#so who even is she other than a disappointing relic of a golden age long past who has nothing to show for it other than scars and failure | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ladyfloriographist · 3 years

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Descent of Man

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Pairing: Commander Joseph Lawrence (The Handmaid’s Tale (TV)) x femme!Reader

Warnings: SPOILERS, Canon-Divergence, Non-Canon, Post Season 3, Repression, Oppression, Dystopic Future, Dystopian Themes, Older Man/Younger Woman, Mentions of Pregnancy, Mentions of Death, Traditional Gender Roles, Religious Extremism

XXXX

“Straighten your back, dear. Don’t slouch.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

You tighten your grip on the handle of your red leather suitcase as you walk up the concrete path that leads to Commander Joseph Lawrence’s front door. Nerves in your legs tingle back to life. The drive from the Red Center was long, and Aunt Lydia had counselled you to mind your patience when you’d grown restless. But now, as you make your way to the crescent-shaped steps, you can’t help but hope for even one minute more in the van.

The overcast sky looms grey and ominous overhead.

“Remember, the Commander is a very powerful man.” Aunt Lydia’s cane clacks on the concrete alongside your footsteps. “He is very well respected, Ofjoseph. This is quite the opportunity for you.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.”

The old Victorian becomes grander and more imposing with every step you take towards it. Your gaze lifts higher and higher: first floor, second storey, then dormers and a tower that let light into what must be the attic. Stonework and Roman arches over the windows and doors signal the age of the house—it has to be at least one hundred years old.

“He has suffered great losses recently, as you well know.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia.” She had recited the story over and over—and made sure you could tell it back to her, too. Your and Aunt Lydia’s footsteps fall into stride along the concrete path, fast approaching the stairs up to the house.

“His dear Wife, Mrs Eleanor Lawrence—may God protect and keep her—and then his Handmaid, too.” The Aunt tuts. “Oh, that wretched girl. I’d had such hopes, Ofjoseph—but you won’t disappoint me so, will you, dear?”

“No, Aunt Lydia.” The knot in your gut tightens.

“No, good girl.” Aunt Lydia modestly raises her brown skirts to ascend the concrete steps with grace. “Posture,” she says pointedly, brow arched, looking back at you with an appraising, approving glance before she knocks on the large black front door.

Just before you bow your head to look to the concrete beneath your feet, your eye is caught by something to the right, attached to the burnt-orange bricks that make up the gloriously antiquated home.

It’s a black wooden plaque, with three golden numerals in the centre framed by a golden ovoid ring.

132

You glance down quickly. You should not even be making an attempt to read, whether it be letters or numbers or anything. If Aunt Lydia saw recognition register on your face, she’d march you straight back to the van to return you to the Red Center for the swift removal of one of your fingers.

Leniency, for your first offence.

“The Commander has been very gracious in accepting you, Ofjoseph. You have a privileged place here.”

“Yes, Aunt Lydia. Praise be.”

“Mm,” Aunt Lydia hums in righteous agreement. “Praise be.”

…But still, it strikes you as unusual, as you stare at the grey concrete, that such a plaque should even exist, now. Such decorative tiles are relics from the time before Gilead—forbidden, now, and what’s more, utterly useless. How could such an inscribed plate remain intact when there are no more street signs to direct your way let alone numbered houses?

The front door swings open, shocking you out of your thoughts.

“Blessed day. Come in, Aunt Lydia.”

A female voice. Younger? Deferential.

A Martha: one of the two you’d been told to expect here.

“Blessed day, Sienna, thank you,” Aunt Lydia replies pleasantly. “Come along, Ofjoseph,” she says promptly, without a look back at you as she steps inside.

The interior of the Commander’s house greets you like, once, a warm hug might have done. Off the foyer is two sitting rooms, and they seem dark, but not sinister inside. The walls are papered with cranberry-red brocade and muted-toned, aging florals, or else—painted with rich, deep hues of colour. Dark-stained wood pocket doors with etched glass inserts lead to one sitting room and an archway with a stained-glass transom at the top leads to another. The heavy, patterned curtains inside make the sitting rooms feel cosy and private—even, dare you think, warm. Full and ornate bookshelves, rugs of paisley and Persian patterns, and an abundance of leather seating furnish the cluttered rooms.

“This way, please,” offers the Martha named Sienna, gesturing through the open pocket doors.

You follow Aunt Lydia, your eyes struggling to adequately absorb every detail of the room. Lamps on side tables, artworks from many different Schools arranged effortlessly on the walls, chests, sculptures, a chandelier, a fireplace.

Cushions and blankets strewn over the leather couches. Stacks of books lazing on armchairs.

An old, freestanding record player in one corner.

Knowledge, art, and music all reside here.

The house is lived in. Still. Even now.

“Can I getcha a tea, some coffee, Aunt Lydia?” comes a man’s voice from the far end of the room.

Before you can think better of it, your gaze snaps to the sound of his voice—relaxed, even casual in tone. He stands just inside another arched opening, hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. A generous head of ghost-white hair tops his head. He has thick grey brows and a white beard peppered with silver and grey. Thin-framed glasses rest on the bridge of his nose. He wears a waistcoat, and a buttoned vest with a scarf tied like a cravat, in an ascot knot.

It’s the first you’ve seen a man of Gilead not dressed in a black suit and black tie.

“Commander Lawrence,” Aunt Lydia smiles, with only a slight waver in her voice. “Blessed day, Sir.” Your raised wings catch in her periphery and she glances at you with beady eyes.

You drop your head immediately, quickly and quietly pretending like you’d been studying the many colours in the Persian rug beneath your brown boots.

The Commander’s gaze flicks to you—not that you see it—before he looks back at the Aunt. “Hi, yeah,” he says, “blessed, good morning.” He calls down the hallway, “Sienna?”

You shift on your feet, tightening your grip on your own gloved hands where they rest in front of you. The Commander’s casual, informal, incorrect greeting stirs a sense of unease in your stomach. Was he merely distracted or… wilfully disrespectful? Could you even think such a thing, about a man like him?

Beside you, Aunt Lydia bristles, drawing in a sharp, quiet gasp. But she settles herself quickly.

“Sienna!?” calls the Commander again, louder this time before turning back to his guests.

Well, his one guest, who brought with her the newest member of his household.

“’d you say coffee, Aunt Lydia? I think Beth made scones.”

“Ah…” the Aunt hesitates, gathering herself in a way you’ve rarely seen her need to do. “Oh my. Tea would be a delight, Commander,” she recovers. “No need to waste your delicacies on me!”

“Hm,” Commander Lawrence huffs a mirthless laugh in response to Aunt Lydia’s self-deprecating smile, and the resulting silence is broken by a set of hurried footsteps that quickly enter the room.

“You called for me, Commander?”

The young Martha, her rich brown eyes wide, a sheen of sweat making her warm-brown skin glow, her voice slightly breathless.

“Auhm, yeah,” says Commander Lawrence, swivelling to address her. “Tea, please, Sienna—and bring three cups, would ya? Some of Beth’s scones, too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Three cups?

“Thanks.”

“Three?”

Aunt Lydia’s incredulous voice cuts through the room like a warm knife in soft butter. It’s so abrupt, so much shriller than you are used to that your gaze flicks upwards.

The Aunt’s round, wrinkled face is dropped in an expression of pure shock. The room is silent, even Sienna’s retreating footsteps have ceased, as the three of you look between each other—stunned in the face of this blatant and brazen flouting of Gilead-sanctioned decorum.

It seems, as tested as Aunt Lydia has been since arriving at the Commander’s house, that this act of hospitality extended to you, a Handmaid, is the extent of what she can handle.

For the first time since meeting him, you spot a hint of a smile flicker across Commander Lawrence’s face, as elusive as the passing of a shadow, or a ghost. “Three, Lydia,” he says quietly, with a self-assured confidence that dares her to question him further—especially since he refused to use her title.

The air is thick with tension. You hold your breath.

Aunt Lydia’s lower lip quivers as she searches for words. Her brow creases, her small eyes flitting between his as she holds the Commander’s gaze.

You hear her suck in a breath before she speaks again.

“Th-hank you, Commander Lawrence.” Aunt Lydia swallows. “Praise be, you are most generous, Sir.”

Everything breathes again. Footsteps recede down the hall once more, the walls themselves sigh with relief. For a moment you almost think you hear birdsong outside—but that’s next to impossible, over all the radio chatter.

“Welcome,” the Commander replies, lazily omitting words in his speech once more. His tone is breezily self-assured once again, but his dark eyes have hardened into a cold stare. He turns his gaze on you. “Sit.”

You look to the floor so quickly there’s a twinge in your neck, and you drop into the nearest seat. “Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Under His Eye, Sir.”

“Alright,” the Commander cringes at your nervous rambling. “No problem, just, yeah. Siddown.”

You clasp your gloved hands together in your lap, your eyes fixed on the tiny balls of lint that have gathered near the seams. Everything about this man, from his clothes, to his manner, to his home, is contrary to what you’d been told to expect.

“Please,” says the Commander to Aunt Lydia, gesturing and offering for her to take a seat also. He walks around one of the armchairs, picks up a stack of three books and unceremoniously drops them on top of the existing stack on a nearby side table so he can sit down, too.

Aunt Lydia, frazzled and just barely recovering from the disrespect afforded her by the Commander, uneasily sits down on one of the brown leather couches. She sits like she’s perching on it, not quite setting down all her weight, on an angle to take up only the smallest possible amount of space.

She clears her throat. “Commander,” she forces a smile, shifting to face him, “it is my great hope that Ofjoseph will bring some,” she pauses, anxiously looking around at the many artworks and stacks of books that decorate the room, “stability, to your household, Sir. By His Hand.”

“Thanks,” says Commander Lawrence. “’ppreciate it.”

“I…” Aunt Lydia stammers again, stumbling over the Commander’s audacious disregard for social custom. It’s unorthodox—or rather, much worse—it’s a deliberate, transparent, shameless violation of his role as a Commander in the Republic of Gilead.

Lost for words, Aunt Lydia merely nods her head in deference. Her fingers flex around the gilded handle of her cane.

The Commander hums to clear his throat as Sienna brings a laden tray into the room. One teapot, three teacups, a plate of scones, and one small ramekin of butter.

The Martha sets it all down on the coffee table and the porcelain rattles softly in the stifling silence.

“Thanks, Sienna,” says Commander Lawrence, leaning forward to pour himself a cup of tea as the younger Martha leaves the room. “Hey, uh,” he sits back in his armchair, cup and saucer in hand, “you.”

You feel his eyes on you. This is how he chooses to address you? To draw your attention to him? ‘You’?

The stillness in the room is expectant, now. You tell yourself to lift your head.

“Ofjoseph?” Aunt Lydia prompts you.

Commander Lawrence speaks over the top of her. “Look at me.”

You lift your gaze to meet his. There’s nothing hard or soft in his stare, nothing warm or cold in the way he regards you. He merely sees you—his eyes observing, his lips in a line that neither smiles nor frowns.

He’s a wall, but built to defend or protect, you can’t read right now.

“My last Handmaid was a bit of a rabble-rouser,” he says easily, his voice nonchalant, “so I'm gonna say to you the same thing I said to her, ‘kay?”

You swallow, absorbing his candour. Aunt Lydia had told you never to speak of the last Ofjoseph, even if it was asked of you. But this particular question posed by the Commander requires more than a passive response. You get the sense that a number of conversations with him will be like this, and so you steel yourself to speak with a clear voice. “Yes, Commander.”

He keeps his gaze locked with yours, and brings his steaming teacup to his lips. He takes a slow sip, eyes trained on yours, and you resist the urge to shrink and shrivel into yourself.

The Commander swallows and sets his cup onto the saucer. It clinks, and after letting the small sound land for beat he says lowly, “You’re not gonna be any trouble, are you?”

Your breath catches, your voice stalling in your throat. Staring at him heats your blood, makes your palms perspire in your gloves. The man is dignified; he holds himself almost regally wherever he sits or stands. Is it the power he holds that makes him handsome, or is innate attraction purling in the pit of your gut?

…What will the Ceremony be like with him?

“No, Sir,” you say, your voice so soft it cracks. You gulp and collect yourself. Timidity does not seem to be a quality Commander Lawrence respects—another lesson you’d ardently learned only to be proven useless in his house. With more confidence, but not too much, particularly for Aunt Lydia’s benefit, you say, “Praise be to you, Commander, and may He make me truly worthy.”

You can feel Aunt Lydia’s presence lift with pride. You can see the smile spread across her face without needing to look at her, and can hear her words in your head without her needing to speak them.

‘Very good, dear,’ comes the Aunt’s voice in your mind.

The Commander looks you over, stoic as ever. “Ya,” is all he says in reply.

“Ofjoseph is one of our most promising Handmaids, Commander, allow me to assure you,” Aunt Lydia chimes in, now, finally, feeling on equal footing again. “Since the horrendous tragedies that your household has withstood, we thought it right and just that you be unburdened in at least this regard, Sir.”

“Unburdened?” the Commander replies flatly, his stalwart gaze now fixed on the Aunt.

You’re not sure whether you can look away from him. Does he wish for your eyes to remain on him? Does he expect you to look at him and from him at your own discretion? Would he like you to use your own judgement?

Regardless, it is clear that the decision of the Red Center Aunts to provide a pious, docile new Handmaid as consolation for his wife’s death is—at the very best—unappreciated by the Commander.

But whether or not Commander Lawrence appreciates the gesture and the gift that the Aunts have made you into is, ultimately, not your concern. Your first and last and only priority is that you fall pregnant with Commander Lawrence’s child as soon as humanly possible—or it’s the Colonies for you.

