#will never come back from this disastrous misstep

[joon4eva]

home — kim namjoon.

summary: in a world of distractions and uncertainty, namjoon's only wish is simple yet profound: to always find his way back home—to you.

genre: established relationship / idol au ✰ fluff ✰ smut (18+ pls)

word count: ~5,804 words

tags/warnings: so much kissing, namjoon is so needy, kitchen sex, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex, doggy-style position, voyeurism, creampie, aftercare, there's slight angst if you squint - oc confronts namjoon about his mental health but just straight up domestic as hell afterwards (pls give me)

masterlist :)

the moment the sun had risen, the day had felt incessantly long for namjoon.

the door to his apartment swings opens and he can't help but let out a tired sigh of relief.

he steps inside and quietly closes the door behind him, leaning against it and closing his eyes for a moment to catch his breath and soak in the warmth of being back home.

slowly lifting his heavy eyelids, he kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his coat before sluggishly making his way towards the inviting kitchen.

every step feels like a struggle as he deals with the splitting headache that's been plaguing him all day. it seems like anything that could have gone wrong this week did.

dance rehearsals had proved to be nothing short of disastrous. hobi had constantly been on namjoon's case about each little misstep; it felt as if there wasn't even a single moment of peace to be found.

things only seemed to get worse when namjoon retreated to his studio, only to endure a painful eight-hour session without managing to stitch together a single line of lyrics. every imaginable obstacle and setback had plagued him.

maybe the worst of all was how much he missed you. it had been more than a week since he last saw you properly – only catching glimpses of you in the mornings when you shared a quick kiss at breakfast or late at night when you were already asleep, and it only compounded the stress he was feeling.

namjoon nears the kitchen, but stops dead in his tracks - suddenly realizing how different his apartment seemed tonight.

his usually dim apartment is lit up with warm light that softly spills into every corner. there's soothing music emanating from the vinyl record player – playing an album that you'd bought together; and perhaps most strikingly, the most enticing smell dances tantalizingly through the air, coming from the kitchen.

a soft smile graces his lips when he takes in the sight of you, humming to yourself as you stir something on the stove.

between stirs, you take small, appreciative sips of wine from a glass resting on the nearby counter. you were also wearing that green floral sundress that he adored so much, the one that never failed to remind him of that first time he saw you in it.

—

he recalled sitting comfortably in the living room, engrossed in a book, when you shyly walked in wearing the new dress you had bought. the soft sound of your voice beckoned his attention, and as he lifted his gaze, his breath caught in his throat.

"what do you think?" you asked, giving a little twirl as you stood in front of him.

his eyes widened as he took in the sight before him: your figure beautifully framed by the mid-thigh length dress, a tempting side slit elongating your legs. the dress hugged your curves perfectly, emphasizing the swell of your breasts that filled the cups just right.

for a moment, he simply stared at you, rendered speechless by how absolutely stunning you looked.

worried that his silence meant he didn't approve, you looked down at floor and asked hesitantly, "do…do you not like it?"

snapping back to reality, namjoon tossed his book on the coffee table and swept you into his embrace, his arms enveloping you as he pulled you onto his lap.

his fingers gently cupped your chin, tilting your face upward to meet his gaze, the heat of your breath mingling as your noses brushed against each other. "i love it," he murmured against your lips.

his tongue darted out, moistening his lips before he pressed a teasingly damp kiss to the corner.

"really?" you asked breathlessly, anchoring yourself by clutching onto his broad shoulders.

"really," he hummed approvingly as his large hands slid beneath the fabric of your dress, cupping and squeezing your ass.

his lips tenderly planted soft kisses along your collarbone, trailing down to the curve of your breasts. guiding your hips forward, you could feel the growing hardness beneath namjoon's shorts brush deliciously against your clothed clit, eliciting a gasp from your lips.

before either of you knew it, your dress was bunched up at your waist, exposing your bare skin to the air as you sank down on his cock, feeling him divinely split you open. and with that same dress still on, he skillfully brought you to climax not once, but three times.

—

in swift, purposeful strides, namjoon closes the distance between you, his presence enveloping you from behind.

startled by his sudden arrival, your body tenses for a moment before recognizing the familiar touch. a soft sigh of relief escapes your lips, and you allow yourself to relax into his strong arms as they encircle you, embracing his solidity and warmth against your back.

his lips graze against the sensitive skin of your earlobe, imparting an enduring trace of warmth as he gently plants a swift yet tender kiss there. his breath, which is warm and welcoming, brushes against your ear as he whispers a soft greeting in a tone that is both low and smooth.

"hi," he murmurs with an almost seductive timbre.

you slowly turn within his hold, facing him directly, feeling his hands shift to find stability on the counter behind you. his fingers curl and tense slightly to accommodate his weight while effectively ensuring you remain close to him, trapped within his proximity.

"hi," you reply softly, feeling an uncontainable smile spread across your face.

namjoon's dark eyes drink in every detail of your appearance, unabashedly checking you out.

his gaze trails lingeringly over your chest for just a moment before finding its way back to meet your own eyes again. unable to contain yourself, you let out a soft giggle as you catch him in the act.

namjoon simply grins at your knowing expression before narrowing the already-minimal gap between you further.

closing that final distance between you both completely with a sweet yet short kiss pressed upon his pouted lips; namjoon offers an exaggerated look of disappointment in response to the briefness of the contact — only making you smile wider and ready to indulge him further.

"you could've lingered a little longer.”

"i didn't realize i was being timed," you retort playfully and press another feathery light kiss on the tip of his nose.

he chuckles softly at your words and leans down to lock his lips with yours again, this time deepening the kiss, as his arms wrap securely around you.

your own hands instinctively find their way to his broad shoulders and upwards to cradle his face.

namjoon breaks the kiss, breathing heavily, but continues to keep you close, his eyes searching yours for a confirmation of some unspoken question.

"i missed you," namjoon confesses, his tone genuine and vulnerable, as he unconsciously resumes pressing delicate kisses on your exposed neck and shoulder.

"i missed you too," you admit, biting your lip to hide a grin.

an appreciative hum escapes namjoon's lips as he pulls back just far enough to see your face again. he gives you a tender smile that manages to be both somber and radiant at once.

in an instant, however, the moment is interrupted by the sudden billowing of steam from a pot on the stove.

you part from his embrace to quickly stride over to the stovetop and move the pot to a different burner, shutting off the burner completely.

with deft movements, you grab a wooden spoon from the countertop and give the contents of the pot a swift stir, ensuring that nothing has scorched during your brief interlude.

namjoon watches you from a distance, a contented and endearing smile slowly spreading across his face as he observes your movements.

unable to resist any longer, namjoon saunters over to where you stand working at the stove. he quietly positions himself behind you once again and lovingly wraps his arms around your waist.

his fingers teasingly wander along your hips and thighs, tracing delicate patterns through the fabric of your dress and eliciting a mix of laughter and mild admonishment from you.

his nimble fingers begin their descent down your abdomen, teasingly grazing lower and lower until they flirt with the hem of your dress.

"namjoon…" you chastise him in a tone laden with feigned exasperation. "i'm trying to cook here," you continue while juggling between suppressing giggles and maintaining focus on the task at hand. he chuckles as his hands persist in their exploration, not deterred by your plea.

the warmth of namjoon's breath cascades onto your neck as he presses tender kisses upon your delicate skin.

as he presses his lips against a particular spot on your neck, he feels satisfaction when he hears a soft moan escape your mouth with pleasure that is undoubtedly amplified by the sensitive reaction your body is having to his touch. it seems as if your will has started to waver, causing namjoon to switch from gentle pecks to a firmer bite that leaves a mark.

"but i want you," he whispers into your ear. "let me have you, please."

the bulge in his pants is almost painfully obvious now, as he presses firmly against you. his longing is tangible in every word he utters.

just then, he deliberately sinks his teeth into a particularly sensitive spot on your neck and sucks on it softly, eliciting a moan that escapes your lips before you even realize it.

namjoon's hands slip under the hem of your dress and graze dangerously close to your panties. his fingers slowly make contact with your clothed heat, and every muscle in your body momentarily seizes up as a small gasp escapes your lips. the unexpected sensation prompts your head to drop back onto his sturdy shoulder, struggling to suppress another moan.

"can i?" he inquires voice barely audible, awaiting your consent.

in that instant, one thing becomes abundantly clear: the dinner simmering on the stove is no longer the priority.

you quickly place a lid on the pot before spinning around within namjoon's arms. your eyes lock onto his for a moment before you press your lips against his in a fervent kiss. your arms wrap around him tightly, pulling him closer to you.

the low groan that emanates from namjoon sends a jolt through your body; with a swiftness borne from urgency, his hands deftly sweep down to find purchase on the backs of your thighs - hoisting you up with ease and enticing your legs to encircle his waist.

namjoon's steady strides carry both of you across the kitchen floor until he gently positions you atop the cool countertop situated on the opposite side of the island.

desperation flares wildly within both of you as you tangle together, hands urgently tugging and pulling, craving more skin-on-skin contact. it feels like forever since you were able to feel namjoon like this. fingers glide along your waist, caress the swell of your breasts, and trace the contours of your hips. your back arches, seeking more of his touch, as he maps every inch of you with his hands and lips.

your hands find their way to the hem of namjoon's shirt, lifting it up and over his head before discarding it onto the kitchen floor. his hands respond in kind, roughly lowering the straps of your dress and helping you shimmy out of it until it too joins the growing pile on the floor.

with heightened anticipation growing within both of you, namjoon guides hot and wet kisses fervently along your body.

his steady hands nudge you gently to lean back against the cold countertop, the stark contrast of temperatures sending a shiver up your spine.

moans of pleasure escape your lips as his passionate kisses trail increasingly closer to your sensitive core, teasingly delivering tender bites here and there as he continues his descent.

your wetness has managed to seep through the delicate fabric of your panties, prompting you to bite your lip in anticipation.

a long, lingering kiss lands on your clothed clit, causing your hips to involuntarily jolt forward, a moan escaping your parted lips. a soft chuckle follows from him at this observation.

"so sensitive," he hums in appreciation.

his lips press against the delicate bundle of nerves again, his nose playfully nudging your clit, eliciting a desperate huff from you.

growing more eager by the moment, you call out his name—your voice thick with longing and desire.

namjoon's fingers delicately dip under the lace waistband, painstakingly drawing down the fabric until finally casting it onto the floor with your dress, leaving you in just a lace bra. the soft glow radiating from the kitchen lights causes your glistening core to shimmer enticingly, drawing him ever closer.

namjoon proceeds to press one more adoring kiss upon the delicate skin lining the inside of your thigh.

gently, he guides his tongue from your entrance up to your clit, fully embracing it with his warm mouth as he expertly sucks and swirls. your moans flow without restraint, your fingers instinctively reaching to tangle themselves in his soft hair, while namjoon holds onto your hips with a steady grip, keeping you in place.

his position between your thighs grants him a front-row seat to the most stunning view of your face — the adorable way your features scrunch up and the parted lips emitting those sweet sounds he adores so much.

he plunges a finger inside of you, watching as your eyes flutter close and a drawn-out moan escapes from your lips.

he lifts his head, with traces of your arousal on his chin and nose. his voice floats up to tease you even more, "feels good, doesn't it?"

it's a question that doesn't really need an answer; it's clear just by looking at you. however, he asks it anyway – perhaps to coax a response from you – or simply to hear you say it.

biting your lip to suppress further cries of delight, you can only nod eagerly in response. a slight frown forms on namjoon's face; he wants to hear you say it.

