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miekasa · 3 years

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positions

+ pairing: eren jaeger x (fem) reader

+ genres and warnings: modern au, explicit smut (18+ only), eren is annoying but he’s also hot so it makes up for it i guess 🙄

+ word count: 3k

+ notes: i don’t want to talk about this actually, so if you see it, no you didn’t </2 i kind of got carried away with number three. sorry.

+ summary: eren just likes it with you—will take you however you want him to; but he does have a few favorite positions.

i. missionary — (i’m trying to meet your mama on a sunday, then make a lotta love on a monday).

Eren always did like looking at you. He thinks you’re gorgeous, sexy, and so, so, pretty; all the time, but especially like this.

Because there isn’t anything he likes more than watching you squirm because of him; breath unsteady and voice whiny because of him.

“You’re so pretty, aren’t you?” Eren asks, but question is rhetorical; and you’re barely coherent enough to answer him—like he’s fucked you stupid.

“Course you are,” he answers for you, reaching his right hand up to slip his pointer and middle finger past your lips.

You moan around him, warm, wet heat compassing his digits as you let Eren’s fingers fuck your mouth in sync with him thrust into your pussy. It’s only when he feels your spit pooling on your tongue that he pulls them out, immediately using the soaked fingers to further abuse your sensitive clit.

“My pretty, pretty girl,” Eren sings, tapping at your clit in sync with his repeated words.

Eren smirks through his pants as he drinks in your fucked-out state. He likes the way your eyes are screwed shut, high-pitched moans barely squeaking out as you grip at the sheets. Your back arches when he snaps his hips harder, deeper, and—oh, no, that won’t do.

“No, no, baby be good,” he coos, reaching his hand to press over your tummy and flatten your back to the mattress.

“Eren, please,” you barely choke out, head writhing against the pillow, “Just wanna come, please.”

“Just wanna come?” he repeats, but his tone is taunting, almost fiendish at this point, “‘M not stopping you baby, all you have to do is be good for me.”

“I am good,” you insist, words rushed, desperate, “I’m good for you—your good girl, Eren.”

Eren hums at your words, and bends his knee onto the bed, groaning after you as he hits a spot deeper inside of you. He moves his left hand off of your stomach to support himself on the mattress, and reaches his right hand up, crawling up the column of your throat.

He pinches his pointer finger and thumb at your jaw, leaning down until the tip of his nose brushes against yours, “Open.”

He barely waits until there’s a gap between your lips before he pries your mouth open himself with his thumb, the pad of his finger pushing against your tongue. He flashes you a sadistic smirk before spitting into your mouth, the tip of his tongue grazing against yours before retreating back into his mouth, “Swallow.”

Your breath is unsteady as your do as you’re told, opening your mouth again to show him just how good you listened; how good you are. A smile washes over his face for a second before he leans forward to kiss you—the kind of kiss he gives before he’s about to fuck you silly, “Good girl.”

ii. against the wall — (cookin’ in the kitchen, and i’m in the bedroom)

Eren isn’t a good cook and he knows it. He’s not terrible—he won’t starve if he ever lived on his own, but he’s no master chef.

It’s probably why he likes watching you cook so much. He would say he likes to help, too, but that would be a lie; he just likes being your taste tester, and distracting you a little bit while he’s at it.

“Did you set the oven to 400?” you ask him, back turned as you pick a wooden spoon from the drawer and bring it to the bowl.

Eren hums, eyes flickering to the oven to ensure that he did, indeed, set it to the right temperature, before taking the few steps necessary to close the distance between you two. Slowly, he wraps his arms around your waist, lightly draping his body over yours as he watches you stir the batter.

“Smells like lemons,” he notes, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Probably because we’re making lemon cake,” you chuckle, bringing your stirring to a stop.

You dip your pointer finger carefully into the batter before bringing it to your lips. You crinkle your nose a bit, before dipping you finger back into the batter, this time hovering it in front of Eren’s lips, “Here, taste. Do you think it needs more sugar? Or maybe vanilla?”

Eren’s gazes flicks from your batter-coated finger, then to your eyes, like a magnet; green growing cloudy with arousal. Carefully, slowly, he pushes forward until his lips wrap around your finger, teeth grazing your digit when he pulls back.

“No,” he answers, voice raspy, “It’s perfect.”

“You sure?” you question, words genuine and innocent; oblivious to the angle he’s playing at.

Eren unwraps his arms from your waist, steps back far enough to allow him to spin you around, you lower back pressed into the counter, and eyes wide. He smiles, reaches his hand into the bowl, but instead of waiting for you to taste it, he brushes it against your mouth, before forcing his finger past your lips, just far enough to clean the remaining batter against your tongue.

“Positive,” Eren says, before bruising his lips against yours in a kiss. Quickly, his tongue flashes to swipe against your bottom lip, bringing sticky, sweet cake batter into your mouth.

Then, he lifts you, skillfully moving the bowl aside to make room for you on the counter; knocking over measuring cups and utensils in his path that are sure to leave a mess, but right now you don’t care. Eren always did like things messy, after all.

Eren’s hands paw at the hem of your shirt, clumsily pulling it over your head. He hisses when you tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him back down into a searing kiss, and biting at his lower lip in revenge.

A yelp of surprise leaves yours lips as he grips under your thighs and picks you up from the counter. Eren groans when your tangle your hands into his hair, using it as both leverage and support.

“Fuck,” he mutters when you accidentally press yourself against his bulge in an attempt to tighten your legs around his waist. You pull away slightly, breath tickling his face as your eyes jump from his to his lips.

Carefully you comb your fingers through his hair again, elbows resting on his shoulders as you catch your breath.

“Question,” you pose, breathing heavily through your syllables, “How long do you think you can hold me up for?”

“Like this? A while, probably.” Eren replies moving his hands up from under your thighs to your ass.

“But like this,” Eren takes a few steps forwards until your back is pushing against the wall. He smirks when he sees the small gape at your mouth, and squeezes at your ass to exaggerate your expression, before leaning into to whisper in your ear, “A whole lot longer.”

iii. double date — (this some shit that I usually don’t do, but for you I kinda want to)

Armin’s fingers are, surprisingly, rough. More calloused than you would think; for the rest of him is all soft edges and round features; all smooth and nice and kind and good.

But, not like this. The Armin whose eyes gaze up at you from your legs is hardly anything like that. He’s not the Armin you know; this one is teasing, relentless, almost manic; he’s mean and he knows it.

You can see it in his eyes, that the Armin you know and love is nowhere in sight. Because when Eren pushes his finger inside of you next to Armin’s, you swear those clear, blue eyes that are usually so bright become icy with intent.

“She’s so pretty, Eren,” Armin says to his friend, but his gaze is on you as he twists his finger inside, knuckles bumping against Eren’s. You throw your head back with a grunted moan, and barely have the strength to hold it up again to see Armin’s smirk, “So pretty.”

“She is, isn’t she?” Eren coos, green eyes smiling at you.

It’s almost too much, the both of them looking at you from between your legs. You’re not sure which one to focus on—if you have the strength to meet either of their gazes for more an a second before screwing your eyes shut, overwhelmed by it. The attention, the feeling, the shared lust is all too much.

“Armin, hold on, let me—” Eren grunts, twisting his finger inside of you, so that it intertwines with Armin’s, “There we go.”

The sensation drives you crazy, the feeling of their fingers brushing against each other—brushing against your walls makes your head spin, and you curl your own fingers into a ball at your sides. It’s only two fingers—but it feels foreign, new, too much; it makes you thrash, they way they pump their digits inside of you, perfectly in sync, perfectly full every time.

It’s new to you, but Eren and Armin have always been best friends; it’s not abnormal for them to share. And they do it so well.

“Eren, Armin, I—” you call, almost wail at you feel someone’s fingertips brush past your weak spot, “Please.”

Your hips rise as you groan with the feeling, and as if rehearsed, the both of their free hands are quick to snap you back against the mattress. When you look down at them, Eren has a dirty look in his eyes, but Armin’s is dirtier—as if you let you know that that he did that; that he planned it, too.

“Don’t be rude,” Eren tuts, “Armin’s being so nice to you, so be good for him. Be good for us.”

You almost want to cry—if this is his nice, you’ve severely underestimated the Armin Arlert you know.

“You wanna come, yeah?” Armin asks you, with a tone so light and genuine, you would never think he’s capable of anything he’s currently doing.

You nod your head embarrassingly quickly, a stuttered moan slipping out as both boys tighten their told on each other’s fingers; and Armin smirks with glassy eyes before lowering his head closer to your center, “Don’t worry, I’ll let you.”

Armin’s eyes flicker to Eren’s only for a moment, a ghost of a nod shared before the two boys before Armin’s tongue is flat against your slit. You hiss, incoherent moans escaping your throat; Armin is merciless, licking, and sucking until it hurts to breathe.

Your eyes flutter shut when Armin pushes the tip of his tongue against your clit, both his and Eren’s fingers slowing in time with his movement, before speeding up just as he sucks at the bud again. Eren bites a kiss into your thigh, hand squeezing at your hips again.

“I said be good,” he reminds you, sucking at your skin again with warning, “Look at him.”

You don’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse, that the second you make eye contact with the blonde again, he sucks on your clit; not ceasing his actions until you come with hot, white flashes resonating through your body.

You can hear them laugh at your collapse, Eren gently kissing your shaking thigh as your body goes limp. Eren shimmies his body up slightly, pulling both his and Armin’s fingers from your pussy and guiding them to your lips.

“Taste,” is his simple command, ordering you to open your mouth wide enough to take both of their fingers.

Eren hums through a laugh, before turning his head to Armin. He takes his fingers out of your mouth, brings his hand to the back of his friend’s head, grabbing tufts of blonde hair in his grip, and angling his head for a perfect kiss, “Share.”

You can barely register their mouths moving together, lewd sounds and flashes of tongue in their kissing, before your head falls back against your pillow again. They’ll be the end of you someday, you’re certain of it.

Your reaction makes Armin chuckle—almost innocently, but you know now you’ve been using that word far too liberally with him. He crawls up to lay next you, gently cradling your cheek with one hand to pull your face to his.

“Good right?” he asks gently, a light kiss placed on your bruised lips.

“Hm,” you can just barely nod, eyes flickering to stay open, “Eren was right.”

Eren finds himself at your other side, pressing feather-light kisses into your neck and jaw, “Told you so, baby.”

“Eren would know,” Armin smiles, and those blue eyes are coated with a layer of mischief once again, “He speaks from personal experience, after all.”

iv. the throne — (you’re down for me, and i’m down, too)

“You have to be careful,” you warn him, “It won’t be very sexy if I fall over into the tub.”

Eren hums, with the intonation that tells you he heard you, but he’s not really listening. He peppers kisses along your thigh, hands greedy; grabbing and pinching at your skin. He uses one hand to pry your legs open wider; one knee bent, foot resting against the side of your bathtub, while the other is grounded against the tiles, and Eren on his knees below you.

You don’t know why this is a fantasy of his—and why he wants to do it now, in the bathroom of all places, but you admit you give into him more than you should.

He wraps his forearms under your thighs, reaching so that the palm of his hands pull at your skin; and pull you closer to his face. Nervous, you grip at the sink for extra support.

Eren smirks below you, peppering an apologetic kiss dangerously close to your center. You growl, using your free hand to grab at his hair, crane his neck back to make him look at you.

“Eren, listen to me,” you tell him. He knows your voice has annoyance laced in it, but it’s also heavy with authority, and makes blood rush to his pants.

Raised eyebrows lower slowly, his pupils wide and blown out at your sudden command; before his surprise morphs into lust. “Of course, baby,” he concedes, licking at your clit too quickly, “Tell me what you want. I’ll listen.”

You squint with disbelief. Nothing is ever that straightforward with Eren; even when he’s on his knees about to give, he’s asking something of you, too. Nevertheless, you loosen your hold on his hair in favor of cradling his head more gently.

“Just,” you start, a shaky breath escaping through your words when Eren’s tongue prods at your clit, “Just make sure I don’t fall.”

Eren hums, vibrations resonating throughout your body, a hissed curse slipping past your lips. “Of course,” he repeats, “I wouldn’t want to hurt my baby.”

You nod, breath growing increasing unsteady when Eren circles your clit with his tongue. He gets greedy, alternating between licking, and kissing, and sucking; and relishing in your body growing heavy in his hands.

“Though,” he says, words spoken muffled against your sensitive skin, but those green eyes are bright and bold when they look at you, “If you’re afraid of falling, you could always sit on my face instead.”

v. love on top — (my love’s infinite, nothing I wouldn’t do, won’t do, for you)

You’re pretty like this, too. Pretty all the time—but if there’s one thing Eren likes more than you under him, it’s you on top of him.

“You’re so hot like this,” he says, voice thick with lust, as he reaches out to rest his hands against your hips.

Eren likes the way you bounce on top of him, thighs shaking against his. He’s surprised when you move your hands to take his off of you—quick to question your motives, before you lace your hands with his, a weak, but sweet smile when your fingers are intertwined.

He smiles back, using your connected hands to pull you forward, elbows bent, the back of his hands plush against the sheets, while your palms hold them down. You’re bent over now, tummy pressed against his, and Eren can feel you breathing into the crook of his neck.

He bends his knee to give him some leverage, adding his own thrusts while you desperately bounce back on his cock.

“B—babe… ‘M gonna come,” he moans, and it’s not long before he’s cumming inside of you. He unlaces one of his hands from yours, using it to rest against the small of your back as you shake through your own orgasm, open mouthed kisses pressed into his collar.

You lay like that for a bit, before Eren pulls out. He has to move you off of him to throw away the condom; but is quick to find his way back to the bed, rolling onto the mattress unceremoniously. He lays facing you, and reaches a hand out, palm open and waiting.

You roll your eyes, but lazily meet him halfway as he daps you up; a stupid smile on his face. He shuffles onto his back, and pulls you on top of him, this time using both hands to wrap around your waist.

“That was so hot,” he muses, love-drunk on you and tracing random patterns into your skin, “You should—should do that more often.”

You curl your hands up to circle his head, lazy fingers playing with his hair, as you nuzzle your head into his chest, eyes fluttering shut, as sleep takes over your body, “Maybe.”

(Definitely).

#aot x reader #snk x reader #eren x reader #eren jaeger x reader #aot imagines #snk imagines #eren smut #eren fluff #levi x reader

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queensoybean0724 · 3 years

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Succession Chapter 13 (Karl Heisenberg/female reader) Resident Evil Village fanfic

Title: Succession Chapter 13

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, female reader, the Duke

Rating: NC-17 for sex and language (shower sex, P in V, unprotected sex *wrap it up, kids*, creampie)

Summary: you discover a long lost relative has died and made you his sole beneficiary. While flying to collect your inheritance, you crash in a village in Romania.

Author’s Note: I do not own the characters from Resident Evil Village. This is a work of fiction. Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter 13

The hot water cascaded down your body. Steam fogged up the windowed walls of the shower stall. Your eyes were closed and you melted back against Heisenberg’s body as he washed your hair and massaged your scalp. His fingers felt amazing, kneading and relieving the tension.

He turned you around to face him, cupped your face in his hands, and tilted your head back. As the water rinsed the suds from your hair, his lips closed over yours, kissing you deeply. You kept your head under the rush of water as your arms wrapped around his waist, holding his naked body close to yours. Heisenberg moaned into your mouth and you wanted to devour him. After hours of fucking, you thought you would have gotten at least a bit of your pent-up arousal out of your system, but you craved him more and more.

Heisenberg kissed down your jaw and neck. You shivered against him at the feel of his tongue starting at your chest and slowly licking up your neck and back to your mouth. “Mmmmm fuck...I want to lick every drop of water from your body, Y/N,” Heisenberg murmured against your lips before kissing you.

You needed him again...you were always going to need this man.

“Fuck me, Karl…” you whispered, turning around in his arms, leaning forward, and placing your hands on the windowed wall.

Heisenberg growled as his hands pulled you by your hips. You felt him against your ass, his slow thrusts sliding his cock between your thighs. “How the fuck are you doing this to me?” he whispered against your ear, his left hand moving up the front of your body, softly grasping your neck, “I’ve fucked you over and over again...and I can’t get enough. I want you even more now that I’ve fucked you…”

“I still want you, too,” you said, one hand sliding down the window, making a handprint in the steam, “please, Karl...I’m aching…” With a gruff curse, he reached down between your legs, angled his cock, and pushed inside of you.

The both of you moaned loudly, the noises echoing in the shower stall. Heisenberg’s fingers tightened on your neck as his hips moved against you. The wet slap of skin against skin joined the echoes.

Heisenberg’s lips kissed and licked along your ear as he grunted and growled. Goosebumps rose on your skin as the feel of his cock caressed back and forth along your G-spot. The soothing pleasure of the hot water relaxed you as he pushed deeper inside of you. He stretched you open and the feeling was exquisite. You never wanted to be without his hands on you and his body pressed to yours.

His left hand stayed at your neck, holding you against him as his right hand moved around to your clit, trapping it under his index and middle fingers.

“Karl…” you moaned loudly, pushing back into his increasing thrusts. Heisenberg fucked you like a madman, so desperate to cum inside of you and to feel you cum around his cock.

“Oh my god...Y/N...cum...I want you to cum…” he ordered, holding you tight between his body and his hand. You wriggled and moved helplessly, chasing the orgasm that he wanted to give to you.

You rested your head against his shoulder and cried out as you toppled over the edge. Your orgasm was intense and fierce, quickly giving way to overpowering as your clit became hypersensitive. Heisenberg’s teeth sunk into the soft, wet skin of your shoulder as he emptied himself inside of you. The muffled moans seemed to slip into your skin and nestle deep into your soul. His arms wrapped tight around you, holding you close, unable to let you go.

“You’re so beautiful when you cum…” Heisenberg murmured.

Once the two of you caught your breath, you continued your shower. He shampooed his hair as you took a washcloth and soap and washed his body. You took your time, washing every inch of his body, ogling his taut limbs and strong frame. He chuckled as he caught you gazing at him and squeezing his flesh.

“Struck by a vision?” he asked, an amused smile on his face.

“I’m just admiring the view,” you quipped, reaching around to lightly pinch his ass. He laughed heartily as he washed the suds from his hair.

Then it was his turn to wash you. His hands worked the soap into a lather as he cleaned your body, taking his time to grope you and massage your achy muscles. Having sex consistently for hours was bound to make anyone sore. He moved behind you and reached around to wash your breasts, thoroughly massaging them and pinching your nipples. Arousal pulsed in your cunt, but you had to focus. The Duke would be outside the factory shortly and you thought it rude to keep him waiting.

Heisenberg shut off the shower and opened the stall door, grabbing two towels. He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off as you took the other towel. Wrapping it around his waist, he went to the kitchen area, letting you dry yourself off. You watched him as he made coffee on the stove and cooked a small breakfast.

It was unusual watching this domesticated moment between you and Heisenberg. In such a short amount of time, the two of you had fallen into this routine...this habit. You found that you were getting more and more comfortable around him. He did not arouse feelings of fear, dread, and unease anymore. It was hard to imagine that just a few days ago, you were fearful of him despite the evident attraction you two felt for one another. But after the truth came out...and of course the fucking...you felt drawn to him, emotionally as well as physically.

You towel dried your hair and wrapped it around your body as you sifted through your clothing for something warm to wear.

“I still need to wash my dirty clothes,” you reminded Heisenberg, “before long, I won’t have any clean clothes left.”

Heisenberg chuckled as he cooked bacon and fried eggs on the stove. “If I had my way, pussycat, you would walk around naked all the time…”

You rolled your eyes as he turned his head to you and gave you a naughty wink. “Dirty old man…” you quipped, a smile toying with your lips. He laughed and turned back to the food. You took in his strong back and the towel covering his nakedness from the waist down. A sudden image of going up behind him and ripping his towel off played in your mind, but once again you had to remind yourself that the Duke was going to be there soon.

You rifled through one of the extra suitcases Heisenberg brought you from the crash and found an oversized long sleeved shirt. The fabric felt warm and cozy. You put on your bra and panties before pulling the shirt over your head. Your favorite pair of jeans completed the look.

Heisenberg placed your plate on the table and you sat and ate quietly as he got dressed. As tempting as it was to want to turn and watch him take off his towel, you knew that it would only add to your arousal. Now wasn’t the time.

“Are you going to eat?” you asked as he walked up to the table dressed in his pants and buttoned up shirt.

“No, I only drink coffee in the morning,” he said, reaching for the three items he always wore hanging around his neck.

“What are those things?” you asked, pointing your fork at them. Heisenberg took them one by one and showed them to you.

“This is a compass,” he answered, placing it over his head, “this one is a scale of sorts that helps measure metals and steel…” The last one he held in his hand, his thumb rubbing back and forth over it. “And this one is a dogtag from the German army. It belonged to my uncle. When I was a child, my uncle went AWOL during World War I and escaped here to be with my family. He died of consumption...what we know now as tuberculosis...four years later. One day as I was wandering around the village, I came across his old house...hadn’t been lived in since my family died. I found this as I was rummaging through his things. I decided to keep it…”

You hung on to his every word. His eyes looked so sad, mourning the family he had been taken from. Your heart ached for him. You cursed Mother Miranda for taking him from his flesh and blood. Heisenberg acted tough and at times had an air of self-centeredness and a large ego, but he was fragile deep inside. You wondered if he had ever told anyone else this story.

“You done?” he asked once he snapped out of his reverie. You took the last strip of bacon and ate it quickly before going to get your socks and sneakers. Heisenberg put the dogtag around his neck, put his hat on his head, and reached for his trenchcoat. You tied your shoes as he slid his sunglasses on his face.

You followed him down the hall and down a flight of stairs to the sliding double doors. He pushed one open and the two of you walked outside.

It was cold and cloudy, but the storm had passed. Fresh snow coated the ground. The sporadic pieces of metal, old factory parts, and an old beat-up car jutted up from the earth with a small amount of snow covering them. You looked down the pathway and saw the Duke sitting in the back of his cart in the exact same place where you had first met him.

The Duke smiled as you and Heisenberg approached his carriage, him puffing on his cigar. “It is good to see you again, Y/N,” he greeted.

“It’s good to see you as well, Duke,” you said. Heisenberg immediately started rifling through the supplies the Duke had lying around his cart. He wasn’t one for small talk.