However, you being his sixth Handmaid, the Commander needs you to fall pregnant with his child just as quickly—given, especially, the sudden exodus of most of Gilead’s children seemingly overnight.

“Forgive me, Commander,” Aunt Lydia frowns, her eyes softening apologetically. “I only meant—”

“’s fine,” he interrupts, setting his cup and saucer back on the tray. “Tea’s gone cold, anyway,” the Commander stands from his seat and straightens his waistcoat, clearing his throat. “You can find your way out, Aunt Lydia?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Aunt Lydia assures him, mirroring his movement and standing from the sofa, somewhat uneasily on her injured leg. On instinct, you rise to your feet too.

“Til next time,” the Commander says, his voice laced with sarcastic fondness, as he strolls from the room and into what must be his private study. He doesn’t spare you a single backwards glance as he pulls another set of pocket doors closed behind him.

Silence settles over the sitting room like night.

Just like that, the visit concludes, and the realisation washes over you.

You’re not leaving with Aunt Lydia, when she goes, which she’s sure to do in just a moment.

This is it. The transaction is complete.

Your place is here. This house is now your home.

“I’ll be back the day after the Ceremony, dear,” Aunt Lydia says, leaning on her cane to stand. “In about, oh!” she pauses, looks at you with bright eyes, “seven days! Oh, sacred number. Blessings, Ofjoseph. May God bring forth His miracle.”

You muster a smile for her. Despite how this woman screamed at you, berated you, withheld your food and your sleep and denigrated your sense of self until you believed you were worth nothing more than being impregnated and delivering a healthy baby, her absence from your daily routine will be an adjustment.

You say, “Under His Eye, Aunt Lydia.”

She cups your cheek. “Under His Eye, dear.”

The Aunt makes her way to the door, met by Sienna and the second Martha, Beth, who stand in the foyer to see her off. The front door closes behind Aunt Lydia, and as soon as the latch locks it’s as if a dark, heavy storm cloud lifts from the house.

The Marthas sigh and relax, chattering eagerly and bickering animatedly about tonight’s dinner and even complaining about the Commander’s fussiness as they strut down the hallway to the kitchen. From the other side of the house, you hear a flare of music go up: some kind of Big Band era song, with trumpets and tubas and horns playing vivace—lively and fast.

The sun peeks out from behind the shroud of overcast sky, lighting up the sitting rooms with the glow of mid-afternoon.

You take a breath.

This old house feels alive.

#commander joseph lawrence #joseph lawrence #commander joseph lawrence x reader #commander joseph lawrence x you #joseph lawrence x reader #joseph lawrence x you #the handmaid's tale #g writes

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sh-rare-pair-exchange · 3 years

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Gold Beneath His Threshold

For @facialteeth Summary: Although Clary goes to Idris with her mother and it looks as though the only one with a promising love life is Alec, a certain demon decides th dip his finger into the parabatai pie and stir things up. Results do not disappoint.

Pairing: Jace Herondale / Alec Lightwood

A/N: I hope you like your gift 💙💙💙

Read it on ao3: HERE

It started in his childhood and it carried through into his young adult years. Alec became convinced he was a favourite of the angels, even though sometimes they had an odd way of showing it. One day when he was twelve, he found himself alone again, waiting for his mother in her office, having to receive punishment for his latest mess-up. He had gotten into a fight with an older boy who had been bullying him for months…. And he had won! He was shorter, smaller and younger, but he could take way more pain than the other boy. His bullying problem was now a thing of the past; the other kids kept their distance, knowing Lightwood was weird, but also willing and able to kick their asses. But for Maryse, that hadn’t been good enough. “We are Lightwoods, we don’t go around beating people up. There are other ways to solve conflicts! You are not thinking like a future leader, Alec!”

Later, it had been his father, calling him to his office to administer the punishment, and Alec had caught himself thinking, while he lay on his bed on his belly, because his butt and thighs were covered in red welts, that there would have to be one thing, one thing only, that made sense in his life. That made it all worth it - the humiliation, the being forgotten only to be remembered when he messed up even when he thought he did well, the hostility with which his own mother treated him, the feeling he was a mistake that should have never existed.

And the angels had replied right away. The next day, they sent him a ten year old boy - whom his parents decided to take in because he was Michael Wayland’s son, and Robert still felt guilty about his parabatai’s fate. From the moment Jace walked into the room where Alec trained, roasting his technique, Alec felt like he’d been given sunshine to carry in his pocket at all times. The boys became inseparable and soon Izzy was old enough to join them and keep up with Jace’s antics. Jace was beautiful and smart and loyal, and he made Alec laugh and smile so much his cheeks hurt every day, which was a blessing after the increasing number of punishments he had to endure, both for his perceived shortcomings and for being the eldest and letting Jace get the three of them in trouble. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for Jace. He took pride in it. He would stand in his mother’s office, thinking “you can’t punish me as much as I can take, just watch.” But as time went by and they grew up, Jace also grew a spine for the three of them. He found it natural to talk back at Robert and Maryse, to question their orders and to tell them to back off when they picked either Izzy or Alec as an easier target for their brand of retaliatory discipline. It was getting ridiculous, he said. You can’t send soldiers out in the field and expect them to do a good job if they are still wincing from their butts being full of welts. Also, there was a certain age after which it was odd to want your teenage child to bare themselves for you to beat them.

And it worked, because Jace was also fluent in the language that abusive leaders used, violence, coercion, veiled or overt threats and blackmail. He had been raised by a far bigger monster than Maryse could ever aspire to be and although his father had tried to shape him into the perfect, unfeeling killing machine, Jace had always had an unbreakable compass which was impervious to bullshit, but still allowed him to play along and make his abusers wallow in a sense of control until it was time to strike. Alec felt overcome with a feeling he couldn’t quite identify whenever he looked at Jace. It was more than loyalty, maybe even more than devotion. He decided love covered it pretty well, but it was a big concept which contained all the facets of the feeling. Alec compared it to getting a really big box and going to the store, asking for a scoop of every flavour of ice cream. This was why it didn’t come as a surprise to him when, one day as he was sparring with Jace and the younger boy had gained the upper hand, sending Alec to the floor and straddling him to pin his arms to the floor above his head, a wave of desire crashed into him. Jace was above him, glistening with a sheen of sweat and panting, his golden hair sticking together in thick strands, damp with sweat. Jace looked feral for a moment, in prey to the adrenaline of the fight, but his eyes quickly shifted to reflect the warm affection he held only for Alec. For the older boy, it was as though someone had sucked all the air in the room out. Everything was amplified and his senses seemed sharper, he could hear Jace’s heartbeat and couldn’t look away from his bare chest, rising and falling with the staccato pace of his breathing; he became painfully aware of Jace’s now hard peak nipples and his eyes traced a droplet of sweat making its way down Jace’s chest until gravity forced it to fall onto his own chest. Also, their current position made it so that their cocks were crushed together in a distracting way. Alec closed his eyes briefly, letting the feeling wash over him. It made him buck beneath Jace and he made a pitiful sound, somewhere between surrender and panic. “Is this you tapping out?” Jace asked, adjusting his position, pressing his weight even harder into Alec. This did not help their dick situation and Alec felt himself harden. He nodded, unsure why he worried so much. This was Jace and Jace handed his ass to him all the time. Nothing special about the occasion. Jace freed his hands and got up, releasing Alec from his hold altogether. Alec stayed on the floor, sitting for a bit longer, wondering why being bested in combat put him into such a state this time around. But then Jace used the towel he had brought to wipe off his sweat, then threw it at Alec, expecting him to catch it and use it too. The towel hit Alec across the face. Instead of smelling like horse or old socks, like sweat usually did, Jace smelled like freshly baked bread, sunny summer days and everything that Alec associated with the feeling of joy. He barely caught himself and held back from burying his face into the towel and sniffing it like a cat with a valerian pillow. Not long after that, Jace asked Alec to be his parabatai and obviously, Alec said yes. Obviously, because he could not picture his life without Jace in it anymore and they were better together in every way. Jace had the courage and confidence when Alec struggled with them, and Alec had the strategic thinking and the protective nature where Jace was reckless and impulsive. *** They were considered grown men by Nephilim standards, but to mundanes and Downworlders, they were still young and inexperienced in many ways except killing and fighting. This was why so many mistakes were made when Clary and the tornado of events she brought crashed into their lives. For one reason or the other, Jace seemed to lose all touch with reality and support Clary on her wild chases, risking their lives, their standing with the Clave and pretty much everything else. Alec felt abandoned and forgotten again. He reminded himself that good things never last and allowed himself to go through a grieving process on fast forward, where at first he was angry at Jace and ended up resigning himself to having nothing and no one who cared about him in the way he needed. But he could not order his body or his emotions to fall in line with his new approach and that was the source of his constant pain. Pain which gave him the worst, darkest goggles to see life through. He didn’t see that Jace panicked and saw the whole Shadow World burn in front of his mind’s eye when it became clear that Valentine had the means and the opportunity to wipe out every Downworlder in existence with one wish. It was this desolate state Alec found himself in when he met Magnus Bane, the charming High Warlock of Brooklyn. Magnus did not have to give him attention, but he did. And he did not have to single him out and place him above everyone else, but he did that too. It felt good - of course it did - and Alec dared to smile again.

But Clary again muddied the waters. The way she was treating Jace was so entitled and impatient, bulldozing his needs and his past wounds just because she hadn’t been there to see him get them, so to her they did not matter that much. Soon, Jace was hurting again, and since no one had taught him how to deal with that, he put the entire blame onto himself. He and Clary were no longer a thing soon and Alec watched his carefully constructed routine crumble again. Izzy had broken up with Meliorn and was trying to mutilate her personality into becoming Maryse 2.0. Jace hadn’t slept a full night in weeks and cried himself to sleep at night, only to be woken by nightmares and his own screams.

Clary soon chose to move to Idris to be with her mother. Jocelyn thought they would be safer from Valentine there and, for once thinking like a true Shadowhunter, she wanted to take the heat off the New York Institute and make it obvious to the Clave that the Valentine problem was not some fiction made up by teens playing around with runes and angelic relics, but a very real and immediate threat.

Before Clary left, Izzy planned a small goodbye party in the Institute events hall. Clary gave each of them a present, to thank them for their help and friendship. To Jace, she gave two open-date tickets to the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan, winking as she told him he would know when to use them. Jace hugged her and kissed her hair, the gesture looking more like what a big brother would do, rather than a lover. Clearly, that short chapter in their lives had not made the first edit. To Izzy, she gave a letter from the Iron Sisters. Jocelyn had used some of her old connections and had gotten Izzy an invitation to visit the place where all Shadowhunter weapons were made. Izzy started crying and hugged Clary, making her promise to visit and send a lot of fire messages. She even promised Clary to finally look into installing Discord on her phone so they could keep in touch more easily. Finally, to Alec, she gave a book, telling him it would answer his most pressing question for him when he got to the end. Alec looked at the book. It was “The Alchemist” by Paulo Coelho and he seethed inwardly. It was “Eat Pray Love” for people who had gone to college and Alec had heard about the book and its subject matter. He considered it a total wank, from what he’d heard. But Clary was leaving, so maybe, as a way of celebrating, he would ask Jace to let him use his tub and read the book front to back as a way to close the Clary chapter in their lives.

Life went back to normal after Clary and Jocelyn’s departure. Well. The new normal, where Alec was the only one of the three whose life and mental health were not falling apart. He found time to go on that date he and Magnus had kept postponing. It was not… unpleasant, and Alec learned several things about himself. One, he really didn’t do well with alcohol. And he didn’t care how childish it made him seem. Jace was the only person who didn’t constantly mock him for not liking to drink. Beer really tasted like ass. And so did tequila shots. Two, yep, he was gay. Magnus was super pretty. But, for whatever reason, he couldn’t picture himself doing anything more than hugging and holding hands with Magnus. He had already planted a smooch on the warlock, as an act of rebellion against his parents and the Clave at his almost-wedding to Lydia… but he hoped being in love didn’t involve bricking it before every time a show of physical affection happened. Although, in fairness, not all intimate acts had the entire Clave watching closely. Three, things were definitely going too fast and he had long lost control of the wheel. There was a madman intent on ending their entire world out there, Edom was gaining power, Seelies, Vampires and Werewolves were treating the Accords like a pamphlet and Warlocks were disappearing off to realms known only to them in preparation for the upcoming war. And there he was, Lieutenant Head of the New York Institute, getting his panties in a twist over the fact that a hot warlock wanted to take him home and fuck the living daylights out of him. Which, in any other circumstance, would have been perfection. But although his mind tried hard to reason with Alec, pointing out that “hey, someone wants to bang you. No one ever wants to bang you. Do you really want to die a virgin? Because you will die sooner than you will find someone again”, his body put the brakes on the whole thing. So, after their date, instead of going to the loft with Magnus, Alec told him he had an early morning meeting he had to prepare for. Upset by the perceived rejection, Magnus left, but not without making a polite exit. After all, he could understand cold feet. The reason he was so attracted to Alec was how special and rare of a creature he was. But he still left Alec with the tab. The cute bartender who had seen the whole exchange pointed to the tap and asked Alec, “looks like it’s not your night. Want another one, on the house?” Alec shook his head. “Can I have a peach Capri Sun instead?” He asked. Someone else took the seat Magnus had vacated next to him at the bar and pushed a hundred dollar bill across the counter to the girl. “Actually, I’ll have the alcohol once you give the child his sippy cup. Make it a Devil’s Margin, please.” Alec turned to look at the owner of that silky, dark voice. A tall man, dressed in black, everything designer and very expensive-looking, with an exceedingly attractive face and the tell-tale red glow in his eyes. A greater demon, Alec thought, freezing in his spot. He didn’t have any weapons with him, he had left them all at the wardrobe, glamoured, after Magnus had convinced him demons would not come crash their date. “Did your date not go your way?” the higher demon asked, smiling in a way Alec would have read as… friendly, If it had been anyone else. “What’s it to you? Since when do demons care what we do in our time off?” “Since I’m the demon of desire and everyone’s desires are my job.” The demon said. The bartender slid the Devil’s Margin in front of the stranger and smiled. The demon took a sip from the drink and smiled. “Excellent. Heavy on the alcohol, easy on the ginger ale. Just how I like it.” He said, producing another hundred dollar bill and handing it to the girl. “That’s all yours, baby girl.” Alec watched the young woman fluster and blush, stammering a thank you and going away. He always found it so miraculous when other men were able to charm their way through life’s little exchanges and situations. Jace would have done it even without the money, he thought, sizing up the man (demon) next to him. “Look. I’m not digging for trouble… for now. I’m just curious. Do you think the warlock you were seeing is hot, Alec Lightwood?” The demon asked, revealing to Alec he had done his homework before he’d popped up. “I will gladly answer all your nosy questions, demon, as soon as you tell me your name. Since you already know mine.” “All in due time. Is it that hard to admit, is he hot or not?” “Yes, he is, damn it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have gone on a date with him, he’s been working so super hard to get me to go out with him. I never go out.” “Mmm, interesting.” “And again, what’s it to you?” Alec grumpily asked. If he was going to fry, he might as well get some answers first. “Well, my volatile little Nephilim, my name is Asmodeus, prince of hell, demon of desire and Magnus’ dad.” Alec gasped. Rationally, he knew warlocks were half demon, but he had always pictured the demon half involved one of those hideous creatures they slaughtered in dark alleys while on night missions. He had never considered the higher demons would wish to sire children with mortal women as well. And, looking at Asmodeus, it was easy to see where Magnus got his good looks and charm from.