"say it," he insists softly but firmly. the sensation overwhelms you as he adds another finger, stretching and filling you completely.

you can feel tears well up in your eyes as waves of pure pleasure course through every nerve ending and surge like distant tides toward their unrelenting climax.

clutching onto namjoon's hair and grinding your hips against his mouth, you manage to nod eagerly and stutter out through gasps and moans, "y-yes, baby. oh, god, it feels s-… so good."

namjoon smiles affectionately at your submission; pleased by your response.

"good girl," he murmurs softly before returning to his fervent actions.

his mouth dives between your thighs again — working as if he were a starving man finally eating for the first time in weeks. his fingers move skillfully inside you, delicately curving and thrusting while his lips and tongue work in sync, lapping at your sensitive clit with perfectly timed flicks and gentle suction.

the sensation becomes all-encompassing as your body finally succumbs to the intensity of the orgasm that rips through you, the tremors and shivers rippling through your body and leaving you gasping for breath.

namjoon gradually eases the pace of his movements.

he releases a soft hum of satisfaction as he tenderly cleans you up with feathery licks at your slit, each gentle touch causing you to whimper from the lingering oversensitivity.

slowly raising his head from between your thighs, namjoon peppers tender kisses along the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. his lips continue upward until they reach your abdomen, where he plants more sweet kisses. then, with a gentle hold on your arms, he helps you sit up on the countertop.

you eagerly wrap your legs around his waist, simultaneously drawing his face to yours with your hands as you reel him in for a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. your tongue ventures into his welcoming mouth, keen on tasting yourself on his lips.

he wraps his strong arms around you, his hands making their way up to tangle in your hair. with a gentle tug, he pulls your head back slightly, causing a moan to escape your lips as he leaves a trail of soft kisses along your neck. he applies a little pressure, causing your head to tilt back as you sigh in delight.

suddenly and without warning, namjoon firmly grips your thighs and slides you off the counter. he hoists you up, cradling your naked body against his waist and carries you with long strides toward the bedroom.

"wait! wait, my wine!" you exclaim with a giggle.

namjoon pulls back slightly and chuckles in disbelief, "honey, can't it wait?" you pout playfully at him and he lets out a mock sigh of exasperation before turning back towards the kitchen island.

careful not to drop you, he retraces his steps to the other side of the kitchen island so that you can reach for your wine glass.

both of you laugh as namjoon turns back around to his bedroom and nearly sprints down the hallway, narrowly avoiding spilling your drink on the floor or bumping into any furniture.

upon reaching the bedroom door, he gently sets you down on the bed as you lounge back.

you're holding onto your half-full wine glass, and you prop yourself up on your elbow, taking in the sight of namjoon as he eagerly unbuckles his belt.

he slides down his pants and boxers in one smooth motion, his throbbing length slapping against his abdomen.

as you watch him, you hold onto the wine glass in one hand while using the other to unclasp your bra.

you toss the discarded lingerie onto the floor and watch as namjoon's eyes follow its descent before locking onto you once more.

he moves forward on sturdy legs, his knees finally meeting the soft mattress as he positions himself over you. his fingers find the rim of your glass, plucking it from your hand as he chuckles softly, "i've definitely earned some of this."

with that, he drains the remaining liquid in two large gulps before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and setting the glass down on the nearby nightstand.

leaning back towards you, namjoon braces himself with both hands on either side of your body as he inches closer to you, gently trapping you beneath him.

his hand gently brushes over your body before landing on your breast. his mouth follows the path established by his hands; landing on a nipple and taking it between his lips, drawing out a mixture of pleasure and restrained moans from deep within you. your hands entangle in his hair as your hips instinctively press up against him in search of friction, feeling a familiar heat begin to pool between your legs again.

namjoon presses his lips fervently against yours, enveloping you in a passionate kiss full of heat and the intoxicating taste of wine.

your mouths open and close, nibble and devour. the space between your lips and his is briefly empty as namjoon pulls away, only to widen as your gaze shifts downwards.

with hesitation slipping away like sand through fingers, you reach out to take him in your grasp, coating your fingers with the pre-cum already gathering at the tip before you start stroking ever so gently. his forehead comes to rest against yours as he allows a low moan to escape his lips, his hips subtly shifting in response to your touch.

foreheads touching and breath mingling, you suggest, "let me suck you off."

caught off guard by the proposal, he stammers out a refusal.

"n-no," namjoon protests, shaking his head, his breath hot on your skin. "i won't last."

"well, that's the point, isn't it?" determined to tease him further, you tighten your grip and intentionally slow down your strokes on his engorged cock. namjoon's breath catches in his throat as his large hand envelops yours to cease your movement.

and in a sudden burst of energy, he skillfully repositions you on the bed. your legs are bent, and your hips are lifted, while your face presses gently into the soft pillow. a delightful gasp escapes your lips as your cheek comes in contact with the plush cushion, and you're intensely aware of the warmth growing between your legs as it begins to trail down your thighs.

namjoon takes a moment to appreciate the sight before him, letting out a contented exhale at the view of your body perfectly positioned. an alluring flush washes over you; fully aware you must look every bit like a porn star, since you had carefully prepared for this moment knowing namjoon would be home early. but you didn't expect to find yourself so eagerly sprawled out on his bed before dinner.

his fingers gently explore the globes of your ass before finding their way to your slick folds below. with the pads of his fingers, he reaches under you to tease your clit with deliberate motions, drawing a moan from deep within you as it's muffled by the pillow.

"god, baby… how can you be this wet already?" he marvels, a surprised chuckle arising from him.

you whimper in response, the pillows clenched tightly within your grip. "please, namjoon," comes the desperate plea from between clenched teeth. "i've been waiting for this all day."

namjoon gently leans over you, planting your bare back with dozens of tiny kisses, traversing a path along your spine. as his lips trail upward towards your earlobe, his warm breath tickles your ear as he whispers, "turn your head to the left."

following his instruction, your eyes meet the reflection of both you and namjoon in a strategically placed mirror.

you take in the ravenous image of yourself: wide-eyed and framed by tousled hair resting on soft pillows, your back curved and breasts firmly pressed against the mattress beneath you.

"keep those beautiful eyes on the mirror."

with bated breath, you watch as he positions himself at your entrance, the head of his throbbing cock teasingly grazing your slick folds.

as he slowly pushes inside you, a sharp gasp escapes your lips, your senses overwhelmed by the exquisite sensation of him stretching you open, filling you inch by inch, causing you to instinctively clench around the delicious intrusion.

"think you can do that for me, baby?" he teases, his voice a velvet rasp, as he buries himself deeper.

you nod eagerly in response, unable—or perhaps unwilling— to look away as his fingers entwine themselves within yours.

"pretty baby," he coos, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "already so fucked she can’t speak."

your breath catches in your throat, and you almost struggle to keep your eyes open – it feels like blissful exhaustion is starting to set in.

you can feel his cock drag out, teasing you with a fleeting emptiness, before he slams back in with a force that leaves you gasping for breath.

stray strands of hair cling to your damp skin as droplets of sweat escape from under you. it's almost shameful how wanton you appear—your lips parting as droplets of saliva threaten to dribble out with each labored breath.

"please," you manage to whisper between breaths, "harder."

without hesitation, his grip on your hands tighten as he quickens his pace and intensity at once.

with every forceful motion back and forth, the headboard rocks vigorously against the wall; probably loud enough for the neighbors to hear at this point.

“o-oh my god,” you let out a shuddering gasp through another moan, beginning to move your hips back to meet namjoon's rhythm. "i'm going to… i'm going to cum again," you stammer breathlessly.

you can feel his control slipping, his movements growing more urgent, more desperate, mirroring the frenzy building within you. his hands clamp onto your hips, holding you tightly - so tight that you're certain there will be marks later.

"inside, namjoon. come inside!" you mewl through muffled sobs into the sheets.

namjoon's movements falter, eyes widening from above at your request. you can tell he's more than willing to give you what you want.

"f-fuck, baby. inside? are… you sure?"

"i need it! please," you beg through gasping breaths, tears now starting to gather at the corners of your eyes.

he curses through gritted teeth under his breath and moans in response, tightening his grip on your hips.

unable to restrain yourself any longer, a sob escapes your lips as the climax rushes through you like a crashing wave of rapture.

this time feels even more intense than before, moaning and gasping uncontrollably as your inner walls clench tightly around namjoon's pulsating cock, coating it with your warm, slick arousal.

it's not long before namjoon's thrusts become erratic; eventually his hips still as he releases himself inside of you, repeating your name like a mantra while feeling his cock pulse deep inside of you.

as his frenzied movements gradually slow and your knees slightly give out, namjoon collapses on top of your back - still buried deep inside you.

you can feel his breath on your skin as it comes in steady gasps trying to catch up with his racing heart. he shifts, letting his hands come to rest on both sides of your body as he supports his exhausted weight.

a satisfied sigh escapes your lips as you feel the warm trickle of his cum escape your core, moistening the sheets beneath you.

your gaze remains fixed on the mirror to your left, allowing you a clear view of your naked body cushioned by plush pillows and namjoon's long, fit frame sprawled protectively across your own.

his hair is adorably disheveled, slightly obscuring his eyes. as your eyes lock with his through the reflection in the mirror, a slow smile stretches across his face.

with a nonchalant flick of his fingers, he brushes his hair out of his eyes before offering you a flirtatious wink, causing giggles to bubble up from both of you. the otherwise quiet room is dimly lit and filled only with the sound of your shared breathing.

raising himself onto one elbow, he tenderly kisses the back of your head before murmuring, "hang on; i'll be back."

he carefully slides out of you, eliciting a slight wince from you at the sudden sensation of emptiness. adjusting your position on the bed, you lean onto your side and wait for him to return.

moments later, namjoon reappears with a damp towel draped over one arm, a water bottle in hand, and an open bag of his favorite snack tucked between his teeth.

naked and unabashed, he sets down the water on the nightstand and sits beside you on the bed.

wordlessly, he offers you the bag; with a smile, you accept it and pop a chip into your mouth.

intently, he watches your enjoyment with an affectionate half-dimpled smile, pressing a tender kiss to your knee while you settle comfortably.

namjoon adjusts his position and gently taps the side of your leg as a signal for you to open them. with the warm damp cloth in hand, his muscles flex as he carefully cleans you up; the warmth of the fabric elicits a sigh of contentment from you.

deciding to break the comfortable silence, you ask with slight hesitation, "so… how was your day today?"

deep down, you already knew the answer..

the truth is: you knew namjoon was having a hard time at work lately.

you meant to bring it up sooner, really. but you didn't know how to do it without coming across as intrusive or nosy.

after all, namjoon gets enough scrutiny in his life as a musician; the last thing you wanted to do was add to that by being a nagging girlfriend.

at first, you noticed he was coming home from work later than usual. this made you somewhat apprehensive at first – you didn't want to jump to any conclusions about what he might be doing instead of working – but he'd never given you any reason to doubt him. you trusted him.

you also noticed a lot of the times he appeared restless during the rare periods he was at home, often times incoherently mumbling in his sleep or tapping his foot nervously at the table as he stared blankly off into space.

one night, at around 3am, you instinctively reached out to namjoon's side of the bed only to find it empty.

sitting up in the dark, your heart raced frantically trying to come up with an idea as to where the hell he was at this hour.

quietly slipping out of the bedroom and into the hallway, you were moments away from imagining the worst when your eyes caught a faint glow emanating from under the door of his home studio.

pressing your ear to the door, you could just make out the gentle hum of music coming from within. he was still working.

despite all of this, you chose to keep your concerns to yourself for a while longer. but after nine days of hardly seeing him, you knew that eventually, the conversation had to happen.