You looked around the carriage for the horse. “I love your horse, Duke. What’s its name?”

“Her name is Raven,” the Duke answered, “I think she’s taken quite a liking to you since she saw you last. Call it my expert intuition, but her demeanor changed for the better after she spent some time with you…”

You chuckled softly as you started to walk towards the front, but stopped. “Karl,” you said, turning to him, “I’m going to pet the horse, not run off. Just want you to know so you don’t have a heart attack…”

Heisenberg mumbled as he sifted through the wares. “Yeah, yeah, keep it up, dollface…” he muttered, not acting in the least bit troubled by your witty repartee. You laughed and walked to Raven, slowly placing your hand on her hip.

“Hey, Raven,” you whispered soothingly, “it’s Y/N. I missed you…”

The horse turned her head in your direction and let out a huff through her nostrils. You ran your hand along her body and up her neck. Raven slowly placed her nose on your shoulder and nuzzled your face, to which you giggled. You spent a good amount of time giving her lots of rubs and pets. You didn’t think of yourself as a horse whisperer, but it was as if you could feel Raven’s admiration of you and it made your heart swell.

“I’ll see you again, I hope,” you said, giving her another pet before walking back to Heisenberg and the Duke.

Your gaze fell on a small array of crystals that hung from necklaces and bracelets. The crystals were different sizes, shapes, and colors. Some were jagged and rough while others were smooth to the touch. A small bracelet sat off to the side with a reddish crystal the size of a grape. You picked it up and admired it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the Duke said, turning his attention towards you.

“It is,” you marveled, “what kind of crystal is it?”

“Well...that looks to be a carnelian,” he answered, “carnelians bring joy and friendship...and family togetherness. It is a stone of happiness, it represents bringing things and people together…”

You smiled as you studied the bracelet. Friendship. Family. You knew exactly who you wanted to have this.

“How much?” you asked. Heisenberg had been loading his purchases into his sack and stopped to look at you. “I don’t have much and all I have is in American currency, but I can run back to get my wallet…”

“It’s on the house, my sweet,” the Duke said, smiling down at you.

“Oh no, please, let me give you something…” you spoke, but the Duke held his hand up as if the matter was closed.

“Please, Y/N, your money's no good here…” he said. You gave him a smile and thanked him, putting the bracelet in your pocket.

“I’ll need more cigars in a couple weeks,” Heisenberg spoke up, slinging the sack over his shoulder.

“Of course! And I’ll inquire about those tools, cogs, and copper wire that you need. I saw some items a few towns over...I should have them in a few weeks,” the Duke said.

“Good. Thank you,” Heisenberg said, turning and walking back to the factory.

“It was good seeing you again, Duke,” you said, waving goodbye as you jogged to Heisenberg.

“And you as well, darling,” he returned, moving his hand as if he were tipping an imaginary cap to you. You caught up with Heisenberg and looped your arm under his, placing your hand on his bicep. He looked down at your hand on him, then up at your face. You had your gaze forward on a mist of clouds hovering above the mountains, not seeing the soft smile that played on Heisenberg’s mouth as he continued walking up the pathway towards the factory.

The Duke smiled as he watched the endearing moment.

#resident evil village #resident evil village fanfic #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenburg x reader #karl heisenberg fanfic #daddy heisenberg #house heisenberg #succession fanfic #succession heisenberg fanfic

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hlizr50 · 3 years

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Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Chapter 8 (It's a long one, y'all)

A choice, a conversation, and a question

Read on AO3

Azriel’s body was perfect.

Anyone who disagreed was surely blind.

Gwyn had been watching him for the better part of half an hour, choosing to sit in silence when he hadn’t acknowledged her presence. There was no possible way he didn’t know she was there – he would have scented her at the very least. Azriel was one of the most accomplished warriors in the history of Prythian, after all, and no-one could ever enter his sphere without notice. She had only managed a handful of times, and she had a sneaking suspicion that his shadows had been responsible.

Those shadows were coiled tightly to their master tonight, looking like they might snap from even the slightest brush of a finger. They mirrored the tension that rippled over the shadowsinger’s bare back. Gwyn smirked to herself as she silently cursed the Illyrian for focusing his frustration solely on the post in front of him, facing away from her and cruelly limiting her ogling. He’d opted for punches and kicks, no doubt requiring impact and pain to relieve whatever it was that had weighed on him today. She would have quite enjoyed the sight of that gloriously elaborate eight-pointed star, appreciating how the sweat would bead and trickle down his spine or between the muscled ridges of his stomach.

Mother above, he was beautiful.

Both of the Illyrians in her life were impossibly tall and built of solid muscle. They were the definition of power. But Cassian and Azriel were so utterly different. The general was brute force, hulking muscle, arrogant. The spymaster, though… He was leaner, strength hidden underneath an unfair amount of grace for a male of his stature. Gwyn had seen him shirtless many times, but rarely did she have the chance to appreciate the vision that he truly was. She wanted to memorize the tangled strokes of the tattoos that waterfalled down his neck and over his shoulders. She marveled at the ease with which he moved, even with his long legs and arms. His wings were magnificent, even as silver ribbons of scars streamed over the thin skin. She’d heard Nesta, Cassian, and Emerie talk about wingspan and how it related to other parts. That wasn’t particularly important to her, but it had still made her blush.

And his hands.

She knew Azriel was determined to hide and hate them, just as much as she was to love them and prove to him how special they were. She nearly crumpled in tears every time she recalled the cruelty that had marked them, fire and torment melting the flesh as quickly as it could be woven back together. The story of his childhood had shattered her heart, and she was even more awed that he had somehow grown into someone so considerate, noble, and kind. Gwyn longed to hold those hands, to trace her thumbs over the mottled flesh and make him feel her adoration for them. But she wanted them to adore her, as well. To feel those graceful calloused fingers gliding over her skin…

She felt warmth coil deep in her belly as it crept into her cheeks. Gwyn blinked away the haze in her eyes and chided herself. There was no reason to think things like that – she shouldn’t get ahead of herself.

The priestess scowled as she saw blotches of red blossoming over the strips of cloth wrapped around his hands. Enough was enough. She pushed herself up off the stone and strode over to where the Illyrian continued to batter the post, shadows still taut around his rippling shoulders and incredible wings.

“What’s wrong?” she called, making sure he could hear her over the echoing thunder of his fists against the padded wood. Azriel paused but didn’t turn to face her.

“Nothing.” He squared his shoulders again, but she would not have it.

“You’re a liar, Shadowsinger.” He straightened but didn’t respond. So Gwyn continued. “You were tense during training this morning and you skipped dinner. And I can only assume you were here instead because, violent and powerful as you are, it would take you longer than the last half hour or so to beat your hands to a bloody pulp.” She crossed her arms, the billowing blue of her robes tucking under her wrists. Gwyn bore into his back with her eyes, willing him to turn around and face her. She’d be damned if she let him shut her out, not after things had been going so well. She could feel her heart beating in time with his measured breaths, those toned shoulders shimmering as they rose and fell in the moonlight. She was so entranced by his breathing that she jumped when he flared his wings.

He finally turned around. His shadows had loosened, if only slightly. But it was a start. Gwyn shot him a grin, daring him to tell her that she was wrong – to deny that something was eating at him.

“It appears I’m caught, then.” Azriel’s voice was quiet and measured. Most wouldn’t understand how it differed from his usual tone, but it set the priestess on edge. She looked into the dark gaze of the spymaster, and somehow the angles of his face had sharpened. “Interesting training attire.” Gwyn ignored the lightning that seared through her as his eyes swept over her body, even though she knew there wasn’t much to see thanks to those robes.

“I didn’t come here to train.” She rolled her eyes. The shadowsinger’s cold stare flickered for a moment, a crack in that practiced stoic expression.

“Then why –“

“I came out here to make sure you were alright, Azriel.” Cauldron, he could be so dense. She cocked her head, watching his face relax as her words sank into him. And she might have heaved a relieved sigh as his shadows started twirling like candle smoke and hazel gleamed back at her in his widened eyes. Satisfied that she had been able to reach through his veil of detachment she strode toward him. Gwyn did not move her eyes from his, even as she stopped in front of him and pulled at one of his battered hands. She cradled it in both of hers, allowing her fingertips to caress the whorls of skin and blood-soaked rags. “Why don’t we go inside. I’ll take care of these and you can tell me what’s bothering you.” She kept her hold on him gentle, though she couldn’t help but tighten her fingers around his for fear that he might pull away. The priestess studied his tanned face, trying desperately to read any hint of where his silence was leading them. The spymaster mask had slipped, but aside from the pooling light in his hazel gaze and the easy wafting of the shadows there was no breath of what he was thinking.

Gwyn lowered her gaze, frustrated that he was still so reserved. But she would not give up – that was not her way. So she sighed as contentedly as she could muster and focused on his hand. She drew her fingers softly over his knuckles, surely cracked and stinging under the crimson stains she traced. Her fingers followed the paler lines of scars to the end of one finger, then the next, until she had attended to every piece of exposed skin she could find. Then she folded his fingers into his palm and raised his hand to her chest. She dared a glance up at him and found it difficult not to cower away from the intensity in his visage – burning liquid pools of hazel seemed to pierce straight into her soul. But she gathered her courage – from where she did not know – and stared back, lowering her chin and brushing her lips over his knuckles. Gwyn felt his intake of breath, even though his lips barely parted and his face betrayed nothing. The air around them grew thin and taut and she waited, once again, for him to pull away.

When his hand squeezed one of hers, she knew her cheeks had flushed a deep crimson. Mother, she was sure her face looked giddy with child-like hope, but she smiled up at that perfect face when she squeezed back. She earned a soft crooked grin in return.

“Lead the way, priestess.”

~~~

Azriel kept his wings tucked close as he was silently led through the house. It had not gone unnoticed by him that Gwyn had not released his mangled hand, choosing to keep those long fingers of moonlight tangled loosely with his own. He couldn’t quell the warmth that spread through him, and he couldn’t stop shadowy tendrils from circling down his arm and looping around the contact. If the priestess noticed she didn’t show it as she pushed open the door to the library.

“The library?” He raised his eyebrows, but his question was soft. He had assumed she would guide him to his room, but realized as soon as he’d voiced his surprise that it was a ridiculous assumption to make. Being alone together in his room would feel extremely intimate, and she was likely not ready for that.

“Is that alright?” Gwyn asked him as she turned to him with that lovely hand still grasping his own. “We could have gone to your room, but I know your privacy and space are important to you. I didn’t want to intrude on that.” Her head cocked as she blinked toward the ceiling, freckled nose scrunching in thought. Azriel felt the corner of his mouth quirk, unable to suppress his fondness for how expressive her features were. The warmth inside him took root as her words registered. She’d been thinking of him. Of his comfort and not her own. Irreverent and spontaneous as she was, her consideration for those she cared for was thorough and thoughtful. As surprising as she always was with her candor, Azriel was floored by the depth of her compassion.

“Actually, I’m not even sure I know where your room is so,” she shrugged and tugged him over to the settee, “the library will have to do. Now sit.” The spymaster dropped onto the cushions as if his body were unable to resist her command for even a moment, though she let go of him when he did so. The absence of her gentle touch left him aching and he looked up at her gleaming teal eyes. “I need some things to tend to your hands. Promise you won’t leave?” His heart pinched at the earnest plea as he tried to understand the emotions churning in that ocean-deep gaze.

“You have my word, Gwyn.” He hadn’t meant for his voice to be so rough, thick with other promises he wanted the priestess to ask of him. But he was inwardly smug as he watched the blush stain her freckle-painted cheeks.

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered and scurried out into the hallway.

Azriel allowed himself a chuckle at her reaction, running a hand through his dark locks. Then his mirth settled, a weight in his gut replacing the contentment he had felt only seconds before. He didn’t want to talk to anyone about his distaste for Illyria, least of all Gwyn. He didn’t want to see her eyes darken from his own sorrow, and he couldn’t bear for her to realize that just by being Illyrian he was a potential danger to her – a monster.

But, Mother above, this was Gwyn. He’d promised that he wouldn’t pull away, that he wouldn’t decide how she would react instead of giving her a chance. And somehow that beautiful warrior would not see the same things he did. Something inside him just felt it. So he would be brave and he would lay himself bare to her. Again. And he knew, terrifying as it was, that he would do it over and over – she need only pin him with that hopeful, caring gaze.

A clinkinterrupted his reverie, and he saw a porcelain bowl sitting on the coffee table, the water still rippling from its sudden appearance – no doubt a request to the house from Gwyn. As if on cue Azriel shifted his attention to the door and found the lovely copper-haired priestess pulling it closed behind her, a basket in her hands. He allowed himself a grin and let his gaze follow her as she crossed the room and placed the basket next to the bowl of water. Then she hiked up the waterfalls of blue robes and sat – somewhat unceremoniously – facing him on the couch. She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, surveying her supplies and formulating her strategy, and the shadowsinger could feel the heat coil low in his stomach at the sight. It was a small mercy that she gestured for his hand and released that lip from her teeth.

With less trepidation than he expected, Azriel placed his scarred hand in Gwyn’s alabaster grip, but kept his focus planted on where they touched. Her long fingers were nimble as they worked against knots to unwrap the crimson-stained rags. As he might have expected, the wounds had already closed, his Illyrian blood providing swift healing. When the priestess scowled playfully, nose scrunched, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“I suspect I might not have required your medical expertise, Berdara.” But the priestess just shrugged a shoulder, unaffected by the turn of events.

“It was only an excuse to get you to stop and talk to me,” Gwyn admitted before looking up at him, beaming that her ruse had succeeded. “So I’ll wash off the blood and make sure everything is fine. And you’ll start talking.”

Azriel just stared at her for a moment, shadows flaring in his periphery at her unabashed statement. Her hair shone like flames in the fae light as it fell over her shoulders, her focus firmly on his hand. She had dipped a cloth in the water bowl and started dragging it gently across his knuckles, cleaning the red stains from his mottled skin.

“I’m waiting, Shadowsinger,” she cooed.

“I have to go to Illyria. Tomorrow. With Cassian and Rhys,” Azriel sighed, and had his hand been free he might have flopped dramatically into the back of the settee. When the priestess remained silent he whispered venomously. “I hate it there.” Gwyn still didn’t look back up at him, and he wondered if she did that purposefully, as well, so as not to make him feel more pressure than the anxiety that already gnawed into his chest.

“You don’t lead the armies. Why do you have to go?”

Cauldron, if she only knew how many times he’d asked the same damned question.

“For… status checks such as these my primary purpose is intimidation.” He let his eyes wander over the rainbows of book spines filling the shelves on the end wall, once-vibrant hues dulled by time and dust. “We present a united front, the leadership of the Night Court and their forces.” Azriel felt the warm cloth on his hand pause and he turned his attention back to the Valkyrie who now looked up at him, head tilted in curiosity.

“So you, Cassian, and the High Lord?”

Azriel nodded. “I believe the High Lady will be joining us, as well. Sometimes Mor accompanies us, as a representative of the Hewn City. We’ve tried a few different strategies regarding who makes these visits.” He couldn’t hide the contempt in his words. “But we’ve found a strong female presence is… rarely helpful. Even though it is proof of the point that Rhys and Cassian are trying to make.”

“Rhys and Cassian, but not you?” The shadowsinger inwardly cringed at the implication that he may not share his brothers’ beliefs about the value and potential of Illyrian females, but the priestess before him held no judgment in the depth of those teal pools. Azriel ran his free hand through his hair.

“My brothers have been quite insistent that Illyrian females have the opportunity to train, should they choose, as well as putting a stop to some of their more barbaric traditions and practices.” He stifled a gasp as Gwyn’s fingers traced over his now-clean knuckles, examining them for any remaining injury. Apparently satisfied, she set that hand in his lap before lifting her gaze.

“But you don’t include yourself in that effort?” Her eyes narrowed, but her lips lifted in a wry grin. “I know firsthand that you also believe that females should be trained and can be capable in battle –“

“More than capable, priestess, as you have proven.”

Gwyn’s smile widened. “So why is it that you separate yourself from them?”

“Of course I share their beliefs, and I would love nothing more for wing clipping to be a figment of a dead past and for camp leaders to stop insisting that weapons must be buried once females touch them. I just don’t have faith that the Illyrians will ever change.” He loved his brothers. They were the best males he’d ever known, their hearts and minds full of so much hope. But Illyria would always be a cesspool of brutality and carnage.

“You believe so little in their potential?” Gwyn’s face had softened, no lines crinkling her nose or the corners of her eyes, swirling orbs of concern. His shadows held tight to him, unmoving with his bitterness. Not a single tendril reached for the warrior who gingerly grasped his other hand and pulled it into her lap. “You and Cassian and the High Lord are all Illyrian, and the three of you have grown into quite exemplary males.” After that soft statement she turned her attention to the bloody wraps, sighing contentedly. He watched the top of her copper-tressed head.

“Cassian and Rhysand are the best of us. I’m not –“

“Azriel.”

His throat bobbed at the quiet reprimand in her voice. Gwyn’s grip on his hand had tightened considerably and the rest of her body had tensed. Silence thickened the air and it fell over him like a blanket, urging the shadows closer to him, to safety. When she looked up at him again his mouth nearly fell open at the intensity of her expression.

“Why do you do that?” He was taken aback by the roughness in her voice, usually a sweet, soothing song. “You are one of them. You are. Their hearts and souls are no more pure and precious than yours. And even if we spoke only of you, what about being Illyrian would damn you so?”

The shadowsinger gaped, and Gwyn’s bright eyes challenged him to prove her wrong. Just like he knew she would. But, no matter how many times she proved to him the depth of her empathy and understanding, he still felt the pang of shock simmer through him. His fingers tingled in her grasp.

“Tell me, Azriel,” she whispered her near-silent plea.

“Gwyn, you know how the Illyrians are. You’ve seen it with your own eyes and experienced it.” Azriel took a breath and shifted his gaze to their hands, still entwined in her lap. “Illyrians are bred to be brutal in all areas of their lives, violent and entitled and possessive and selfish. They take what they want without thought or regret. They… indulge themselves freely, taking females for their own pleasure with or without consent. And that is the heritage I share. I was created there, just like the other brutes, to be a monster. Powerful, yes, and lucky as fuck to have found myself under the care of Rhysand’s mother. But a monster, nonetheless.”

The spymaster kept his lidded attention on his bloodied hand and Gwyn’s delicate pale fingers tightened impossibly further around it. He focused on the contrasts – his darkened, ruined skin under the freckle-spattered moonstone of hers; her two hands unable to wrap completely around his much larger one.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a brute. And no matter what happens, I will always be here to remind you of that.” Azriel closed his eyes, shuddering at her conviction. He felt her hands moving again but kept his eyes closed, unsure of how to continue. He felt the wet cloth against his skin and knew his priestess had resumed her ministrations, washing away the stains of his frustration and contempt.

Minutes passed in silence as he focused on the dampness against his skin and the soft, comforting breaths of the incredible female in front of him. Then the cloth was gone, his fingers guided to fold around her hand, and then he felt two fingers lifting his chin. Azriel took a breath to gather his courage and lifted his gaze, finding full lips in a soft smile, constellations of freckles dusting pink cheeks, and the most incredible, impossibly expressive teal eyes shining with emotion. The fingers left his chin but he barely noticed, lost in that ocean.

“When you go to Illyria, I want you to remember what I’m about to say.” He gave a nod when she paused, waiting for him. “Nobody is just one thing, Azriel. Being Illyrian does not doom you to a life of committing atrocities and causing pain. There is hope there. Remember Balthazar? He aided Nesta and Emerie during the Blood Rite. I know there aren’t many, but they are there. Think of Cassian and Rhysand, who you say are the best of males. They have far outshone the picture of damnation that you’ve painted.” Gwyn squeezed his hand and he squeezed back. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him, as he swore he saw a fine line of silver on her lower lashes.

“But what I really want you to think about is you. You’ve shared your history with me, Azriel. You have experienced pain and loneliness and darkness greater than most can even imagine, and your power is some of the greatest that Prythian has ever known. You had every reason and every opportunity to become a monster. If anyone could have become the most fearsome, brutal male it could have easily been you. But you didn’t.” Azriel felt pinpricks in his eyes, and the way the priestess smiled at him… that light seemed to breach his very soul. “You are here, a dedicated servant to your court. You do the things you must, to protect your family and your home. You are thoughtful and kind and more generous than you probably realize. You are not a monster, but you areIllyrian. And you are sitting here with me, holding my hand. Being Illyrian has not defined who you are. And there are likely others out there who are the same. Try to remember that.”

Azriel let out a disbelieving huff, but he felt his lips curl into the slightest grin. This warrior priestess was going to be the death of him – a certain death of broken-down walls and encouragement and fierce rebuttal of the self-loathing that had been with him far longer than he could truly remember. It was uncomfortable, and he almost didn’t know who he would be without it. But the way Gwyn looked at him, the way she saw him. Maybe he could find himself there.

“Well,” she patted his hand and gave it back to him. “Your wounds are healed, the blood is gone, and hopefully now you can get some rest.” She hopped up and began cleaning up her rags and water, only to give a soft ‘squeak’ as the house vanished them away. He snickered, earning a withering glare, which only made him laugh harder.

“I’m going to bed,” she huffed, sticking out her tongue at him before stalking to the door. Azriel rose quickly to stop her.

“Gwyn,” he called, halting her at the door. She turned to look at him, an expectant eyebrow raised. He reached for the back of his neck, suddenly nervous. “Thank you. For listening. And… and for your encouraging words.” Watching her expression change was like magic, like watching the sun transform the sky as it breached the horizon. The irreverence and playfulness fell away, replaced with that delicate gentle smile and burning compassion in her ocean depths.

“Thank you, Azriel. For trusting me. I am so grateful that you didn’t pull away from me.” She paused before turning back to the door. “Be safe, Shadowsinger.” And then she was gone.

Azriel just stared at the empty doorway, confounded and delighted and… awestruck. And there was nobody to hear his quiet vow when he finally spoke.

“Anything for you, Berdara.”

~~~

He was all but running down the ramp to one of the lower levels of the library. His long legs loped, carrying him closer to his goal – the sweet voice echoing a lilting melody through the stacks. Azriel kept his wings tucked close, knowing that if he unfurled them even a little he may be tempted to fly.