“Are you here to tell me not to date your son?” Alec said. “Or to make sure that my Nephilim nature kicks in and does exactly that, to spite you?”

“No, not at all. I’m here to save everyone some heartache and to speed up some of my goals becoming reality.” Asmodeus said. “Do you want to date my son?” “Honestly? I don’t know. I… I might not get anyone else. And he is a good man, who’s showing me attention where everyone else is not. He would love me.” “He would watch you die after your short, violent little life. And then he’d mourn and move on. He’s immortal, Alec. You’re not.” “Yeah, there’s that. But isn’t every lasting relationship like that? Even in mundane marriages, someone dies first and is survived by their grieving partner.” “Mundanes have the comfort of thinking they get to meet each other soon.” Alec stared at his Capri Sun. “But that’s not all there is to it, is there?” Asmodeus pressed. “There’s something else holding you back.” “Yes…” Alec said, sighing. “Something stupid.” “Like the hmmm… allegedly unrequited love for your parabatai?” “Why are you even asking me, if you know everything?” Alec covered his face with his palm briefly. “This is embarrassing. I can’t… I can’t do this.” He added and made to get off the bar stool to leave. “No it’s not, and you can. Sit back down. I take desires really seriously. And I’m here to tell you it’s alright to be in love with your parabatai. You two do share a soul and I would be more surprised and disappointed if you two weren’t in love.” “But… why are you so intent on my not dating Magnus? Because that is your agenda, I can tell.”

“It’s because of how difficult it is to see things from an eternal perspective. No matter how much Magnus and you pretend it’s not an obstacle, it is. And I am trying to get Magnus to stop seeking for fleeting connection in various mortals and to finally turn his face back to me, his father. I cannot wait to give him my wisdom, my experience… my power. But I can’t do that if he is always running around trying to please this and that mortal.” “And you want me to turn Magnus down so you can show up for him? Why didn’t you do so before? Why didn’t you protect him and treat him well as a child?” “I was misguided and hurt. I wrongfully took out my anger and my pain on a child who didn’t ask to be here. And since then, Magnus has been running from me.” “Look. I don’t have the power to oppose you. But for some reason you seem to want to do it right this time. Listen to his wishes. He will come to you if he feels respected. It’s not that deep. I know one or two things about abusive parents. Once the trust is broken, and usually it’s broken over and over… it can’t be won back with a simple talk and a hug. It takes time to mend wounds that scarred over but never healed.” Asmodeus smiled at Alec and put his hand over Alec’s nearest one. “I knew you’d understand. As far as Nephilim go, you’re one of the wisest, even for your young years.” Alec looked at the demon’s manicured hand on top of his and for a second, his mind flashed him an image of Asmodeus draped over him in a bed with cool sheets, buried to the hilt inside him, holding his literal life in his hands, their fingers interlaced as they gripped the sheets and moved together… He shook his head. Asmodeus wasn’t playing. He really was the demon of desire.

“Don’t you just wish that was the Herondale boy?” Asmodeus laughed knowingly.

“Wayland, but go off.” “Oops. I guess I shouldn’t have said that.” Asmodeus said with a wink. “But anyway. I wanted to talk to you not to dissuade you from dating my son, but to tell you that you’re bullshitting yourself. Sure, Magnus is wonderful and he would love you and everything. But you’re not in love with him. And I thought I’d spare you and Magnus a few years of heartache and suffering alone and in secret because you let things heat up too fast and then it was too late to say anything. You would so do that. Admit it - if not to me, then to yourself.”

“I… you’re right.” Alec said, taking a sip of his juice. “Too bad Jace doesn’t love me back.” Asmodeus rolled his eyes. “He does. And I know you won’t believe what the old demon said, but just… ask him. Ask him what is in those nightmares that keep him up at night. Oh, and… ask for one kiss. It will tell you all you need to know.” Alec looked away. He had come a long way, he could pass for a great leader on many days, but asking for a kiss? From Jace? That needed working up to. “You have to risk it for the biscuit.” Asmodeus said, shrugging. “Or, in terms you Nephilim folk prefer, no pain, no gain.” Alec winced. He was trying to change that. Everyone outside the Nephilim society laughed at them and called them primitive for abusing their children to turn them into soldiers and for burning their own people for even the slightest mistake, until their numbers were dwindling. It felt like an uphill battle, but he knew it could be done. Unless the Clave really wanted to drive their race to extinction. “Thanks for the insight… I guess?” Alec said and took a sip of his drink. When he looked to his side, Asmodeus had vanished, leaving behind only a veil of very high end Moroccan blend perfume, something with sandalwood, crushed rose petals and ylang-ylang.

Alec shivered. He’d survived meeting Asmodeus. And in theory it wasn’t a big deal, he’d killed greater demons before without thinking much of it, but Asmodeus was different. He was Magnus’ dad. He could have been his father-in-law, which would have made Easter lunches very awkward, for starters.

He paid what he owed to the bartender and she smiled as she cashed him in. “Straighten your crown and go get’em. You’re a cutie, it’ll all work out for you.” She said. Alec sighed. “Thanks. There’s nothing about me that can be straight… but I appreciate the sentiment.” He got his weapons and coat from the wardrobe and went back to the Institute. On the way back, he was stopped by some unsavoury mundanes who wanted to mug him. Alec asked himself what Jace would do, and what would make Magnus cringe the least. He ended up breaking all those men’s arms and legs and walking away while feeling a huge sulk taking him over. To top it all off, it started to rain.

Soaked to his skin, now he really wanted that hot bath with a book. When he went up to Jace’s room, it was empty and Alec decided it would hurt no one if he did run himself that hot bath and read the book from Clary. As he gingerly lowered himself into the tub, the exhaustion and the stress of the past month hit him at full force. He closed his eyes and let the heat and the pine scent of the water seep into his bones and mind, relaxing him. Now he was starting to see why Jace loved to take baths so often. He opened “The Alchemist” and started reading. He found the book easy to read through, since he was used to far longer and bigger volumes. The start didn’t impress him much, but by the time he got through the first twenty pages, he was hooked. The ending moved him to tears and it made him think of his own situation. He was also sitting on a treasure, ignoring it because of preconceived ideas on how treasures had to appear and be revealed. It was how Jace found him, crying in the bath, the foam having dissolved almost completely. Jace ran over to him and knelt next to the tub, hugging Alec at once and kissing his forehead worriedly. “What’s wrong, parabatai? What happened?” Jace asked, running his hands through Alec’s wet hair and smoothing it back. Alec looked at Jace through his tears and he sighed. The surge of love and awe he felt just from seeing Jace again (and it had only been a few hours since he’d last seen him, at breakfast) was enough to tell him that Asmodeus had been a hundred percent right. He was so deeply, desperately and irreversibly in love with Jace, there was no use lying to himself and thinking it was wiser to stay away. Sure, giving in and admitting his love to Jace might bring some heartache, maybe some punishment too if they were found out, but at least they’d have each other. And he would have the one person he had loved from the day they’d met.

Alec took in Jace’s appearance. While he had been caught in the rain, Jace had been lucky and his clothes and hair were dry. He had gone and gotten his haircut refreshed, and it looked so incredibly good on him. Jace also wore a white shirt that subtly outlined his pecs and abs and tight jeans with his designer boots.

“The book was sad.” Alec said, feeling silly for saying the first thing that popped into his mind. It was a childish reason to give; they were Shadowhunters, they witnessed tragedy on an individual and global scale regularly. Jace smiled and ran his fingers through Alec’s hair again, leaning close and kissing his temple. He also looked down at the discarded book. He knew it was the book Clary had given Alec and he also knew the plot. He had read it a while ago while waiting to meet a cute Seelie in a bookstore. “Did your date with Magnus not go so well?” He asked, even though it pained him. Jace knew it wasn’t classy to be this petty, but Magnus having come onto the scene had changed his life for the worse by introducing the idea of competition for Alec’s love and attention… and the prospect of him losing. Until recently, no matter how shitty the rest of his life was, he always knew he had Alec’s full attention, devotion and affection. Jace had been in love with Alec for a while now, and he had woken up one day overwhelmed with love for his shy and reserved parabatai after thinking for a long time that he was the straightest person in the entire Shadow World. Loving Alec was easy, because Jace wore a mask for everyone else and with Alec he didn’t need to. And even though Alec was very withdrawn and private, he reserved the best parts of himself for Jace, who had always needed to be seen and prioritised by someone. Now, with Magnus in the picture, he could see himself losing all of that and being demoted to “one of the others’’ in favour of the boyfriend. He had already begun to resign himself to having lost the best and brightest part of his life. He had made it a part of his outward performance to be seen with many women and girls of all races, mundanes and Downworlders alike, but he could not bring himself to like or even open himself up at least a bit to anyone, in an unspoken (even to himself) hope of one day gathering his guts and telling Alec how he felt. But his father’s words rang in his mind. The way he saw it, “to love is to destroy” only worked if the love was expressed, fulfilled and returned. If it was just things one felt in secret and suffered from, it was fine. Only now it was all lost. Alec was in love - with Magnus. And Jace didn’t blame him. Magnus had the balls to announce his feelings directly. Normally, he would have been this confident too. But he didn’t think he was worthy of Alec’s love. He felt that Alec would be getting a bad deal with him as a boyfriend. He was neither rich, nor powerful or famous. And Alec deserved to be treated like a king, not late night dates at Mickey D’s, eating McRibs with ichor-stained hands.

Lost in his little cinematic sad story inside his head, Jace didn’t notice Alec watching him and smiling. “Actually the date with Magnus was great. I came back here after because it didn’t feel right to go to his place after.” “Why not?” Jace pushed, feeling a masochistic need to hear more about the ways in which Alec was slipping away from him. “You like the guy.” Alec looked at him pointedly and raised an eyebrow. “Jace. You know very well I don’t like anyone. And I only love you.” He said, his voice becoming tinier as he got to the word “love”.

Jace’s eyes shot up to look at his parabatai. “It’s always been you, Jace.” Alec said, forcing himself to maintain eye contact. “In another world, if I were any bit more different, I’d be strong enough to let the outside pressure get to me and move on, but I just don’t know how to be without you and I don’t want to either. I’ve been in love with you, in many ways that grew along the way, since the moment you walked into that training room and roasted my archery skills. I know to others I am weak for being so attached and needy, but… I don’t know how not to be, when it comes to you.”

Jace’s eyes were swimming in tears by the time Alec paused. He was still kneeling near the tub, one hand buried in Alec’s wet curly hair, the other holding one of Alec’s hands. He kissed the back of the hand he was holding, then lightly kissed each finger. “I feel the same. I was so torn, Alec. You deserve the best things ever and I’m not that. I’m broken. I thought you’d be happy with Magnus, but selfishly, I hated the thought of losing you.” It was Alec’s turn to caress stray strands behind a delicate ear. “We’re broken along the same lines. Like shards of a mirror that show the same image when you put them together.” Alec said. “The reason I was crying is because Clary knew exactly what I needed to hear. Like the guy in this book, I don’t need exotic travels and treasures beyond imagining. All I need is right here with me.”

When their lips finally met, it was with no hesitation and no fumbling. Once they had made up their respective minds, there was no holding back for either of them. “I want everything, Jace. And I want it with you.” Alec said in a heated voice, sounding breathless and overcome with excitement. “Then come, let me show you,” Jace said, feeling a lump of emotion form in his throat, making it hard to speak. Seeing Alec’s courage to say how he felt had made him go all in as well. In just a second, his indecision and his fears and worries had vanished like fog under the sun. But even though the emotions were positive and bursting forth from his soul like sunbeams, he still felt tears well up and spill down his cheeks. One word, one sign of reassurance had been enough. They were both getting what they wanted but had not dared to ask for. Alec briefly thought of Asmodeus and his knowing smirk, but then he felt Jace lift him easily from the tub and wrap him in a big towel, not doing too good a job drying him before he carried him, bridal-style, to the adjacent bedroom. He squeaked at being carried, but he still clung to Jace and rested his head on Jace’s shoulder, enjoying the attention from his parabatai. Jace hadn’t considered sleeping with a man, whether mundane or otherwise, but he found that Alec felt as familiar as he did to himself, and everything came naturally to him, especially since he was focusing on making sure Alec had a pleasurable first time. In fact, it was their first time and it could only be amazing, like everything they did as a pair.