"it was good," namjoon answers softly, not meeting your eyes as he finishes wiping you off.

he stands up, disposing of the used cloth in a nearby laundry hamper.

"okay," you say gently, "now give me the real answer."

you watch him closely from your comfortable position in bed as he opens a nearby closet door with a quiet sigh.

he reaches up to take out a stack of fresh, neatly folded sheets and carefully closes the door behind him.

as namjoon walks back to the bed, his eyes finally meet yours, and he stands at the foot of the bed with the sheets still cradled in his arms.

"i don't know what you mean," he says defensively.

you roll your eyes, feigning annoyance as you huff, "okay. well, i'm not moving until you tell me."

namjoon's brow furrows in concern for a moment before he tries to change the subject. "do you need help going to the bathr—" he begins, but you cut him off with a quick "nope" and a slow shake of your head, crossing your arms firmly over your chest.

he exhales, glancing up at the ceiling before setting the clean sheets down at the foot of the bed. sitting next to you, he gently places a comforting hand on your leg.

you give him a moment as he traces soft circles on your skin, his eyes searching for the right words to say.

"i'm sorry," he finally begins. your body stiffens, caught off guard by his response. you really weren't expecting an apology.

"i haven't been a very good boyfriend lately," he admits, his smile strained and sadness evident in his eyes.

"and none of that is your fault. i'm sorry," he repeats, his gaze lowering in shame.

blinking back a sudden wave of tears, you sit up slightly and cover his large hand with yours, weaving your fingers together.

"namjoon, what on earth are you talking about?"

he looks up at you, mouth open to respond before you interrupt, "you're such a good boyfriend. the best, actually. i've just been worried about you lately. i can tell you've been pushing yourself.”

namjoon looks down at your hands and then back up into your eyes. you can almost see the gears turning in his head.

"i want to be here for you when things get tough. we should be able to talk about anything together."

a silent beat passes before he nods in agreement, squeezing your hand gently.

he then lifts your entwined fingers up to his lips and plants a tender kiss to your knuckle. "yeah," he breathes out, "it's been really hard. and you're…"

he exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as he searches for the right words once more.

"you're so normal. you make me feel normal, even when my life is anything but. it's so complicated already; i just don't want to burden you with that."

his voice wavers slightly as he swallows, avoiding eye contact.

"joon," you say softly, trying to make him look at you again. "you could never be a burden to me. that's something you should never worry about."

as his eyes finally meet yours, they glisten with an array of emotions—appreciation, love, and relief all present.

he gazes at you adoringly and nods in response, uttering a soft "okay."

unable to resist the urge any longer, you lean forward and cup his face tenderly with your hands, planting a sweet, delicate peck right on his lips. the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips is soothing, even though your heart races within your chest.

you start to pull away but feel namjoon's strong hands dart up to grab your face as he draws you back into a deeper, more passionate kiss, both of you giggling against each other's mouths.

your hands slide up to namjoon's neck and weave themselves into his thick hair, nails softly grazing his scalp with just the right amount of force to elicit a delightful sigh.

sensing an invitation, his tongue tentatively ventures out to glide alongside yours, mingling the warmth between you.

namjoon momentarily adjusts his teeth on your bottom lip, gently sinking down on your bottom lip before releasing it with a subtle pop and eliciting an involuntary moan from deep within your throat.

you sense him shifting his position on the bed, eventually hovering over you as if preparing to dominate you but breaking the kiss instead.

without warning, namjoon wraps one arm around your lower back while grabbing your thighs with his other hand. in a swift upward motion, he lifts and hoists your naked body on his waist, coaxing you to wrap your legs around him for support.

you gasp, instinctively holding on tighter, feeling the thrill mingle with fear as you wrap your arms tightly around his torso.

"namjoon!" you exclaim mid-laughter, feeling both exhilarated and slightly turned on at being tossed around so effortlessly.

his strong hands now shift from the back of your thighs to support you by cupping the curves of your ass.

with bold strides and a gleeful grin, he carries you like this toward the bathroom, depositing you gently onto the cool surface of the countertop.

standing between your parted thighs, he leans in close again— this time offering you a burning, fervent kiss that is so hot and heavy, quickly rendering you dizzy as butterflies wildly flutter within your stomach.

eventually namjoon pulls back to examine your face, bringing his thumb up to gently caress your swollen bottom lip as a cheeky grin threatens to break through his solemn demeanor.

his eyes twinkle mischievously, reflecting the lustful haze that clouds your vision.

"shower?"

#bts fanfiction #bts imagine #bts x reader #namjoon imagine #kim namjoon #namjoon x reader #kpop imagines #bts smut

[shrikeseams]

'So @corsairspade's post about Celegorm and Orome and luck sent me down a tangent, because--

Okay. Part of the silmarillion that rubs me wrong is that the Valar never seem to experience any actual consequences for their failures and missteps. Their choice to trust Morgoth has disastrous consequences--everywhere outside of Aman*. Their mismanagement of Noldorin politics leads to the kinslaying at Alqualonde and the Doom of the Noldor (and arguably the knock-on dooming of beleriand) while the valar sit tight at home. Sauron gets loose and spends millenia wrecking shit, but that shit is all conveniently far away from Aman. The only time he gets close to Aman, it ends in a genocide--of people that the Valar wouldn't let into Aman in the first place. They stay high and dry and unchanging through the literal re-shaping of Arda.

So. Consequences! I want them. So what if the apparent waning of the Valar's strength across the Ages is actually a direct consequence of their isolationism?

After all, why are the valar in arda? They're there to build it, and then maintain it. They're there to embody their domains. My conception of them (and I know this isn't universal but this is my personal working baseline) is that each ainu's domain of power is their calling. Their reason for existance. It's the lens they perceive the world through, and they derive their strength of existence in the world by perpetually embodying and enacting that calling. Ulmo is defined by the restless motion of the waves. Varda is defined by the light of the heavens and the shining of the stars. Orome is defined by the hunt.

But then they restrict themselves to Aman. They functionally took themselves out of Arda well before the third age. They made a deliberate and conscious choice to restrict the scope of their activity/influence. What if that choice also restricted the scope of their power?

I keep coming back to Orome because. Look. His case of obedience to authority vs obedience to one's own nature/calling feels so egregious. If any valar should have spent the first age in beleriand, it should have been Orome and Tulkas. Orome's calling is The Hunting of Evil. Tulkas only showed up in Arda to fight Melkor! The act of sitting out the fight reduces both of them from forces of active good to... what? Courtly vestigial remnants of their own true natures? You don't stay the best at what you do by avoiding doing it. Maybe the valar don't retain their primordial powers if they don't exercise them. Maybe limiting the scope of their direct influence (to the place it was arguably least needed ) likewise limited the scope of their strengths.

Which leads to a situation where the valar cannot, in fact, defend Aman against Numenor, because they thought that isolation was enough. So they sat out two ages of the world, and when the world came to find them at home they realized too late that their choices would have consequences for themselves, not just others.

*If you try to argue that the loss of the Trees is equivalent to the destruction of a fucking landmass and the actual enslavement of unspecified numbers of people, save your energy. Just take my disappointed look as a given and go find some other post to comment on.

#Tolkien #Can't stop chewing at the betrayal of orome #And the idea of celegorm being reimbodied only to find that while he himself has lost/betrayed his Calling #Orome has likewise dwindled down to nothing but an ainu of hawks and hounds and courtly hunts #Like they split the True Calling between them. Orome got the goodness (but no practicality) and celegorm got the violence (void of morality #...does this make the istari a last-ditch bid to reclaim their own strength? Hm. #San shoots the breeze

[rising-volteccers]

"You... you really mean it, don't you?" regarding Liko when she calls herself a burden

Initially I had an idea on how to go about it but after watching episode 16, I decided to change this into another 'what if' scene between Liko and Dot at the end of that episode. I'm very fond of the bond that they have so hopefully it came across in this piece! I suppose you could see it as LikoDot if you squint haha

Series: Pokemon Horizons

Characters: Liko, Dot

--

Like a solitary bird on a lonely migration, the Brave Asagi glided persistently onward through the calm night sky where the full moon cast its gentle light upon the ruminating girl and her feline. To think that just a few hours ago, she and her friends faced off against an unknown enemy that had no reservations in harming them directly.

If not for the sudden burst of light that guided Liko towards her pendant and Arboliva’s timely appearance, that dangerous enemy might have gotten away with it. 

She lightly shivered from the echoed memory of their voice gloating about erasing her memory again. Not just her but Roy and Dot too. Liko knew that Pokemon were capable of various feats but to come across one that wiped her memories of her precious friends… fear and anger warred within her.

A hot, uncomfortable warmth bubbled within her chest. Anger wasn’t an emotion Liko experienced often, nor one that she wanted to feel in the first place but it naturally came up at the thought of that person taking away something so precious to her. The Rising Volt Tacklers were important to her; they taught her the value of friendship, of forming bonds with people who care for one another. Without them, the Explorers would have made off with her pendant on that night before Friede’s sudden appearance.

How dared they do something so… so vile! Erasing a part of someone like that for no reason other than they could just felt so evil!

But when her thoughts focused on that, fear swiftly doused out that spark, leaving her chilled to the core. Liko knew that so long as her pendant remained with her, the Explorers would come after it. Amethio was no less scary in his own right but at least he would battle and claim the spoils after. This person chose to go the subtle, manipulative route instead up until the very end.