He was sure Clotho and the other priestesses would not appreciate such brazenness.

He didn’t think he would ever describe a visit to Illyria as pleasant, but even he couldn’t deny the optimism that had somehow permeated his soul. It had helped him open his eyes beyond his own bitterness. She had helped him. Of course he had been every bit the feared spymaster that he was required to be, but he had surprised Rhys and Cassian when he had joined them for every meeting and observation, choosing to utilize those few moments of downtime to execute his more covert tasks. They were to debrief immediately with the rest of the Inner Circle – given only enough time to wash before they were required at the River House. But as soon as he had smelled the air of Velaris all he could think about was the lovely Valkyrie priestess who seemed to be a balm to his scars.

He was breathing hard when he spotted her, shadows flitting at the enchanting picture before him.

“Gwyn.”

Her singing stopped as her head whipped to face him, face splitting into the brightest smile. “Shadowsinger! Welcome home!” If their relationship were different – if it were further along – he might have run to her, gathered her up and swung her around in his arms. Gods knew he wanted to. But he had to keep himself in check, at least for now. So he settled for a grin and walked briskly toward her. Her eyes darkened in question. “Do you need something? When did you get back?”

“A few minutes ago. I don’t have much time – we’re supposed to go debrief at the River House with Amren and Mor. But I do need something.” Gwyn’s smile had softened but she giggled.

��Alright, well I’ll do whatever I can –“

Her voice halted when she noticed that Azriel had extended his hands to her in silent question. He could never just grab her, but he prayed to the Cauldron, the Mother, to all the gods above that she would take his scarred hands in hers. Confusion fluttered over her features, but he grinned, hoping she was encouraged. He released the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding when she cautiously lifted those robed arms, placing her palms in his open ones.

“Az?”

“I do need something. I need to ask you… if you would join me for dinner tomorrow?” For once he could be smug, seeing the surprise light in her eyes and knowing this wasn’t what she expected. He was emboldened. By her. So he brushed his thumbs over her knuckles as he continued. “I know it’s only been a few weeks. And I’m sure I haven’t done nearly enough to prove myself, but I just –“

“Yes.”

His eyes had to be wide as saucers, and his breath seemed to have escaped his chest. But he didn’t need it. Not when Gwyneth Berdara, hands still safe in his own, smiled at him that way – corners of her eyes crinkling above flushing cheeks.

“You came straight here – knowing you were needed immediately by the High Lord – just to ask me to dinner?” Gwyn snickered but it caught in her throat, betraying emotions that stormed in her beautiful eyes. He released one of her hands, only to grasp the other with his scarred fingers.

“Yes,” he breathed, lifting that pale hand and brushing his lips lightly over the soft skin of her fingers. A shadow twirled down his arm and danced where they touched, but Azriel’s focus was pinned to her face. He was relieved to see no sign of discomfort, but a furious blush had painted her cheeks and the points of her ears. And he chuckled. She could not be more lovely. “I want to see what comes next, Berdara.” She shook her head.

“We need to work on your priorities, Shadowsinger.” She scrunched her nose and then gave him an easy shove with their tangled hands. “Go, you’re going to be late.” He kept ahold of her, jerking her forward lightly. Smirking, he kissed her knuckles again before letting her go.

“I’ll see you in the morning, priestess. I hope you haven’t been slacking in my absence.” Azriel winked at her – Mother above the things she made him do – and turned on his heel, moving much more slowly to leave than he had to find her.

“You’re going to wish we had!” she threatened. And he laughed, throwing his head back, reveling in the joy he felt. Whatever was next, he was ready to face it. And he wanted to face it with Gwyneth Berdara.

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#gwynriel #gwynriel supremacy #gwynriel fanfic #fanfiction #gwyn x azriel #azriel shadowsinger #gwyneth berdara #azwyn #ao3 #ao3fic

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homoose · 3 years

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Teach Me Something I Don’t Know: Part VII

Summary: Spencer’s unresolved trauma catches up with him. Reader gets her heart broken.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst, I’m so sorry guys

Warnings/Includes: brief mention of violence and details of a case; brief mention of prison, past trauma; a lil self-loathing and self-sabotaging

Word count: 3.8k

a/n: I knew that this was where this story was going from the very beginning. The dialogue is one of the first parts I had written. It still hurts. Relevant to the story: I operate with the understanding that the Jeid arc does not exist, which also means that Spencer never went to therapy in season 15. Also, huge thanks to @reidscanehand for beta-ing and just generally being my hype person!!!!

Song Recs: Shrike by Hozier; Better As a Memory by Kenny Chesney (don’t come for me if Spencer made playlists this would ABSOLUTELY be on there)

Series Masterlist

———

Spencer made his way to Emily’s office, ignoring the team’s eyes on him— varying degrees of understanding, concern, and uncertainty plain on their faces. As he reached the threshold, he paused for a second before moving into her line of sight. When he moved into the doorway, she looked up and waved him in. He closed the door behind him.

She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. Spencer hesitated for only a split second, but it was long enough for her to notice. He lowered himself into the chair and met her eyes.

She folded her hands on top of the desk. “How are you feeling?”

He drummed his fingers across his kneecaps. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie, and they both knew it. She bit back a sigh and flipped open the folder in front of her. “I’m finished with the official report. I wanted to go over it with you before I submit it to the director.” She looked at him briefly before reading out the report. “On January 9th, our team pursued a lead at the residence of suspect Andrew Hurley. We divided into teams to cover the two entrances to the home, as well as the barn behind the house.”

Spencer fidgeted slightly in his chair and rubbed the tips of his fingers together. Emily continued, “During the raid, Supervisory Special Agent Spencer Reid became separated from the team and was ambushed and disarmed by the suspect in the barn.” She paused but didn’t look at him. “The team was unaware of the altercation for some time, during which Dr. Reid employed various approved restraint methods and was ultimately forced to utilize self-defense measures to preserve his own life. Consequently, Mr. Hurley sustained serious injuries.”

She did look at him then, a steady and unrelenting gaze that had him shrinking inside himself. “However, I have determined that Dr. Reid’s actions were justified in order to maintain his own safety.” She returned her eyes to the report. “Mr. Hurley was detained and treated for his injuries at Sebastian River Medical Center, and he is expected to make a full recovery. Based on the cognitive interviews and physical evidence, a grand jury hearing is scheduled for January 25th.” She brought her hands to rest on top of the report.

“I’ll sign off on it and deliver it to the director by the end of business today.” She let out the sigh she’d been holding back. “Reid.”

He pressed his mouth into a thin line, torn between shame and vindication. “Emily.”

“What happened in that barn was unacceptable. And I need you to recognize that.” Her eyes were back on him, a leader’s gaze boring into a weak link. “You went against a direct order. You put your life in danger unnecessarily, and in the process you endangered this entire team. Furthermore, you could have cost us the ability to close this case, to put Hurley away and bring justice to his victims.”

“It won’t happen again,” he assured her.

“No, it won’t.” Her tone told him that if it did, he’d have bigger problems than a meeting in her office. “My recommendation to the director is that you transition to your next mandatory leave cycle early.”

“I can handle—”

“It’s not a request. You’re on sabbatical starting tomorrow. That’s an order, and one you’d do well to follow.” She closed the file in front of her. “We’ll see you back in the bullpen on March 7th.”

“I don’t need more time off, Emily,” Spencer snapped.

He could see her grind her teeth together at his tone, but he couldn’t seem to care enough to feel contrite. She took a deep breath in through her nose, leveling him with a pointed look. “If Simmons hadn’t broken it up, you’d have killed Hurley on the floor of that barn.”

His mind snapped back to the lifeless eyes of Hurley’s victims— eight year old boys in shallow graves. Boys who died afraid, and in pain, and crying out for their mothers. His thoughts raced to the feel of Hurley’s throat under his arm, the crack of the zygomatic under his fist. Emily was right of course. If Matt hadn’t found them in the barn and dragged him up and off of Hurley’s nearly lifeless body, Spencer would have killed him without compunction.

“Reid.” The stern edge was gone from her voice. Spencer refocused his eyes on her face, now showcasing an underlying concern that made his stomach turn. “I’m not recommending another cycle of mandatory counseling at this time, although I reserve the right to require it moving forward. But… I’m asking you to take care of yourself. You’ve been through a lot in the last two years. More than a lot.”

“I said I’m fine,” he insisted, but there was less fire behind it this time.

“And I’m not saying you aren’t,” she countered. “But I am saying that the person in that barn… that wasn’t you. That was not the Reid that I know.” Emily tilted her head and furrowed her brow. “The Reid I know uses his intellect and empathy to see angles that the rest of us miss. He depends on the strength of his mind and his unwavering compassion to diffuse conflicts without violence. He invites his friends to foreign film showings and puppet theater.”

When he didn’t budge, she let out a long breath. “I want you to take the next fifty days to find that Reid and bring him back to us.”

...

Y/N dropped into her desk chair with a huff. They’d been back from winter break for two weeks, and she already needed another vacation. But tomorrow was Friday, and then they had a long weekend. She could make it through one more day.

She closed her eyes for a long moment, tired in the way that only kindergarten teachers fresh off a long break can be. She heard the click of Anita’s shoes coming before she even entered the room, and Y/N couldn’t stop the twitch of her lips.

“Dude. How is it only Thursday?” Anita flopped down into the plush Calm Corner chair.

“This has been the longest week of my life,” Y/N agreed. “My kids were off the chain.”

“There is so much drama in middle school right now,” Anita groaned. “I can’t keep up with all the tea, and you know how I love to stay up to date on the freshest brews.” She shot Y/N a look. “Speaking of, where’s the good doctor?”

“I think they’ve had a lot going on at work,” Y/N surmised. “I haven’t seen Mrs. Jareau in over a month.”

“Well, I’m getting antsy,” Anita complained. “Thought for sure you’d be going steady by now.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help but feel a little impatient herself. If she’d known it would be this long before she’d see him again, she might have made a move when he’d volunteered. Then again, probably not. She sighed.

Her phone chimed with an email message, and she automatically swiped the screen open to read it.

Spencer Reid Re:

Are you free today? If you are, I’ll be at Soho.

...

Spencer sat at the table in the corner of the coffee shop. He sipped absentmindedly at his tea, almost gone cold. He hadn’t waited for a reply before leaving Quantico. He drove straight to the city, figuring he’d wait at Soho until he felt some semblance of calm returning to his body.

He didn’t know why he’d emailed Y/N, and he wasn’t sure he really wanted her to show up. Usually he’d talk to Penelope or maybe JJ. But he’d wanted to get as far from the BAU as possible, and he didn’t want to drag Penelope away from the colorful, safe corner of the world she’d created for herself. He didn’t want to fill it with all the tragedy she’d tried so hard to leave behind.

If Y/N did show, he was certain he could keep the conversation vague, focus on her and the classroom, ask her about her holidays. She wasn’t a profiler, didn’t know his tells well enough. She’d be none the wiser, and he’d have her warmth and presence to focus his energy on, if only for a few hours.

Every time the bell chimed, his eyes flew to the door, searching for her. He knew it was ridiculous. He’d only known her for one hundred and eleven days. Pragmatically, he knew she shouldn’t be the one he wanted to talk to. Realistically, he wasn’t planning to burden her with all of the mess of the past week, the past year, his entire life.

But in the six hundred and forty seven minutes he’d spent with her since September, he’d felt more like himself than he ever had. He was never afraid to be himself with her— the silly story voices, the ridiculous costume, the magic trick, the vulnerability about his mom. All of these pieces of himself were things he usually waited years to show people. It had taken her a matter of weeks to draw them out.

He couldn’t help but believe that if he wanted to, he could tell her everything. She’d know exactly what to say. She’d listen for as long as he could keep talking. She’d cover his shaking hands and wrap him up in the warmth of her spirit. She’d give of herself to guide him back to the person he used to be. She’d be more than willing to use her radiance to illuminate the dark so that he might have a little light again.

The bell sounded, and his eyes focused, and there she was. She was wrapped up in a puffed jacket, a bright blue scarf tied around her neck. Her nose was adorably red from the cold, and she rubbed her hands together as the door closed behind her. Her eyes found him immediately. A small smile turned up the corners of her mouth, and she gave him an enthusiastic wave. And he knew that he was right about all of it.

She approached the table, unwinding her scarf. “Hi!”

“Hi.”

Her eyes flickered over his face, and then settled on his mostly empty mug. “I’ll get you a refill, and then we’ll catch up?”

He nodded, and she headed to the counter. There had been a part of him that thought she wouldn’t come, but of course she did. For some reason, unbeknownst to him, she liked talking to him. Even among his closest friends, he was often made to feel self-conscious about his tendency to ramble, but Y/N had literally asked him to. She sought him out, asked him questions, listened intently, and remembered things he’d told her. She was kind and thoughtful and genuine. Of course she came when he called.

She returned with two mugs, carefully setting them down on the tiny table. She unzipped and removed her jacket, hanging it on the back of her chair and revealing a crew neck sweater covered in tiny astronauts and rocket ships. When she sat across from him, her hands wrapped around the mug and her eyes met his.

“Hi.”

He couldn’t stop his lips from twitching, despite the events of the day. “You said that already.”

She laughed, and he felt the weight begin to lift. “Yeah, well, I haven’t seen you in forever, so— I’m just making up for lost time.”

“Sixty one days.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s been sixty one days, eighty eight minutes, and approximately,” he looked at his watch, “fourteen seconds since we saw each other last.”

She laughed again, and his mouth completed its curve. She tucked her hair behind her ear. “I like that you’ve been counting.” She let her chin come to rest in her hand, eyes studying his face. “How are you?”

He wanted to lie, but she was looking at him so earnestly that he mumbled out, “I’m managing.”

She mirrored the way he’d looked at her across this same table nearly three months ago. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” That was a lie, too. But asking her to meet him was enough of a burden.

“Okay. Well, if you change your mind at any point, let me know.” She wiggled her eyebrows at him. “Until then, I can just regale you with all the kindergarten stories you’ve missed while you were out saving lives.”

And regale him she did. For almost an hour, he listened to her tales of love (budding crushes were taking over recess time), loss (the class pet— a stuffed zebra— had accidentally taken a swim in the Atlantic on a vacation to Florida), and lessons learned…

“So, in case there was ever any doubt, we are now painfully aware that we shouldn’t attempt to flush our underwear.” Y/N let out an exasperated laugh.

She’d been talking to him for fifty three minutes, and his heart already felt one thousand times lighter. “I’m really glad I wasn’t there for that one.”

“I really wish that was the only poop story I had.” She shook her head. “There are a lot of things they don’t tell you in grad school. I think there’d be a global teacher shortage if they warned you about the amount of bodily fluid management involved in teaching kindergarten.”

She toyed with the edge of her empty mug. He watched the movement of her fingers.

“Do you—”

She laughed and gestured for him to speak first.

“Do you want to get out of here?”

…

They ended up in Mitchell Park. The trees were bare and the grass was brown, but he was with her, and so it was beautiful.

They’d been walking in comfortable silence, when she asked, “Did you change your mind? About talking about it.”

Spencer put his hands into his pockets. “It’s, um— it’s kind of a lot.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got time.”

“I don’t mean— I mean, it would take some time to get through it all. But it’s also— it’s a lot.”

“We don’t have to.” He could feel her eyes on him. “Do you talk to— someone about it?”

“I talked with my unit chief today,” he answered.

“Okay. But— I mean, have you ever— talked to someone. Like, a professional.”

Spencer bristled slightly. Although he knew she wasn’t passing judgement, her question exposed the reality that she thought he could use it. “I’ve had some mandated counseling over the years.”

“Obviously it’s your choice whether you talk to someone or not,” she mused. “I just— I know that I’ve benefited a lot from seeing my therapist.”

Spencer was unsure of what to do with that information. Here she was, confessing that she went to therapy— sweet, lovely Y/N. In comparison, he wasn’t sure if even daily meetings with a counselor would be enough to tame the darkness that had grown and festered inside him over the years. That sometimes threatened to swallow him whole.

For a long while, there was only the crunch of the frozen ground beneath their feet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but there was an uncertainty about them that felt uncharacteristically heavy. He was hyper aware of her presence, and so he felt her pace slowing down before she came to a complete stop. He walked a few more paces before it became clear that she wasn’t planning to catch up.

He turned and saw that she’d taken a seat on one of the park benches. He carefully made his way to the bench, sitting beside her quietly. She didn’t look at him, but instead studied her fingernails intently. She cracked her knuckles once, twice, and then turned her body slightly toward him on the bench.

“I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she hedged carefully. “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do, or like, imply that there’s anything wrong with you. There’s nothing wrong with you at all. I just—”

“It’s fine,” Spencer assured her. The way she looked at him then— like he was something fragile, delicate— made his eyes burn. He kept his voice even. “I know what you meant.”

She smiled, eyes crinkling and filled with something that felt familiar and far away all at once. “Good. I can’t have you out here thinking you’re anything less than wonderful.”

He couldn’t stop looking at her, attempting to solve the impossible cypher behind her irises. As he failed to decode it, his inability to read her blinded him to what came next. He missed the dilation of her pupils, the way her tongue darted out to wet her lips, the increase of the beats in her carotid. So when she leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, he was momentarily paralyzed.

Her lips were so soft against his slightly chapped ones, pressing with a perfectly gentle pressure. She brought her hand up to cradle his cheek, the pads of her fingers just barely ghosting the curls falling around his ear. She sighed into his mouth and pressed a little closer. He took one peaceful moment to bask in the realization of a desire he’d had for almost four months.

And then she swiped the very tentative tip of her tongue against the seam of his mouth, and his hands involuntarily wound into her hair, dragging her closer. He opened his mouth against hers to swallow her sweet little gasp. His grip on her hair tightened, and she let out the tiniest mewl, and like a switch had flipped— suddenly his mind was full of the darkness she’d spent the evening chasing away.

Y/N beneath him in the dark. Maeve in a pool of blood. His hands around Cat’s neck. His mother’s slap against his cheek. Max walking away from him. His fingers pressing the plunger on a dirty syringe. The slam of the door behind his father. Y/N calling out his name. A knife at his throat under a canopy of bones. Innumerable sets of lifeless eyes staring up at him. His life being snuffed out on the dirt floor of a shed. The clanging of metal bars and fingers ghosting over old bruises. Y/N looking at him with warm, loving eyes. The violent crack of bone underneath his fists. Y/N’s face, lovely and perfect— and then twisted in pain.

He broke away from her, releasing his hold on her hair and pushing her back into the bench. He took a second to gather himself before he dared to look at her. Her hair was tousled from his rough grip; her eyes were half-lidded and focused on him; her lips were red and kiss-bruised and turned up in a small, sweet smile.

And all at once he knew he had to hurt her, and it had to be now. Because what Cat had said about him was true. He might have escaped his mother’s illness, but he hadn’t been able to outrun the violence— and unlike her, he didn’t have the excuse of being sick. He had hurt people, and he had enjoyed it. He would have killed Hurley, and he would have slept soundly. He was no better than the men his team hunted.

Every time he thought he’d moved past it, that wickedness lurking just under the surface would grab him by the throat, choking everything else out. Emily’s directive rang in his ears. Find that Reid and bring him back to us. He knew who she was talking about. The problem was, he wasn’t sure that person still existed.

He was going to hurt Y/N eventually. Better to do it now, before things got too far.

“You’re Michael’s teacher,” he said, as evenly as possible.

Her smile faltered, and she pressed her lips together. He could still feel the phantom press of them against his own, and he was sure he’d never forget it. She cleared her throat. “You’re right, you’re totally right. I, um— I won’t be in a few months, and maybe then—”

“You don’t even know me,” he interrupted.

Now there was confusion in her eyes. That much he could read. She huffed out a small laugh. “I— I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

He looked directly at her. “Why? Because you read my bio on a university website? Because we got tea a couple times?” His voice sounded harsh, patronizing, and he hated it.

Her confusion shifted into shock, and he ignored the tug on his heart. “Are you serious?” she questioned, genuinely searching for a sign that he was joking.

“Dead serious.” He shrugged, and it felt like his bones were breaking. “You don’t really know anything about me, Y/N. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”

“Where— where is this coming from?” Her voice was small, close to breaking. He lined up the last nail on the lid of the coffin.

“Maybe I gave you the wrong impression. I’ve appreciated talking to you. Volunteering in your classroom was entertaining. But I don’t— I don’t see you that way.” It was a lie, and if he didn’t have such a practiced poker face, she might have seen through it. As it was, his poker face had helped get him banned from every casino in Vegas, so he watched her as he hammered the final nail. “You’re just Michael’s kindergarten teacher.”

“Oh.” The hurt flashed across her features— the furrow of her brow, the tightening of her mouth, the storm clouds in her eyes. “Well, I— I really read this wrong, huh?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Yeah.” He put his hands into his pockets to keep himself from reaching for her, the desire to comfort her a strange juxtaposition to the pain he was intentionally inflicting on her. “I guess so.”

She opened and closed her mouth twice before taking a deep breath and nearly whispering, “Okay. Well. I’m— I’m gonna go.”

She brushed some imaginary dust from her pants and then stood. She turned to him, and he waited for her to explode— to scream and curse at him. But it didn’t come. She didn’t look at him at all. “Um— yeah. I’m gonna go.”

He didn’t say anything, and he knew she’d take his silence as indifference. But he had to keep his mouth shut, because if he didn’t, he’d beg her to stay. He’d tell her every single random piece of information he had stored in his brain. He’d tell her that he loved her from the moment he watched her help a child pick a solution from a pencil box. He’d tell her that he only ever dreamt of two things these days— her or the lives he didn’t save. He’d tell her every single one of his deepest, darkest secrets. He’d tell her that sometimes he was so afraid of himself that he could barely breathe. And if he told her all of that, she’d walk away anyway.

So instead, he watched her turn and start back up the path, hugging her arms around herself and swiping her cheek against her scarf.

When she disappeared over the slope of the path, he scrubbed his hands over his own damp face and let himself break.

———

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postmodernmulticoloredcloak · 4 years

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How are we supposed to fix the friggin’ sun? (Or: Andrew Dabb had planned this all along.)