He undressed hurriedly and unselfconsciously, feeling himself harden when Alec watched him greedily, his desire increasing with each item that came off.

Alec looked like sin made flesh on Jace’s bed, naked and hard, panting and watching Jace, biting his lower lip and reaching for his parabatai.

“You’re the most beautiful being I’ve ever laid eyes on,” Jace decreed, giving his cock a loose stroke, his eyes raking over Alec’s bared form before he got onto the bed and scooted next to Alec, flinging a leg over him and straddling him. “And you’re mine. I’m going to make you forget other men exist.” He reached over to Alec with two fingers, running them down the middle of his forehead, over his nose and further down to his lips.

Alec gasped and opened his mouth, his plush lips wrapping themselves around the roving fingers and dragging along the soft skin. Jace felt himself leak a sticky trail onto Alec’s cock beneath him from how enticing Alec looked, sucking his fingers unabashedly, rolling his hips up to rub against Jace and wanting to wring every drop of pleasure from the moment. Jace found he could no longer hold back and he leaned forward, his lips finding Alec’s. They again fused into one, their souls merging and flowing from one into the other and then back, in a loop. “Shit, if kissing is this intense, I won’t survive being inside you.” Jace said, nipping on Alec’s chin, on the spot he had the scar in. “Worth it. Can’t think of a better way to go.” Alec gave back, bringing his arms up so he could indulge in something he’d wanted to do since forever - running his hands greedily all over Jace, fingers carding through his hair, tracing his vertebrae as they descended, straying to his sides, his pecs, then his hips and then his ass. Alec felt ravenous - as though he couldn’t get Jace close enough, soon enough. He arched into Jace’s mouth and wailed at the sensation as his parabatai bit, then sucked a massive bruise into his deflect rune. “Jace, I can’t… I’ll go fucking insane if you’re not inside me soon. We can explore later.” Alec demanded. Jace looked down at their engorged and leaking cocks, rubbing against each other. “Um… normally I should open you up slowly. It’s a really small hole. Can you wait?” “I’ve been waiting since I was fucking fifteen. Get thee in me - preferably today.” “Look, if I use runes, it might still sting.” “I’m a Shadowhunter. Let’s see those runes.” “Alec, are you sure? It’s your first time… it might hurt.” “Do I look like I care? I get to have you for the rest of my life. Every time will be as special as a first time.” Jace smiled, relenting at the passionate words. This was 100% his Alec. Hesitant and overthinking while weighing his choices, all in once he made up his mind. He allowed himself to fantasize about a life of belonging to Alec and to Alec only, and of Alec being his in the same way. He felt his heart fill up to the point of overflowing with love and he knew he wanted nothing else. Even if it was a short and perilous life, even if their destiny as soldiers against the realms of hell cleaved their trajectory through the world before it had reached its end point, it would be a life lived in the completeness of their bond, made stronger by their love. He felt Alec’s burning gaze on him when he got out of bed to get his stele. While he retrieved it from his trousers, he wondered if, once Alec and him became one in every sense of the word, he would be able to activate Alec’s runes too with only his intention. Only one way to find out. Using the combination of runes he knew from Isabelle on her brother felt like the naughtiest and at the same time most rewarding sex thing he’d ever done thus far, and he couldn’t help but smile at the thought. It was so hot, watching and feeling his soon-to-be lover’s body become accommodating for him. Even the slight pain, which he could feel in the bond, was amplifying his aroused anticipation, as he watched Alec squirm and arch under the burn of the runes - which soon turned pleasurable, wringing a debauched moan from Alec.

“Please, Jace. I’m ready.” Alec said, sucking his reddened and glistening lower lip into his mouth briefly, looking up at Jace with feverish eyes.

Jace couldn’t have resisted if he tried. He knelt between Alec’s eagerly parting legs, taking the time to check if the runes had taken and if his parabatai was relaxed enough. He stroked two fingers over Alec’s opening and found it warm and pleasantly slick, which reassured him enough to delve inside. He moaned and squeezed his eyes shut at the feeling of Alec’s tight walls squeezing down on his fingers, picturing what that would feel like around his cock. With his other hand, he gave his cock a few strokes, spreading the droplets of precome drooling from the tip and bringing it up against Alec’s entrance, pressing in while removing his fingers. Alec closed his eyes and arched off the sheets as the head of Jace’s cock stretched him further than he had thought possible. Jace took one of his hands and squeezed it, bringing it to his lips and kissing it. “Breathe - deep and slow. It’ll help.” He whispered, before leaning down to kiss Alec while still pushing in. He could feel the same burn his parabatai felt in his body and he wondered at the force of Alec’s need for him. There would be so many other times when they could live out all their desires and fantasies, but for now it was about Alec and what he wanted. “Fuck, Alec. You are so tight it’s unreal.” Jace said when he bottomed out. He was now buried to the hilt inside his parabatai and the bond flared between them, its flame switching from pale blue to bright gold. Both boys got hit by the intensity of the transmutation. Their bond was now something different, stronger and new in a way they couldn’t have anticipated. They had both been warned by the Silent Brothers at their ceremony not to fall and commit Eros, lest they draw the angels’ wrath and the parabatai curse onto them. But, as time passed and they grew up, they had both learned the curse was a scaretale used to enforce the Clave’s disapproval of same sex relationships and to secure Clave control over parabatai pairs and their abilities as warriors. He Clave wanted them good, but not too good.

“Do you feel… that… too?” Jace asked in awe.

“Yes, I do. I feel you, as a part of me.” Alec said breathlessly. “Please, move. I want it all.” Jace propped himself up on his hands on Alec’s chest and started to move, picking up pace quickly. “Angels, Alec.You feel divine.” Jace whispered. His entire world had narrowed down to Alec beneath him. But even that wasn’t enough and he sat back on his heels, pulling Alec up in his lap until they were wrapped around each other, their limbs woven together like the petals of a lotus. Jace had never really enjoyed a connection with someone before here and now, with Alec. Sex had always been yet another performance to persuade the world that the great Jace Wayland was as perfect and as unattainable as they wanted him to be, the fantasy superhero all of Idris wanted to believe in and parade as an example. If he could have had his choice, he would have not shared his body with anyone unless he felt drawn to do so. But as it were, everyone else had always seen him as a shiny trinket to collect, a fetish to experiment with, a fantasy to conquer. All but Alec. “Jace! I’m c-close.” Alec pressed out while the force of Jace’s upward thrusts into him bounced him on Jace’s lap. “Come with me!”

Jace nodded with a growl and changed their position again, having them lie down face to face, up close and still entwined as they’d been just moments before, with Alec’s legs encircling his hips. It wasn’t a comfortable position they could hold for long, but it brought them close together and Jace loved that he could rest a hand on Alec’s neck and pull him close for a possessive kiss. A silent understanding passed between them, the same intent reflected in both sets of eyes. They came at the same time, each letting go easily while knowing the other would be right there too. After that night, Alec discovered that Jace could practically go on forever, but, considerate as he was, he did stop when Alec became physically unable to keep up. And Jace was also an attentive lover, apparently, either as a rule or just for him, Alec didn’t care, since he currently couldn’t feel his body beyond the burn in his ass and the deep fatigue, neighbouring numbness, that had taken over his limbs. But Jace fed him pineapple gummibears from his secret stash (if that wasn’t love, nothing was, Alec thought, knowing how territorial Jace was of those gummibears). Jace discovered that he could, in fact, activate Alec’s runes with his intention, something which turned Alec on like mad and which made their night’s activities stretch until late in the morning. Once they finally dragged themselves under the shower, Jace remembered his gift from Clary. “I need to take you on a proper date, to make this official. Museum of Modern Art sound good to you? The Dicks in Design exhibit is in town.” “If I want to see a big dick for free, all I need to do is look your way. Let’s just go and stare at the art.” Jace opened his mouth to clap back, but he couldn’t think of anything. Couldn’t object against facts, although what kept him from feeling smug was the ambiguous phrasing. Had Alec meant he had a big dick? Or that he was a big dick?

*** The evening had just begun and Pandemonium was buzzing with excitement. This date marked the return of Magnus Bane to the club scene. The moment he had seen Alec again after their one date, Magnus had known Alec would never be his. And then he had seen Jace and the massive change in him, in the way the two parabatai looked at each other, in the way the energy in the room changed and thrummed around them. He could not begrudge the two Shadowhunters the refuge they had found in each other. Being parabatai in their time was difficult and it was a small blessing they could be everything for each other like that. He couldn’t say he was mourning that which had never been. He had a new girlfriend now and his father was making an effort to be a slightly more tolerable demon and an actual parent to his only son. Magnus had a family now and it made him feel like he finally belonged. Now he was observing Alec and Jace on the dance floor below. Alec had never struck him as a big lover of fun, partying and much less dancing. But what he was currently doing was hardly a dance. He and Jace were just grinding against each other to the beat of the music, lost in each other like they were the only people in the club. They were both dressed in white and the hostesses at the club entrance had dabbed glitter on them, like they did with all the guests that night, only Jace and Alec looked downright heavenly, sparkling in the bluish-white light.

Then, Magnus’ eye was drawn to the VIP booth, where his father stood at the window, watching the couple below with the tiniest smile fluttering on his lips. Magnus shuddered, remembering Asmodeus was the demon of desire and his powers grew off of people giving into their secret and forbidden passions. He didn’t put it past his father to have stuck his finger in the parabatai pie. His concerns only intensified when Alec suddenly looked up, saw Asmodeus, waved and smiled. (the end)

#shrarepairexchange #sh rare pair gift exchange #shadowhunters #shrarepair2021 #facialteeth

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lokis-lady-death · 5 years

Text

Slither Pt 8

Loki x Reader

Reader is a museum curator is put in charge of a Viking/Norse exhibit at the Smithsonian Museum. While going through all the artifacts, she comes across a strange relic that seems to have a mind of it’s own. She accidentally stumbles into an ancient world of gods.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7

Slither Part 8

It was early afternoon when Loki reappeared back in his bedroom in Asgard. His eyes closed while he grunted in frustration, the Chains of Sigyn lying uselessly lifeless his feet on the floor.

You waking up from the dream not only cast him out of your vision, it also was enough to undo the necklace's latch. He was about to curse out loud when something caught his attention.

"So the prodigal son returns," came a deep, aged voice from behind him. Loki's jaw tightened as only his eyes rolled at the realization that Odin was in his room at the most inopportune time.

Forcing a grin on his face, Loki spun around, hands open and eyes bright as he greeted, "Oh, Father, I was actually hoping for an audience with…"

He froze when he saw Thor was also standing there, mimicking his father's stance. Arms folded over their chests, backs straight, golden armor, even their stare of disappointment was a reflection. Aside from Odin's missing right eye, they resembled each other from their squared jaws to their broad shoulders and built physique.

And both were equally as undesirable guests.

"Loki, we need to talk," Thor commanded, "I've told Father about your meddling in his study."

The god of mischief Inhaled through his nose as he shot a quick disgruntled look towards his brother before smiling innocently at Odin. "Actually, there's an explanation for that, I was merely-"

Odin raised a hand and his son went quiet. Closing his one good eye to take in a breath before undoubtedly starting one of his infamous guilt speeches.

But what came from his mouth was not at all what Loki expected. "I have failed you, my boy."

"Come again?"

Looking into his one good eye, Loki saw a trace of sorrow. "I have failed you. I had hoped by destroying the Bifrost that I would prevent any further damage from other realms, however, when Thor told me you had been in my study, I knew you had been searching for just another way to sneak out." He looked down to Loki's feet just seconds after the god of mischief flicked his wrist and made it vanish. "Well, my boy? Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?" At that, the son had no response. He looked away, only making Odin press further. "So what was it like? Going off on your own?"

The now solomon god of mischief quietly answered, "It was worth whatever punishment you see fit to bestow upon me.”

Odin shook his head while Thor brought up, "Are you referring to the Midgardian in your bathroom yesterday?”

At that, Odin’s eyebrows rose. “You left that part out? That didn’t seem like impertinent information?”

“She's of no concern, I was merely plotting my escape from this wretched place when she stumbled into our realm. She's of little consequence,” Loki answered shortly and the three men were quiet.

It wasn’t until Odin cleared his throat that the silence broke, “Loki, you know you cannot continue going to Midgard? That place, it’s full of pestilence, famine, and death. Not to mention that the type of magic that is required to go there is extremely potent!”

Loki slowly looked up to his father then towards his brother. Just as he opened his mouth opened, ready to argue his case, he felt a sharp pain in his head.

The agony was so abrupt that it etched into his face as he fell over with a grunt. “Brother!” Thor cried out as he kneeled in front of him, “Father?”

“You foolish child, what have you done?” Odin watched as Loki laid, eyes closed, still clutching at his head. . “Guards? Guards! Call the medics!”

*****

You stared, dazed and confused, at your phone as you replayed the voicemail for the upteenth time.

“Hello, this is Chris Hemsworth with the Edinburg Museum? I’m just returning a call to a Miss y/n, I’m sorry I missed you but if you could please call me back, my extension is 496. I believe you received an artifact from my office by mistake.”

In this short amount of time, how had you been so ignorant as to forget the Chains of Sigyn weren’t yours? They were property of the museum, and apparently not even your own Smithsonian. Your chest felt so cold at the realization. Quieting that subsequent ache, you tried to find comfort that you could go back to your normal life.