(Liko caught a glimpse of the person though the only real characteristics she remembered were their long hair. The pendant’s light and Arboliva’s appearance took most of her attention at the time).

Once again had it not been for the timely intervention by something or someone, her pendant would have been in the Explorers hands. She wasn’t blind to the fact that things worked out time and time again in the end because of unforeseen, external forces. Friede, that black Rayquaza and now Arboliva. Had they not appeared when they did… 

Another light shiver rippled down her spine. Liko lightly rubbed an arm, an act that went unnoticed by Sprigatito. It briefly lifted its head to look up with a concerned nya?

Liko managed a tiny smile. “Don’t worry Sprigatito, I’m alright.”

Her starter eyed her for awhile longer before settling back into a tight ball by her side. Liko released a slow breath, hands grasped together over her chest.

Ultimately she was glad to have her pendant back but it was at the expense of troubling everyone. A single misstep could have been disastrous… 

The soft swish of the door behind drew her attention back to the present before it could spiral. Liko looked up, surprised to see Dot in person. She went to lean against the railing next to her.

Until today, Liko didn’t expect to see her friend face to face like this. She was content to slowly form a bond with Dot–a fellow Nidothing super fan!–as she didn’t want to push the other girl too much or too quickly. Liko knew how overwhelming it could get, especially to someone who already said that in real life stuff was too troublesome. She had hopes of seeing Dot in person someday but never in her wildest dreams that today would be it.

Her expression crumpled slightly once she recalled seeing Dot hugging Quaxly as that Magneton charged up that attack. Liko placed her friends in danger again… she needed to apologize.

“Um–”

“Hey–”

Both girls paused, falling into a brief awkward silence. Liko cleared her throat before trying again. “Uh, what is it?”

Dot appeared to hesitate, head turning away slightly from her. “Oh, uh… nothing really…”

That sent Quaxly into a small fit with its angry squawks and flapping wings. It seemed that the Water-type’s displeasure flustered her friend.

“I get it, already!” Dot grumbled, turning to properly face her. A few more seconds passed by in silence.

“Thanks for coming to save me,” she spoke at last. 

A smile easily came to Liko even as her heart ached. She didn’t deserve that gratitude seeing that Dot landed in trouble because of her. Still, Liko replied with, “It’s only natural. You did the same to me… even if it was because of me in the first place…”

Liko mumbled that last part but she underestimated how keen her friend’s hearing was. Dot stood up a little straighter from her slouch. Even with her eyes covered by her bangs, Liko sensed the heavy gaze. 

“Wait back up, what do you mean by that?”

Liko had to squash down the sudden urge to curl in on herself. A part of her wanted to assure Dot, maybe wave it off like how Friede was prone to do. The rest didn’t want to add more to her guilt by lying to her friend.

Silence stretched briefly between the pair. At last, Liko relented.

“I… you got into danger because of me. I was a burden to everyone, causing a lot of trouble…” she whispered, grasping her hands atop her lap. 

Sprigatito sensed her silent distress so it got up to rub its head against her arm in attempt to soothe her. Liko managed to free a hand to lightly rub Sprigatito between its ears.

In the meantime, Liko failed to notice the way Dot stared at her in surprise. 

“Liko–you’re not a burden!”

Liko stared at her lap. Her silence easily answered how she really thought about it. Dot released a soft breath beside her.

“You… you really mean it, don’t you?”

“It’s true, isn’t it? I got myself caught and caused trouble to everyone. I put you and Roy in danger. I know that if it wasn’t for Arboliva, we could have had all our memories erased.” Her words rose no more than a whisper, tinged with frustration at herself. 

Dot’s lack of response seemingly confirmed her thoughts. She really was a burden–

“Argh, this is why in real life stuff is such a pain…” Dot muttered, rubbing the back of her head. She took in a steadying breath before clearing her throat, prompting Liko to look up at her.

“Look, the opponent this time was… tricky. They messed with the signal to keep the airship from flying. Made loads of fake accounts to send us on a wild Farfetch’d chase when we were searching for you. They ordered their Pokemon remotely, meaning that they don’t want us to know who they are.” Dot paused, seemingly to catch her breath. 

“You’re not a burden for getting caught up in that. I don’t think even adults could’ve handled the sort of stuff this person did. What’s important is that… you’re safe and back with us. It’s a pain but… I’d do it again to save you cause you’re my friend…”

Dot looked away as she mumbled the last part. Liko hoped that the night hid the warmth that suffused her cheeks. Somehow, Dot’s words chased away that lingering chill, replaced by a soft warmth filling her chest. A smile came unbidden, eyes shimmering. Liko quickly swiped at them with her hand. 

“Thank you Dot. You’re my precious friend too,” she replied earnestly. Just like her, the cover of darkness hid the red tint on Dot’s own cheeks. The other girl mumbled something indistinct, though Liko caught a faint you’re welcome.

While it wasn’t enough to fully chase away her doubts, Liko trusted Dot’s words enough to ease her guilt. This time, a comfortable silence draped over them–which shattered by Quaxly throwing another small fit.

“Okay, okay!” Dot turned back to face her. She took in another steadying breath. “What I really wanted to say is, …uh, I’m sorry.”

“Huh?” Liko couldn’t hide the surprise in her expression. Why did Dot feel the need to apologize?

“I’m sorry for not saying anything. Half was it being a pain, and half of it was me wanting to tell you myself but…”

Now Liko got confused. What was this about?

“You don’t get it?”

Seeing that she didn’t know how to respond to that, Liko nodded ever so slightly, lips set into a polite smile.

“Well, you know, it’s about Nidothing…”

Oh! So was it about that? To think that Dot was going the extra mile of making her feel better.

“Huh? Oh, you’re…” 

“You knew?” Dot looked surprised but really, nothing got past her when it came to Nidothing!

“Of course! You’re a Nidothing super fan!”

“I’m not!” Her swift denial startled Liko. Dot had a whole Nidothing costume didn’t she? Wasn’t that a sign of her being a super fan too? Liko would have gotten one herself if she knew where to buy it in the first place.

Dot smoothed down her bangs in a flustered gesture. “Why can’t you figure it out?” Abruptly, she leaned into Liko’s personal space, pointing at herself. “I… am Nidothing!”

“Eh?” Wait, so Dot wasn’t a Nidothing super fan but Nidothing herself?

The moment it truly registered in her mind, the only thing Liko could do was scream. 

“EHHHHH???”

–

“Oof, she sure has a set of lungs on her. Still, Murdock would be happy to know about this.” A brief pause as the shadowed figure silently entered the elevator. With how flustered those two were, they didn’t notice. “I think those two would be alright, don’t you think so?”

“Pikapi!”

#Pokemon Horizons #Pokeani #Anipoke #Liko (Pokemon) #Dot (Pokemon) #LikoDot #Guruminshipping #Hana writes stuff

[luna-crow]

Conversing With The Dead | Luna & August

Stupid. Stupid, Stupid.

Neve silently berated herself with each step.

Those first months of being Luna had felt triumphant. Embarrassing as it was now to recall, Neve had started to fancy herself as some sort of mastermind, a trickster capable of beguiling even the high fae of Midsummer. Sure, there had been missteps and nerves at times, but she had truly begun to believe she was doing well in her new role. But, the months had peeled back that confidence, each fumble seeming to trigger another series of disasters. But, this could end up being the most disastrous of all.

Neve had never seen the Fox Clan’s territory before. And, if not for the detailed directions, she may never have. The Fox Clan were known for their evasiveness, and their dwellings were no different. Getting into the caves alone was a trying task. But now, as she walked through the tunnels and farther down into the bowels of the earth, she could not help but look reluctantly back at the distant sunlight that shone from the entrance she had come from. Dripping candles lit the way down, the smell of tallow in the air. The way seemed intentionally tricky, at times forking and twisting at strange angles. But when Neve grew confused she squinted down at the piece of parchment in her hand, the way through the tunnels illustrated in tyrian purple ink with scratchy handwritten notes.

On what felt like the the hundreth twist in the candlelit path, a figure stepped from the shadows as though from thin air. Neve yelped, a small dagger with a mother of pearl handle flicking forward from her sleeve with a level of learned ease that would not be expected from a lady of the genty. The lanky, russet hair youth only grinned, exposing a set of yellowing, sharpened teeth. Neve held back a shudder. 

“Lady Crow.” His voice was unexpectedly low, the hint of a owain lilt just audible as he spoke the common tongue. “It has been a long time you’ve...graced our caves.” 

There was something in the youth’s tone, and the smug curve of his mouth that made Neve want to blush. She had very good idea how exactly Luna Crow had spent her time here, thanks to Luna’s uncomfortably detailed diary entries. Luna and August had admittedly been an unexpected match. But the more Neve learned of Luna, the more it made sense that the court lady could find kindred traits in someone known to be a manipulative criminal. 

“Follow me,” the boy added, turning brusquely without looking back. There was something feline in his gait, predatory even. It paired all too well with those horrible teeth. With one last regretful glance toward where she had come from, Neve followed.

@king-of-thieves

#conversing with the dead

[bombshellsandbluebells]

Random drabble prompt!

Ford and Stan are *flips coin* fighting

about something related to *spins wheel* Mabel

Story takes place *rolls dice* before Weirdmageddon

:) :) :)

In one dimension, the apocalypse comes roaring into existence through the fighting of a pair of siblings, only to be snuffed out by the rather shaky, long-awaited truce of another pair. Just a few dimensions to the right, however, the apocalypse never comes to pass at all, thanks to the placement of one Stanley Pines, who makes the cosmically-important decision to clear his head on his back porch directly in the path of one distraught Mabel Pines.

Mabel finds comfort in the arms of her beloved great uncle, Dipper realizes the disastrous backpack switch before any harm can befall the rift, and Weirdmageddon never comes.

The inhabitants of 412 Gopher Road are worse off for it.

"You know just when I think you can't possibly sink any lower, you surprise me."

Stanley's voice is practically quivering with rage, and Stanford knows before he even turns to face him that he does not have the energy to deal with his brother's emotions right now. Whatever well of adrenaline had kept him going during his decades in the multiverse is slowly but surely drying up; in the past few days he has found himself trying to draw from a source that's no longer there, feeling achy and weak and every one of his fifty-nine years. Just today they had nearly lost the rift, and the few minutes before Dipper managed to locate it had been the longest few minutes in Stanford's life.

For a moment, he'd been certain that he'd failed. Perhaps he never should have trusted anyone else with the weight of the world in the first place, even someone as hungry for knowledge as he himself had been as a child.

He still hasn't bothered to wash off the layer of sweat and dirt he'd acquired in their adventure today or catalogue the extent of the new bruises he knows he has. Despite his rumbling stomach, he hasn't ventured upstairs to find dinner, or even gone to check on why Dipper had seemed so upset after he'd gone to get his backpack back from Mabel.