I was thinking about 11x23 Alpha and Omega. I was going to simply make a very gloat-y post about the sheer GLEE that pervades me about being right on why the car scene in 11x23 was written, filmed and acted like that. It was SUPPOSED to be jarring and to feel wrong. It was supposed to make Cas believe that Dean thought of him as a brother, because Dean believed that that’s what Cas would be happy to hear. And it was filmed from a lopsided angle, the way scenes are filmed when they’re supposed to feel wrong. And the actors made the characters look uncomfortable, in different ways.

So, yeah. Andrew Dabb has planned it all along and I TOLD you. Dabb slammed there the premises for what is happening right now. He played hard on the miscommunication so that the journey would feel realistic and the resolution even more satisfying.

I’m sorry, I’m a humble person normally, but we just got explicitly romantic Destiel (*pauses* *screams* *coughs* okay we can continue now) so I think I deserve my minute of self-celebration. That scene in the car in my eyes looked like it couldn’t be anything but the grounds for the very development we got. Just like, well, everything else, but I remember very well all the crap that specific scene got while I was there like... it’s on purpose, guys...

But then I thought more about that episode and more things clicked in my mind. So, self-celebrating part over. Let’s get to the serious things.

So. You know how 11x23 had the whole “Amara is eating the sun” thing going on? Well. My thesis here is that that was a metaphor-slash-foreshadowing-slash-mirror-slash-whatever-you-want-to-call-it for “the Empty has eaten Cas”.

Lucifer is gone. Amara ripped him from my body.

The repression is gone, the Empty ripped him away from me by pushing me to talk about my feelings.

It looks like the sun is— Dying. Why would Amara do that? The sun is the source of all life on earth. Without it, everything just... just wastes away.

Yeah Cas is the sun and Dean is earth, I don’t have to explain it. We know what happens to Dean when Cas is gone.

Look, man. If you’ve got something for me to punch, shoot, or kill, let me know and I’ll do it. I’ll do it till I die. But how are we supposed to fix the friggin’ sun?

Ah, Dean’s classic “I only have 1 skill and it’s violence” speech. Because I was angry and because I just needed something to kill and because that’s all I know how to do.

Back then, he didn’t think he could fix the sun, but he did. He fixed the sun by talking to Amara with compassion and respect, by appealing to feelings and love, by asking Amara to see a different way, by literally telling her “Put aside the rage. Put aside the hate. And you tell me... what do you want?”.

And now it’s Cas that addesses Dean just like Dean had addressed Amara. Not really in what they say, context and all is completely different, but the point was that Amara was told for the first time that she could be more than her anger and pain. Amara changed because Dean told her that she could open herself up to love and beauty. And Cas tells Dean that he is more than his anger and pain, that he’s so full of love that he teaches it to others. (Just what happened in 11x23, in fact. Dean’s loved saved Cas, saved the world.)

In 11x23, the answer to “how are we supposed to fix the friggin’ sun?” was that no, Dean was wrong about himself, he can do more than kill. And now, the answer to “how am I supposed to save Cas?” is exactly what Cas has told him after his speech about only knowing how to kill. Love.

And now to what I expect to be relevant in the near future:

W-What are we doing? Nothing. Exactly. Amara’s out there eating the freaking sun, and—and we’re doing nothing. And you have a better idea? Yes. Anything. That’s my better idea, because anything is better than this.

This was Sam prodding the others. I wonder if Sam will encourage Dean to do something about Cas, or Dean will enter ‘I gotta do something about this’ mode after something snaps him out of hopelessness.

Then the car scene

How you doing? You good? I mean, you know, the whole Lucifer thing. I was just... so stupid. No, no, no. It wasn’t stupid. You were right. You were right to let Lucifer ride shotgun. Me and Sam wouldn’t have done that. Well, it didn’t work. No, but it was our best shot, and you stepped up. I was just trying to help. Well, and you do help, Cas.

Of course Dean was trying to be nice, but, as we’ve discussed to the moon and back, Cas hears that his “help” is valued. We know why Cas had said yes to Lucifer, he didn’t think he could help in any other way, that he was “expendable” (“I’ve heard the stories. You help. But Sam and Dean Winchester are the real heroes.”) and that he has value in the measure he contributes to the cause. Compare to (tumblr decided that blackquote doesn’t work anymore, sorry for the aesthetic blip)

How you feeling? You’ve been quiet. How long have you been waiting to ask me that? I guess I didn’t want to overwhelm you. […] I wanted to make things right, and now… I don’t know why I’m even here. Jack. You never needed absolution from Sam or Dean or from me. We don’t care about you because you’re useful or you fit into some grand design. We care about you because you’re good.

I don’t even have to discuss the parallels between the soul bomb plot and the current plot, but that’s not the point here. The point is... this has been a long way in the coming and we’ve seen it coming all the way through.

Thoughts on this?

#my spn thoughts #spn meta #spn 11x23 #spn 15x18 #destiel #spn

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alchemabotana · 3 years

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Horoscopes for the Full Moon in Capricorn June 24th 2021

Antonina “Little Thunder” Whaples

@whaplesantonina

If you enjoy these horoscopes, please consider supporting by voting for me as Ms. Health and Fitness 2021 for Muscle & Fitness Hers Magazine. You can vote once every 24 hours for free. If I win, I am donating the proceeds to herbal medicine school scholarships. To vote: https://mshealthandfitness.com/2021/antonina

Strawberry Moon - Pen & Ink Sketch by Antonina Whaples

Horoscopes for the Full Moon in Capricorn June 24th 2021

Strawberry Moon

This lunar Opening in Capricorn June 24th 2021 is a cry of righteousness on the hilly planes of our spiritual landscapes. With this meregoat’s lunation, we will experience the inherent benefits of the systematic work we’ve done since 2018, with a special emphasis on decisions made to change personal system errors. The Gods of karma are smiling at our intentions and efforts, and rewards will be reaped by those who invest in self discovery. Our ritual work has been seen and blessed in the Summer Solstice shifts by the spirits of the Land. If you listen closely on this strawberry moon, you may just hear the call of the Cosmic tricksters as they work their mojo on the psychopomp of Earthly frustrations. When you’re feeling the pull of your natal oppositions this moon, tune into the tendons of your actions and see where the motion stems from. You may be relieved to find that the strings that once pulled your puppet are made of finer ancestral threads and your permission to be free was always there. When you check into the Cosmic Chess Board you may find something of a rubix cube has emerged in your new dimensional awarenesses. Instead of throwing yourself into the equations necessary to unlock this next level, revel in the achievements that brought you to this very moment. In a cosmic landscape where the processes of life and death have been hyper focused in our collective consciousness it feels rebellious to change the font and type settings of the ancestral notepads in our minds. Representing the waters that run deeply within the Earth, Capricorn’s fullness in the night sky will illuminate various Spirits whose presence have been well established, but not necessarily recognized. A sign of the power of mental affirmation, your thoughts and words will hold a special magic in this moment. Remember that your Guides, Spirit Animals, Power Totems, Good Medicine Ancestors, and the Spirits of the Land are excellent translators, and with Mercury about to pop out of retrograde (watch out for its shadow til June 30th), its final lesson is one of the personal spiritual variety. When what we seek is Truth & Justice, we allow our souls to attune to protective forces that help us autocorrect, fold into origami, and transcend with temperance.

Aries:

It’s no surprise that an old tune holds the secret code from that earlier recording of the master tape your memory has been searching for in the old filing system. In these moments you realize just how deep and densely tracked the highways and byways of your mental system are. You’re the original wayfinder of your own uncharted territory of the mind. This state of curiosity opens you up to spiritual healing that aligns your personal ideals and values with the actions a person desires to embody. When your actions meet your words, you tend to feel the most at home in the grander machinations of Spaceship Earth.

I’m not sure if I’m feeling funky or groovy, jazzy or bluesy? Does it jive with you? Is it feeling all right? What songs have got you buzzed on this full moon night? I’m enjoying the humour of the human experience, and I find ways to incorporate positive sources of enjoyment into my daily routine. I recognize that I can be sensitive to the frequencies I consume mentally, and I’m manifesting sources of comedic gold into my awareness. I can be my own clown, and enjoy an inside-inside joke anytime my mind decides that laughter is the best medicine. I love to laugh, and allow myself this simple pleasure in life.

Taurus:

Saturn in Aquarius square Uranus in Taurus has been creating a nuanced ping-pong table in your mind. This influence has been upon your daily life for sometime, and shall continue on through the rest of the year, with another exact square in December 2021. Accept the exactness of this T-squared engineer level measurement on the corners of your ascension blueprints. It’s ok to look at the world from your own angles, and you may be happily surprised by the moments that unfold joyously when you use your sharpness to hone the hedges of your self doubt. There’s a special magic in this moon for you, as the meregoat lights a part of the puzzle we wanted to get done anyway. This refocused energy gives you the internal resources to wait to make your next move, even though the ones you’ve planned are quite clever already, when mercury rx clears you’ll have fine tuned your intel.

I give in to the epic bonestructure of my cosmic face in the universe. I know that on these edges are where the hedgerows grow. In these sanctuaries of my boundaries, I give spaces for things I truly want to cultivate to be engendered. I find which spaceships are allowed to dock at my intergalactic port of plenty, and make sure that my shields are up when psychic frequencies intend to disrupt my qi. When I breathe, I give space to the energy around myself, and I feel permission to let go. When I let go, I allow myself to accept instructions in the forms of feelings and intuitions. I do not allow the opinions or voices of others to upset my internal compass. I feel centered and grounded and know I will continue to make positive choices and believe in myself. I choose to honor myself, and that makes me feel good.

Gemini:

You’ve been carefully funneling resources into a variety of investments. Financial and interpersonal projects and alliances deepen, although it is not a time to throw caution to the wind. Caution and planning is what has allowed you to learn to trust the ebb and flow of the cosmic money winds, and you’re trying to siphon your own renewable sources, not steal from the Gods. When you place yourself in alignment with your internal resources, you can learn to embody compassion to provide yourself when feelings of self worth or insecurities prod you to feel guilty about the ways you regenerate. Let your conscience be your guide, and allow others to do the same. The path of self acceptance is most rich for you at this juncture, and it would be wise to use the Full moon to clear the psychic debris of your aura through ritual bathing, sound healing, and aromatics.

I can sometimes turn my mirrors askance to the equations I cannot seem to readily solve. But, in doing so I lose reflections that empower me. I accept that it's time to look at some of those patterns again and see if they even deserve a place on the chalkboard of my mind. When I make space to use my memory card to run programs that make me have feelings I actually enjoy, I look into my secret box of fantasies and realize I may have already realized many of those experiences. In these moments of clarity, I hold a space for myself to enjoy what I may not have allowed myself to in the past. In this way, I take back my energy and transform myself in the present.

Cancer:

In this moon you are finally able to feel that rebound-snap! Ka-bow! sh-zing! of Mars’ exit from your cozy airbnb. You’re reminded that you should be charging premiums for your ability to stay level-headed when the Gods and Goddesses war in the Heavens, and on Earth. You enjoy a good ritual bath, but to stay out of hot waters, this crab needs a cool-down. This Capricorn Moon is just what the doctor ordered, and something about the good medicine flowing through you can’t help but seep into certain streams where the mojo is most needed. This is an excellent time for you to pause in your personal space and take a moment to feel the beauty of your domain.

My soundtrack of life is a high luxury five star bathhouse of the Spirits. I’ve been Spirited Away to lands of emotional remembrance. The roots of my ancestors have spoken to me, and I have heard their instructions. I need not fear the judgments of others, because I am a sacred part of creation. I will not allow negative voices to infiltrate my consciousness, but instead, I will choose to believe that my work has been blessed by the Cosmic Super Computer and shall continue to have its content prioritized. In this space of trust, I allow myself to turn my consciousness to what I’ve relegated as “frivolous artistic pursuits”. I find the time and space to make something just because. When I experience this energy releasing through the act of creation, I realize why it mattered in the first place.

Leo:

The grass is pretty green in your patch. Both career aspirations and spiritual wealth appear to be presenting itself to you in all new fashions. You may literally be feeling called to new ways to express yourself externally, and this exploration of your presentation to the world helps you heal. You’ve been feeling called to healing in general, feeling like it may be a good time to start a new way of moving, or to add a healing ritual to your daily experience. If you happen to use stone medicine, Turquoise will be especially healing in nature during the transit of Mars through Leo, and can be just the cooling mechanism you need to keep your Roar without the bite.

Sometimes I’m just feeling high octane. When I find the right stomping grounds to release my charge I am able to do so safely through friendly communication strategies, good topics of conversation, interesting objects within my spacial periphery, and calming colors. It’s ok to turn the volume all the way up, but when the outside world adjusts its tone to match, I can switch to a different groove. I’m in awe of my co-creative power to engage my environment and use my influence therein to bring forth collective healing experiences.

Virgo:

Something about this moon in Capricorn feels familiar to you, and perhaps it's the quiet watch you’ve held & the prayers of your heart being answered. Your physical being is finding ways to heal through your insights to your movements in daily life. As your mind/body/spirit awareness grows, you find new ways of expressing yourself. This ability to shift and transform might seem like deja vu, but it's your memories finding their way to the surface. When our minds give us abstract feelings and visions, we can move mountainous emotions safely within our systems, without harming ourselves or others. Breathe deeply and find a place to scream loudly if you need that release.

I have crossed some barren deserts, but I have not died of thirst. I am blessed with the life I have co-created in the spiritual planes of my intelligent manifestations. My awareness of the barren corners of life have given me compassionate reflective capacity and a recognition of my gifts by those whose opinions matter to me. I am enjoying the small moments of joy and call them precious to me. I forgive myself for any moments where I’ve expected too much of myself while I was grieving a loss. My heart is tender, and my spirit gentle. I wish to live in harmony with myself and others.

Libra:

This Capricorn moon you are more annoyed than usual at laundry, other people’s messes, and scapegoating. Your sensitivity to physical objects is heightened under this Full Moon and it may feel overwhelming to be in the midst of the messes others leave for you to clean up. It’s more than frustrating when you acknowledge how your time/energy has been appropriated. Instead of letting loose the fire brigade when the bridge seems to be burning, walk away from the moments today that feel like a temptation. Make sure to find objects that reflect healthy energy back to you, and sit amidst a tiny oasis of your creation, and pay no attention to chaos of the Gods. You deserve a Full Battery, and the spirits are conspiring to recharge your battery banks this lunation.

I gather strength from my service to my community. When I have been unbalanced in the past, I allow my weight to ground in all directions through the sacred communions of my own secret tabernacles of the human experience. I make new covenants with myself and the way I speak and treat myself, so that I no longer need to suffer under the weight of the past. I don’t need to feel any guilt in laying down my load, and don’t need any permission to do so. When I feel safe, I will allow those who I trust to provide the respite necessary for me to heal my visions of my life and expand into an abundant awareness of how truly loved I am for being myself, and how needed my cosmic ray of intellect is to this world.

Scorpio:

Known for your secrets and depth, you’ve been hiding like the Cosmic Sphinx between the pillars of the temple gates. You’ve been allowed to watch the clashes of the Giants unscathed, and your insight will outlast this passing phase of planetary tensions. You’ve been sending alien text messages to Neptune’s work phone, and the intel has been legit. Your attraction to Art, Color, Shape, Form, Music, and Theatre are encouraging you to make insightful investments in your own dreams. This Full Moon beckons you to create with abandon and let the waves of inspiration quench your desire for pleasure.

I feel like the whole choir singing in one unison. I weave through the soundwaves, key changes, and rhythm switch-ups as I keep time with the sacred union of celestial sounds. I am aware that the tunes of the planet herself offer me a sacred respite from the cacophony of the cosmic movements. When I ground myself into the soothing waters of my spiritual essence I define for myself how my energy is used for the goodness of my own healing.

Sagittarius:

It feels like you’ve been getting along pretty well with the planetary forces, and everyone secretly enjoys the protection that your bow provides for the tribe. You may be feeling a bit cramped in the yellow submarine of the pandemic, dare we say you could have cabin fever? The Trines, Sextiles, and satellite signals of the skies indicate that you can find a special type of relief from the feelings of squished with mandalas, botanical drawings, and spirographs. When you take the time to let your mind journey in these ways, it lets your hunter’s mind relax for the next best chance. And no worries, you’ve got plenty of chances ahead, Sagittarius.

Life is good. I do my hair toss, check my nails - baby how you doing? Hey, life is good. He’s got his eye on the sparrow and I guess that’s me? I’m playing with the chemistry... cause that’s how I be? When I look into the mirror I see a babe, a real dude of the neighborhood - my sister, mothers, daddy, and the community. I guess when I see you, I see me. And when I’m in that light in me, and you are in that light in you. There is only one of us: namaste my bissssssch

Capricorn:

This Full Moon in Capricorn you endeavour to ask outloud: “What Giant’s Bones Have We Built Ourselves Upon?” Your Full Lunation is opposing the Sun in Cancer, shining a shadow on our collective exoskeleton. This Full Moon feels like an archeological discovery when proverbial bones rattle out of the closet to give us a hoodoo prayer’s chance for self liberation. You’ve been waiting for a moment like this, and it's OK if you’re not ready to take that leap of faith. But should you choose, the moon lights up an emotional healing around the concept of “home”. You really want to know if you’re believing the right thing from one moment to the next, but keeping your head out of the secret sauce is key to giving your subconscious the space it needs right now to send out signals to the future. Soon enough you’ll be receiving confirmations of cosmic flavors right into your spiritual inbox.

I called Stephen Hawking and he called me back. My voicemail said: “Hey friend. I know this is a hard time on planet earth. I think people are doing better than they believe they are. It’s hard to be a human. I remember the constraints of the body, and I understand when you want to just fly away somewhere. I believe in you. Capricorns get a bad rap sometimes. I can see your progress, and I hope you take the time to see it too. By the way, we always have the time to say how much we matter to each other. Thanks for being, and enjoy this life, you deserve it”.

Aquarius:

There have been a lot of light bulbs going off in your spiritual laboratory. This Full Moon when the light shifts, your awareness of the dimensionality of the objects and purpose of your life is heightened. You may be experiencing some grief and loss around feelings of closeness with others. Recently you’ve been asked to hold a deep stability for the collective’s growth. Your actions haven’t gone unnoticed, and you’ve been receiving opportunities for advancement in your career. However, you are feeling uncomfortable with commitment while under a deep pressure to perform. These archetypal struggles are up for healing on the altar of the Full Moon. Your magic fairy dust works the best when you sprinkle it on yourself. You are learning the ways of Illuminated Prosperity.

My voice is a symphony of grace within a cacophony of sound. I breathe in the knowledge that my very existence is a miracle of my own embracing. I find myself at home in my surroundings and know I belong. Whoever “They” are, I know I can be myself around “Them”. I trust that my instincts are perfected beyond doubt. I’ve taken all the tests and quizzes and my insights are showing precision on whichever experiments have survived my tests of time and spirit. When I tune into my highest self it's because I’m recognizing my ability to be in that place no matter what surrounds me. Even when my circumstances deny me, I do not deny myself. I believe that I am worthy of the life I am living, and anticipate my surroundings shifting to match the unique vibrational fingerprint that I offer planet Earth.

Pisces:

You’ve been holding down some major spiritual territory during the recent seasonal shifts. The light of the meregoat acts as a lighthouse beacon for the whales and whistleblowers of your waters. You’re not particularly interested in that island, and prefer to spend this Lunation in Capricorn Gardening, Cleaning Out the Car, Writing about your art, Feeding the fairies, Calling in positivity, Releasing the Past, Testing New Grounds, and let’s just say it: looking pretty guuuuuuud while doing it. So good. You might want to tune into some whale call noises, or turn on a beachy video. The seas are definitely calling your name, and your inner explorer could watch Moana a few times through the eyes of the grandmother, the eyes of Moana, and the eyes of Te Fiti.

I am a sound rising on the waves of creation. I turn my eyes to the heavens and I’m in the medicine nation. I forgive myself for all my wavering, I know my power lies in my cravings. I can wish upon the starry skies, and watch the birds where e’er they fly. I’m curious to know the names of all the fairies, and their games. I want to know what games I’ll win when I’m laughing with a cheshire grin. I know what gods have sent me here, I know which path I’m meant to clear. And when the waters run to quickly, or the bushes get too prickly - I can lay my spirit down. My minds’a palace, my head a crown. You could call me king or queen, but my magics’still unseen. I’m so much bigger than my titles, or whichever ones I didn’t get. I’ve given all at my recitals, and I’m my own best bet.

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internalsealpanic · 4 years

Text

Explosive Chemistry

Summary: Chemistry labs can be a bit tedious. Nothing laser vision can’t fix though.

A/n: You can all blame @birdy-bat-writes for this fluff and @knightfall05x for the amazing mood board. This might feel a little rushed so apologies and Clark is kind of hard to write (ope). Anyway, here is your regularly scheduled comedy. Thanks again to @knightfall05x for proof reading!

warning: swearing, reader’s terrible moral compass, and some injury

masterlist

You met Clark- Well, ‘met’ might be too formal a word for what happened.

You discovered Clark during a mundane Metropolis afternoon. Taking a break from your studies (read: a group project that had not been going smoothly), you hopped on to a trail car to go to your favorite sandwich shop right across from your favorite diner.

The sandwich shop itself was nothing too special, not in a good way at least. It was even what your delicately paletted father had politely described as ‘subpar’ which as far as you knew was the worst insult he could give. Frank- the owner- was, of course, inclined to disagree. You were, on the other hand, inclined to agree with the opinion especially after biting into a raw piece of chicken in one of their “famous” chicken sandwiches. But it was cheap and it offered the best view of the diner across the street.

In truth, you liked the food at the diner better. Their blueberry pancakes were absolutely delightful, at least, on Mondays. But more than anything you found more delight in watching its contained chaos. You’ve watched people propose, get divorced, have fights, and everything else in between. The sheer absurd theatrics of it all captivated you. It was people-watching at its finest. Frank just thought it was creepy to which you simply nodded and nibbled at your sandwich.

As you watched the usual ensemble cast in the diner, you witness a tall, handsome guy with black hair and blue eyes get mugged. Ok, well, almost get mugged. He was a big boi so you weren’t entirely surprised when he was easily able to stop the scrawny knife-wielding assailant. What did surprise you were the proceeding events. To your utter disbelief (and amusement); instead of throwing the guy into the gutter as custom dictates, the buff guy just guided his assailant to the diner and had a chat with him. You chew your sandwich slowly as you watch them talk as if nothing strange had occurred minutes before, digesting the odd comedy unfolding before your eyes.