That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?

Your life to be normal again?

As if in response to your own self torment, the chains began to rattle from the safe in your coat closet by the front door of your apartment. Swallowing and rubbing the mixture of sleep and tears from your eyes, you stood at the side of the bed.

Picking up the phone, you hit redial, feeling a stronger ache build in the pit of your soul when a woman’s voice answered, “Thank you for calling the Edinburg Museum, how may I direct your call?”

“Hi, may I have extension 496?”

“Mr. Hemsworth?”

“Yes, thank you.”

The line went into dull elevator style music before you heard a man with a thick australian accent pick up, “Hello, this is Chris.”

“Hi, this is y/n, I just missed your call about-”

"The Chains of Sigyn? You have them?"

"Um, yes. Yes, I, uh, have them. Could you just-" The rattling stopped, only to be replaced by a low, threatening hiss "-hold on, one sec?" In your small apartment there were not many places you could go, so to quieten the background, you opted for outside. Opening your window, you slipped out on the thin escape. "Okay, yeah, so about that necklace-"

“Did you put them on?”

You choked on your words, your mind drawing a blank at the accusation. “I’m sorry?”

“The chains, did you put them on?”

At their mention they sparked back to life, shaking and hissing on the other side of the closet door so loud that you could hear it even out on the window’s ledge.

“I hear them,” he said dryly and all you could do was gulp.

“Yes, I wore them, but only for a second-”

“That doesn’t matter,” he interrupted urgently, “What matters now is that you keep them off. Where are they now?”

“I…” you looked at the closet door, hearing the safe begin to bang against it. “I have them secure.” Taking a moment to realize how improbable this was, you pressed, “What exactly do you know about them? How did your museum get them? What makes them work?”

The line was so quiet you thought you lost connection until Hemsworth answered, “I’ll start with those aren’t just some artifact for a museum, they’re actually a family heirloom. Look, all I can say is that you need to keep that necklace away from you. I’ll be there in two days to take it back-”

“Two days?” you exclaimed, realizing that would be the big premier of the viking exhibit at the Smithsonian. “I can’t meet you with it then, I have a project-”

“The Viking Exhibit?”

You went silent.

“Yes, I know about your project, that’s kind of how the chains got accidentally sent there… I was preparing a different artifact and they just…”

“Let me guess, slithered in?” you asked with a roll of your eyes.

“No, they told me to send them to you.”

Your teeth clenched, certain you heard him wrong. “They told you?”

“It’s really a long story, but my family is extremely upset that it got sent to you,” he finally answered, the sound of rumagining, books falling, and something crashing in the background while he hurried off the phone. “I will be there in two days. I’ll come by the Smithsonian and answer your questions, Ms. y/n. Just don’t put that necklace-”

The phone disconnected.

Holding your cell in your hand, you stared down at it even more confused than before. You only had a few seconds until the phone dinged with a new message.

It was from Chris at work.

~Hey just checking in Tom told me we are hanging out tonight SOOOOOOO EXCITED we will pick you and your friend up at 9~

His inability to use punctuation was always an annoyance to you, but that's not why seeing the text made you stomach knott.

At the knock continuing at your closet from the chains going wild, you ran a hand over your face to try and gather your thoughts.

The thudding got louder, making you angry while you tried to take in everything. "What do you want from me!" you yelled at them through the door. "You wanna just take me there, is that it? Is that why you're going CRAZY, because you want to take me to Asgard? To Loki!" At that, the pounding stopped. You froze in place, looking in disbelief at the quiet closet, unsure how what you said could have simply powered them off. Rather than dwell, you took in the silence while checking the time on your phone.

"Shit it's already seven," you realized. Sighing, you resided to go ahead and take a shower while you sorted everything out later.

Walking into the bathroom only made you madder when you realized the shower curtain was still torn down from the last time the chains dragged you to Asgard.

With a role of your eyes, you settled, "Guess I'll be taking a bath."

*****

Several hours had passed in Asgard before Loki finally began to stir. He was laying in his bed with two nurses at his side speaking gently to him but he couldn't understand their words. Raising a hand to his head, he tried to squash the dull throbbing he felt behind his eyes as someone else started speaking to him.

"You'll never learn."

Blinking away the blurred vision, he was able to make out Odin standing at his side. Letting out an annoyed scoff, Loki scooted into a seated position. "I would say I have learned quite a lot, such as-"

"Enough!" Loki stopped his words, his head lowering while his eyes met with his father. “Leave us,” Odin commanded of the medics who made a hasty retreat from the room.

He took in a deep breath, readying himself before he cursed. "I am sick of this constant fight to keep you safe, Loki. You know traveling beyond our world is dangerous, you know the risks! You know this is why the bifrost is closed! So why do you continue looking for new ways to-"

"Escape?"

Odin frowned. “You are supposed to be my intelligent son, but that seems to be wavering these last few years.”

“How awful for the great and powerful Odin to have such a wayward son,” Loki snickered. “Come all and bear witness to how his own ambitions are shattered by a son who wishes to live life.”

Odin locked onto Loki's fierce eyes, sucking in while he realized his words fell on deaf ears. "If you won't listen to reason, at least listen to your body," he warned. "Going back and forth is doomed to tear you apart and judging by the pain you're in, you know it to be true. A being is meant to live in one world, not jump across it."

The god of mischief cut his eyes away, unwilling to meet his father's gaze. The king simply shook his head, his resolve unshaken by the defiance. "I know this isolation has been difficult for you, but I am right. This, this is right. Our people almost met their end when we consorted with others, and now we are finally outside of their reach."

"No one is trying to reach us!" Loki exclaimed. “To the other realms we are nothing but old stories, fables told down from generations! Your legacy means nothing because you have let fear drive you into hiding! The world has kept going, father, it has moved on without us and I’m not alright with that! I want to move on-”

"You don't grow old. You don't get sick. No one here dies. We are always at peace. What more do you want from this old king? Can’t you be satisfied that you’re living?"

Loki's brow cringed at the reasoning, feeling that the answer was so obvious. "This isn't living, Father! This is limbo! We are merely suspended between life and death, nothing changes, nothing progresses! We are frozen in time, never allowed to fully live our lives!”

“I gave my people eternal life!”

“You gave us eternal damnation! What is this existence if we have nothing to gain or lose?”

Odin’s words could have shaken the portraits in the hallways when he bit back, “I have buried my brothers, my sisters! My mother! My father! My children! My wife! I have known more pain than any man ever deserved and I have created a place to keep you, Thor, and my people from having that same burden! Yet instead of showing gratitude, this is what I'm met with? This obscene ungratefulness?"

"That wasn't your choice to make!"

"I don’t remember you arguing when this decision was made?” Odin roared, to the point that the nurses outside the bedroom door jumped. “I don’t remember you feeling so disconnected with your fellow Asgardians that you would rather cripple yourself with dark magic than stay here and simply be!”

Loki rose from his bed, eyes raging as he spat, “You wouldn’t have heard any arguments, father. You made this decision for everyone, but from now on, I shall be making my own.”

Odin huffed and puffed, his face red, his fists tight. Though Loki expected another barrage of shouting, the king merely dropped his head. "I watched your mother burn for practicing the same magic as you, Loki. Don't you understand, I'm trying to protect you…"

Closing his eyes, the god of mischief calmed himself enough to remark, "Midgard isn't the same place it was all those years ago, father. My magic is no more threatening to the people there than a slap on the wrist here.

The two stayed there in tense silence before Odin finally turned to leave, enraged and defeated. As the nurses started to come back to tend to their patient, Loki bellowed, “Out!” They lowered their heads, following his command in a rush.

The god maneuvered around his room, mumbling to himself while he calmed down. Cracking his neck, Loki raised both hands and in grand display, sent a golden light rolled over him. Where he once was wearing loose fitted tunic and pants, now he wore a black on black suit, tailored perfectly to his long, muscular form.

Pulling at the sleeves, inspecting it’s style, Loki had to admit the Midgardian attire you dreamed about him wearing had a certain appeal to it. Giving himself a once over in front of the mirror, he nearly missed Thor coming into his room.

“You can’t be serious,” his brother wondered, eyes combing over the strange clothes. “You can’t be going back?”

“I made plans to see someone,” Loki answered with a dry tone. “I intend to keep them.”

Thor shook his head, asking, “Is it worth it? Arguing with Allfather, breaking Asgardian law, that pain in your head, just to have a little bit of time with someone who will live and die in the blink of your eye?”

The god of mischief stood still for a moment, his eyes taking in another view of him in his suit.

"I don't intend to just pop in and out of her life, Thor," he spoke bluntly, "And I’m done following his rules, all they do is guarantee I will never have my freedom. So-” Loki took a breath, “-do not expect me to be returning to Asgard."

That made Thor scoffed with a wide grin, "No? What?" Loki didn't return the smile, simply stared forward. "You jest?"

"I do not."

Thor furrowed his brow, asking, “Won’t it kill you? Going back?”

“No, it’s going back and forth that causes the-” Loki cleared his throat to regain thought from the thumping beneath his skull, “-the pain. But that’s no longer an issue, as I’ve discovered a way to stay there, permanently.”

The air went stale between them as Thor watched his brother reveal his method of transporting out of Asgard with a twist of the wrist. The Chains of Sigyn gave a slight hiss in pleasure at being called, appearing in his hand out of thin air like they had always been there. Taking a breath, Thor stared at the necklace. "I could stop you," he threatened quietly. "I could beckon Mjolnir, I could-"

"Yes, but you haven't," Loki shot back. He locked eyes with his brother, neither ever known to back away from a fight. In fact, it wasn't long ago that Thor did in fact raise Mjolnir against Loki, but that was mere disagreement.

Now, Loki was defying law.

Defying Odin.

The god of thunder Inhaled hard before making his choice. While Loki readied himself for the elder brother to call upon his hammer, he was rather surprised to instead receive a hug.

"This place will not be the same without you," he said with a final pat on his back before backing away from the stunned Loki. "If father ever repairs the Bifrost, I will come find you, brother." His blue eyes sparked with sincerity as he offered one last smile towards him. “Just know you will be missed.”

"You're letting me go?" he couldn't help but ask.

Thor nodded. "You were never at peace here and if you found somewhere that makes you happy, I will not stand in your way. I only ask one thing." He held an arm out to shake hands, finishing with, “Stay out of trouble.”

Loki inhaled, taken aback by the gesture. He took his brother’s arm, nodding courtly, “I certainly will try.” They both shared another smile before letting go. Loki looped the necklace around his neck and vanished from Asgard.

*****

You had just wrapped yourself with a towel when you heard a very sharp, very loud thud in your apartment. Running to the door, you pressed your back against it trying to run through the scenarios you had played out in your head for if someone ever broke into your home.

“Lady y/n?”

It was Loki, which at first sent a wave of relief through you before shocking you into a cold sweat.

You were in your towel and he was in your apartment.

“Yes, I’m, uh, I’m getting ready!” you yelled through the door as you locked it, hoping he didn’t hear the click. “Just, uh, give me a minute and I’ll finish up.”

Loki stood on the other side of the door, his hands folded behind his back as he stared down at his feet, replaying the argument from his father and farewell from his brother.

“Take your time, darling, I’ll be here,” he reassured her, shifting around the room to her book shelf.

You sighed in relief, thanking the heavens that your clothing closet was in your bathroom. Trying to calm your nerves, you felt a spike in your blood pressure when a text lit up on your phone’s screen.

~Gonna head that way in a min can’t wait to see you PARTY TIME~

High fiving yourself in the face, you realized what your night was about to partake. Letting out a groan, you went on getting ready.

After nearly thirty minutes, you finally felt adequately prepared to face the god of mischief. He was sitting at your desk reading one of your books when you opened the door, feeling a bit silly for the trouble you went through.

But when his eyes came up to meet yours, the jump your heart did into your throat was worth it.

The little black dress from you bachelorette party was long gone, but you did have a pencil skirted black silk dress you had worn to a few galas. It was thin enough that it was comfortable, but fitted enough that it highlighted your curves in a way you actually appreciated. It was as close to dressing up as anything in your closet allowed for outside of trendy pant suits, but that wasn’t what you wanted for tonight.

Tonight, you didn’t want to look professional.

Tonight, you wanted to look sexy.

And judging by the way Loki’s eyes drank up your daring fashion choice, you made the right call. He closed the book, making his way to you in only a few long strides. “You. Look. Positively. Exquisite,” he told you through an oversized grin.

“Thank you,” you answered sheepishly, looking away and hoping your face didn’t expose the flutter your chest felt.

Loki turned himself towards the door, holding his arm out for you to take hold of. “Well, shall we go, darling?”

“Actually, there’s something I need to tell you,” you were about to explain when a knock came from the door. Loki’s brow scrunched as you walked over, going on, “That’s actually what I wanted to tell you about...”

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semi-imaginary-place · 5 years

Text

fe3h blogging 1

spoilers

Sorry blue lions. It was between eagles and deer for me.

ch3: Well OK. The church is now using me as their personal political assassin are they?

Fe3h fav characters so far: Tomas: knowledge grandpa! And one of the few I trust Gatekeeper: my pure boy. On the topic of trust. You know who I don't trust? Claude. He always angling for something. Always digging for secrets never revealing his own

I didn't think I'd like Raphael so much but I do. He's so good natured. He always wants to help and even when the other kids are mean to him. His only response is more kindness. Like oh youre kinda grumpy right now how about a snack. Like a human shaped golden retriever. Full of love and very food motivated. As much as he's a complete musclehead, his emotional/social intelligence is pretty high. He just wants to make friends. Let Raphhael have friends!