He's barely done anything since his nephew returned the rift than sit and stare at the cupboard where he'd stashed it. He'd almost failed. He'd almost failed everyone.

So he can honestly say that he couldn't care less what Stanley is angry about this time.

"I don't have time for this, Stanley," he says, then pushes himself slowly to his feet. He feels far older than his age. A hundred perhaps. A century of regrets and missteps.

"Oh, you're gonna make time," his brother hisses, and the pure venom in it is enough to finally make him turn around.

He almost wishes he hadn't. The fury in Stanley's voice has nothing on the look in his eyes. Shame boils up in his throat. He can't help the way his eyes flick to the rift's hiding place.

Does Stanley know? Had Dipper told him?

He wants to offer excuses. He wants to deny everything. He wants to explain his intentions. He wants to pretend it never even happened.

Stanford swallows the shame. He chooses the one move that had kept him safe long before he'd ever even faced other dimensions and the scariest monsters outside of D&D&D were his classmates: he raises his defenses.

"What could you possibly be angry about this time?" he snaps.

Stanley's scowl carves deep wrinkles in his face. He looks even older like this. "Your grandniece has been upstairs all night bawling her eyes out," he growls.

Stanford's not proud of himself for feeling relieved, but he does. Not the rift then, and not Cipher launching an attack. Not even Stanley learning the worst of him. That's not to say he doesn't feel concerned for Mabel, but his niece's childish heartbreak is certainly a far better problem to face.

"Is she alright?"

"Oh, she's fine, poindexter," Stanley says sarcastically. "Just upset you're trying to take her brother away from her."

Stanford bristles. "That is not at all what I was trying to do."

"Oh, really? Because Mabel seems to think you told Dipper she was holding him back."

Perhaps in another dimension just slightly to the left, Stanford learns how to say what he means. Perhaps he's running on slightly more sleep and standing there with his eyes open doesn't feel like the hardest, most exhausting feat in the world. Perhaps he's less heartbroken over thirty lost years, less angry at his brother for failing him, less angry at himself for failing even more and less desperate to pretend otherwise.

Perhaps in that other dimension, the one slightly to the left, he knows how to explain that he's giving Dipper the opportunity he'd wished for at that age - not just to stay and study Gravity Falls, but to find someone who saw the world the same way he did and didn't think him strange for it, but encouraged and inspired him.

But in this dimension, Stanford is heartbroken and lonely and weary and ashamed, and he does not know how to say what he means.

He opens his mouth, and the words that come out are, "Because she is! Dipper is brilliant! Imagine what he could achieve if he could decide his own path - if he didn't have to make choices based on what Mabel wanted."

He wants to take them back the minute he says them, because as much as he means them in some ways, he doesn't mean them at all. His niece is just as brilliant as her brother, fantastically unique, kind and wonderful, and he's loved her with a ferocity he hardly thought himself capable of ever since he first met her.

The familiar taste of shame bubbles up. He can't bring himself to meet Stanley's eyes.

"I - I didn't mean that," he tries.

"I know."

Stanley's voice is like he's never heard it. Anger usually makes it burn hot and loud, trembling with the force of his emotions. Now it is almost still. Calm and collected and incredibly cold.

Stanford chances a look at his brother's expression and wishes he hadn't. It dissects him, clean through, and finds him wanting.

"I know you didn't mean it," Stanley continues. "I know you love Mabel. That's the only reason I didn't break your nose the minute you said it. This is about you and me."

Stanford wants to deny it.

He's not sure he can.

"Oh, yeah, I get it. Big, brilliant genius can't help projecting onto a couple of twelve year olds. You don't think Dipper's better off without Mabel, you think you were better off without me."

Stanford opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. It's as if the cold, sharp fury in Stanley's voice has taken all the air out of the room. There are two voices rattling around in his mind, and he isn't sure which one is the truth. Of course not, one says. Of course I did, argues the other.

Stanley lets out a sigh. The anger fizzles out of him. "Alright, I get it. I might be dumb but even I can figure some things out eventually. As soon as the kids are gone, I'm leaving."

(aaaaaand I ran out of steam here sooooo I guess that's the end)

#have some pain lmao #gravity falls #gravity falls fic #stanley pines #stanford pines #ask #my stories

[peachcitt]

I've seen a lot of people saying that rot was BAD, what is your opinion?

OH IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED

like most people (im sure) after finishing rise of the titans, after wiping up my tears i went to the rot tag to see maybe some gifs or something. you know, make myself cry a little more. instead, i found a bunch of people saying how much they hated the ending, how it was as terrible as some of the worst big finale bombs (endgame, game of thrones, etc) and uh. im not saying the ending is perfect, but it is DEFINITELY not as disastrous as what people are making it out to be, in my opinion. i thoroughly enjoyed the movie, actually, and i thought it was an effective way to end the tales of arcadia.

warning: rise of the titans spoilers, as well as general tales of arcadia spoilers

were there some things i didn't like? yeah!

the major things i didn't like align with a lot of what i see other people saying:

the weird mpreg plotline with steve. it just felt so strange and out of place, and it was used as a tactic to remove eli and steve from the major action, which i don't like.

and the 'ninth configuration' thing that, once again, excluded eli and steve. i didn't see a reason why they shouldn't have been there, seeing as they have contributed to trollhunting since nearly the start of all of the tales of arcadia. multiples of three are clean and smooth, i get it, but at the expense of two characters that were so lovingly developed in trollhunters and 3below?? yikes

with that being said, though, i don't agree with what a lot of people are saying about the time travel at the end. obviously, they bring up some good points - by changing the timeline so drastically, there's no way for jim to ensure that they'll be able to succeed or if the arcane order will even act in the same way. it's a big 'if' and it is worth thinking about

but people have been saying that the ending is out of jim's character and negates his arc, and i have to say. that's not true.

if you've been following my blog since july 1st, you'll know that ive spent the past twenty one days rewatching the entire tales of arcadia series at a steady pace, and within that time, i've paid a whole lot of attention to jim's arc as a character and how the finale of trollhunters left me feeling as if something just wasn't clicking right. his arc wasn't finished.

because all throughout trollhunters, jim is constantly having to prove his worth - and most of the time, the way he's proving his worth is by sacrificing himself. he takes all the blame when anything goes wrong, and on some level, jim never truly learns the lesson from season one of trollhunters that he's enough as a hero because he has his friends to back him up. like, yeah, he relies on them a bit more after that, but in the end, he still stands in the bathroom alone, separated from all his allies, and shoulders the burden of turning into a troll alone. and he leaves arcadia, the city he was fighting so hard to protect, and he leaves his best friend, the one that has been with him since the beginning.

then we get wizards, where jim lets himself be corrupted to save his friends. and then, because of that sacrifice, he ends up hurting all of them. i believe this fact - that he willingly corrupted himself, separated himself from his allies, and ended up hurting the people he loved - shook jim's foundation as a hero, which is why he can't believe he's the trollhunter without the amulet. the amulet was the physical manifestation of what it meant to be a hero to him, but it was destroyed when he was corrupted - it was destroyed when he hurt his friends.

that's how we see him in rise of the titans; he's still struggling with his identity as a hero because he doesn't have the amulet or the unshakable foundation he previously had of his heroism. literally everyone is looking for him to be the leader and make the huge, world-saving-or-destroying decisions, but he can't shoulder that huge burden knowing he could hurt everyone. and then, just to add fuel to the fire, it's his plan that causes people to die or be permanently separated from the group. and he can't even get the sword out of the stone! why? because he himself doesn't see himself as worthy - how can you think of yourself as worthy when you just got two of your allies killed and two more gone, presumably for forever?

but this is the moment it finally clicks for jim. he looks around at his allies, and he sees them reflected in the amulet. he's not alone, he doesn't have to be worthy just by himself, he has an entire group of people who have fought by his side time and time again that, even despite all the mistakes and missteps he's made, are still by his side.

and what makes the amulet work, in the final fight, is his firm determination to see this fight through, no matter if he has the armor or not. he's terrified, he's probably going to die - but it's that bravery despite the fear that makes him a hero, a trollhunter, amulet or not. and he knows that now - he's had to face it before, in the unbecoming episode, but it's different now. in the unbecoming episode, he was truly alone when he decided to face the fight. and he's alone here in rise of the titans - but not for long! because almost immediately after jim comes to terms with his place as a hero again, toby comes along, and he doesn't finish this fight alone!! he finishes this fight with another trollhunter, who doesn't have an amulet!!

jim deciding to rewind time to back before the events of trollhunters is a bold choice, but it tracks with a theme in wizards - merlin told douxie that what set him apart as a master wizard was his belief that every life was valuable and worthy of being saved. this theme is repeated in the new amulet in rise of the guardians; it's for the glory of all, not just for one person.

and jim deciding to have toby become the trollhunter finally marks the completion of jim's arc. instead of shouldering the burden alone, which is inevitably what would've happened if jim had rewound time, kept all of his memories, and accepted the amulet again, jim is choosing to accept allies into his life sooner. instead of being the trollhunter, jim is letting himself be a trollhunter, alongside all the other trollhunters.

of course, there's some things in this alternate timeline i don't like; mainly that no one stepped in to stop steve from bullying eli. that, to me, was the most out of character, and i can only assume jim didn't step in because he's leaving room for that fight to be toby's; competing against steve was a large jumpstart to jim feeling like he could be strong enough to bear the mantle, and maybe jim was just trying leave it up to toby to establish that on his own. still, i didn't like it.

and, of course, there are people lamenting the fact that none of the heroes of arcadia know each other or that they might not have the same relationships, but i immediately thought of the time loop episode in 3below. in that episode, the trollhunters team and the gang from 3below meet and become friends and ultimately lose the memory of that friendship from that day. however, in that episode, blinky says that true friendship would last against the test of time; if they were meant to be together, then they would be. and guess what? even though none of them remember that happening, they all still became friends. it was meant to be.

i think a lot of anxieties about the changed timeline are because people loved the events of trollhunters so much that they a) don't want to see anything changed and/or b) are trying to project the events of trollhunters onto the new timeline and are upset when they don't fit. toby won't be the same kind of hero that jim is, though - he never has been. inevitably, the story will be different, and that's scary. that was the risk jim took, though, and jim has always trusted in toby, so why shouldn't we?

to me, tales of arcadia has never been about clean endings that make you feel entirely good. they've always left me with a tang of bitter along with the sweet, and i think that's the point. tales of arcadia has always battled with hard questions and difficult endings, and i don't see rise of the titans being any different from that.

like i said before, i don't think rise of the titans is perfect. but you can hate it as much as you want; i still really think it did a good job with the story it was trying to tell. i mean, ending with the idea that all lives are important and worth saving, no matter the risk? that heroism inherently means being part of a collective that you trust and believe in? that through time and space, you will always be able to find and connect with the people you love? that's powerful.

im climbing off my soapbox now, but basically tl;dr: rise of the titans was a good finale, despite it's imperfections, and i think that's all i can ask for.

also if you don't like toby as the trollhunter just because you don't like him breaking out of the 'funny sidekick' archetype you can die by my blade

#anon #ask #rise of the titans #rot #rot spoilers #jim lake jr #rott #rott spoilers #what im trying to say is media does not have to be perfect in order for you to enjoy it #and not only did i enjoy rot i also just. thought it was good? it didn't invalidate any of the rest of toa to me at all #the story we witnessed was still valuable; that was why we were shown this version #i won't get philosophical but like. i am. #all that being said it should've been jim telling the story in the beginning #WBKEBKEWKW I JUST REALIZED THERE WAS NO DOUXIE WITH HIS SICK ASS GUITAR. so that too

[zenalios]

Untamed Seas; 3 - Enalios, α

Index (R18+)

Summary

Amphitrite, sea goddess, and daughter of Nereus, is less than willing to marry an Olympian, let alone Poseidon, the very god who overthrew her father. She does so nevertheless, in a desperate move to protect her sisters following Nereus’ absence.