Moments later and a few tears shed, they parted ways. You frowned thinking that would be the end of it and you were about to whine to Frank about how anticlimactic that was. But then it just kept going.

He got mugged.

Again.

And again.

By the fourth time, Frank sat beside you to watch finally leaving the spot he was polishing alone. Repeated muggings were weird enough but the guy kept inviting them to talk. You choked every time but made no move to intervene, only nibbling at your sandwich and watching with near clinical interest.

After the fifth mugging, Frank raised a challenging brow at you as you continued to chew on your sandwich. You shrug at him as if to say ‘I’m eating what do you want me to do?’. Frank’s eyes didn’t leave you even as another mugger approached the buff guy. You cut him a look and chew a little faster. For a guy running what is most likely a money-laundering scheme, he sure was noble.

Having finally finished your sandwich, you wave your hand halfheartedly to Frank, your middle finger extended skyward. Kicking the shop door open and jamming your hands into your hoodie pockets, you made your way to the other side of the street ignoring the cars driving past you, blowing and whipping the skirt of your dress every which way.

Neither of them pays you any mind as you approach them, which was just as well. You shifted the strap of your backpack on your shoulder deciding whether to use it. Your laptop was in there so probably not. You decide to christen your new flattops by giving the man a good harsh kick in his nether regions. He goes down with a squeak.

“Scram!” You snarl, baring your teeth. In a surprisingly well-coordinated motion, he does, looking honestly scared for his life. You pivot to the guy who you assume is some kind of tourist.

Most people would say that Clark towered over you but the truth was that no matter how tall Clark was he couldn’t really measure up to the height of you. Nothing about you was inherently intimidating, especially as you stand before him in flat tops, hoodie, and short dress, except maybe for your shoulders. But that had less to do with their actual shape and more to do with how uncommonly broad they were compared to the rest of your body. Some people say it made you look like an angry dorito to which you unfailingly replied with something Clark would rather not repeat. At least, not in polite company.

You regard him with a pinched brow which makes Clark straighten as you openly assess him. You memorize the angles of his features, all the sharpness and corners of it not noticeable due to the softness of the way he carries himself in a typical hometown boy kind of way. You note your university’s logo on the edge of his sweatshirt.

You reach your hand out. “Y/n L/n but just call me Y/n”

“Clark Kent” He answers, shaking your hands. You note the distinct midwestern shape of his syllables which explained a lot.

“Yanno muggers aren’t exactly good speed dating partners, right?”

Clark smiled at the, admittedly, terrible joke. By the way, your eyes flash with interest, he’ll be seeing a lot of you.

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

Your foot bounced erratically against the metal bar serving as your stool’s footrest. You watched the thermometer with a pinched face and a ticking brow as the mercury in it remains unmoving. Your mounting frustration amusing Clark making him cover his mouth. You fix him with a look and the door actually whistles “innocently” and looks away, pretending to be intently reading the procedure as if you two haven’t been reading it for the past half hour trying to figure out why your solution wasn’t boiling. His baby blues none-too-subtly flicking in your direction. You give him one last scathing look, which he easily glances off, before turning back to your solution. His eyes have been flickering at you as if he’s been meaning to ask you a question. That question likely being ‘could you possibly stop looking like you’re going to murder the molecules in our solution’. His eyes flicker again to watch you seethe and pout at the liquid and it takes everything in Clark not to tease you about being cute.

Bouncing your leg again, you gently turn the hot plate’s nob until the screen reads 1000 F. Clark makes a choked sound, finally tearing his attention away from what you assumed to be a particularly interesting semicolon. Clark reaches over and turns the damned thing back down to 300 F. You glare at him before, violently, turning it back up to 1000. Clark just as quickly turns it back down.

Click

You two continue on like this for a while ‘til your instructor, pinching his nose, strolls over to your lab bench to politely tell you to knock it off. With a shrug, you two settle on 650 F as your compromise. You, however, continue to glower at the solution while Clark peruses through the next lab distinctly reminding you of someone in the waiting room of a dentist’s office which makes you scrunch your nose and worsen the impatient ticking of your limbs. “Glaring at it won’t make it go faster,” Clark chuckled in his Midwestern sweater voice. You had the urge to pour the hot acid of the flask on to him but you suppressed the urge mainly because it wouldn’t actually hurt and pouring it on him meant starting over and that just sounded tragic.

You place your hands primly on your lap and spin your chair towards Clark. “Not all of us can watch grass grow, Paul Bunyan.” You snip. Clark shakes his head at you, whether it’s from your tone or the nickname you can’t tell. All you could discern was that it irritated him and some petty part of you was satiated the way old gods were when someone made an acceptable sacrifice.

“Is that what you think we do in Kansas?” Your first impulse is to say ‘yes’ even if it wasn’t the truth. You thought better of it though. Picking a fight with Clark Kent was a terrible idea, superstrength or not. You were, of course, familiar with Kansas as a concept the same way you were familiar with Mars. Both seemed equally distant, equally alien, and equally irrelevant as such you never dedicated too much thought to it. The last one might have changed a bit with your chance encounter with Clark. You remember him mentioning going home for Thanksgiving Break. You also distinctly remember wanting to ask if you could come along. After all, you didn’t have much in the way of killing time during holidays seeing as most of your relatives were overseas and the relatives you did have here were indisposed either due to work or due to other families. You felt silly thinking about it now and even sillier contemplating how you would explain the special brand of unpleasantness of being bored over the holidays. Maybe you should get a boyfriend- your eyes flicker to Clark but you shake your head- or a girlfriend or maybe friends who weren’t either foreign exchange students or farm boys from Kansas with laser vision.

You whip your head to Clark who was mumbling something about not staring at the grass. He frowns at you, not finishing his sentence.

“You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The bad idea look.”

“I do not”

“Ok, let me rephrase. The let’s do something stupid for science look.”

You huff indignantly. Clark looks unfazed and a little smug. You did not have that kind of look and sue, you’ve asked once or ten times to use his powers to do something ridiculous but this was a matter of importance.

“Use your heat vision”

“Wha-”

“Heat vision. Flask. Go faster.” You punctuate each word with a wild flick or gesticulation of your hands.

Clark moves his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his sharp nose.“We’re not going to use my heat vision-”

“-Yes, we are.”

“No, we aren’t. Do you want me to list the ways this could go wrong?”

“Relax, my human shield is invincible.”

“You’re horrible.”

“Yup.”

“I really can’t convince you?”

“Nope.”

“What if I just don’t?”

“Then I dip out and break into a different lab to get a bunsen burner.”

Clark laughs, shaking his head fondness seeping into his smile. It made your heart melt and your face heat. You know you’ve won when Clark moves his seat closer to you. For some reason, Clark always insisted on sitting just a little farther from you no matter the circumstance.

You two lean in. Clark gives you a side glance. “For the record, I said this was a bad idea.”

“Fine, I’ll quote you on that once I’ve won the Nobel Prize for Chemistry.”

Clark snorts. He removes his glasses, the blue of his eyes shifting to an angry red. It makes your breath hitch every time being reminded just how dangerous your sweet, gentle best friend really is.

You watch the liquid in the flask begin to boil and you make a noise of triumph, throwing your arms up in the air in delight. Clark smiles at you and you feel a little embarrassed by your reaction but the smile on your face doesn’t disappear. You both lean back and you toss him a smug smile. He huffs at you amused and rolls his eyes.

“Fine, not all of your ideas are-”

Crack.

Shatter.

Shards of glass fly everywhere as the flask shatters. You yelp high and surprised. Clark pulls you into his arms shielding you from the glass and hot acid. You hiss when a shard cuts against the delicate skin of your forehead. You’re numb as you feel the blood trickling staining Clark’s shirt. Your senses were more focused on the way he wraps his arms around you and how safe you feel despite the graze on your forehead.

“Y/n, Clark, are you two ok?”

You hear the frantic footsteps approach you but neither of you pulls away. You just focus on how tightly Clark holds you against himself. You feel the flex of his large muscles as he pulls you closer.

“We’re fine sir but I think Y/n needs to go to the clinic.”

Do you?

Your fingers rise up your forehead and your stomach drops a little when they come away red. You’re aware that you’re bleeding but it takes some time for the knowledge to fully sink in. Your professor is practically shoving you out of the room by the time you even make any move to react.

“Y/n, I-”

“I swear to god if you say I told you so I’ll punch you in the face-” You look into his eyes, your voice amazingly calm. He opens his mouth again. “- and if you say I’m sorry I’ll punch you in the dick.” His mouth closes and you both fall silent even as you go down the hall towards the university’s health office which was just a glorified clinic with the addition of counselors and a waiting room with Rubix cubes instead of magazines. Clark doesn’t loosen his grip on your shoulder even as you wait for the nurse to come out and treat you.

Your mind feels far less frantic than it did a few moments ago.

“I told you it was a bad idea.” Clark jokes offhandedly.

You snort at the remark and glare at him without any real venom. “You really aren’t as nice as people say you are.”

“Nope.”

“Jackass.”

This draws a tired laugh from him. “Well, I’m sorry. Why don’t I make it up to you then?”

“Unless you’ve got a Porsche in your back pocket”

He winces. You snort again.

“How bout coffee?” You blink at him. “Or maybe dinner? This Friday?” He adds with a hopeful lilt.

“Just as long as you don’t invite a mugger to come along.”

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THANKS FOR READING

taglist: @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan, @lucy-roo, @multifandomgirl-us, @idkmanicantenglish,@birdy-bat-writes, @boosyboo9206, @americasmarauders , @l-horizon11, @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay , @wunderstell

#superman #superman x y/n #superman x reader #my writing #clark kent #clark kent x reader #superfam #kind of #in the future if I continue with this reader

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reinepadova · 3 years

Text

To Be Seen

[←Previous] | Chapter 3 | [ Next → ]

‘A bird does not sing because it has an answer. It sings because it has a song.’ Will I be able to hear yours?

It's almost sunrise. Mei might wake up soon.

Stella let out a short, measured breath, wiping a hand on her skirt to get rid of the excess dust – and slime death, she mused in mild satisfaction – before reaching up to get to the next ledge.

Sudden tremors made her freeze. Her thoughts race at the impossibility of another attack when an ocher column emerged horizontally next to her with a small blast. She sighed.

How could I forget.

She shot steely eyes up, narrowing at the glowing horn tips peaking over the edge of the mesa, with the creature attached to them no doubt resting luxiously at the top while waiting patiently for her to complete her ascension.

They've been over this. It's like the creature's ears are merely decoration with how much it doesn't listen to her. “Mr. Guardian. Please. We're absolutely close now. As helpful as you have been, its time you return to protecting your area. Trouble won't find me again this time. I am sure of it,” she stressed, forcing more confidence in her voice than what she actually feels. She ignored the aches and pains in muscles she wasn't aware she had. Stubborn creature. Why won't it leave her alone?

Silence met her for a long minute, making her perk up.

Is it finally considering? Thank the ski –

A low, dismissive grunt and a visible snout, tilted upwards, made her eyebrow twitch and her whole body deflate. She pursed her lips, reluctantly pulling herself on the resonating stone with a wary eye, dusting her hands absently as she stood. When she turned bland eyes at the creature, calm amber orbs met her.

A tense stillness lingered, an edge of pressure settling in her chest as she maintained eye contact. Wills battled like an Electro Crystal, shocking and numbing you when you get in the way. It lasted for a long moment before the serpentine thing shook its mane once, flicking its tail broadly at her, reminiscent of how she would wag her finger at Mei after getting caught doing mischief. Stella fumed, eyes sharpening like daggers at the condescension.

They've been like this all evening until the early morn: her, trying to discourage it from following – nay, 'guiding' her way – while it persistently stuck at her side, snout prodding at her leg intermittently before pointing at another way. Admittedly, the turns and drop points it led to made the journey back easier – and safer – keeping well away from the groups of snoozing chubby geo energy.

When she tried to outrun it – after gesturing in appropriate gratitude, like how the people of Liyue would – its body coiled before spiraling up, graceful and grand, into the air, golden spikes shining against the moonlight, before facing her, eyeing her smugly, gaze now level with her own. Stella felt the heavy weight of her bag on her tired shoulder again as the floating guardian cruised easily, nudging her shoulder this time to another path unknown but undoubtedly still safe. Her patience grew thin, like waves eroding stone on the shore.

Stella squared her stance, determined to argue her case for the final time. “Look. I appreciate your guidance. But I just need to go over this hill and up to the Chief's residence. See those steps? They lead right up to it. So with all due respect, I request we part ways here. I'm sure you have better things to do than keep me company.” Mr. Guardian only blinked back, ever stoic, ever steadfast, like the rocks and gems it so resembles.

A different angle then? Stella cleared her throat, softening her tone. “As grateful as I am by your...escort, that place needs your attention more than me. Isn't that why you lingered? I'm not even one of the residents. I'm a complete stranger to these parts. You know this, yes? I won't loiter, I promise. I'll be on my way right after I get my charge. So just... ,” she huffed lamely, throwing a careless gesture behind them before climbing the final stretch to the hilltop, feeling the burn of golden orbs on her downturned face. An unusual sliver of guilt and sorrow grew, her heart thudded painfully with the weight of her emotions and the flash of dark memories.

In her world, all she knew was solitude. The discover of her unique blood, after an experiment gone wrong, made her both the target of envy, and adoration within their clan. An unholy reverence surrounded her person that no one is allowed to reach, to interact – less her value lessens.

If she bore children while in her 'highest' state – a form that fills her with self-loathing – she will produce perfection – or so her relatives would justify. Her descendants will be strong, beautiful, flawless. They can never succumb to any illness deadly to man, and will endure life with longer vitality. Her songs can soothe and heal, whether they be as benign as cuts and scratches, or as ruinous as broken bones or scalded skin.

Nothing is impossible – especially if you disregard the fact she'll feel the pain as each broken seam would stitch back together, each regeneration and painful growth slicing deep.

Hers was a life generations of her family has sought for, has craved for.

The power at their fingertips... no matter the cost...

She's the perfect bargaining chip... until she isn't.

I made sure of it.

Stella absently stroked at her abdomen, glancing at Mr. Guardian, eyes turning thoughtful as she focused on the present.

Nevertheless, no matter how less lonely she felt on the walk back to Qingce Village, she's not exhausted enough to forget her senses. She could just imagine how bizarre the sight of her will be entering the quiet settlement, a floating serpent at her side. The sight of gleaming claws and sharp teeth will cause a stir. And she's no fool. No matter how...subdued it seems, the power pouring out of its scales could not be ignored or understated. It's small stature is no doubt a front of what its truly capable of. It must be a guardian for a reason.

But, as intimidating as it may be, she felt... protected while in its presence. Safe. It's... nice.

However –

I can't get used to it. I just can't afford to.

If her guess was correct, the guardian is bound to this place, like all the other stone statues dotting in and around the village. As secure as she felt knowing someone, or something, will have her back, she knows once she and Mei returns to the harbor, she'll be the one to take care of things. She'll be the one that needs to do the protecting.

Until... until Mei is of age. Maybe have a family of her own. Someone else would cherish and protect her. And she'll... after that...

After that –

Stella minutely shook her head, stopping herself from letting her heartache show.

She won't linger on the thought, on the maybes or whatifs. That future is still so far away, so uncertain.

Even though she knows her future is uncertain –

Until then, I need to make sure Gran-gran's send off goes well. I just have to deal with life, one day at a time.

She eyed Mr. Guardian again, who remained unmoved, with a golden gaze both ominous and resolute. Its body was poised yet rigid, telling her how adamant the creature was about sticking with her until her journey's end.

She turned her head away, brows furrowing at the sight of orange light peaking at the distance, thoughts racing. The village may be full of the elderly and children, but they're hardworking, morning people, that rise with the sun. Spotting her and her unusual companion wouldn't be difficult. And because its full of the elderly and children, panic might erupt, causing unnecessary damage she knows she won't be able to compensate while already running low on energy – and mora. The Glaze Lilies she worked so hard for might also get lost in the process.

In short, not hiding the creature will be a hassle. And lastly –

Stella studied the stubborn creature as she rested a hand on her hip. A finger, tapping. “Alright, fine. You want to know why I don't want you going with me?” It tilted its muzzle, eyes turning intrigued. “I'm not exposing Mei to you. I promised to protect, and care for her. She already has enough heart ache as it is. I don't want her getting a heart attack from being face to face with something that has deadly claws and fangs.”

-{-}-

Golden orbs widened, thrown off guard by the admission – or was it a threat – the dig of claws on the ground easing. After a long moment, Morax could not help but chuff – the only way he could show amusement in this form – with eyes closing in relief, and great sympathy.

To protect with resolution. To uphold that which one has agreed upon with conviction –

The siren is more like a geode then. Many layers still guard her crystalline core.

He blinked, considering.

Morax then shook his mane, dismissing her worries gently, before floating up back at her side. He made one of his whiskers drift up, waiting until the lady directed her perplex eyes on him, before tapping at the end of her nose, chuffing slowly. She let out an indignant, but charming squeak, dispelling from the morose aura she surrounded herself in. He stretched out, encircling her form with his, and nuzzled softly at her shoulder. He paused, giving her time to make up her mind, before curling up more when he felt curious fingers slowly pet at his scales.

There is only so much he could do with this form, a far cry from the freedom that speech has granted him in his other when negotiating or imparting knowledge. It is... different, but not an unwelcome experience. He could only hope she is lucid enough to understand his meaning: comprehension, compassion, and comfort. For not only does he want any innocent under his watch, directly or indirectly, to go unscathed, but also to sate the growing curiosity he has for such an interesting entity – is she of the divine? Is she only mortal, but not of this world?

Will she be a threat to his Liyue?

He may yet know. Maybe not for a long time. But until then, he will oversee, he will keep watch – just as he has done for more than the past three millenia.

Hm. How peculiar. The thought seems... heavier, somehow.

Ah. He could feel the weight of her stare, full of disbelief. He refrained from snorting, giving her more time to digest that he's not just all brawn, unyielding like the Ice Crystals in Dragonspine. He can be as soft as clay when the need arises.

Eventually, her shoulders sagged, wordlessly admiting defeat. He closed his eyes again, satisfied.

Never has his persuasions failed. He is not about to break his record now.

-{-}-

Arriving at Granny Ruoxin's was easier than Stella thought, the sun barely peaking over Mt. Qingce. All was still and quiet, except for the bubbling waters and creaking wood from Ms. Bai's mill. She hurried, self consciously sneaking glances around her.

The moment they arrived at the steps, she turned and place her bag down, opening the flap.

“Inside,” she gestured with a pointed finger, raising a brow when the creature blinked back. “Since you seem unbothered of revealing yourself to people, I assume they're used to you here. But Mei isn't. I prefer controlling how you two would meet, even though its the Lilies I want to show her more.”

When the guardian narrowed its eyes, seeming to think it over, Stella closed her own, running a hand through her hair, channeling what remains of her composure.

Feeling movement and the soft brush of fur, Stella snapped her eyes open, seeing the guardian's tail curl up over the glowing blooms before settling, remaining still, like a large coil of braided rope around a wooden pole – except its a rock-like creature surrounding delicate little flowers. It's quite an enchanting sight.

Eyes softening, a small smile finally graced her tired face. “Thank you, Mr. Guardian.” She chuckled at the muffled, reply snort.

-{-}-

“You're back! Bekfast is ready~ Look! Mei helped Chief-dàmā lots!”

Mission failed.

Stella smiled, blank face a front to the series of fluctuating emotions coursing through her body. She watched the energetic girl stop long enough to set the table, tongue sticking out in concentration, before hopping back over to Granny Ruoxin.

“Don't just stand there, young lady. Dust yourself off and eat your fill. Little Mei has been excited to let you try her, ah, version of the Noodles with Mountain Delicacies,” the village chief crooned, eyeing her bag speculatively, but otherwise said nothing else about her night run.

“Yes. I'll, ah, go do that,” she muttered, facing forward to hide her back better. Its either Mei thought I was out early morning, or she's more perceptive and more understanding than a little girl should be. Her shoulders sagged again. She's maturing too fast.

When the busybodies turned back to coo excitedly at the stove, Stella mutely trudged to the next room, arms hugging a few choice items she snatched from a basket on the way.

Shutting the door with a soft kick, she kneeled at a corner, arranging the apples and sunsettias in a neat pile before shouldering her pack down. Star dotted orbs welcomed her at the opened flap, before a long muzzle slipped out, sniffing curiously at her offering. She hummed, “It's not much, I know. Unfortunately, the meat can't go missing before breakfast.” Stella stood, wetting a clean cloth nearby to scrub at her dusty face. “You prefer that don't you? With those teeth, you're definitely a predator. Or are you one of those spirits that prefer something exotic? Like a dish with fins or tentacles or – ” The creature reared back, snout scrunching in offense. Stella stifled a giggle, surprised at the unusually strong reaction.

Looks like its not made of rocks after all.

She quickly moved behind a screen, both to hide her amusement and freshen up. “That's good to know then. We're a long ways away from the sea. Just thinking about going to the harbor and back here is already exhausting.” She waited until she heard the telltale crunch of fruit being consumed before taming her hair, and using another cloth to wipe at herself as best she could.

“Lala? Lalaaa! You're taking so long. Mei's food will go cold!” A loud bang and the rush of small feet, which skid to an abrupt halt, silence following right after. Stella knitted her brow, confused, before her eyes widened, struggling against her clothes, sweating again for an entirely different reason.

-{-}-

In the many years Morax has existed, conquering all that oppose him, that threaten the safety of his chosen land, he fought foes that would otherwise destroy the very flesh and bones of beings made less than the divine. He subdued those that were as fierce and explosive as lava, that were dark and deceitful as magma, and those that were as cold and savage as the wild waters of the seas.

But the age of gods and monsters have passed, and a new age arose. A prosperous age. An eon of peace, much soughtafter. An era where the fragile could grow freely, in between the cracks of devastation and desolation. To spread their reach, and flourish. To learn. To improve. To create. To thrive and beautify, until those years of senseless destruction is but a distant memory, a myth, to be debated until the sands of time bury it completely.

