your neck. Black Hematite from Vanaheim. Over the past several months you had begun to learn what it was and only scratched the surface of its purpose. By now you wished to know what purposes it served you.

You could care less about how it is formed, where it is sourced, the various styles and qualities of the stone itself. For some reason, Loki kept insisting you learn all about Hematite from conception. In a way, you knew he was right.

If you had learned anything from the dark prince is that everything he ever did was calculated. That was something you were in the midsts of experiencing. The price for his knowledge was a pending matter.

"Nothing now but one day I will ask you to do something for me. Without question, you will comply.”

His words exhausted you, they echoed your mind. Perhaps foreshadowing your impending doom. No matter, a deal was a deal.

Looking down at the fabric patterns you had cut earlier in the day brought excitement. With a bit of thread and your skilled hand, these lifeless pieces would come together as one. They would become something of value. What was once mundane mixed media would become a prized possession. Something to behold and adorn.

Your smile gave way as you finally became at ease.

Even if it was late you decided to burn the midnight oil with this one. Grabbing a small stool you went to your vast collection of thread. Spools of the thin fiber lined a small section of wall to the very top. Tonight you were in need of one that was out of reach. Stubborn as always, you tried to reach it without the help of an aide or tool.

That was until you recalled your crystal. If it really had relations with magic, dark or the like, then perhaps you possessed some sort of seidr. The thought strongly urged you to pull the crystal out of your dress and tightly grasp it in your palm. Do I dare?

Loki silently appeared in your shop at the exact moment you decided to find out. “What is my dark enchantress invoking at such an hour?”

Startled you jumped nearly falling had it not been for the shelves on the wall. Your quick reflexes managed to knock off a few spools of thread allowing you to hold onto one of the empty spaces. “Have you gone mad!” The altercation sent your heart racing.

Adrenaline coursed your veins allowing you to skip formalities. After the initial shock, you stepped down to the ground floor with a deadly glare.

Loki relished in your reaction. “Did you honestly think closing your eyes would somehow help you?”

“If you must know, your highness, all the books I’ve read about magic and seidr say the person must concentrate. I happen to concentrate better when my eyes are closed.” You were a very visual person. Your eyes did all the thinking for you, the only way to silently think was to close your eyes and envision with your mind.

“Ah,” Loki approached you with a knowing smile. “So my little enchantress has been doing some reading of her own.”

“I am neither little nor YOURS,” you stressed the last part.

Using common deduction Loki correctly picked out the spool of thread you had intended. With little effort, he retrieved it for you effectively proving you were, in fact, lacking in stature compared to him. “Should I prove the rest of my statement?”

His tone was dark, most likely in thanks to the countless nights he had been spending with you instead of bedding maidens. “Again, your advances are hardly to my taste.”

“What is your taste Lady Y/N?”

“A loyal, honest man with interest in a monogamous relationship that isn’t easily sated. A man who doesn’t wish to bed every woman that offers herself to him.” Of course, these were all the opposite characteristics of Loki. Although you commended him for abstaining from his sexual desires most nights to help you with your research into your crystal. There were days, like today, when he would suddenly send word for you to not appear at his door. Those were the days he would give in to his temptations. “Someone with a lot more self-control than you have.”

Loki eyed you as you went back to your work station. He was fond of the sheer black material of your nightgown that did little to keep him from imagining what lay underneath. Although he admitted to an attraction towards you Loki had kept himself from acting.

“Believe me, love...” Loki walked over to you tilting your head up to meet your eyes.

There was something about you... By all means, you were attractive, intelligent, and stood your ground in a battle of wits against him. What started as playful flirting was quickly turning into something more.

But he had yet to find out why you possessed that crystal.

“...I am very much in control.” If not I would have you on your knees by now.

“I am pleased to hear it, Prince Loki.“ You could not deny your physical attraction to the dark prince. He was handsome but that wasn’t all that mattered to you. More than anything you admired his intelligence. Although he was known to be a liar, to an extent he was honest. “Now may I ask what you are doing here? Did you not ask for the night so you could attend to some unfortunate maiden?”

Loki smirked sensing a hint of resentment. “If you wish to occupy my room all you have to do is ask.”

“Tempting,” you sarcastically remarked with a roll of your eyes. A hint of a smile remained as your hands began working the thread through the machine and needle.

“I was actually looking through the familial archives.” Loki leaned against the table with crossed arms. “How well do you know your lineage?”

The smile faded. “No one has ever asked about that... I’m afraid I don’t know much at all.”

“What about your parents?”