The marriage is beneficial to them both: Poseidon gains legitimacy through a union with her, effectively solidifying his control over the seas, and Amphitrite guarantees her sisters' safety, along with all prestige due her status as queen.

The catch? She finds his domineering personality utterly insufferable, and he, the most fearsome god, resents being stuffed into an unwelcome marriage.

They have all eternity to make it work.

TW // Abuse - Verbal and Physical ; Abusive Relationship ; Forced Marriage

"No! I will not!"

A look of surprise flashed across the god king's face. Unable to control her rage any further, she charged at him, one fist drawn back. His immediate response caused the Nereid to laugh internally: Zeus was an experienced fighter indeed. He had braced himself for impact, crossing his forearms to guard against what he predicted to be an inevitable blow. But she had never intended to attack him to begin with. Amphitrite knew what she was, and she knew her place in a fight.

Just as her fist would have made contact with the god king, she twisted her body —and darted past him around a wall into the crowds as sea spray would into thin air. Even without turning to look, Amphitrite knew the god was following her, the only reason he did not run at her pace being the nuisances that were his broken jaw and nose. She knew, too, that he could still run faster than her if he truly wished, and that if the Olympian caught her, there would be no second chances. He was simply biding his time. The longer she spent on land, the more it would be to her own detriment. The mountain was not named after him for nothing.

And then she would have to marry Poseidon. 

The mere thought of the sea god alone urged her to continue running, past the banquet table, past the bonfire and its company of dancers, and out of the venue altogether. The cold wind howled in her ears, whipping her already untidy hair into a frenzy and nipping at her nose as she skidded down the rocky, winding, steps of Mt. Zas. How she hated living on land, Amphitrite thought miserably; and to make things worse, the next series of steps were all covered in moss, as if fate and Gaia herself had heard her thoughts.

One misstep was all it took. The sea nymph slipped with a piercing shriek. 

In her desperation she grabbed at the nearest structure to steady herself without looking. This time a sharp pain ripped through her clenched palm, golden liquid seeping from closed fingers. Her teeth chattered as she willed herself to let go —and she did, just as a singsong voice called her name. “Ouch, Amphitrite! That looks painful.” 

Still clutching her wrist, the Nereid spun to see Zeus standing on the path above her. “Do you know what that bush is?”

She shook her head, receiving only laughter in response. “Never mind, you don’t need to know.” Falling and grasping onto that bush had been disastrous for her. She was wasting precious time, and he knew it. “Come with me and we can have that wound treated immediately so it doesn’t leave a scar.” Again, she refused. The impatience in his tone told her otherwise: he would kidnap her first to Olympus, imprison her, and then only have somebody treat her wound. A shadow passed over the king’s face. He spoke again, slowly. “Amphitrite.” 

This time, her name carried with it a threat, one Zeus would certainly make good on if she did not do as she was told. The sea nymph pressed her injured palm to the now ripped skirts of her favourite dress. She winced on contact, twinges of pain still firing through her nerves. At least the wind had calmed. If anything, it at least eliminated the likelihood of her being blown off Mt. Zas to her doom, even though the night breeze rustled her dress from behind and threatened to blow her skirt up for her pursuer to see.

A familiar scent faintly brushed past her nose. Amphitrite’s eyes widened with recognition. It was the smell of home, calling her to safety. So she wouldn’t have to attempt an entire journey down the mountainside just to reach the shore after all; they were on the side of the mountain that faced the ocean. She kept one wary eye on Zeus, as she attempted to calculate just how much further she had left, hoping the king of the gods had not yet detected it —a musky smell of brine familiar to all sea creatures. Her injured palm twitched at the thought of touching water. Here on dry land, her powers were no good; Mt. Zas was solid rock, like the stone that Rhea fed Kronos, without a stream even, to heal her. Just behind, however, the sea flung itself at the cliffs below, as if demanding that Zeus release its subject. She was no longer royalty amongst the gods, but it was her domain nonetheless. Zeus would still be able to follow, without a doubt, but land-dwellers would never be able to outrun a creature of the sea. 

And hadn’t he said that Poseidon was still busy attempting to subjugate the ocean? If this was all Poseidon’s idea—, she chewed at her lip in anguish at the word Zeus had used. 

If Poseidon had sent him ahead to ask for her hand because he was too busy slaughtering or attempting to kill his own subjects, then not even that head of corn would be able to detect her presence amidst the ensuing turmoil. The sea nymph squared her shoulders. Grandfather would understand.

Amphitrite shifted on one leg, swinging the other behind. “Stop,” Zeus growled, realising just what it was she planned to do. She broke into a feral smile, resisting the urge to actually laugh in his face until she reached the ocean. The Nereid took another step back.

One. “Don’t.” 

Two. “Even.”

Three. “Think about it!” 

The god king roared as he leapt towards her. Too late; he had to stop, right at the cliff’s edge. Amphitrite laughed wildly as she hurtled headfirst through the air. Falling had never felt this good. Now she could look at her hand —as expected, her skin had begun to bind itself together in the places where the bush’s thorns had sliced through, glowing white all the while.

One last thought flashed through her head before she hit water.

Now she wouldn’t have to marry Poseidon, right?

2 - Snake ; 4 -  Enalios, β

#untamed seas #ari writes #snv #shuumatsu no valkyrie #record of ragnarok #snv poseidon #snv zeus #poseidon record of ragnarok #zeus record of ragnarok #poseidon x oc #poseidon x amphitrite

[theliterateape]

I Like to Watch | Zack Snyder’s Justice League

by Don Hall

Mythology is fun.

As a kid I loved reading Edith Hamilton’s book on the Greek gods and the myths. Hercules, Perseus, Apollo, and Hera—this fell completely in line with my love for superhero comics. The strangely petty human traits of envy, greed, and lust combined with the power to level cities make for some great storytelling.

Zeus was basically Harvey Weinstein in the retroactive revision we’re mired in today. If Harvey could’ve changed into a golden animal and boned unsuspecting ladies looking for careers in Hollywood I’m pretty certain he would. The gods and demi-gods of the Greeks dealt with daddy issues, mommy issues, bad relationships, and fighting. Lots of fighting. Sometimes for the good of humanity but more often for the glory of winning.

Zach Snyder is in the business of tackling myths and reframing them with a style all his own. His career has become its own myth.

From Dawn of the Dead (not so much a reboot of Romero's zombie mythology but a philosophical reimagining of the genre that arguably jumpstarted The Hollywood fascination with it), 300 (a borderline homoerotic take on the myth of the Greek underdog), and Watchmen (a ridiculously ambitious attempt to put one of the most iconic takedowns on the potential fascism of the superhero legend machine ever written) to his nearly single-handed hack at answering the Marvel juggernaut with Man of Steel and Batman vs Superman: Dawn of Justice, Snyder is in the artistic business of subverting and re-envisioning the mythologies we embrace without even seeing them as such.

Snyder's style is operatic. It is on a grand scale even in the most mundane moments. The guy loves slow motion like Scorcese loves mobsters and Italian food. When you're tackling big themes with larger than life stories, the epic nature of his vision makes sense and has alienated a good number of audience members. With such excess, there are bound to be missteps but I'd argue that his massive take on these characters he molds from common understanding and popular nomenclature elevates them to god-like stature.

Fans of Moore's Watchmen have much to complain about Snyder's adaptation. The titular graphic novel is almost impossible to put in any other form than the one Moore intended and yet, Snyder jumped in feet-first and created a living, breathing representation of most, if not all, of the source material's intent. Whether you dig on it or not, it's hard to avoid acknowledging that the first five minutes of Watchmen is a mini-masterpiece of style, storytelling, and epic tragedy wrapped up in a music video.

Despite a host of critical backlash for his one fully original take, Sucker Punch is an amazing thing to see. More a commentary on video game enthusiasm with its lust for hot animated chicks and over-the-top violence that a celebration of cleavage and guns, the film is crazily entertaining. For those who hated the ending, he told you in the title what his plan was all along.

The first movie I saw in the theaters that tried to take a superhero mythology and treat it seriously (for the most part) was Richard Donner's Superman: The Movie. Never as big a fan of the DC characters as I have been of Marvel, it was still extraordinary to see a character I had only really known in pages to be so fully realized. Then came Burton's Batman movies. The superhero film was still an anomaly but steam was gaining. Things changed with Bryan Singer's X-Men in 2000, then Raimi's Spiderman, and those of us who grew up with our pulpy versions of Athena, Hermes, and Hades were rewarded with Nolan's Batman Begins. A far cry from the tongue-in-cheek camp of the 1966 TV Batman, Christian Bale's Bruce Wayne was a serious character and his tale over three films is a tragic commentary filled with the kind of death and betrayal and triumph befitting the grand narrative he deserved.

I loved Singer's Superman Returns in 2006 because it was such a love letter to the 1978 film (down to the opening credits) but by then, the MCU was taking over the world.

Snyder's first of what turns out to be an epic storyline involving perhaps seven or eight movies was Man of Steel. It was fun and, while I had my issues with the broodiness of Kal El, the odd take on Jonathan Kent, and a redheaded Lois Lane, I had no issue with Superman snapping Zod's neck. Darker and more tragic than any other version of the Kryptonian, it was still super entertaining.

Then came Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice. By 2016, Marvel had codified their formula of serious characters wrestling with serious issues of power and responsibility peppered with lots of good humor and bright colors. Snyder's desaturated pallete and angst-filled demi-gods was not the obvious road to financial competition.

I'll confess, I hated it. BvS felt half-rendered. Lex Luthor was kind of superficial and played as a kind of Joker. The whole Bruce Wayne wants to kill Superman thing felt undeveloped and the "Martha" moment was just stupid.

When Joss Whedon's version of Snyder's Justice League came out in 2017, I was primed for it to be a turd and I wasn't surprised. So much of it didn't work on any level. I dismissed it as DC trying and failing miserably and was comforted by the coming of Thanos.