A time now, where a tiny babe could boldly approach him, awe and amazement coloring her diminutive features, before gesticulating in proper, albeit clumsy courtesy. A whispered “Bìxià” solemnly left her lips. He rested on his haunches, blinking slowly, before nodding in acknowledgement. The child suddenly turned away, as if nothing had happened, inquisitively digging through the opened pack. She squealed, understanding immediately where the glowing is coming from.

Such splendid manners from a child so young. Sharp as a blade, but still so carefree. She is well cared.

Before long, the Miss... Lala was it? – or was this just a demonstration of the child's affection to the lady? – stumbled from behind the privacy divider, stuttering an explanation for his presence. She stopped at the child's happy sounds, eyes wide. Her shoulders relaxed as he continued to eat his humble meal, eyes closing to hide his amusement.

Ha! So even a fiery siren such as she can lose composure. Fascinating.

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[←Previous] | Chapter 3 | [ Next → ]

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

A/N: I don’t know why I’ve agonized over this chapter. Mostly about how Zhongli should be addressed. Ah well~

#To Be Seen #zhongli x female OC #zhongli x oc #fanfiction #companion mini exuvia #shapeshifting archon #zhongli

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duhragonball · 3 years

Text

Hellsing Liveblog Ch.4-6

This arc is called “Sword Dancer”, and I have no idea why, since they never call Anderson’s weapons anything other than “blades”. Are they swords? Maybe, but you never see him dance.

The story starts at an orphanage, where Alexander Anderson is a priest there, settling a fight between two boys. He sounds gentle and patient at first, until he tells them that the only thing they should be fighting are demons and heathens. That pretty much sums up the character. His mercy and compassion are almost entirely confined to the membership of the Catholic Church.

Then another priest shows up and informs him of all the vampire incidents going on in the U.K. Anderson doesn’t much care, since it only means more dead Protestants, right? Except this latest incident is happening in Northern Ireland.

So this neatly sets up one of the major conflicts within Hellsing. Kouta Hirano took the vampire lore from Dracula and expanded it into a sort of 20th Century Cold War thing. Instead of a single vampire hunter using crosses and holy water, we have an entire government agency, a secret service steeped in religious imagery. But that religion isn’t a homogeneous thing. Christendom has splintered a few times over the centuries. Most notably, there was the East-West Schism of 1054, which saw the Eastern Orthodox Church separated from the Roman Catholic, and the Protestant Reformation that began in 1517.

I’m not sure how much research Kouta Hirano did into this topic, because he seems to have distilled the whole thing down into two major vampire-hunting groups, the Catholic “Section XIII” also known as the “Iscariot Organization”, and the Protestant Hellsing Organization. Hellsing only bothers with vampire stuff in the United Kingdom, while Catholic Ireland is under the protection of the Iscariots.

Presumably, the Iscariots are tasked with protecting other Catholic nations as well, and maybe other Protestant countries have their own vampire-hunting sqauds to mirror Hellsing, but this overlooks the bigger issue: Catholics and Protestant populations don’t just fit neatly inside of political borders. There’s plenty of Catholics inside Great Britain, for example, so it’s kind of glib for Anderson to write off British casualties as “not my problem”.

And I think Hirano recognizes this, which is how Northern Ireland ends up in this story. All of Ireland was British territory until 1921, when it was partitioned. Southern Ireland became an independent nation, while Northern Ireland wanted to remain in the U.K., so it did. This has caused no small amount of conflict in the decades since, and Hirano uses it here rather effectively. There’s a treaty between Iscariot and Hellsing, one that recognizes Northern Ireland as their territory, but Iscariot still sees a duty to protect the minority Catholic population.

So Anderson is sent to deal with the vampire attack at Badrick (or “Patrick” depending on who’s translating, and if he runs into Hellsing, well that’s too bad for them. Despite the treaty, Iscariot considers themselves to be the morally superior group, so they won’t back down if confronted.

From all of this, I get the sense that the normal relations between these two groups sort of depends on the rarity of vampire attacks. There’s a lot of unsettled issues between them, but as long as nothing happens in disputed zones like Northern Ireland, everyone sort of minds their own business.

Anyway, it’s now August 15, and Hellsing is indeed intervening in Patrick. I never understood why Alucard had Seras sitting outside while he fought the ghouls in this house, especially when he was just going to call her in later. But now it makes more sense to me. He went in expecting to kill the vampire inside, and she’s outside to shoot down anyone who tries to escape, just like in Chapter 3. Except Al found more ghouls inside than he bargained for, and he finds this dull, so he’s calling an audible and bringing Seras in to handle them instead.

And this marks the debut of Seras’s Hellsing uniform. In the anime, she gets this look pretty much from the start, so it’s weird to see her wearing pants in Chapter 3. I assume she’s wearing pants in Chapter 2, but we don’t see her lower body in that. My head canon is that she was still wearing her old police gear up until Chapter 4, while this uniform was still being tailored.

I have mixed feelings about the design. My first time seeing Seras was a cosplay photo, and I dug the idea of a vampire soldier. Once I found out Hellsing was all about weaponizing vampires, I got into it pretty quickly. And I found out Seras started out as a police officer, and that seemed really cool. Like Alucard would handle all the spooky blood licking stuff, and she would dust for fingerprints and use pencils to pick up guns. The uniform implies a professional discipline, the sort of thing that would set it apart from the almost casual villainy I find in vampire shows like Buffy or what-have-you.

But, the artwork tends to make this look ridiculous, because Hirano keeps drawing it like it’s skin-tight around the boobs. I don’t understand why he keeps doing this, since you don’t normally see it on the other women characters in this story. Unless the idea is to set Seras apart from the others, which I can sort of understand. Seras is the sidekick, and to a certain extent, she’s supposed to look kind of silly. Even in this heroic pose, there’s still something goofy about her, like she can’t quite achieve full dignity yet. Maybe this is supposed to be like Robin wearing the short pants until 1991, but I never really cared for that creative choice either.

So she starts going to town, and Alucard takes a lunch break while she’s at it, which is a cool moment that didn’t make it into the anime. He reminds her that the ghouls have to be killed expediently using shots to the heart or head. That one who fell down the steps was still moving, you see, so Al had to finish him off.

And this is where Seras first addresses Al as “Master”. This was one of the first scenes I found when I started trying to find out more about the character. At first, it seemed like Seras was all business, but then you get stuff like this, where she’s doing the creepy vampire bit as well. I like the way Hellsing approaches this. Seras is gradually adjusting to being a vampire, and she isn’t always aware of that adjustment as it happens. It seems like combat helps her get into that zone. Early on, Seras would seem to change into a berzerker state, then snap out of it. Except she never snaps out of calling Alucard “Master”.

This is the start of that hard-to-define relationship between the pair. Remember, the Cheddar Priest said she would have free will as a vampire, but she defers to Alucard anyway. Before, that just seemed to be a practical matter. She recognized Alucard as a superior officer, and as a mentor figure. But now it seems more fanatical.

Watching the anime, I was suspicious of Alucard’s intentions, because... well why wouldn’t I be? He’s fucking Dracular for pete’s sake. I thought maybe he was angling for some chance to escape from Hellsing’s control, and maybe Seras was part of his plan. Scenes like this didn’t exactly dissuade me from that notion. Seras got some ghoul blood on her, and she finds herself compelled to eat it, and he’s looking on very excitedly. But then she gets impaled through the neck, and that puts an end to that.

Back at headquarters, Integra gets word that the Iscariots have send Alexander Anderson to Barick, and she realizes that this could escalate into a major incident. No one at Hellsing seems to know much about Anderson, except that he’s powerful, and if he runs into Alucard it could be a major battle.

This page marks the first appearance of Walter C. Dornez, whom she calls for consultation. I find it odd that Walter has already received the same report, and has already taken steps to deal with it. Almost like he expected something like this to happen...? 🤔 🤔 🤔 🤔

As it turns out, Anderson’s already there. He’s the one who impales Seras with a bunch of blades/swords/bayonets/whatever, and he already killed the vampire that Alucard was sent to find. As far as Anderson’s concerned, the only thing left to do is kill Alucard and Seras, but Al shoots him in the head before he can really get started. But as he goes to remove the holy blades from Seras, Anderson gets back up for Round Two.

Alucard calls him a “Regenerator”, like this is a thing he’s encountered before. Anderson’s not just a priest with blessed weapons, he’s got special powers that the Vatican gave him for the purpose of hunting vampires. Then he stabs Alucard a bunch of times and prepares to cut off his head for good measure, until Polnareff jumps in and... no, wait, wrong story. Yeah, Andy just chops his head off, then goes to finish off Seras.

Except Seras got away. Somehow she got up and lumbered off while he wasn’t looking, pulled out all the knives in her back, and then managed to double back and fetch Alucard’s head. Trouble is, she still can’t get out of the house, because Anderson set up a mystical barrier using sheets of paper. Boy, that’d suck if you touched a wall and it shocked you. Seras probably won’t forget this moment....

Then Al’s head is like “Ight Imma head out,” and melts into a puddle of blood.

The blood then arranges itself into words, which tell Seras to drink the blood, as this will make her into a “true” vampire, instead of a “servant” vampire, which I guess is what she is now. And this is also the first time we learn Seras’ true name. Everyone had been calling her “Police Girl” up until this point.

Although, one might argue from this scene that this is not her original name, and perhaps it’s a brand new name Alucard invented for her, one that she has to earn by willfully drinking blood. I’m pretty sure this was disproven by later flashbacks to Seras’ childhood, but it’s fun to think about. Maybe we never knew her human name. Maybe she doesn’t even remember it.

But before Seras can make that choice, Integra shows up with a couple of guards and tells Anderson to stand down. He kills the guards, and promises to finish her off as well, but she tells him that Alucard can’t be killed with a simple decapitation.

Also, Seras is back up. She hasn’t consumed Al’s blood, but she does pick up a gun to defend Integra, which is pretty cool. See? She looks badass here, maybe because you can’t see her anime boobs in this shot.

Anderson still likes his chances, until Alucard starts to reassemble his body. Unlike other vampires, stabbing Al through the heart and cutting off his head aren’t enough to kill him. This is because of... something the Hellsing family did to him over the past century. I don’t think it gets spelled out in this story, but it’s heavily implied that the Van Hellsing from the Dracula novel defeated Dracula and then enslaved him, and his family line has been modifying him ever since to turn him into their anti-vampire weapon. And a big part of that involves making him stronger than the typical vampire.

So Anderson withdraws, but only because he now sees he’ll need a bigger boat. Alucard tells Integra that Seras’s performance was “the usual”, which is funny considering how pleased he was with her before. Also he scolds her for not drinking his blood, and calls her a coward when she asks to be addressed by her name. One way or another, the theme here is that Seras has to earn a name. The way she is now, Al doesn’t seem to think she needs one.

Volume 1 ends with some notes by Kouta Hirano, including the part about how Alucard and Anderson never seem to run out of weapons. Cosmoguns? Fourth dimensional priests? I’m beginning to think this manga about super-powered vampires may not be entirely realistic.

Since chapters 1-6 aren’t quite big enough to fill out a collected edition, Hirano also includes a backup feature called “Cross Fire”, which he produced for “a defunct comic master”. He calls this a “springboard for Hellsing”, which isn’t hard to see, since it features the Iscariot Organization, including Enrico Maxwell, Heinkel Wolfe, and Yumiko Takagi, who show up later in Hellsing.

This short helps me understand these characters a lot better, because when I watched the anime, Wolfe and Yumiko just seemed to show up out of nowhere, with no explanation given. I think it was assumed that you would have read the manga collections first, and would know who they were. Anyway, they’re both nun assassins. Heinkel dresses like a man and uses guns, while Yumiko weilds a sword, but only when he “berzerker” personality, named “Yumie” is activated. In this story, she’s actually among the hostages that the duo were sent to protect, but Heinkel shows up and knocks her unconscious, which prompts her to wake up as Yumie and they killerize everyone.

I’m not sure if the Cross Fire stories are considered canon or not. The characters show up in Hellsing later, but not quite the same as before. So maybe these are prototypes rather than the real things. Maxwell, in particular, looks a lot like Integra here, to the point where I thought he might be a woman in this version. But the Heinkel/Yumiko team bears a strong resemblance to Alucard and Seras working together in Chapters 4-6, so it’s not hard to see the connection.

#hellsing #2021hellsingliveblog #sword dancer #alucard #sir integra hellsing #seras victoria #walter c dornez #alexander anderson #heinkel wolfe #yumiko takagi

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wakanda-flocka-flame-blog · 4 years

Text

The 15x08 episode Preview is the Reason I’m Drunk.

Firstly, I must mention that the episode that airs tonight was written by Bucklemming and directed by Speight, so... get ready for pain and cheap jokes. :)

Alright here’s where we’re starting out. The kitchen.

This scene being shot in the kitchen is so important. This kitchen is regarded as the emotional hub of the Winchester family. It’s been a common place of gathering for the boys and their closest of kin. It served as Castiel’s happy place when he was being used by Lucifer in season 11 episode 18 “Hell’s Angel”. This kitchen was where they mourned the passing of their son, celebrated his return, and fought about how to handle his downfall -- which led to the “break up” between Dean and Castiel.

Even though the kitchen is just one of many rooms in the bunker, the conversations that happen in this room are usually about the boys’ relationship with each other, the people they love, and the struggles they have with their emotional bonds. From Sam telling Dean he would have let him die if Dean had been the one to undergo the Trials in season 9 episode 13 “The Purge” to Jack asking Castiel why he can’t tell Dean and Sam about Cas’s Empty deal in season 14 episode 8 “Byzantium”. Unlike the strategy-bound plot points they tackle in their war room, the sickeningly violent threats in their dungeon, and the deafeningly long silences in their respective bedrooms, the kitchen is for family.

The kitchen is the room in the bunker in which Castiel feels the most comfortable. In there, he is pictured seated lethargically or leaning on a table or wall whereas in any other room in the SPN!verse, he stands or sits stiffly at attention for the most part. I

It is also the place where Dean feeds his family. Dean is known to see food as a type of love language; he cooks and eats emotionally. He has been known to consistently prepare meals for and feed Cas who has slowly stopped reminding Dean that angels don’t eat. Like at the end of “Byzantium” when Dean, Sam, Jack, and Cas all shared a burger and a beer after Jack’s rebirth.

Now, that that’s out of the way, let’s jump into the meat and potatoes of this meta study on the 15x08 midseason finale preview scene.

We open with Castiel sitting on his usual side of the kitchen table brooding, pensive, and alone. Immediately after, Dean appears by the door, peeking in before walking tentatively into the kitchen.

Something intense just happened between Castiel and Michael!Adam.

Cas glances up and they lock eyes for a second. The only time they give each other eye contact for the duration of the scene. Dean immediately heads to the fridge for a beer and opens it. He grabs this beer for show. He doesn’t seem to take a sip from it.

Note: This scene has running for 14 seconds in complete silence. Not even music. Just footsteps and breathing and Dean opening the fridge and popping a beer, so clearly that’s what the show is trying to get us to focus on. ITS QUIET. It’s tense. It’s strange. It sticks out to you as uncomfortable. This is on purpose.

Dean leans in the frame as though he’s standing at the table where he usually sits. The angle is staged in a way where they are both in the shot, but cannot be in focus at the same time.

For most of s15 a table has been between them whenever they were in a scene alone. There is intentional space here. They’re usually standing so close, a Bible couldn’t get through them. Dean has openly told Castiel to back up. This is weird for them, and it speaks volumes. They’re not as close as they used to be.

Dean says the first line, “Maybe you went too far.”

We can safely assume Dean is talking about what just happened with Cas and Michael!Adam, but there’s another strong layer to consider here.

Cas broke it off five episodes ago in season 15 episode 3 “The Rupture”. After that episode, Cas hopped in his car, stopped answering calls, and basically disappeared. He made himself unreachable.

Hmm. Speaking of going too far...

If anyone has “gone too far” in Dean’s mind, it’s Cas. Remember, y’all, Dean is the type of man to blow up Cas’s phone if he can’t find him. And, if he’s missing Castiel so much so often that he’s doing that, anywhere that isn’t right beside him is too damn far away. I don’t know what went on in the scene with Michael!Adam yet because this is just the preview scene we were given.

This episode airs tonight.

Cas does not look at him and eventually grumbles out, “………maybe.”

Cas noticed how loaded Dean’s opening line was. It had a double meaning for them. The only reason they are in the bunker together is because of Michael!Adam, Sam’s wound, and… well, because the plot demands it. They’re refusing to talk about why they’re so upset with each other, and that communication issue is manifesting through one long, continuous, never-ending fight. In past seasons, things get icy when Dean and Cas fight. They’re known to ignore each other, stare coldly in silence, bicker about how hurt they are, talk to each other through their family (Sam and Jack), and throw in a diss whenever they can slide it smoothly into the conversation. All that stuff your Grandma and Grandpa do at the Thanksgiving table after their 60 year anniversary. So, Cas clearly knows what Dean was getting at when he suggests Cas went too far. Because they’re fighting. And they’ve fought off and on for eleven years. Dean stabbed him the second he met him, this behavior is nothing new.

So, when Dean accuses Castiel, the angel answers, “Maybe.” instead of “you’re right”, which means there’s a fundamental disagreement here. They disagree when it comes to the episode’s textual issue of dealing with Michael!Adam and the subtextual issue of these two refusing to confess something to each other.

All in all, Castiel doesn’t think that he went too far in either situation, especially when it comes to Dean. Dean treated Castiel like a verbal punching bag, so he left and he did some stuff that Dean didn’t like, yeah, but he didn’t go too far. Not from Cas’s perspective. And, so Castiel’s answer to both questions is a passive aggressive “maybe”. Oof.

Dean speaks again, refusing to meet Cas’s eye, “I mean he’s been on lock down for quite a while, you know? Maybe you just, uh…………….. went too fast.”

Being locked in Chuck’s narrative has been like a trap for Dean. This narrative is something he can’t seem to get out of, much like a prison. Not knowing what’s scripted and what isn’t is getting to him. Freedom and free will is the paramount of Dean’s moral compass. But, in this situation, he doesn’t know how to be free, so he’s going through an existential crisis. And when he lashed out, it came from that locked up mentality being forced to do whatever someone else wants for the rest of his life, confined into a box, fighting the same fight over and over again. Dean can’t even trust his own friends, because they’re in this trap too and may be used to hurt him, which they have been before.

(i.e. Castiel being used by Heaven to hurt/betray him in s4, Castiel being used by Crowley to hurt/betray him in s6, Castiel being used by the Leviathan to hurt/betray him in s7, Castiel being used by Naomi to hurt/betray him in s8, Castiel being used by Metatron to hurt/betray him in s9, Castiel being used by Rowena to hurt/betray him in s10, Castiel being used by Lucifer to hurt/betray him in s11, Castiel being used by fetus!Jack to hurt/betray him in s12...... they need the best counseling money can buy.)

So, when Dean says that he’s been locked up for a while and Castiel went too fast, he means he needed Castiel to stay -- to put up with his attitude for just a little while longer, but Cas...

He went.

Too fast.

After hitting Cas with cruel words in the face of what seemed to be endless, brutal rounds of family tragedy after family tragedy, Cas peaced out. He’s done being treated this way. He wanted to leave, so he left. And when he left….

He left before Dean could figure out the right words to say to make him stay. He left before Dean could take it all back. He left before Dean could fix it.

He went.

Too fast.

That being said, what makes Castiel "Cas” is that he confidently writes his own stories. Dean was who he decided to follow while he lived this chapter of his own angelic life, but if Cas wants to stop following Dean, he can and he will. With barely a moment’s notice. Just like he did with Heaven. Castiel is his own singular being. He is self-sufficient, independent, and strong as a ox. Castiel is a creature of the sky, he can fly far away and it will feel natural to him. But because he is his own man, he will do so when he chooses. Chuck’s involvement in their lives bothers Cas, but not in a way that prohibits him from living his life and being himself.

That is not the case for Dean.

There is another long pause. Cas is waiting for Dean to keep talking. Castiel’s silence is loud, but not striking. Dean looks down at himself like he said too much. In a way he did. He starts again, “What’s he doing now?”

“No idea. He was very distraught.” Cas answers with curt and measured statements, hands folded on the table, hair... flawless.

Cas knows what it means to be imprisoned and trapped. He knows what it means to feel pain. But what he doesn’t understand is why Dean internalizes his pain, lets it boil into toxic emotions of self-hatred, and uses it as an excuse to hurt others -- even as an excuse to hurt Cas. Why Dean would do that… Cas has “no idea.”

He knows how he wants to be treated by Dean and he now refuses to accept any less. Thing is... Cas hasn’t told Dean how he wants to be treated. He just takes it and frowns. That doesn’t in any way mean he deserves to put up with Dean’s sourpuss attitude, but he is also expecting Dean to read his mind. They’re both at fault for the rift between them.

Dean presses the task at hand, wanting to cut through their fighting and solve the problem, “Yeah, but what exactly did he say?”

Cas, not getting the memo (which is very on brand for him), replies with words Dean has said to him unapologetically, “Leave. Get out. I want you dead.”

Cas looks like he’s about to cry.

There’s a long pause where Dean takes in his answer, knowing Cas is shoving his words back in his face. Dean nods and looks even further away from Castiel.

Somehow, this can also translate to the dramatic scene that will soon happen between Michael!Adam and Castiel.

It is important to note that Michael!Adam was the archangel who ran Heaven alongside Chuck for most of existence. He was every angel’s boss, including Castiel’s. There is no doubt that everything in Castiel’s life happened because Michael gave an order, and “Cas of the past” did it without question. Fast forward to 2008, Michael gives the order to rescue his true vessel and Cas fucking falls in love with it. Then, Cas rejects Heaven, teams up with his true vessel to fight him, and tricks him into The Cage for a very. long. time. Mind you, this happened after millions of years of basically being the most powerful being in creation with no enemies that could possibly be a threat.

I bet Michael hates Cas, and if those two were in a room together, he’d see Cas as a traitor against his own kind -- against him. Without Castiel, he wouldn’t have been locked away. Whatever words Michael!Adam had for Cas couldn’t have been kind. And when Cas said this, he was telling Dean that nothing Michael!Adam said to him cut worse than what Dean had said to him over the last few weeks.