Guess who chose golden deerI was considering black eagle. But everyone did black eagle. I can go on youtube later. I haven't gotten it but on youtube is lorenz and sylvain's c and b supports and they are hilarious

I found japanese audio of fe3h and it just really hit me that Sylvain belongs in an otome game. I mean his character design (hair color, hair style etc.) and the way he acts is already... eh. But then his japanese voice actor... and its giving me this mental dissonance. Especially aince I've seen the character artist doing utapri, samflam, and other stuff.

weeho spoiled myself on supports: Everyday I grow less and less convinced of Sylvain's heterosexuality. Does he even like women?? He's just emotionally manipulating them as a self destructive coping mechanism because he has self worth issues. So he presents himself as the superficial stuff like social status and then gets insecure and accuses them of only dating him for status. He's setting himself up for failure. And each tine reinforces his belief that he is nothing but his crest and family. Look at this disaster boy

knowledge grandpa no! I trusted you and I trust so few people. I wonder if it was real Tomas who first joined but an impostor who rejoined a year ago

List of potential immortals: Jeralt, Rhea, Flayn. There are multiple mentions of Jeralt not seeming to age, he looked the same over 30 years ago. Rhea looks suspiciously like Saint Seiros and was archbishop 20 years ago. Flayn act both young and old and won’t give me her age. That said now that its revealed in the paraloge that Seteth is her dad, maybe not secretly an immortal so much as magical bloodline. Also Seiros, Rhea, Sothis, and Flayn are all related somehow. The green hair doesn’t help. And Byleth is somehow involved. I thought byleth might be part of the immortal gang but mom’s grave stone said she died at age 20 so byleth was born at the church like 20-21 years ago

support thoughts: Are all of huberts c supports just him insulting people?? each and every day I fall more in love with Dorothea. her support with Ferdinand where she straight up says she hates him, the voice acting on that! Lorenz and Ferdinand was hilarious. This is why you get bullied. Lorenz and Sylvain was also funny. Not a big fan of Bernadetta.

Ok so update on the green haired tinfoil hatting: Flayn related to the saint cetholynn????? somehow and definitely real old.

end of part 1

Thinking back the crests and church(seiros/saints) are what turn people into demonic beasts. there are beasts with crest stones in their heads, in Remire villiage they tried to turn people using Flayn’s blood, and later succeeded. Flame emperor is using the church’s abilities against it. Also Rhea’s been seeking to replicate... something Seiros maybe?? (or more someone.. someone who was precious to her) by ripping the hearts out of babies and putting in a special one??? Rhea seem desperate, but I’m not sure what (or whom) she is desperate for. turning Byleth into Seiros??? There is a ... tension is her, like she is on the edge of snapping. And what was she trying to achieve there in the tomb before she was interrupted. For being “holy” relics, they sure are ominous looking. and they turn people into monsters. The whole church is sketch honestly. The propaganda and censorship campaigns. The crushing of any that are a threat under the language of sin and justice.

So Edelgard went full supervillian. Wow. And Rhea was the immaculate one huh (still don’t know what that means), here I was theory crafting that she was a reincarnated Seiros or something. Edelgard is like a worse Alm, she wants to rid humanity of dragons ruling over them and install a meritocracy. Her methods though are !!!!! yikes. I mean any reign that starts with “kill all that resist” can’t lead to anything good. Also out of 10 siblings only 1 didn’t die of illness or go mad. hmmmn where have I heard that before.

That said I do agree with her goal. I love it when I can take down a religious institution in a videogame.

At Garreg Mach her whole plan in to brute force it. Like if we just keep throwing enough lives at it we are bound to win. Admittedly I know nothing of military strategy, but that doesn’t sound like the best plan.

Interesting the differences between routes. In Edelgard’s church allied with feargus, while in Claude’s the Church lost significant power and Edelgard successfully incited a coup, but why did the Empire give up Garreg Mach as a strategic position?

My baby deer are all grown up. And yup another mark in the Flayn is some immortal being, her sprite didn’t change at all. Totally in favor of stealing everyone from the other houses.

Who wore it better Part 1 or 2

Edelgard: 2. I mean p1 Edelgard was already best dressed but p2 takes it to a new level

Dimitri: 2. I mean p1′s hair is so goofy looking I just have to choose the edgelord

Claude: both. Claude looks fine so matter the time

Hubert: 2. He really did grow into the goth look

Petra: 1. Both are good but I love the huge braid

Lindhart: 1. p2 isn’t bad but I like the two layers look

Dorothea: 2. but both are good

Caspar: 2. Something about p1 always bothered me

Ferdinand: 2. His character model looks better than his sprite, and his hair is so luscious and flowing!

Bernadetta: 2. its just a mess is p1, v cute in p2

Dudue: 2. what is even going on in p1. where as p2 is like... elegant

Sylvain: 1. as much as I teased about him belonging in an otome game, his p2 haircut is just ugly

Ingrid: 1. mmmm its fluffy?

Felix: 1. What is his p2 hair even doing??? it makes me confused

Mercedes: 1. Fluffy.

Annette: 2. never was a fan of the hair loopies

Ashe: both. p1 is cute but p2 is beautiful. both are sooo good

Hilda: 2. p1 pigtails kinda boring

Raphael: 1. though p2 its a shaggy dog

Leonie: 1. another fluffy head, p2′s low pony tail does not give a flattering shape

Ignatz: 2. a bowl cut is an improvment from whatever p1 is

Lysithea: 2. not sue about the veil but it is more intersting than p1

Marianne: 1. I always did prefer thick bangs

Lorenz: 2. its definitely p2. in p1 he looks like such a clown

Cyril: 2. Honestly he kept the baby face so there’s not much difference.

Claude sees that under Rhea the church enforced a doctrine that locked in the status quo of nobles and crests and he wants to chage the church’s influence to promote tolerance, diversity, and open mindedness. but, hey. Hey. What if we got rid of the church all together.

Why can’t I recruit the old general... hey. Hey!

Aww Claude introduced me to his second mom and dad

So the more people you can recruit the less painful things are. I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to kill Dimitri.

In terms of characters, Ferdinand has surprisingly grown on me. As for Caspar I shocks me occasionally how uncaring he is about killing people. He reminds me of a smt chaos hero with the whole might equals right thing. As long as he decides they are evil its ok to kill them. Now all he needs to do is get possessed by a demon. Eating away at him from the inside out. Ashe as always continues to be an absolute angel. I need somewhere to gush about how cool Claude looks in him final class promotion. So I rather like the group of childhood friends dimitri, felix, sylvain, ingrid. And it always trips me uo to remember that sylvain is like 2 years older than the rest because he really doesn't act like it. I'm getting that they are all traumatized from the death of felix's brother. A lot of the characters have had pretty bad childhoods.I was surprised to find out that Lysithea was tortured as a child like ok wow. I need to spend more time with you. Does Dimitri have PTSD? Golden Deer has had quite a few goofy hijinks. Marianne's character growth really has been a a thing of beauty, I’m so proud of her. But I love my oddball bunch of misfits. How did Dedue not get found out??? He’s very noticeable. and Claude, you’re starting to sound like Edelgard. I love Edelgard’s final promotion. Looks so cool. Like a mix or her Lord and Flame Emperor clothes. I wince every time some mentions the free market or the joys of capitalism. I guess adrestia is imperialism, faergus is religion, and leister is capitalism. I didn’t care about Dimriti’s death, but Edelgard’s got me.

damn ok so dubstep cyberpunk dungeon and Rhea took like 15 missile strikes. wow this really is very smt. maybe persona 2. And fighting zombie Nemesis and the 10 was excellent (Nemesis is still a stupid name). I love it when we fight literal embodiments of the past

its hilarious that in Shamir and Claude's paired ending, he ends up ditching 3 whole times. He turns the opportunity to lead the unified fodland down, then he ditches house reigen, and then he abdicated the throne! I love it! That's so him. And they both wanted to travel the world. Technically Claude is also a descendant of Loog so he also gave up claim to the Faerghus throne too. I swear. This dude. This dude... Next its going to be revealed that secretly Claudr is Edelgard's cousin. Or one of her "dead" sibling. Lysithea tell us that blood experiment to force crests leads to physical and mental damage. Does this have anything to do with what happened to Edelgard’s siblings? As far as I can tell every ending has Fodland under a single party state. Crimson flower, azure moon, and verdant wind all end in monarchies, and silver snow a theocracy.

Hold up. Flayn said that Cethaleann never had any children as rational as to why she's not a descendant. But how did Lindhart get the crest then?? And I might be mixing up the 10 and the saints, but then I thought the crests were designed as tools of war by those who slither in the dark. Thats how the 10 got them, to use as weapons against Sothis. But that then brings the question of why Rhea edited history in favor of them. This is why the holy relics looked so ominous and creepy. The animations are eeeeeeeeuuuuuugggh. My initial though was that the church is secretly evil and this is foreshadowing. I mean rhea's kinda... viscous? Ruthless? Filled with barely contained hatred? I was thinking maybe she's secretly the evil dragon of the game the way Mila kinda was.

But then you dont need consent to make a crest. Only blood. Blood could have been stolen from cihol and cethaleann to make their crests. Alternately they could have chosen to give crests to specific people. The 2 sources of crests is also why there’s multiple weapons for some crests. The crest weapons made by the agartans all have a similar aesthetic, but not all the crest weapons have that aesthetic some look different and probably weren’t made by them. As for why Rhea rewrote the 10 into heroes. It might have been to stop people from questioning the crests and relics and seeking to replicate them. By framing it as sothis's doing, with the power of the church she can control crests, how people view them, and keep a closer eye on the descendants. Its its a gift by the goddess, of course we cant try to replicate them.

Let’s see what Claude achieved before he dipped. anti-discrimination laws (race, religion), and increased foreign relations. Potentially equal treatment under the law.

Edelgard really likes brute forcing solutions

The whole opera thing with Dorothea and Manuela stinks of the idol industry where an idol peaks at like 18. Real opera singers have much longer careers.

Golden Deer is so JRPG in the best way. There’s an evil cult of technologically advanced subterranean people, a zombie army, the power of friendship.

It already caught my attention when missiles appeared and the evil cult's dungeon belonged is a scifi movie like ghost in the shell and I was thinking to myself "hmmm... this all sounds very smt of you" or maybe Persona 2. I mean with names like Shambala and the whole general aesthetic of that dungeon ... yeah. But then someone points out the UN’s symbol is all over the Agarthan stuff. And wow we really are in an smt timeline aren't we. and I remember seeing the missiles thinking hmmm that looks vaguely familiar. Its the UN symbol. Which means in alternate future Earth Sothis comes, we wage a war against the gods and and then Rhea destroys modern civilization along with the planet. that really does sound like the plot of an SMT game. I did wonder at the inclusion of electronica and dubstep into the soundtrack.

THC (Thinking Hard about Claude). Claude let's everyone know he's up to something, and his self portrayal as a schemer is both deliberate and truthful. He's using it part as social armor and part as an excuse to probe. Claude holds genuine cuiosity, wonder, and passion for the world. He is not always scheming so much as he is one of those people who's brain never turn off. He just wants to explore the world, meet different cultures, and discover all the secrets. Given the environment he grew up in, his natural inclinations angled him to thinking in terms of how to best leverage someone or how to sneak around.

Alright so here’s the lore as I know it. Sothis=Goddess came from another world to Fodlan. Through her blood made the goddess’ children (Nabateans) who are the original magical beasts and can talk, and they resided at Zanado. Rhea=Seiros=The Immaculate One, and the 4 Saints (Cihol=Seteth, Cethaleann=Flayn, Indech=The Indomitable, Macuil=The Wind Caller) are Nabateans. Sothis gave knowledge/interacted with the native humans of Fodlan (Agarthans). Eventually the Agarthans waged war against Sothis killing her and many Nabateans. The Agarthans used their bones to make weapons, their hearts to make crest stones, and their blood to make crests. The above is why magical beasts and demonic beasts are connected to crest stones. The crest stones as the hearts of Nabateans transform humans into a distorted version of their magical beast forms. The Sword of the Creator was made from materials taken from Sothis’ body. Using these weapons the humans attacked Zanado killing everyone except Seiros and the 4 Saints. The 10 Heroes Relics were similarly made from Nabatean bodies. Seiros, already obsessed with Sothis thought only of vengeance and bringing back Sothis. She raised an army, killed Nemesis, and drove the Agarthans underground to become Those who Slither in the Dark. Seiros then took control of the continent under the guise of The Church of Seiros. Seiros and the 4 Saints gave their blood to favored individuals granting them the power of their personal crest as well as potentially extending their lifespan/granting extended youth. This is why the 10 Heroes Relics have a visual aesthetic distinct from that of the weapons of the 4 Saints. The 10 Heroes Relics were made by the Agarthans but the other crest weapons like the other Gloucester crest weapon the Axe of Ukonvasara and the Saint’s weapons were not mad by them. The Church the acted as a tool for Seiros/Rhea to control the continent and its course. She then rewrote that part of history. The goddess was just sleeping, crests were a blessings of the goddess, etc.

I am unsure as to why she did so, but I believe it served the 2 purposes. First it allowed Rhea to control the narrative and how people thought about the matter. Second it erases the existence of a rebellion against the Goddess. From the Church, Rhea could control the flow of information, censoring anything that threatened her power. Using the language of religion she could also justify using military force to eliminate her political opponents.

#fe16 #fe16 spoilers #fe3h spoilers #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fe #fe3h

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tessatechaitea · 5 years

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Metamorpho #1

I'll be disappointed if this series doesn't contain at least on Francium joke.

Ha ha! "Donated" by Rex Mason. What a complete and utter dick.