Following Thanos and the time heist was COVID. Suddenly, we were internationally sidelined and the movie theater industry caved in. Streaming services started popping up like knock-off smartphones and Hollywood was reeling, doing anything and everything to find a way back. Since Whedon's disastrous helming of Snyder's third act, fans online had been demanding to #ReleasetheSnyderCut but no one was ever really taking them seriously until all movie production was shut down for a year.

The stage was set to remedy a mistake (or at least make some bucks on a do-over of a huge box office failure). Snyder had left the production in part because of the suicide of his daughter and in part due to the constant artistic fights over executives looking for the quippy fun of the MCU but he still had all the original footage. Add to that the broiling accusations that Joss Whedon was "abusive" during the reshoots, the path seemed destined. For an additional $70 million and complete control, Snyder delivered a four hour mega-movie streamed on HBOMax.

Of course, I was going to watch the thing as soon as I could.

The Whedon version opens with an homage to the now dead Superman (including the much maligned digitally erased mustache on Henry Cavill). The SynderCut opens with the death of Superman and the agony of his death scream as it travels across the planet. It's a simple change but exemplifies the very different visions of how this thing is gonna play out.

Snyder doesn't want us to be OK with the power of these beings unleashed. He wants us to feel the damage and pain of death. He wants the results of violence to be as real as he can. When Marvel's Steve Rogers kicks a thug across the room and the thug hits a wall, he crumples and it is effectively over. When Batman does the same thing, we see the broken bones (often in slow motion) and the blood smear on the wall as the thug slides to the ground.

The longer SnyderCut is bloated in some places (like the extended Celtic choir singing Aquaman off to sea or the extended narrations by Wonder Woman which sound slightly like someone trying to explain the plot to Siri). On the other hand, the scene with Barry Allen saving Iris West is both endearing and extraordinary, giving insight to the power of the Flash as well as some essential character-building in contrast to Whedon's comic foil version.

One thing I noticed in this variant is that Zach wants the audience to experience the sequence of every moment as the characters do. An example comes when Diana Prince goes to the crypt to see the very plot she belabors over later. The sequence is simple. She gets a torch and goes down. Most directors which jump cut to the torch. Snyder gives us five beats as she grabs the timber, wraps cloth around the end, soaks it with kerosene, pulls out a box of matches, and lights the torch. Then she goes down the dark passageway.

The gigantic, lush diversity of Snyder’s vision of the DC superhero universe—from the long shots of the sea life in the world of Atlantis to the ancient structures and equipment of Themyscira— is almost painterly. Snyder isn't taking our time; he's taking his time. We are rewarded our patience with a far better backstory for the villain, a beautifully rendered historic battle thwarting Darkseid's initial invasion (including a fucking Green Lantern), and answers to a score of questions set up in both previous films.

Whedon's Bruce Wayne was more Ben Affleck; Snyder's is full-on Frank Miller Batman, the smartest, most brutal fucker in the room. Cyborg, instead of Whedon's sidelined non-character, is now a Frankenstein's monster, grappling with the trade-off between acceptance and enormous power. Wonder Woman is now more in line with the Patty Jenkins version and instead of being told about the loss of Superman, we are forced to live with the anguish of both his mother and Lois Lane in quiet moments of incredible grief.

To be fair to Whedon (something few are willing to do as he is now being castigated not for racism or sexism but for being mean to people) having him come in to throw in some levity and Marvel-esque color to Snyder's Wagnerian pomposity is like hiring Huey Lewis to lighten up Pink Floyd's The Wall or getting Douglas Adams to rewrite Cormac McCarthy's The Road.

I loved Snyder's self-indulgent, mythologic DC universe.

So much so that I then re-watched Man of Steel and then watched the director's version of BvS (which Snyder added approximately 32 minutes). The second film is far better at three hours and Eisenberg's Lex Luthor now makes sense. Then I watched Zach Snyder's Justice League a second time.

After nineteen hours of Snyder's re-imagining of these DC heroes and villains, I saw details that, upon first viewing, are ignored or dismissed, but after seeing them in order and complete, are suddenly consistent and relevant. Like Nolan or Fincher, Snyder defies anyone to eliminate even one piece of his narrative no matter how long. With all the pieces, this is an epic story and the pieces left at the extended epilogue play into a grander narrative we will never see.

Or maybe we will. Who knows these days?

#I Like to Watch #Zach Snyder's Justice League

[carmenlire]

Slipping Under

read on ao3

Standing in the doorway, Maryse presses unsteady hands to her middle.

She tries to take a deep breath but finds that she can’t quite manage it. The best she can do is a sort of desperate, choking inhale and things are dire indeed as the man sitting at her son’s bedside doesn’t flinch, acts for all the world like he’s unaware of her presence-- oblivious to the medics in the room, all of his attention focused on Alec.

That first step into the infirmary takes more strength than Maryse thought she had. She doesn’t want to get closer and see just how thready her son’s lifeline is, doesn’t want to face what the other end of the phone call promised less than an hour ago. As she nears the bed, she sees the claw marks in Alec’s side, stretching from just below his ribs to just above his hip. They’re vicious streaks of black-streaked crimson and a sob builds in her throat.

Venomous ichor, she thinks and the pit in her stomach digs a little deeper, leaves her nauseous and terrified.

Magnus doesn’t look up as she nears. No, his gaze is glued to his husband, both of his hands clutching one of Alec’s. In what she thinks must be an unconscious move, he’s twisting Alec’s wedding ring, a tiny compulsive tick as his unglamoured eyes stay fastened to the man in front of him.

Maryse doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to shift his attention. She just takes the empty chair on her son’s other side and lowers herself gently. It feels like she’s aged a century in the past forty minutes.

The drone of the heart rate monitor is steadying. Every beat means Alec is still alive, that he’s still fighting.

Now that she’s closer, Maryse sees her son in all his shadowhunter glory and it makes her sick to her stomach.

Bruises litter his body. There are half a dozen iratzes drawn over his heart, his abdomen, his thigh. She sees the bones of his arm knitting back together under scraped flesh and her heart clenches.

There are other marks, though. These are old-- the scar that runs parallel to his clavicle, an old wound clumsily and hastily healed from when he’d taken a tumble during training, dozens of tiny scars from the endless recoil of his bowstring.

There are scores of marks that proclaim her child a soldier, a warrior with the angel’s blessing.

As Maryse studies her son’s prone form, a piece of her heart grieves. It steals her breath, the overwhelming sorrow she has for what’s become of her eldest. If she'd known now what she knew then, she would've taken her children and run as far and fast from this world as she could. This world makes children grow up too damned fast, robs them of their childhood and does its best to carve their hearts right from their chests before they're even old enough to understand what they're losing.

It's a zero sum gave and the Clave is always the damned victor.

The infirmary staff work quietly in the background and Maryse moves her chair over to give them more room. Magnus doesn’t move and no one dares suggest he do so.

Watching as shadowhunters do everything they can to save their leader, Maryse is left alone with her thoughts.

Eventually, a salve is spread over the claw marks before it's bandaged with pristine strips of cotton. The color contrast is striking, covering up such angry wounds, but it worries her, how Alec’s skin seems leached of all color, blending in with the linen.

Long hours pass and Jace and Izzy stop by for long visits before exhaustion pulls them both to their bedrooms. Patrol had been so brutal that night and her other children had applied iratzes as well to stave off the consequences of a hard battle.

Through it all, Alec doesn’t move. He doesn’t twitch, doesn’t grunt in pain. There are no snores and that causes another little pang in Maryse’s heart.

Alec’s snored since he was just a toddler. Back then they’d been cute little snuffles that had made her chest ache with love. The few times she’d roused him as a teenager, they’d morphed until it was like a buzzsaw was sounding in his bedroom.

She wonders dryly how Magnus sleeps in the same room with the man.

Looking over, she smiles wanly at the sight-- Magnus’s eyes are closed, his chin resting on his chest in a position that will prove extremely painful later. His hands haven’t moved from Alec’s. Maryse is just set to get up, maybe urge Magnus to take Alec’s old bedroom or even set up a cot here when she stills.

Magnus groans a little, blinking open gold eyes blearily. She watches as his gaze flies to Alec’s face, panicked, hoping for a change before his shoulders slump even more when he sees that there’s no change at all.

His hands tighten on Alec’s and then he’s gingerly moving his chair so that his knees are flush to the bedside. He carefully leans forward until he can rest his head beside Alec’s uninjured side, on scratchy utilitarian sheets. He doesn’t seem to be aware that he’s not alone in the shadows of the infirmary. It strikes her that this scene is incongruous with who most believe Magnus to be. There is no elegance in his slouch and sharp eyes are red rimmed and exhausted. There is no pride in the man on the other side of the bed, just hope and endurance. He is not the High Warlock tonight, in this room. He is simply Mr. Lightwood-Bane, a worried husband.

Maryse watches her son-in-law turn his head so that he can look up at Alec and there’s a love there that’s so deep it steals her breath.

She’s never known that kind of devotion. It fills her with not an inconsiderable amount of awe and relief that her son found someone who looks at him like he’s not just their sun but the whole damn universe.

Magnus falls asleep like that and she doesn’t have it in her to disturb him. It’s like his whole body sags toward the bed and the exhaustion that must have been riding him hard has disappeared, albeit temporarily.

Left alone with her thoughts, Maryse finds twining shades of grief and regret seeping into her gut. For the longest time, her children were nothing more than additions to the Institute’s roster, a mercenary way to outrun her own disastrous missteps.

As she studies her son in the low light, shame scalds her throat. She was a worthless mother-- horrid, selfish, cold.

She thinks about how many times she could’ve lost Alec and the others. She thinks about her son who was once her pride and joy and how many times she slammed the metaphorical door in his face.

By the grace of the angel, Maryse has found her second chance. It haunts her sometimes-- often-- how little she recognizes the woman she’d grown into. Tonight is the latest in a long line of times Alec’s been injured.

It strikes her now, though, how close she’s come countless times to losing Alec.

Tears well in her eyes and she bites back a sob at the realization. It’s another side of a coin she’s flipped dozens of times over the past few years, another light bulb that illuminates just how low she’d sunk and how much she still has to go before she’s finally free from the hole she’d dug herself.

Most days Maryse resigns herself to never seeing total sunshine again.

Laying a gentle hand on Alec’s knee, she smooths away imperceptible wrinkles from the sheet that covers him up to his waist.

There was a time she knew Alec, her darling baby boy, better than anyone else. She knew his favorite color was blue and his favorite food chocolate cake with almonds and that he loved the giraffes at the zoo with a passion reserved only for five year old boys without a care in the world.

Then she’d changed and Alec had followed suit and she mourns the boy he’d turned into-- the boy she’d turned him into with her cold words and biting contempt.

She was so blind, she thinks now. Looking back, the signs were all there but she’d been too stupid and too full of herself to realize and there’s not a day that goes by when she doesn’t wish she’d done something, something different.