Then, Castiel adds, “We didn’t bond.”

When Cas said the word “bond”, Dean Broke Down. It’s all over his face, his eyes go glassy, he looks up with an emotional blush. He’s clutching that beer like a lifeline. The words hanging here are:

We [Michael!Adam and I] didn’t bond. But, Dean, you and I did.

The thing about Michael and Adam is that they’re both Dean mirrors. They’re both final results of the two paths that Chuck’s script offered Dean, and they’re both not AT ALL who he is.

In every known universe, Michael is shown as this war hungry, super strong, ultimately immortal sociopath with unfettered power and no regard for humankind or monsters. If the supernatural world and Chuck had gotten their way, Dean would have literally become Michael. A villian. Dean does not consider himself a villian.

Adam on the other hand is a Dean mirror in a universe where John has little to no influence on his life. Adam is “pure!Dean without John and Sam”, raised by Mary as Mary wanted to be (not a hunter, living an apple pie life). Untouched by the supernatural, Adam’s happiest memories are of his prom and playing at the park with his mom. He liked sports, he dated girls, he planned for college and a career in his future. His life is what Dean missed out on when he was raised by John. Yet, what happened to Adam at the end of his life would have happened to Dean if he wasn’t trained and ready to fight the supernatural (which happened when he was raised by John). If the mortal world and Chuck had gotten another variation of his way, he would have ended up killed and possessed without the proper tools to defend himself from a tragic fate. A victim. Dean does not consider himself a victim.

Neither Michael nor Adam are versions of Dean that Cas could have bonded with, and these are the versions of Dean that Chuck kept pressing into his narrative throughout his life.

So when Cas said “We [Michael!Adam and I] didn’t bond” he was telling Dean that he always came back to him because he likes Dean for who he is, not for the narrative Chuck forces on his life. He doesn’t follow Dean because he’s the Righteous Man or because he’s Mary Winchester’s son. He follows Dean because they bonded. They have a connection, they’ve fought for each other, they know each other, they have history, they’ve coparented, and it is unlikely anything can break that bond between them.

He doesn’t understand Dean’s self hatred and cruel words which is why he left. Cas has come to a point where he knows Dean is a lil butthead sometimes, but because Dean and Cas are who they are, that connection between them is still there. Their bond hasn’t been severed, and it likely never will be. And a bond like that means that they love each other and will make it through this. But, Dean better not get it TWISTED. Their bond may not be broken, but it’s been beat down and slapped around. He needs to say sorry. Give a hug. Talk it out. Be a grown up.

Dean felt that pain Castiel felt when he heard his words repeated back to him.

He knows he hasn’t apologized. And everyone (Cas, Sam, Eileen, even the viewers) are waiting for an apology and Dean’s not doing it.

Why is Dean not apologizing?

Why won’t Dean say sorry for the things he said to Cas? Why can’t he find the words? Why is this so hard for him? What is he afraid he’ll accidentally say?

Dean doesn’t respond, so Cas sighs and asks where Sam is.

Relieved to have a break from being confronted with his previous actions, Dean struggles out his next line, but his voice wavers like he’s trying to sound casual even though he’s definitely about to cry. Sam has always been an easy topic for Dean to talk about, and while Cas isn’t done fighting, he still wants to be able talk to Dean while they’re together.

Dean says, “Eileen hit a snag on a case. So… he won’t be gone long.”

LET’S TALK ABOUT KITCHENS TWICE MORE AND WE’RE DONE I PROMISE LOL

Kitchen Point #1: Eileen and Sam are quickly becoming a package deal. Just last episode, they were cooking and flirting and smiling after a long night of having fun together. And, here, we see Dean and Castiel having the complete opposite of a good time in the exact same space. There is a notable mirror between the scenes of “Eileen and Sam in the kitchen” while Dean goes off to let them build up their bond, and “Dean and Cas in the kitchen” while Sam let's them repair their bond.

Kitchen Point #2: The kitchen shakes in a way reminiscent of when their son Jack escaped from the Malak box in season 14 episode 19 “Jack in The Box”. Then the first time kitchen shook, it was the final catalyst to break their family. Mary had just recently been killed, Jack was soulless, Dean and Sam went behind Castiel’s back to lock Jack in the Malak box, and Jack was soon to run away and get murdered. The end result of the previous shaken kitchen was Jack’s murder, Chuck’s reveal, and Dean and Castiel’s split.

Now the kitchen shakes again.

Cas looks at Dean for a second time as the scene closes and gets up pointing out the culprit as he says Michael’s name.

We don’t know if Dean looks back.

We get a harrowing shot of Michael!Adam.

The screen fades to black.

I can’t believe there was so much to read from that one small lil tiny preview scene. Safe to say I’m strapped in for the episode. Bring it on.

Just gotta say, I’ve loved all y’all work for a while :) I wanna be a meta-writer too and finally got to do one :) I will be doing more throughout the final season :) your meta work gives me life :) so glad you are writing too :)

@amwritingmeta @drsilverfish @naruhearts @mittensmorgul @bluestar86 @tinkdw @legendary-destiel @elizabethrobertajones @dotthings @dimples-of-discontent

#supernatural meta #destiel meta #destiel #deancas #dean winchester #castiel #season 15 #spn 15x08 #our father who aren't in heaven #spn promo #supernatural promo #meta #season 15 speculation #my meta #spn meta #season 15 meta #kitchens

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

Happy Together : 14

Forgive, Forget

Character(s): (deceptively) dark!Steve

Warnings: this is a dark!fic, it contains non/dubious-consent elements. It goes without (and with) saying that this is 18+.

Series Synopsis: The reader is stood up while awaiting a blind date, instead finding herself keeping company with the restaurant’s famous owner; Steve Rogers. After that night, she tries to forget her humiliation but she just can’t shake one thing about that night: him.

Masterlist

Chapter Summary: The reader tries to be good

Notes: I did it! I got this chapter done after sitting on the first half for the last week. I hope you enjoy it and so sorry about it being late. Enjoy your Wednesday or what day it is for you and hopefully this makes your hump day all the better. Love you all. Thanks for your patience and understanding, but most of all, your support <3

I looked forward to hearing from you in the replies/reblogs/tags/asks. <3

Steve bent to pull you off the stairs and into the bedroom. He held you away from him, his hands on your shoulders as he stared back at you. It felt so nice. So nice to be seen. His own eyes were glossy. ��Say it again, honey,” He intoned.

“I love you,” You sputtered as if the words couldn’t rise fast enough. “I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” He pulled you to him, your head against his shoulder as he embraced you. You could hear his heartbeat; it mingled with your own as it pulsed in your ears. “It’s okay, honey. I forgive you.” He held you for a time before slowly releasing you. As he parted from you, he took your hands and marveled at the stone along your ring finger. “You put it back on.”

“You didn’t...take it,” Your voice didn’t sound like yours. It had been so long since you had anyone else to talk to. Since he had even looked at you. You were stunned to find his gaze held no resent; no anger. Only affection.

His hand closed over yours and his other came up to touch your cheek. You could smell yourself. Out of the small box below, your filth became more apparent. You were suddenly embarrassed but he didn’t seem to notice. He bent to kiss your lips. You almost turned away; out of shame, guilt. That reticence which came after a grave offence. When compassion felt like censure.

You let him press his lips to yours. Leaned into him even as his warmth flowed through you. A relief after the last nights spent in the cold. The thin blanket a poor solace in the storm. When he stood straight, you were unsteady. Dizzy from the rush of human contact. The lights blurred in your vision, the room a cloud; dreamlike. It was as if you had ascended to a new world.

“Come on,” He kept hold of your hand and drew you towards the bathroom. He led you inside and released you reluctantly. You watched as he bent over the tub and cranked the faucet. The splash of water against the porcelain sent a shiver through you. You longed to sink its its depths forever. “I’ll get you something to sleep in…” He paused and looked down at you, “You looked tired, honey.”

You folded your hands before you and looked down. How kind he was. To care for your so diligently. You had been so selfish in not seeing it for so long. For denying him. “I’m sorry.” You mumbled again.

“Please, no more apologies,” He brushed his hand along your arm and kissed your forehead. “We should focus on our future...together.”

You nodded and he stepped past you. You listened as you twiddled your fingers. You could hear his footsteps in the bedroom, the groan of the closet door. It was so much nicer up here. Below, everything felt so distant. So unreal. You neared the tub and watched as the water poured in. The ripples swam in your head as the steady flood sent a chill through you. You lost yourself in the music of the water. An unknown string tugged at the back of your mind. An obscure shadow looming over you as if you had forgotten something important.

You jumped at the sudden movement along the edge of your vision. Steve set down a coral sleeping gown on the toilet seat. He smiled at your disoriented gaze. You returned the gesture but your lips trembled and you quickly pressed them together. You looked back to the claw-footed basin and Steve’s silhouette retreated. The door clicked and you peeked over your shoulder to find it closed.

You heart raced as you stared at the door. Another small box. Another cell. You wanted him to stay. You didn’t want to be alone again. You stutter-stepped towards the door but stopped yourself. You weren’t trapped in here; he was just there on the other side of the wall. Waiting for you. You exhaled and spun back to the tub. You stumbled over to twist the faucet before it could overflow.

You stripped yourself of the musty underwear. Your fingers impatient and clumsy. You caught yourself on the edge of the tub as your feet caught in the panties. You lifted your leg over the porcelain, then the other. You braced the sides as you lowered your achy body into the steamy pool. A chill went through you despite the heat. As you sank back against the basin, your worries slaked away in the depths.

You didn’t move for a while. Your muscles, stiff from days atop the thin mattress, loosened and your skin buzzed at the fiery embrace of the water. You sat up to scrub yourself. Lavender replaced the stench of sweat. The water coloured with the remnants of your metamorphosis. You were you again. The world was clear and you had a place in it.

You pulled the plug and lifted yourself wearily. You were suddenly very tired. You just wanted to lay down. You dried off and pulled on the sleeping gown. There were no underwear to go beneath. You gathered your dirtied garments from the floor and hung the towel on the rack. You slowly opened the door and stepped out into the room. It was so much brighter than before.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed and stood as you emerged. You held up your handful and nodded to the closet. He smiled in permission and you crossed the room softly. As if any noise or sudden movement would rile him. You dumped the underwear in the hamper and turned back to the room. The hatch was closed and once more concealed below the rug. Your cheek twitched. You were safe, for now. So long as you were good.

“Come here,” Steve turned and sat back against the headboard, his hand rubbed circles beside him on the mattress.

You bit the inside of your lip and neared meekly. The scene reminded you of another time. A memory you couldn’t place. You climbed up onto the bed and settled beside him. He drew you close with an arm around your shoulder.

“I missed you,” He whispered in your ear.

“I missed you, too,” You replied swiftly. You had to make him know how much you needed him, then he could never throw you back down there. “I really did...I--”

“I know, dear,” He took your hand and held it up before him. “It hurt me too. To not have you here. To hold...to touch.” Your entire being buzzed at the timbre in his voice.

Your jaw tensed and you watched his fingers twine with yours. He was so warm. So tender. You had never noticed before how kind he was. You raised your head slowly and looked him in the eye. His blue irises twinkled down at you. No one had ever looked at you like that. You didn’t deserve him.

“Can I--” You clasped your lips shut and shied away guiltily. You knew what you wanted to ask but didn’t know how. You were embarrassed to say it aloud. You lowered your eyes and shook your head at yourself. Steve’s hand left yours and he nudged your chin so that you had to look at him.

“What?” He urged. You could tell he knew what you wanted. The glimmer in his eye had changed; the curve of his smile, too. “Say it.”

You swallowed and drew your brows together. You focused on the words as if you were speaking a foreign language. As if trying to comprehend some elaborate riddle. “Can I…” You closed your eyes as you thought of the nights below. The noises of his pleasure above. Your interminable desolation. Your eyes snapped open and the words tumbled out. “Can I touch you?”

He sighed as if in relief. He leaned back against the headboard and his smile grew as he lifted a brow. His arm bent and he ran his fingers over your hair. “Of course, honey.” His voice was airy yet heavy. Delighted but determined. His eyes fell to his lap and yours followed. You could see him through his thin pajamas. His cock was already hard and twitched beneath the plaid.

His breaths were measured but loud. His anticipation thickened the air and you wiggled your fingers nervously. You licked your lips as you looked up at him for approval. He nodded and you rested your hand on his thigh. His breath hitched for just a second. Slowly, you let your hand drift upward, his arm fell once more across your shoulders. You twisted as you reached the waistband, his arm curled around you with your movement.

You tugged on the elastic and he shifted. He lifted his pelvis as you pulled them lower. You felt a shiver shake his body as his pajamas slipped down his thighs. You angled the waistband past the swollen head of his cock and you couldn’t help the dusky gasp which escaped your lips. You pushed his pants past the base of his erection as your palm brushed against his length.

You released the fabric and dragged your fingertips along his cock. He shuddered and your eyes clung to his girth. He was big. You traced a circle around the head and he rasped. You gripped him, his flesh hot against yours, and slowly ran the length of him. His hand went to the back of your head and he pulled your closer. His breath brushed over you as he nuzzled your hair. He pressed a firm kiss against the top of your head.

You brought your hand back up and a chill tickled your spine. You repeated the motion, twisting just a little around his head. He groaned and his pelvis bucked in surprise. You continued to stroke him as his grunts grew deeper; louder. His other hand stretched across yours and his fingers grasped the back of your head as he pushed himself against you. Wrapped himself around you entirely.

He guided your hand with his. His pace grew quicker and quicker as his breath kept time. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he held you to him. His whole being quaked against you as the heat bloomed in your core. You could feel your desire as it flowed from you. You felt his body tense and a spurt of warmth dribbled down your hand and between your fingers. You spread his cum along his cock and he threw his head back in a sudden and final grunt.

He stilled your hand but kept it around his cock. His cum cooled along your palm and slowly he removed it as it turned sticky. He admired it in the light as his embrace around you loosened. He let go of your hand and fell back heavily against the headboard. His hairline was damp with sweat and his eyes closed in rapture. You held your hand up to keep from spreading the mess and waited for him to recover.

His hand balled into a fist against his thigh and his other clenched the strap of your nightgown. He huffed and his jaw squared as he squeezed his eyes tight. He shook his head and sharply recoiled from you as he sat up. He turned his legs over the side of the bed and hung his shoulders forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. “No. no… we can’t. Not yet.”

“Sweetheart?” You called to him softly. You got to your knees and neared him unevenly on the mattress.

“Don’t touch me,” He stood and spun to look down at you. “Not...now.” He inhaled deeply and steadied himself with a hand on his chest. “I just...we have to wait for…” His eyes ran down your body. The strap of the nightgown had fallen down your shoulder and you felt the cool air low on your cleavage. He gulped and reached out to fix it, a tentative pat to secure it. “You should go wash up.”

He stepped back and turned away from you again. You watched him as he crossed his arms and the muscles of his broad back tightened. He was fighting with himself. You carefully stood from the bed and tiptoed behind him to the bathroom door. You looked at him just before you entered, he raised his hands to the back of his head as sighed.

“Not yet,” You heard him mutter. “Not,” A shaky breath between words, “Yet.”

You left him as he was, afraid to push him further. His lust didn’t scare you, only his displeasure. You suspected if you were to force him beyond his limit, his yearning may once more turn to acrimony. That you would earn another punishment.

You neared the sink and turned the handle. You shoved your hand under the stream of lukewarm water and watched it wash over your hand. You guilt flowed down the drain with his cum. You could be good. You had to.

#happy together #series #dark!steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers #fic #au #captain america #dark!steve rogers #dark steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers #mcu #marvel #dark fic #dark!fic #darkverse #dark!verse

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imagine-loki · 4 years

Text

Pride and Prejudice

TITLE: Pride and Prejudice CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 30 AUTHOR: wolfpawn

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths. RATING: Mature NOTES/WARNINGS: Forced Marriage, not all fun and games. My first real step back into the Loki scene in over a year.

Tags - @skulliebythesea @asimovethroughthisworld @blackcherry26-blog @we-shadowhunter2901

When Loki was finished dealing with different matters for the evening and went to his rooms, he winced slightly to see Ella looking at him almost expectantly. He then recalled that he had suggested they have dinner again that evening, and by forgetting about it, was now forty-five minutes late for it. “I am sorry.”

“I assumed you were busy. I was about to leave actually.” She rose slightly.

“Please, no. I will have something else brought.” He went to take the food.

“I have a spell on it, it is still warm. If you wish to eat, then fine, if not, then that is fine too.” Ella smiled.

“No, please, stay seated. But please, forgive my forgetting. I had a lot to deal with this evening.”

“It has indeed been a busy day. I assume the King is pleased with everything from Vanaheim?” Ella began with such talk, not sure if Loki wished to speak of other matters.

Loli sat across from her, taking some food to his plate. “You should have begun to eat without me.” He commented first. “Yes, he is elated. These will, of course, have to be solidified in the near future to be upheld but it is a great step forward for us.”

“You deserve great praise for it.”

“I think you mean you do.”

Ella scoffed slightly. “I am not of a position for such things. You have seen clearly already, women do not hold many positions of power. But that does not mean I am without use. People’s dismissal of a woman is often where she becomes her most valuable. The same can be said of servants. Always remember, as invisible as they seem, servants and maids, hold information no other does of those that employ them.”

Loki eyed her carefully for a moment. “You are more astute than is normal.”

“I just think about things from as many angles as I can.” She shrugged. “So, was there anything else of interest after we all left?”

“No, Father spoke for a few minutes, then I spoke with a very unwell Helbindi.”

“Is he alright?”

Loki scoffed slightly. “Perfectly fine, he was my drinking partner last night, so…”

“Ah, fair enough.”

“He was envious of your trick.”

“Well, I am bound by wifely duty to assist my mate, he needs to get himself a seidr wielder of his own if he wants to get such assistance. I am not enduring the effects of alcohol I did not consume for just anyone.”

“Well, I am grateful you did so for me.” Loki smiled as he ate, noting the genuine smile on her face also. He contemplated what he wished to speak about regarding more intimate matters but felt it had no place at the dinner table. Looking up again, he noted that Ella was looking at him with interest. “Sorry? I was in my own head, did you say something?”

“No, I did not, though I can see in your eyes there is something you wish to speak about.” Loki frowned at her. “You’re somewhat easy to read.”

“Am I?” Loki prided himself on being like his father, keeping his thoughts to himself and not revealing them, her statement startled him. “How?”

“You leave that facade you use in the throne room and the halls as soon as you come in here, or whatever room you are calling your sleeping quarters, it is one of the greatest things about you.”

“It is a weakness.” Loki scowled.

Ella shook her head. “Nothing of the sort. It is wonderful. I think it to be one of your greatest qualities. In these rooms, you are not the future of the monarchy, you are a man, a son, brother, friend and mate, you should be who you wish to be.”

“I wish to be strong.”

“Strength is not measured by stoicness. Norns, look at my father if you look at no other. I call him ‘Papa’, he treated me in a manner of which would have opened him to ridicule by some and an all-out weakness and proof of his not being fit to rule by others, yet he did so because he is my Papa and he loves his family. You will be even better, I think.” Her smile was honest.

Loki said nothing for a moment as he analysed her words. “Do you think love to be a strength or a weakness?”

“Strength.” Her answer was immediate. “Have you ever seen those who fight for love, it is far more brutal, they feel they need to prove themselves for those they love, they have a reason. Those who view love as a weakness don’t know actual love. A mother will die to protect her child, she will endure unspeakable pain and torture for her child, as would many fathers. A man who is protecting his family is a terrifying creature.”

“But it can also bring the strongest of men to his knees,” Loki retorted. Ella looked at him analytically. “No, I am not referencing her, you were entirely right on that matter, she is not worth my time. She...I do not wish to reference her. She is not worth it.”

There was clear vitriol in Loki’s voice. He was still angry, that was clear, but the determination in his eyes told her that he believed the words himself. Putting down her fork, she gently put her hand on his, giving him an encouraging smile. “You need to mourn the loss of what you had but not at the cost of what you have. You have your place as heir to put first and foremost, do not allow any to deter you from that position. You consider Jotunheim above yourself, you are a truly selfless man and you should not be punished for that. I know I have a considerable part in this, forcing you to adhere to a system you do not wish to be part of.”

“No, your words were true, it would not be fair to allow myself personal happiness with another and deny you the same. To risk a child with another but not allow you the same liberties would be wrong. The agreement stands, any of my blood, you carry and any you carry must be of my blood. I could never allow a situation where my mate could put a non-Jotnar on the throne of Jotunheim, it would cause uproar.”

Ella nodded with pursed lips. “But I still feel some guilt for your pain. You can say what you like, it does not take that from my thoughts.” Loki nodded slightly in acceptance of her statement. “I never got to know the love you felt, I cannot imagine the hurt it caused you.”

“You loved that guard.”

“I never gave myself to loving anyone, not as you did. Your personal experience of it does blur your opinion on love and its strength and weakness, but it is a strength, you know it. For your father or your brothers, you would be unstoppable to save them.”

“Brother,” Loki corrected.

“Brothers,” Ella repeated. “You do not like one of them right now but you love them both.”

Loki looked at her and noted there was a sadness in her face. “Do you think your brother loves you?”

“I think my brother has a sense of duty to me, in that, a slight on me is a slight on my father’s house, position and name.” She explained. “I suspect it to be similar with you.” Loki cocked his head slightly at such a statement. “You do not love me but were someone to do something that would risk me, you would feel a sense of duty to me as a result of our tie through marriage.”

Loki looked down, it was an accurate statement. He did not love her, that was something he knew but he did like her and would not wish for harm to befall her. There was also incredible truth in the statement that a slight on her was a slight on him and his family and that was unacceptable also. “Knowing you as I do now, even without you being my mate, I would feel a slight tie to you. As I suspect you would for me.”

Ella smiled at his comment. “I would. I mean, I would not take a dagger to the heart for you, perhaps to an extremity, like the upper arm muscle or something. Not a stab, more of a slash, maybe.”

Loki, seeing her playful smirk, laughed at the comment. “Well, it is more than most would do, I would imagine. In a political marriage, from what I saw in our time on Vanaheim, that is practically a declaration of undying love.”

Ella laughed. “Not all political marriages end up like Fren Eriksson’s.”