I get how exciting it must have been to be a looter of other countries' treasures. I did play a lot of Dungeons & Dragons as a kid and I never once thought about the poor orc whose home I was invading so I could shove a sword up his ass and steal his precious copper pieces (which I was absolutely disappointed in). Sure, it seems fucked up when you think about it like that. But that's before you remember the alignment system! The orc was automatically the bad guy with his evil alignment! Anything you wanted to do to him was just fine! He was the bad guy! If he didn't want me stealing his copper, maybe he should have made a show of giving up his evil ways and took on the trappings of man and elf! But no! He was content to sit in his dirty hole with his dirty family eking out a dirty living being a rotten, evil monster worth a few lousy experience points. You can't make me care about that stupid orc no matter how many John Gardner wannabes write Grendelesque fan fiction about how the bad person was just a regular ordinary person who got the short end of life's dumb stick! It's fucking propaganda! Wicked, my ass! Don't go making excuses for that witch! She knew what she was doing when she chose a life of flying monkeys and stealing shoes!

"Ha ha! Found. More sherry?"

It's weird to think that Western Civilization has mostly come to the realization that all of these treasures in museums were found at all. Sure, the people in power and the people in charge mostly aren't coming to that conclusion because why would you when you own everything now? But we understand the context of archaeological theft much better. But even as kids watching Raiders of the Lost Ark, how did we not realize Indy was obviously stealing that golden idol right at the beginning? It was in a secure location guarded by traps and after he stole it, the owners tried to chase him down to stop it. And he was as good a guy as you could get in 1981! I guess when one of the greatest tenets of capitalism is "Finders keepers, losers weepers," it's understandable that we all rooted on a terrible thief of cultural artifacts. Rex Mason has given up his exciting career of liberating treasures from dolts who don't know the value of their sacred religious objects because stealing from primitive people and Yetis who just want to be left alone has become too easy. Also he's full of guilt over having a son. His son must live in quarantine since he can turn whatever he touches into other elements. Sapphire's right breast is now polonium. I'm not even going to be distracted from reading this comic book by pondering how Metamorpho had a kid. Last I checked, spermatozoa wasn't on the periodic table of elements. The greatest female archaeologist, Jillian Conway, arrives to tell Rex she's found a cure for his condition (and probably his son's too!). Apparently the Orb of Ra won't kill Metamorpho; it'll cure him if he allows himself to succumb to its power. And she knows this because she was exposed to the meteorite too!

Gross. Can't she make herself hotter by becoming platinum?

Rex agrees to go looking for the Orb of Ra (which was stolen from Stagg) with Jillian. At first, I thought things were going to get romantic. And then I thought things might get alchemic. But then Rex decided the first thing he should do is kidnap his son and bring him on the adventure with them. So I guess this is going to be one of those kinds of stories. A wacky family comedy where dad has to handle the baby all by himself on a trip around the world while the too-disgusting-to-look-at love interest gets ignored. Rex leaves a note for Sapphire but her father trashes it and just tells her Rex kidnapped their son. Why she might believe him and how she came to marry Java, fuck if I know. This was back when DC actually allowed characters to have involved and intimate relationships that led to weird freak baby children!

I didn't realize it was canon that Sapphire Stagg is the best looking woman in the DC Universe (followed closely by Abigail Arcane).

Metamorpho #1 Rating: A-. Not a bad start to a nice little story about fatherhood, capitalism, and second marriages. It might also be about ugly people because all but one of these characters are hideous freaks. Sure, most characters would be hideous freaks compared to Sapphire Stagg. But even disregarding her ethereal beauty so powerful that I've already struck Erin Esurance from the top of my list of cartoon characters I want to touch in a sexy place, they're all disgusting monsters. I just made that list up. It doesn't actually exist. Never mind what I'm holding behind my back.

#Metamorpho #DC Comics #DC

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zecretsanta · 6 years

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To: @chessanator

From: @billyweird

Notes: Happy Holidays! I got really into your “Left clone learns about Christmas” prompt and hope you enjoy this fic.

Ao3

Decades before his death, Brother described a sacred object: a living figure who thought and spoke but served like the golems of ancient lore, made in the image of the Dolorosa. The one who found and returned her to Free the Soul would be a hero.

E-10, tenth of the fifth generation of Myrmidons (and he felt lucky to be so as he shared a number with the previous hero who returned the Dolorosa doll and vanquished a great enemy), had the privilege of caring for her. Or luck, as one brother put it snidely before immediately taking it back to avoid recrimination for jealousy, though he was right. E-10 was the most gifted with machines and the beastly tower that kept the Dolorosa doll alive and thinking was complex as could be.

It stood in the room like a massive tree in a fairytale-themed room. Armored knights bearing greatswords flanked her golden birdcage throne. Murals of sleeping princesses and brave, foolish shepards and goose girls and villagers and dragons surrounded her. One wall was covered with a bursting verdant garden of tangled vines, grasses, and flowers. The doll slept often; she never waned nor waxed, asked for water or medicine. She hadn’t aged since she arrived well before E-10’s creation. She put herself to sleep, usually. Useful information about the facility she’d been rescued (no, someone would say if they heard him, you retrieve an object, you rescue a person) from was extracted long ago, and now she was a living relic that only special people like Myrmidons could visit for worship. If powered on, she could speak and move, and because he understood her complex electric brain better than anyone (pride, he’d be chastised) he could speak with her anytime he wished. She came awake like a wind-up doll, to use a metaphor he’d read once and had to look up to understand, sitting upright slowly and blinking as she raised her head. “Tyltyl?” “Luna.” He pulled on a chain around his neck and her birdcage pendant emerged from his shirt. Her eyes brightened noticeably when she saw it. “I’m here for more information.” She frowned but her eyes never left the pendant, like E-10 when another of his brothers was chosen to light the ceremonial candles before a service. Brother knew all thoughts, but Brother passed shortly after the conquest of Rhizome-9 (an achievement D-10 could never top and rode for the rest of his brief cloned life) and was not here to reveal E-10’s constant little mental rebellions. “Of course.” “…If I play your music first, would you tell me more about your old life?” He wound it up before she could answer, and the tinkling melody made her touch her trembling mouth, eyes closing as the song brought back memories she only spoke of if ordered or tempted. She swayed in her seat and rested only when the last note faded. He came forward and knelt before her cage, touching the bars. “So?” “What would you like to know this time?” She would tell him about her facility, that she wasn’t the only thinking machine her creator made, her creator…but never anything of the rescue or D-10. “…Did you ever ask why you were created?” He squeezed his knees and looked up into her confused face. “Is it any easier to understand your purpose when you were handmade by man?” E-10 supposed he was as well, but to be a machine with programmed thoughts must be simpler. Luna (she loved that name) would never have doubts. “No. To both questions. I did have a purpose.” She touched the spot where her necklace once hung. “But it was taken from me and I’m not sure why I’m here now.” E-10 didn’t know why either, or why she’d never told anyone he was the one who stole her sacred relic. She played her music box all the time at first, and the melody enchanted him so that he slipped it off over her head during repairs. She couldn’t shed tears, but the only way to describe her reaction to losing it was “weeping.” “Because you’re holy. You told me once that it was enough to exist in a place where you were loved.” He hated her answer, honestly. She could admit she wanted and she needed. For E-10, it was supposed to be enough to exist in service. Devotion was fulfillment, shared identity was being whole. He couldn’t want, though he did. He wanted to have secrets like the music box and these stolen moments with Luna, the Dolorosa, the idol. She hugged herself and shook her head. “Idolization isn’t love. Everyone worships me, but nobody looks at me and asks me how I feel.” What an odd concept, the desire for individual acknowledgement. How he craved praise for his technological skill or his neatness or his knowledge of canon. When she asked him to call her “Luna,” he initially hadn’t understood, but he knew he liked it when she named him. “Why does that matter?” “Because…” She shook her head. “Do you want to understand? Or do you just want more stories?” “Stories. And not the bluebird one.” She told that one often, stressing its message that happiness wasn’t true unless shared. She called him Tyltyl from that story, saying only that she liked to distinguish him from the others when he asked why. “Alright…hm.” She pushed an askew lock of hair behind her ear. Once, he watched her re-braid it, fascinated that she cared about such things. “Have you ever heard of Christmas?” “No.” She never wanted to hear the stories he did know: the parables of Brother, the end of the old age, and the era of tranquility. “Who is he?” Every story had a central figure, and usually it was Brother. “It was a celebration on Earth. It started as a way to honor the birth of a religious figure, but I like its later meaning better: that it was a time for gratitude. Peace on Earth and good will toward men.” “That’s every day here.” She looked toward the wall full of greenery she couldn’t touch, even though it was meant for her honor and pleasure. “Certainly. But the spirit of Christmas was for anyone, not just the saved here.” She folded her hands on her lap. “One of my favorite stories is about relearning the meaning of Christmas. It’s called ‘A Christmas Carol…’” Her story was difficult to picture, full of things like families and money and ghosts and parties. Truly fanciful, but he was drawn in by the ghosts and the way, time and again, Scrooge isolated himself in pursuit of his goal, learning almost too late that his selfish pursuit of wealth had withered and killed his belonging in his community. There was something to be said for the message that the wellbeing of others was far greater than your own; remove the trappings about pleasure and it could make a fine lesson for sermons. “So Scrooge decided he cared about others more than money?” She smiled and nodded. “He realized that others’ happiness made him happy, and that was the meaning of Christmas.” She pulled herself up by the bars, and tried to poke her face between them to look at him closely. “You don’t have to wait for three ghosts to visit, Tyltyl. You can choose that now.” Her hopeful, earnest gaze brought him to his feet. He turned away from her and took a few steps toward the plants. Reaching up, he plucked a few flowers from the carnations she’d been looking at, then turned back to her and offered them. She gasped and took them with weak fingers, kissing the blossoms. “Thank you.” She savored them like they were relics only she was allowed to handle, gently clutching them to her chest. When the cage door swung open a moment later, she startled and nearly dropped them. “What…?” “I can’t let you go,” he said quietly. “That’s not in my power.” He held the music box in his palm, admiring the shine and saturation it held after two centuries. The tiny bluebird inside always about to fly away but never leaving its perch. “But nobody has to know if you walk around in here, right?” He offered her a hand, and when she tentatively took it she was soft and warm like a human, her tiny feet alighting on the floor just like a bird. She flitted from her plants to the murals to the tower that kept her running, stroking it with an unreadable expression. He couldn’t understand why she wanted freedom so badly, but knowing that she wanted it was reason enough to grant her this moment. He turned on her music again and she stepped to it, spinning so her skirt and apron lifted with her, arms flung out. “I didn’t know… You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting until you stand up. What’s the date Tyltyl?” She paused when he told her. “That long?” She clutched her apron and looked back at the plants. “No wonder something this small feels wonderful. How did I survive in there for so long?” She grabbed the nearest pot, overflowing with a delicate fern, and hugged it. “I wish I could smell you. What does this smell like?” Suddenly he was face-first in the pot, his vision totally green and brown. Moisture touched his lips and the fern tickled his cheeks. He sniffed, nose twitching at the tickle, and then inhaled deeper. “Like dirt?” He had to rub some off his nose when she withdrew the pot. “That’s it?” She seemed disappointed. “The Doctor loved his garden. He could describe every plant in a new way.” She pet the fern before putting it back on the shelf. “I know they’re delicate, but could you please bring me an orchid next time? I miss them. I can still remember the orchids the Doctor grew one year.” E-10 looked away. “I don’t grow the plants. I’m not sure what you’re even talking about.” “I’ll describe them to you! Just please. I want an orchid.” She nodded to his chest. “And in exchange you can keep my music box forever.” “Really?” “Yes! If it makes you happy, I can be happy for you.” He didn’t recognize her. She went from obedient doll to bouncing, happy woman just from stepping over a threshold. And all she demanded of him was a simple flower. “Okay. That’s the meaning of Christmas you talked about?” “I think so.” She leaned forward and clasped her hands together. “When doing good for someone else brings you joy—that’s Christmas.” She took his hand when he offered it again, smiling even as he lead her back to the cage and closed the door behind her. “Thank you, Tyltyl.” When had someone ever said that to him? How did you respond again? “Oh.” “Goodbye then.” She waved as he stepped back. “You’ll remember my orchid?” “I’ll bring it.” Even though he had no idea what one was. Christmas was apparently about doing things you didn’t understand because they meant the world to others. To have someone look on you like you were special. “Goodbye, Luna.”

#zero escape #virtue's last reward #chessanator #billyweird #zecret santa 2017 #submission

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ryik-the-writer · 7 years

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Rumbelle Fic: Lipstick (Chapter 2: Neal the Nabber)

Rating: M (rating may change)

Something’s wrong with Gideon ~ Neal reminiscences on a childhood occurrence.

A03

-,-,-,-

5-year-old Neal Nolan never understood why his parents never let him go to Gideon’s house. Gideon was his best friend. His mama and dad knew that but they still never let him go, even on the weekends.

“I wanna see Giddy!” the grade-schooler demanded to his mama, stomping his little foot hard enough to make the jars on the counter shake.

“Neal Robert Nolan you stop that right now!” his mama growled.

Neal stopped at the sound of his Mama’s angry voice. It was the Neal Had Better Listen Right Now or he'd be in big-trouble-mister voice.

Though he remained quiet, he dropped to the bruised hardwood with a huff, crossing his arms in legs and curling into himself with a pout.

“Maybe we should let him go for a few hours.” He heard his papa speak up from across the room. “I have to work until 8, and you have papers to grade.”

“David.” His mama sighed, lowering her tone to prevent Neal from hearing which was hard to do with the boy being right under them. “You know how I feel about the Golds.”

“I know how you feel about Mr. Gold, who, if I’m not mistaken, works until 7 on Saturdays. His wife, however, closes the library at 2 and should be home with Gideon now.”