“I’d rather not talk about them.”

“I know you were raised by a familiar after your mother’s passing but your father-”

“I don’t ever want to talk about that man!” You didn't mean to cut him off but your resentment for the man who abandoned your mother was your whole motivation in life. The reason you did not trust men stemmed from his disappearance when your mother was expecting you. “Sorry,” you sighed, “I don’t possess the compassion necessary to refer to that man as my father.”

Loki forgave your outburst under the circumstances although he did not understand why you were so upset. “Did he not die during the battle of Jotunheim before your birth?”

“What?” your head quickly turned towards the prince. “My father wasn’t a warrior.” You shook your head at the thought. When you were old enough to comprehend the woman who raised you explained how your mother died during childbirth. How you had nearly died in the womb when your mother succumbed to stress after your father decided to run off with another woman in another realm.

Loki waited on your every word hoping it would be useful in explaining the origins of the hematite.

“He was a good for nothing man who left my mother for another woman in...”

The wide-eyed expression spoke volumes of your sudden realization. “Vanaheim?” he suggested to which you nodded.

“I no longer understand...” you muttered to yourself.

“Perhaps the archives have the answers,” Loki suggested. The archives, of course, were not accessible to just anyone. Even he did not have full access to them but you did not know that. “It could be related to the reason you were bestowed with the crystal in the first place.”

There were moments where you thought he was far more interested in the answers than you.

You stood to question his intentions.

The thought of him simply wanting to help you only crossed your mind momentarily. Enough for you to be left in awe of the Prince. “I’ve been meaning to ask why you are helping me. I know I am expected to honor a favor of yours in the future as reckoning but this feels like a lot of effort on your part.”

Loki stilled for a moment as if thinking of a response. “The greater the effort, the greater the reward.”

Of course. You didn’t know why you had been holding your breath. It was obvious he was interested in his own gain. “You truly are a calculating individual Prince Loki, but nonetheless I appreciate your honesty.”

Loki’s own playful attitude fell. How was it that you readily believed him when he spoke of his ill intentions but never when he complimented or made advances towards you?

“I thought you would be much more worried about being indebted to me.”

“I am just as surprised as you are, your highness.” For a while, you stared ahead at your work devoid of emotion.

Loki thought it was his presence that bothered you and offered to leave. “When I have concluded my search I’ll come looking for you.”

You did not respond.

Concerned he asked, “Are you alright?”

You shook your head suddenly feeling a lack of motivation. “My craft always brings me joy. When I make a dress I catch myself smiling unintentionally. When all my attention is given to the fabric I find my creations far exceed my own expectations. Now I’m afraid my mind is elsewhere at the moment.” Suddenly you didn’t know who you were. “My whole existence is in question.”

Loki placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. It was never his intention to see you like this. “I won’t be long,” he promised.

“Mother I’ve been curious after our last trip to Vanaheim. Have any Vanir called Asgard home in the past?”

Queen Frigga looked fondly onto her son as she drank afternoon tea with him in her beloved garden. “Of course, the Vanir are the sister race to the Aesir many have come and gone in the past. You, my son, are already aware of this basic knowledge.”

Loki nodded, his mother knew him well. “Presently, are there any Vanir in Asgard?”

Frigga stilled for a moment wondering if Loki had already gotten to you. She had heard then saw you two interacting just outside the palace once before. “Only one, although she is not entirely Vanir. You two have met, correct?”

“She does not know of her heritage.” He wondered how it was possible. Perhaps it was intentionally being withheld. The only ones who could orchestrate such a thing were the queen and king. “I wish to see the archives.”

Frigga held his hand with a sigh. She would do anything for Loki, “Only if she requests it and grants you permission to look into her past.”

“She has given it.”

Queen Frigga nodded, now that you were being guided by Loki it would be much easier to confront you with your origins. “Very well, have her come to the palace.”

Loki was confused as to why his mother wanted you to come.

“I must assure it is her own will.”

“Do you not trust me?”

Frigga smiled, “This has nothing to do with you Loki, do not go making trouble where there is none. I simply wish to discuss with the young lady.”

“Very well,” Loki sighed. “I will extend your invitation to her.” He excused himself after finishing his tea.

When he got to his rooms he found Sigyn waiting for him in front of the door. She looked cross but he was not alarmed. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit Lady Sigyn?”

Her usually soft features hardened as she glared at the prince, “I am no fool Prince Loki!”

-end-

A/N: This one is a bit short but I’ll make up for it next time ^^

Tag List: @drakesfiance

75 notes · View notes