“Some do.”

“Yes,” She conceded, thinking of the horrible man and his equally horrid wife they had been forced to endure on Vanaheim whose contempt for one another was unrivalled in Ella’s opinion. “Yes, some do. And for the rough that came at the beginning of this, I think us to be doing reasonably well now.”

Loki thought to that morning again, while both of them were in bed together, him accidentally sleeping on her, her kindness and compassion for him. He even recalled the momentary glimpse in her seidr induced memory show where he curled in against her shoulder and she willingly accepted his being there. He also recalled how she gripped his body, her heels against his ass as they mated, the manner in which she held onto him. It was nothing like before when she simply lay there waiting for it to be over. He knew he was the only one she had ever mated with, yet that morning, it was as though she had been doing so for many decades with him. “I guess it to be reasonable enough.” He shrugged as he spoke back, causing her to laugh as Loki attempted and failed to remain stoic. He did not wish to admit it, but he enjoyed being able to joke with her. Ella was always honest, she never lied to him. He wondered how to broach the subject with her with regards to her silence in bed.

When the meal was done and after some more talking on matters of the realm, Ella rose to leave, startling Loki slightly. “I best let you get some rest, I dare say you wish for your own bed tonight, being stuck with me for a night longer than expected was not your plan for last night.” She stated as she made for the door.

As she passed him, he gently took her wrist, causing her to look at him curiously. “Please, stay.”

“I…Are you not sick of me yet?”

“No.” Loki rose from his chair and gently guided her to the bedroom, allowing her to feel that should she wish to decline, then she need only pull her hand from his grasp, yet she went willingly.

#Loki #others #submission #Submitted fic #Pride and Prejudice #chapter 30 #wolfpawn

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wolfpawn · 4 years

Text

Pride and Prejudice, Chapter 30

Story Summary - Based on an idea I had that I submitted to Imagine Loki. Imagine Loki was raised on Jotunheim as Laufey’s son after the war, but an agreement was then made that he would wed Odin’s daughter so Odin could secure the alliance of Jotunheim through the marriage. Loki, in turn, was raised to be king of Jotunheim, but how he views Asgard is far different from how Odin’s daughter is raised leading to a clash of cultures as well as uncertainty between the pair of betrothed youths.

Chapter Summary - Loki returns to his rooms for the evening, having forgotten he had made plans with his mate for dinner.

Previous Chapter

Tags - @peppermint-j @damalseer @perpetual-fangirl @tinchentitri @inspired-snowflace @raphaelaisabella @alexakeyloveloki @caffiend-queen @devilbat @nonsensicalobsessions @skulliebythesea @majoringinlife @salempoe @lotus-eyedindiangoddess @rookienumber98 @emily-s1263 @ivytoh @agarwaeneth

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“I assumed you were busy. I was about to leave actually.” She rose slightly.

“Please, no. I will have something else brought.” He went to take the food.

“I have a spell on it, it is still warm. If you wish to eat, then fine, if not, then that is fine too.” Ella smiled.

“No, please, stay seated. But please, forgive my forgetting. I had a lot to deal with this evening.”

“It has indeed been a busy day. I assume the King is pleased with everything from Vanaheim?” Ella began with such talk, not sure if Loki wished to speak of other matters.

“You deserve great praise for it.”

“I think you mean you do.”

Loki eyed her carefully for a moment. “You are more astute than is normal.”

“I just think about things from as many angles as I can.” She shrugged. “So, was there anything else of interest after we all left?”

“No, Father spoke for a few minutes, then I spoke with a very unwell Helbindi.”

“Is he alright?”

Loki scoffed slightly. “Perfectly fine, he was my drinking partner last night, so…”

“Ah, fair enough.”

“He was envious of your trick.”

“No, I did not, though I can see in your eyes there is something you wish to speak about.” Loki frowned at her. “You’re somewhat easy to read.”

“Am I?” Loki prided himself on being like his father, keeping his thoughts to himself and not revealing them, her statement startled him. “How?”

“You leave that facade you use in the throne room and the halls as soon as you come in here, or whatever room you are calling your sleeping quarters, it is one of the greatest things about you.”

“It is a weakness.” Loki scowled.

“I wish to be strong.”

Loki said nothing for a moment as he analysed her words. “Do you think love to be a strength or a weakness?”

“You loved that guard.”

“Brother,” Loki corrected.

“Brothers,” Ella repeated. “You do not like one of them right now but you love them both.”

Loki looked at her and noted there was a sadness in her face. “Do you think your brother loves you?”

Ella smiled at his comment. “I would. I mean, I would not take a dagger to the heart for you, perhaps to an extremity, like the upper arm muscle or something. Not a stab, more of a slash, maybe.”

Ella laughed. “Not all political marriages end up like Fren Eriksson’s.”

“Some do.”

As she passed him, he gently took her wrist, causing her to look at him curiously. “Please, stay.”

“I…Are you not sick of me yet?”

“No.” Loki rose from his chair and gently guided her to the bedroom, allowing her to feel that should she wish to decline, then she need only pull her hand from his grasp, yet she went willingly.

#Pride and Prejudice #Chapter 30 #loki fic #wolfpawn

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gaycharr · 4 years

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Stages of Grief

A bit different than my usual writing style i think, just a quick(ish) thing. Do the stages of grief apply to a life? When you lose your way, that is also a sort of grief, is it not ?

Vetrius and, in a way, resolutions. Initially inspired by @tyrias-library ‘s resolutions prompt but idk if it follows that theme enough to still count

warning for themes of depression and talk of suicide

Shock and Denial

Childhood is innocent, yes, but at what point does that naivete start to change into a painful awareness of those around you? Vetrius could pinpoint the exact moment.

She’d never given much thought to her own image until here. She was happy, and sociable. She enjoyed chatting with the others in her Fahrar and never thought twice about offering a hand to another.

It seemed this very thing was what would bring her new revelation around. Practicing in the yard (swords today) after a heavy rain. When her sparring partner slipped backwards, falling heavily to the ground as their sword thudded away, there was no hesitation on her end. She dropped her sword, stepped forward to offer her hand to her friend, and froze at the look on their face.

They sneered up at her angrily, eyes glittering. Vet felt numb as they slapped her paw from them and scrambled to their paws themself. She didn’t react even as the smaller cub shoved at her shoulders, making her take a step back as she blinked at them, still processing.

“Burn it! You’re so...so..SOFT! Can’t you just be normal?” The other cub hissed at her before stalking away. Vet felt her ears burning under the weight of the stares of the others. Her stomach churned. How had she missed this? Now that she looked, she noticed the pattern of slit gazes and twitching tails. How bodies angled from her and the line of the shoulders grew tense and flat.

Vet clenched her fangs. No, no, this was fine. This was normal. Nothing had happened.

Pain and Guilt

In the wake of her newfound hyper vigilance of others, Vetrius seemed to see evidence of her wrongness everywhere. Always too ready to offer a smile, to compromise, to lend a hand. These came naturally to her, but now it was soured by the jarring realization that these weren’t strengths, but weaknesses. It sat heavy within her, writhing and occasionally growing overwhelming and clawing up her throat.

At night she curled up on her bunk in a tight ball hugging her knees to her chest, tail wrapped around her. She clenched her teeth against the cresting waves of despair within her, clawed at the sheets in the breathless pain of emotion. What had she done to be so alone?

Anger

Slowly, so slowly, Vet’s pain and despair started to boil into anger. Why was it so hard for others to just accept each other, to be kind? Why was SHE the odd one out, for having fucking compassion? How dare she give a shit, how dare they treat her like this!

She withdrew ever further within herself. No longer attempting to bridge the gap between her and others, what was the point, she didn’t matter to them and she didn’t want to. No longer was she content either, to ignore snide remarks made against her, and her claws and fangs became ready to bear as she growled back.

She thought it was ironic, in a blood boiling way, how before she was too soft, but now she seemed too harsh, too prickly. The others avoided her now, not out of second hand embarrassment but out of a sort of discomfiting fear that the dog they’d beat might bite back now. She felt too big in her fur these days, felt as if she was always clenching her fangs against something- she didn't know what, just that it would be horrible to unleash.

Wasn’t she perfect now though? She thought with a snarl. Big and angry and ready to fight.

(and Bargaining)

She didn’t need them to accept her though. She could just- run away. Start a new life.

This thought manifested in different ways, but quickly took a turn for unhealthy. To fantasize of a new life is okay, but not when you stray into the territory of ‘can i just die now so i can have a new life’. The thought turned into claws over skin, an increasing recklessness with herself, an always prickling sense of being prepared for a fight against her peers.

And then it happened. A heavy storm that her band was caught in, trekking back home after some field practice. Heavier than normal. Vet foolishly remarked this out loud, and instantly remembered herself as another scoffed. “Scared of a little water?” was the sneered reply.

Vet felt her fur grow hot, start to bristle at the shoulders. Felt that ugly something rear up in her, ready to bite. And just as she opened her mouth, a flash of lightning blinded her. In the receding bright and boom of thunder, they all stared in shocked awe as a large portal opened in front of them.

Instantly her band began to bicker about what to do. Vet felt her anger fade as she considered. “We should go back and tell the others, see what they want to do about this.” It seemed sensible to her, what were they gonna do, step through it? Nothing else to do but find someone who could at least take a proper look.

Except- to her band- it translated into cowardice, a want to leave the situation and have someone else handle it. “You would say that! Hah! Why dont you just run along for us, we’ll stay here and do the hard work.” And suddenly the anger was back and boiling up and finally, Vetrius could no longer bared it.

It radiated off her, heavy and palpable, and even the storm seemed to quiet as everyone hushed and stared at her, waiting for the wave to crest. Her clenched fists trembled, blood mixing with the rain where her claws dug into her own skin.

She thought about turning around. Though about ripping into every single one, fighting until they had no choice but to admit that she was Strong, Stronger than them even. Distantly, breathlessly, and almost furiously disappointed in herself for it, she knew that she wasn’t going to do that.

Instead, she took a deep breath, and stepped through the portal. She would have a new life, one way or another.

Depression

The mists were unlike anything Vetrius had ever thought to expect. They were...ineffable, indescribable, in a way that sometimes struck an odd chord of nostalgia within her.

They were dangerous too, she quickly learned. When she first stepped into the mists from the portal, still dripping with rain water as it snapped shut behind her, she’d felt only a numb angry sort of joy. She’d stuck it to them! Except...what now?

Time passed, or at least Vetrius thought it did. It was hard to tell, some areas seemed to lack any sort of sun or moon even. She could measure it only by her hunger, which stopped being effective as she slowly began to starve, the small meals she was able to catch not quite enough.

Often she could feel the weight of a gaze on her, or would snap her head around looking for the source of an imagine whisper. She must be going crazy. She must be dying. The thought came almost as a relief to her. Or...she wanted it to be a relief, so she refused to admit that it wasn’t.

She struggled on and on and on. The worse her shape became, the more she struggled, the more the panic within her started to rise. Her admittance was just on the tip of her tongue but still she couldn’t let it out.

It was in the dead of night. She’d come across some berries and, starving, had eaten them. It was the wrong choice, she could feel her stomach rolling. By the time the cold sweat of fear had reached her, she knew it was too late, whatever she had eaten was undeniably poison and finally she was faced with the reality that she was going to die, possibly any moment.

Her limbs began to tingle, her vision growing hazy. She shook her head dizzily, trying to stay in focus. Her breaths came in harsh pants. And finally, FINALLY, her realization hit her in a bright burst of light.

(the upward turn)

She...she didn’t want to die! She could feel the thought fill her, breaking through the walls she’d built against her own self. She didn’t want to die, she wanted to live! She WANTED to live.

Her teeth creaked as she clenched them, heaving breaths through her nose desperately as she crumbled but suddenly unwilling to give up.

But it was too late, wasn’t it? Her arms shook, her mouth watered sickeningly. And- and-

Her vision was growing bright, so bright! She could barely see through the blinding light now. She was supposed to stay AWAY from the light, right? She stumbled back, not realizing that her vision had suddenly cleared, her limbs quickly regaining control.

“Be not afraid.” The voice sounded amused, and comforting. Vet could taste a spring breeze, despite the dusty crumbling walls of some mist castle around her. The light started to recede, and finally Vet realized that she wasn’t going to die, actually.

She looked up at the being of light, and it caused a weird feeling to squirm through her. Vet was kneeling, she realized, looking up at this angel (what else could it be?) with teary eyes. The Angel extended a hand down to her, the limb solidifying within the fluctuating light.

Unthinking, Vet blinked away her tears as she reached up, took the hand, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.

Reconstruction

“You want to leave this place.” Hearing Angel’s voice wasn’t always a common thing. Even now that they had learned some of their bond, Angel usually spoke through impressions of emotions or flashes of images in Vet’s mind.

Vet faltered. Much time had passed now, Vet was positive. She wasn’t a cub anymore. After Angel saved her, the two had just seemed to be entwined. Their bond wasn’t an instant thing after that, but it grew quickly as Angel followed and watched over Vet. The two grew together, and it was...nice, despite it all, Vet thought at least. She’d had a lot of growing to do, she’d realized.

Vet hadn’t had a home in a long time, but this place still wasn’t it. If Angel had asked before now, the fear of facing reality might have driven Vet to deny the statement, but intuitive as their connection was now she must have sensed that Vet was ready to face these issues.

Acceptance and Hope

Vet didn’t vocally accept, but Angel’s presence brightened at the responding emotion of agreement and acceptance reflected from Vetrius. And excitement, even.

A part of Vetrius felt terrified, as Angel steered her towards a portal that would spit her back out into Tyria after so long. But it was overpowered by the thrill of hope running through her.

She’d gone through so much, but she’d also learned so much. She was ready to accept the pain she’d been through: in her childhood, in the mists, the pain she may yet be to face. As long as she keeps growing, she’ll be okay.

#gw2 #c: vet #and theres vet's backstory! for the most part

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timeclonemike · 4 years

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The War of the Words, Part 5: Counterstrike

Previous installments of this essay have repeated the point that the tactics used by nazis, terfs, and other varieties of bigot are those adopted by a force with a numerical and strategic disadvantage when facing a larger and stronger opponent, among other things. This may have given the impression that these types will eventually just die out. While I believe that this is true in the long term, it is demonstrably true that they can still do considerable damage in the short term, so this is unfortunately not the kind of problem that will solve itself. Action must be taken to undermine them at every possible juncture. This is especially true given that the current, semi-covert “secret agent” / muddy-the-waters approach was adopted because previous open displays of aggression were not getting the results they wanted. It is entirely possible that a shift in strategy will occur again and allow them to make more headway than they presently are.

Any given strategy employed by the nazis and terfs and racists has one or more potential counter-strategies, but simply waiting to recognize a specific type of propaganda or psychological manipulation or social engineering method puts everyone else on the defensive - by the time the problem is recognized and understood, it has already been effective for some time and may allow for a certain amount of momentum. Also, rapidly shifting strategies can lead to the defensive side lagging behind or being overwhelmed, which is one of the potential advantages of the “increase the signal to noise ratio when it comes to dog whistles” approach mentioned previously.

Therefore, as the old saying goes, the best defense is a good offense. The best chances of combating these ideologies involves going after them directly, rather than trying to play damage control after the fact (although that is also important.) And to do this most effectively requires a certain level of understanding of the psychology (and pathology) of the kinds of minds that are most amenable to fascism and radical exclusionism and racism.

The most important point worth considering is what I have taken to calling the Fascism Paradox. Fascism derives its name from the Fasces, a symbol that was adopted during the days of the Roman Empire and then appropriated by authoritarian political movements in the early twentieth century. It consists of a bundle of rods tied together, incorporating a handle and axe head, and the symbolism is pretty straightforward; a single stick might break, but a bundle of them together is much more robust. The obvious idea behind it is that many people united in a single cause and goal can accomplish what an individual cannot, which is why it was adopted by so many governmental offices and magistrates before the early twentieth century.

The titular paradox is that the Fasces symbolizes strength despite being an admission of weakness. The whole point of tying the rods together is because an individual rod is inadequate to the task at hand. Likewise, most authoritarian displays of power revolve around numbers; large military parades, massive rally crowds, mobs of angry young men wearing polo shirts and carrying lawn torches. The power of symbolism, and the attraction they hold, is a door that swings both ways; those who are attracted to the idea of fascism are those who are individually weak, and can only achieve strength and power by proxy, as part of a larger group.

Given that knowledge, the obvious counter is to strip away the protections of the group itself. After the Unite the Right rally, quite a large number of participants were identified by photographic evidence where they did nothing to conceal their identities, and the social consequences were considerable. These individual people were not part of a larger, dangerous force; they were people with names and addresses and once people could pair them with the faces in the photographs, it was basically open season. This technically wasn’t even doxxing; nobody can realistically make a claim to privacy when they are in a public space, much less when they are deliberately drawing attention to themselves. (The lessons learned from this are implicit in the “secret police” tactics used by unidentified federal agents in Portland as of this writing.)

If this sounds like a roundabout way of saying “Divide And Conquer”, it’s because there’s another element to the paradox. A bundle of sticks may be stronger than any individual stick, but the strength of said bundle is still limited by the strength of the individual sticks. For an object lesson in why this is important, compare breaking a single uncooked spaghetti noodle with an entire package of uncooked spaghetti. The whole package technically puts up more resistance, but the difference is marginal in comparison to the forces involved. So it is with fascism and the people who are enticed by it; because their attraction to the group and the cause is motivated (subconsciously or not) by an attempt to mitigate personal weaknesses, the group itself inherits all off these weaknesses. This is especially true when it comes to the subject of morale and courage under fire; each individual in the group is relying on the group as a whole, and they take their cues from each other, so as soon as one person falters everyone around them starts to hold back. The result is a chain reaction of hesitation and lost momentum. (This can be seen in real time when watching videos of right wing protests fighting with counter-protest groups, and can also be seen in recordings of police and riot cops against protestors when a charge doesn’t immediately turn into a rout.)

This paradox also comes into play with another peculiar psychological characteristic: Being disgusted or enraged by compassion. Compassion directed towards weakness can serve as a reminder of said weakness, or an admission, or symbolize a loss or negation of strength; the human mind is very complex and this can get rationalized and justified many different ways, but it all comes back to a central idea; that they can’t or don’t have what they want more than anything. This is another reason why these groups turn on each other at the drop of a hat, because displaying compassion for, or receiving compassion from another, is an insult in a culture where strength is prized: “I’m helping you because you’re weak and you need my help / pity / support.”

(In a world, and especially a year, where the hits keep coming and they don’t stop coming like some sort of Fae contract involving a Smash Mouth song, this attitude is even less healthy than it normally is.)

The sense of personal weakness at the heart of the paradox can take multiple forms, not just physical strength. Financial stability, social leverage, political authority, health and wellness, even good looks can all qualify. What matters is it’s something that a person wants and does not have. This by itself is the origin of most conspiracy theories; some other nation or ethnic group or political party is hoarding or stealing all the food or medicine or political power, and if they weren’t, things would be different. The conspiracy theory angle is so complicated it requires its own essay to explore in full, so for the purposes of brevity and clarity we will leave that unaddressed for now; all we need to focus on is the idea that these people want something that they can’t have. The “can’t have” part especially plays into the idea of radicalization and recruitment. Somebody who wants to be physically strong can work out and get swole, and can measure their progress over time in terms of sets and reps. As a matter of fact, they have to in order to determine what exercises are working for them. How much they can lift and for how long and with what body parts will vary greatly depending on factors like genetics, environment, childhood and adult nutrition, but what matters is that it can be quantified and measured and progress can be seen.

But fascists, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, fascism-susceptible people, are in a different situation. As much as they glorify, praise, and fetishize strength and power, what really drives them is their weakness. No matter how ripped they may be and how much they can bench, it’s never enough; they will always be afraid and insecure and there is always the possibility, if not the certainty, of somebody stronger. It’s the difference between wanting to be strong and wanting to not be weak. This also applies to knowledge, to social acumen, to power and influence. So long as they are unable or unwilling to confront the root cause of what drives them - to admit their weakness in whatever form they find intolerable - they can’t come to terms with it psychologically, never mind take action to correct it practically.

This leads directly to the next strategy for dealing with fascists; mockery and ridicule. The insecurity and weakness that drives fascism is bone deep and borders on the universal, and this is why so many alt-right insults are disparaging terms referring to a perceived lack of strength or fortitude or power. Trying to use those specific terms against them is about as effective as children on a playground going “I’m rubber, you’re glue” but individual insults and derogatory remarks are not what’s important; the underlying insecurity is. Simply not treating them with the deference and respect they desire is itself a potent starting point, and from there any number of comedic possibilities present themselves. Autocratic and authoritarian regimes are notorious about cracking down on dissent for this reason even more than an attempt to keep the citizenry from being agitated; just look at Vladimir Putin’s heavy handed retaliation against Russia’s internet access when somebody photoshopped heavy makeup onto his face. Wannabe dictators with no power can’t remove the object of their ridicule and it eats them alive from the inside out.

The final aspect of this counter attack strategy has to do with enemy morale and opposition. As stated in previous parts of the essay, a number of fascists and crypto-fascists abandoned the cause and ideology when they decided it was less stressful to stop being one. In other words, leave the door open for somebody to switch sides. Consider an analogy where Fascism is an island; some people will burn all their bridges in pursuit of the ideology, but others might not; if other people burn those bridges, the result is the same and they end up trapped on Fascism Island anyway, so they have nothing to lose by doubling down. A number of people on and off Tumblr have discussed this topic and the problems with what is called “essentialist” thinking long before this essay was written; there is a nearly decade old TED Talk by a DJ called Jay Smooth who suggested we start thinking of bias and prejudice the same way we think about hygiene like brushing our teeth, that prejudice is something people do as opposed to an inescapable part of their character.

It’s worth keeping in mind that this may be interpreted as weakness by the fascist or fascists in question and this may prompt them to redouble their attacks or attempt to “play” the person giving them an out in order to get information or undermine their confidence or even try to recruit them into the fascist cause; it’s also worth keeping in mind that it is impractical and unrealistic to expect everyone to adopt this approach. Some people have lost too much personally, and some people are too close to the ideological or physical front lines to even consider letting their guard down. Not everyone can be Reverend Wade Watts.

#The War of the Words #On the Shoulders of Windmills

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