From his place on the floor, Neal could see his mama’s hip cock.

“Why do you have their schedule’s memorized?”

“Because I don’t think our son should miss out on a golden friendship just because of who that friend’s parents are. Pun intended.”

“But it’s Gold, David! He-”

“Is our landlord but also the father of our son’s best friend.”

His mama was quiet for a moment before saying with a huff, “I’m not rewarding him for this tantrum!”

Neal was becoming sore on the floor from his pretzel-pose. Just as he was about to unravel, his papa knelt to his level.

“Do you promise if we let you go over to Gideon’s that you’ll stop acting up?”

Neal shot up, his leg tingling from being crossed for so long. “Yay!”

His papa smiled and told him to grab his backpack, and a coat, his mama called.

Gideon and his mama were waiting on the porch of their big mansion. It reminded Neal of the house Scooby-Doo and his gang went to at the beginning of every episode, but more…pinker. It was less scary that way he supposed, but he wasn’t afraid anyway.

Gideon was running up the path as soon as Neal jumped out of the truck.

“Neal! Mama maked cupcakes! She said we can iced them once they cool!”

Neal rejoiced with his friend and trudged after him into the athenaeum of his father’s relics and his mother’s books.

After spilling an entire bottle of glitter candies on one cupcake (which Gideon’s mama didn’t get upset about as Neal’s mama would have) she opened the back door and suggested the two sugar-hyped boys play in the garden while she cleaned up.

“We can play superheroes!” Neal suggested.

“I don’t have a cape.” Gideon returned.

Neal looked around the Gold’s pristine kitchen and caught sight of Mrs. Gold’s frilly apron thrown over one of the chairs.

Neal and Gideon smiled mischievously at each other before Gideon quietly pulled the apron from the chair and ran out the back with his friend.

After a few tries, Gideon managed to get the apron tied sloppily around Neal’s neck and the two began their game. The valiant Neal the Nabber shouted playful obscenities at the vile villain Gideon the Grave as he turned up grass in garden.

After about ten minutes, the boys paused their battle of good vs. evil to breath, sweaty and hot on the unusual fall day.

Gideon gasped and wiped the sweat on his forehead, turning to Neal to see if he would go with him to pester his mother for lemonade when something peculiar happened.

A relieving breeze had picked up and began blowing the frilly-green apron around Neal’s shoulders, the late-afternoon song striking his marigold-blond hair just right. He looked…young Gideon couldn’t quite describe how he looked. Just different. Different in a way that made his stomach bubble and hands shake with the urge to just touch him.

Hesitantly, he walked up to his friend, mesmerized by the dancing shadows on his form.

Neal looked up just as Gideon stepped close enough to him that he could smell his sweaty outside smell.

“Gid? What is it?”

Instead of answering, as he should have done to prevent future events from transpiring, he leaned forward and kissed his friend directly on the lips.

Neal jumped at the feel of skin on skin contact.

“Gross! Gideon!” he spat, wiping his mouth furiously.

Gideon shot back, panicking at what he had done.

Why had he done that?

“I-I…”

Neal glared at his friend. That was so stupid! Why would Gideon be so stupid!

Suddenly, Gideon shot off to the house, calling for his mama. Neal watched him, feeling aggravated and confused. And later that night, guilty for reasons his young mind couldn’t fathom.

-,-

The apron incident hadn’t crossed his mind since the day it happened, but now it was fresh in his mind, dominating his thoughts. Could that lapse of childhood misjudgment somehow be the cause of…whatever this was?

Now, Neal Robert Nolan was watching his best friend sit in the main office, makeup still masked on his sharp features as Principal Mills called for his parents. His eyes were so…dead. As if he were in a trance. Neal wasn’t meaning to ogle at his friend’s current condition, and he was taking no pleasure in seeing him in this state, but for some reason he couldn’t look away.

Gideon had always been a little strange. Quieter than most, more willing to take in the scenery than be a part of it. Neal recalled on a few occasions when they would be out and he’d be watching girls their age as they went about their business, his whiskey eyes memorizing every move, watching as they applied their lip-gloss at the mirrors in the stores or how they gushed over gossip. He would smile sometimes, the look in his eyes changing into one of longing, but not lustful.

Neal cringed at the memories of how he would tease him into a blushing hit afterwards. He hadn’t considered the idea that there was something deeper brewing in his best friend’s psyche, that he would need someone to ask questions and tell him that everything was going to be alright.

The bell to second period rang and Neal flinched. He could already see his parents crossing their arms in disappointment when they got the email that Neal had missed all his classes his first day of senior year. It would be a half-hour of lecturing and a weekend of grounding but he couldn’t find it in him to care. His best friend was sitting in the main office teetering on sanity and he was not leaving until he was safe.

A higher being decided to take pity on him as the tell-all sound of Belle Gold’s heels echoed down the hallway. Neal turned to see the Gold’s stalking to the main office side-by-side, their faces showing that they were in full-parent mode, so intent on their mission that they brushed right past Neal without a glance.

Neal watched in horror as their straight spines softened when they saw their son, hunched over in an uncomfortable, defeated pose, his pulse racing when Belle crouched to his level and gently pried his face from his lap to see his makeup-smeared face. He waited for the scream of horror or for Mrs. Gold to jump back in repulsion, but neither exclamation came. The Golds and the principal were very still, none seeming to breathe, and Neal stilled right along with them. Finally, Mrs. Gold turned to her husband. Neal couldn’t see her face, but he could see Mr. Gold’s. He looked confused, but mostly concerned, like any father who got a phone call from their child’s principal.

To Neal’s relief (and slight disappointment), the principal moved the Gold’s into the adjacent office where they would discuss the previous events in private.

Something was different now. Something in their stable friendship was broken and there was no way to fix it. They couldn’t brush this off and pretend it never happened. They’d have to deal with this change and treat it as the new norm.

But what was this new norm?

What was happening with Gideon?

As the door to the principal’s office closed, Neal caught the slightest reflection from Gideon’s haunted eyes and his breathe caught.

Gideon was dying on the inside.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #Gideon Gold #Lipstick #crossdressing #transgender #Robyn Hood-Mills #Neal Nolan #ryik's fics

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sachaferrier · 7 years

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SPECTACULARLY DULLISH

Nimbly loading the 110mm film into my slim line compact camera, I was now ready to capture and record what was to me of significant importance and interest. Having only 24 exposures, I knew that care, rigorous selection and aesthetic quality would be crucial in ensuring that each image would suffice my intentions. Perusing my surroundings I planned my agenda, firstly there were dads slippers strewn on the living room floor, dishevelled in appearance with an uneven wearing to the right sole. Next the cat, unfortunately far to fast for my agile skills and so I settled for her occiput as she darted from view. Long before I even understood still life, my interest had now fallen towards the half used bottle of toxic green washing up liquid perched upon the kitchen sill, its sides a sticky collection of residue and finger prints. Being only 7, my approach to the art of photography could be likened to that of a machine gun wielding revolutionary, peppering the contents of the barrel in every direction possible, without care or concern.

Those 24 exposures were an eclectic collection of the mundanity and normality of 70’s childhood, toys always a keen favourite, wooden handled kitchen utensils, wilting garden plants and of course unsuspecting members of the family. Awarding each image a distinct unequivocal connection to the era was the orange hue, slight blurriness and an exposure which, permanently rested at both ends of the spectrum, very rarely falling into the area of correctness. There was no pause for thought, the roll, once inserted was just as quickly used, the finger never leaving the trigger, everything that passed my peripheral became a subject, nothing could evade the stretch of the plastic lens.

Film exhausted it would be carefully sealed along with the £1.79 developing cost inside the FOTOPOST envelope, the back of which required you to choose the desired print size, which always posed a dilemma in whether what was on the film was worthy of enlargement. Once transferred to the charge of the Royal Mail, all I could do was wait, hopeful that what came back exceeded expectations. True to 70’s efficiency, within a few weeks a brightly coloured envelope adorned with flattering image of Wendy Craig claiming that FOTOPOST was her product of choice would fall through the door, without doubt this was the heaviest and brightest of letters, anchoring itself to the bristles as it thudded to the mat. The heavy din became an invitation to invade privacy, as the majority of fallen sleeves were more often than not brown with red overdue stamps, boldly positioned for all to see, yet now this infrequent thump gave birth to an unwritten rule, that whoever saw first gained rightful honour to front seat premier. This was unfortunate as it enabled an editing process of undesirable portraits to be deleted from the stack before my own inspection.

Leafing through the quantity of highly glossed images there was always a disappointment in my efforts, when recalling the scene intended in comparison to the actual evidence in hand. Unbeknown to me the little 110 always failed to see what I saw, however despondency to one side I now had in my possession a collection of artefacts, relics of yesterday, never to be repeated, which once gazed upon would be relegated to the shoebox under the bed. Blatantly ignoring my own mistakes I would quickly reload with the free film included with my prints and commence the whole routine once again…same pictures…different day.

I still have most of those prints, buried deep in the attics labyrinthine of stored memories and keepsakes, and thinking back I often question why I took those images, scenes of everything and anything, what was it that forced me to press the button in such a hurried amount of time. Obviously there is no real mystery, firstly age would have been paramount in that this piece of technology was as magical as the golden fleece. To be able to see and then embellish onto paper was nothing to be sniffed at, and at an young age there was no real reason in my commitment. Then of course it was the 70’s, photography was the hobby of masters, of which only the individual bestowed with the title of “Dad” could ever understand, something so complicated and delicate could never be entrusted to women or children. However when we acquired our new Kodak 110mm, its simplicity and sturdy slender brick design seemed ergonomically suited to smaller hands…..and brains.

Today my approach and interest to photography has altered greatly, I very rarely carry a camera outside of work (albeit the phone) and don’t feel the urge to capture what I have viewed time and time before. This isn’t to say that I don’t take random snaps, because I do, its just you never really see them, as with their predecessors they end up in the shoebox, although now its digital. Maybe it’s age or laziness, but I sometimes struggle to understand why people feel the need to record certain occasions, and the point in interest is fireworks! This week the veins of social media have been forcefully injected with an overdose of blurring incandescent light trails, explosions and streaks, set against thickly smoked skies, all gently falling back to earth from whence they came. Having November 5th fall on the weekend, gave right of passage for three whole nights of wartime blitzing, back garden jaunts, organised events and or course youth fuelled duels with Roman candles, so inevitably someone, somewhere would take out the camera. For me the hands stayed safely buried inside the thermal lining of my jacket, watching and recording the screeching dazzling lights mentally, I could if needed describe the spectacular images verbally, but at no point did I feel the need to record, reproduce digitally and share. Surely I’m not the only one who see’s this weeks firework displays and unconsciously replaces last years arresting memory with this years fresh vision of dazzling awe. The images administered in heavy doses I feel fall into two distinct categories, those of occasions and those of just light and sky and its the latter portion which puzzles me. Images void of people, buildings, perspective or attachment, ambiguous evanescent memories that over time fade, just as quickly as the burning cinders floating elegantly and sorrowfully back down to the loam.

I’ve never seen the appeal in photographing fireworks. When there is nothing else within the image over time you are unable to specify a year or recall the events that preceded or followed, the image becomes just another firework, all lights no fizz. Photography is such a plenteous and generous medium , capturing what you saw and if given the opportunity so much more. The images shot with the 110mm, clearly show unvarying tediousness in all its glory, however it’s everything else captured within the frame and outside which has grown and become far more important than the initial topic intended for capture forty years ago. Those images over time have now blossomed into a treasured memory of childhood, acting to fill in the forgotten blanks, painting vivid recollections of youth. The bottle of soap is still there, but now what protrudes more prominently are the cracked red tiles of the sill, the mildew infested fissures of the window frame and the chink in the pane allowing access to the elements. Grubby tide marks creeping up the tulle drapes developed over years of mopping up suds from behind the taps, the parched thirsty plant pot and its struggling foliage and even more exciting the hazy view to the outside. Through the window you can see the neglected swing, of which my brother and I discovered is only made for one, a silhouette of a long forgotten pet dog and the garden shed where many an invention was created. All this from a simple photo of a bottle of suds.

Even the image of the cats hind shares more than intended, the torn linoleum flooring caused through years of gouging canine talons, mop residue against the grubby kick-boards and the left foot of my brother, shoed in green flash. Forty years later the images work to trigger memory, leading the thought process in various directions of recall, structuring a clear untarnished memory image of home , as if it were yesterday. As mundane and pointless I presumed these images were, they now have been dusted and brought back to prominence through time, ageing and memory, And this is where I struggle with imagery that sits in the firework domain, what will the image of the black night and spray of gunpowder deliver in 40 years? Will these images unlock suppressed memories from that night, in my opinion I don’t think they will, their glory will be a profile picture, a handful of likes from friends and wannabe’s and then deletion…not even into a shoebox.

Photography is extremely magnanimous towards its keeper, an ambiguous image of normality can over time deliver layer upon layer of memory, guide and open thoughts to moments long forgotten. Photography is simply a way of recording memories, hence why every notable occasion is captured, and even in old images of family gatherings, around the initial protagonist a strata of stories and answers can be found. We don’t have to save the camera for the spectacular, the whirring lights and falling ash, but capture whats in front of us, what we take for granted, I for one would be more interested in seeing the faces of the spectators than the actual subject they are spectating. Photography will successfully capture a moment, but what we all may be guilty of is wasting that moment on a scene which serves no purpose other than to amuse briefly. Quite simply photography I feel has become a perpetual stoning of impermanent scenes, which with pause into where you direct the lens, could once again serve to yield layers of preserved reminiscent echoes for many years to come.

#Fairy Liquid #110mm Film #Photohgraphy #Fireworks #The 70's #November 5th #Food photography #Commercial Photography

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