She’d thought his training sessions were nothing more than a boy’s attempts to make his mother proud. Maryse hadn’t known that they were punishments, not at first, and by the time she had she’d been apathetic.

And then there was the morning she’d surprised her Institute by returning from Idris early. She’d watched Alec and his parabatai train and she’d known what those looks meant, the lingering glances Alec stole when he thought Jace wasn’t looking.

It had killed her to see them, to realize what they meant. She’d never stopped to wonder what Alec must be thinking, feeling, inside the cold walls of the Institute. Her treatment had become even more abrasive after that day and it sickens her now to remember the way she’d looked at her son and seen a failure, a disappointment.

She’d mostly washed her hands of him after that, his only value as a soldier. When he’d proposed to Lydia, she’d been pleasantly surprised-- fuck, she’d been over the damned moon.

Her eyes drop down to Alec’s hand resting near hers. Oh so carefully, she covers it with her own and she smiles even as her heart aches, as it bleeds out for the mother she’d been and the mother Alec had needed.

So foolish, she thinks now. So terrible.

Still, Maryse hadn’t seen anything amiss until the night of Max’s rune ceremony.

It had taken seeing Alec falling over a ledge for her to realize just how much damaged she’d done.

What kind of mother, she used to think, could let her child suffer so much without knowing?

She’d been that mother and shame burns through her.

Her thumb strokes over scarred flesh in gentle sweeps and she knows these particular scars are a biting reminder of everything Alec’s been through.

He’s stronger than she knew, stronger than he should’ve ever had to be.

As Maryse watches over her son, she knows that she’s a different person, infinitely better. While Alec may have forgiven her-- and isn’t that something that stuns her every time she stops to think about it-- Maryse has yet to forgive herself.

She vows for the thousandth time to be there for her family the way she should’ve been all along. She doesn’t want to have any regrets moving forward.

Maryse stays awake until dawn light starts to peak through the stained glass windows in the infirmary. Her eyes burn and her back aches but she doesn’t move.

She watches over her son-- and over Magnus-- and it’s the easiest thing in the world.

When Alec opens his eyes hours later and turns his head, the first thing he sees is his mom, watching him with warm eyes.

It’s a punch to the gut and when she straightens and runs a hand through his hair like she used to do when he was little, he sighs and lets his eyes close once more.

He feels Magnus’s hand in his and with his mom standing watch, he feels the safety net he’d craved for so long fall into place.

It’s more than he’d hoped for all those years, more than he’d thought he'd deserved.

Alec tries to stay awake a few moments more, wanting to sear this onto his hazy memory, but pain pulls at the edges of his conscious and he slips under again to escape.

Maryse stands and leans over her son, bringing her hand down to rest along his cheek. She kisses his forehead and while part of her mourns for the thousands kisses and hugs she’d missed-- thrown away in bitter apathy-- she cherishes this chance and promises herself it’ll become one of countless.

#malec fic #my writing

[syxjaewon]

part 1 ; had we but world enough and time

when the call comes in, jaewon is in the piloting seat on the right side of serenity’s bridge, the day slow and dark, the sky spotted with stars and void, all the verse spread before him like a plate, open and waiting and smooth, clear sailing between worlds as far as he knows, a job already in haul, a mission already half finished. it’s a smuggling run, a simple point-a-to-point-b type of trade, but it’ll be a substantial enough payout to get them to the next phase of their profession, and they’ll be delivering it to higgin’s moon, which is usually steady enough with work that they shouldn’t need to travel again to hunt for errands. they’ve had a slew of dependable business lately, nothing too fancy, but with jaewon being most of his own crew at the moment, he doesn’t want to let on to dealers that they’re running a little thin.

he doesn’t even currently have a pilot, most of serenity’s flight determined by autopilot features, except during check up times, mornings, afternoons, and after dinner, when jaewon comes up here to inspect everything, make sure it’s all running smoothly, maybe give the auto-run a little break. she’s not used to flying so long on her own and he doesn’t want to wear her down too soon, doesn’t want her to forget too easily that she’s not abandoned out here, that she’s still in good hands, that she still has his heart. old machines, ones like these, need care and precision and regular tuning, old machines like these need reminding that they still belong to someone, or they’ll rust, they’ll fade, they’ll die.

space is too cold for either of them not to check in on each other once in a while.

when the call comes in, jaewon is cruising serenity, relaxed and informal, staring off into the distance like he’s sleeping with his eyes open, and the sound of cutting buzzes jolts him out of his trance like a lightning bolt, immediately leaning up and frowning over the console. the call blips in and out, pieces of words, something shattering, something screaming, the fuzz of static deafening and rattling through the speakers. he fiddles with a few of the controls, lighting up the booster, shifting around the frequencies.

“are you-- for the--- iver side---- at, can yo--- his---”

his face darkens as he begins catching words, hearing the tone, hearing the voice, recognizing it just a bit, just enough to raise his blood pressure, enough to focus all his attention on this transmission, flipping on the autopilot once more so he has better reign over the other controls.

“rat---” the sound fizzes and shudders, the screen glitching through white noise before finally bringing in a picture, messy and disastrous, the image of a man with a death-grip on his console, wide eyes, bare teeth, sparks and warning lights crashing all around behind him. “rat!”

“saito?”

jaewon doesn’t speak much about his past, his history buried deep in the lining of his stomach, in the threads of his skin, in the pupils of his eyes; he doesn’t brand his experiences across his face for the verse to read and pick from, every curious gaze licking and pulling him apart; he doesn’t give anyone under stars or suns first dibs about the horrors he’s witnessed or the hells he’s climbed out of. those who know him, know that he is a mountain, built upwards towards the sky by his own hands, stone by stone, coal by coal, the whole of him a creature of kept secrets and sewn lips, of teeth that keep words locked tight behind them. for all that he burns, he burns alone.

but saito is everywhere in that history, as littered throughout jaewon’s memory as vera, the two of them a pair of pseudo parents jaewon hadn’t ever imagined he’d get as a child, but whereas vera was a mother who taught him how to read, how to captain, how to live, how to breathe, how to fly, saito was as vallurian as he was, and therefore much less verbal with his input, much less apparent with his influence.

saito was a firm character in jaewon’s upbringing, able to weather any storm brought by vera or her crew, able to handle the constant missteps and hazards a smuggling pirate ship often amasses; he was vera’s first mate and the archetype jaewon followed for what a vallurian offworld could look like. he taught jaewon how to fight like a vallurian, how to stand like one, how to run towards dangers instead of flickering between them, instead of snarling his way through them, instead of slipping around them, his atmosphere shifting gradually from a thief in the alleys to the heir of his heritage. saito taught him that it didn’t matter if he was an orphan, it didn’t matter if his family had or hadn’t abandoned him next to a dumpster, no name, no age, no memory, all of valluria had raised him instead, all of the universe was inside him, everything he ever needed, he already had.

when he thinks of saito kyoji, he thinks of him with three blades strapped across his back, burly and stronger than a god, walking at the right hand of vera blackhound as they stream through the stars together.

not like this, not in a ship that’s falling apart behind him, not with panic and determination in his gaze, not with something tugging and desperate in his tone. “jaewon! can you hear me?”

“i hear you,” he responds back. “what the hell? where are you?”

“i’m on a ship called ‘the emerald dragon,’ i’ve been hailing out as many sos as i can and i saw the firefly, can you get to me?”

jaewon makes quick work of opening up the ship’s range, tracking the signal from somewhere behind them, out towards the cygni contra system, a group of partially formed asteroids in a belt formation, the mining operations there making it difficult to locate the other vessel pinpointedly. alarms scream and flash through the transmission and saito’s ship crashes into something, making the older man curse and struggle with his controls.

“i’m an hour away if i really push it, can you hold on?”

saito’s systems tell him they’ve been hit. “not much.”

“fuck.” jaewon leaves the line open but pushes away from it in a hurry, reaching for the comm and connecting it down to the engine room, where he hopes henry is hiding out at this hour, still busy with his list of repairs he intends on doing now that he’s back. he’s not going to like this. “henry, i’m about to raw-drive serenity into the cygni contra system, i need you to direct as much energy into the engine as possible, shut everything unnecessary down.”

“what?” henry doesn’t sound amused. “why?”

but jaewon doesn’t answer him, doesn’t feel like he should need to, hanging up the comm immediately and shifting back to the handles of the ship as he shuts off the autopilot and kicks on the brakes, the thrusters rumbling and growling beneath him as they turn. he tilts the yoke wheel to a hard left, which always bugs out the artificial gravity unit, the velocity pulling at him forward and sideways, something falling and crashing behind him loudly enough to make him wince, but not loudly enough to make him stop.

in the transmitter, saito fuzzes in and out, his ship obviously crashing, obviously falling to pieces, obviously obliterating itself through the tangle of asteroids, and jaewon grits his teeth in frustration, in need, in fury, as he turns his ship in the opposite direction and punches serenity’s blaze-through, kicking the ship into a higher gear. again the gravity module shivers and takes a minute to right itself.

“saito, why the hell are you in an asteroid belt? you know the cygni contra system is--”

“i know,” saito snaps, just as stressed, if not more, than his protege. “it’s volatile. but it was our only shot at ditching the tail on us.”

“you’re being tracked?”

“jaewon, its--- they’re--- from the---”

“saito?” jaewon tries, glares, his eyes dodging between the screen on the console and the window up above him, all the stars and planets so frustratingly large and far away that it doesn’t seem like they’re traveling hardly at all. he knows serenity is moving, he knows she’s flying at top speed, at a hard pace, pedal to metal, but the illusion is enough to gnaw on his insides, to sink heavy into his gut like a stone. “you’re breaking up, can you hear me? saito!”

“i’m--- for the--- at?--- time---”

“fuck.”

“what’s going on?” harper’s voice rings in through the bridge door, alert and worried, maybe a little angry and ready for anything, but jaewon can’t stand to look back at her right now, can’t stand to look at anything other than the two pillars of his life still alive, the two things left in jaewon’s sphere that he still has who have raised him-- saito and the sky.

his lips are pulled back, his jaw clenching, his hands white-knuckled around the yoke, burning through serenity’s fuel like they’re made of it, like they’ll never run out. “saito! can you hear me?”

“with the-- give you--- boy--”

harper leans over the console, careful not to get in jaewon’s way, but wanting to see what it is he’s seeing, what it is he’s hearing, recognizing the situation too clearly, either from jaewon’s expression or from the way saito flickers in and out, the image of him blurry but catastrophic. “can we get to him in time?”

an hour. an hour out, flying like this, an hour flying with their wings outstretched, with their arms pitching forward, bending forward, inclining forward, and he knows serenity won’t like this, won’t thank him for this, won’t recover easily after this, but he also knows she can survive it. he knows she can hold fast and stay true, and fly steady, even if she’s churning, even if she’s scorching, even if she’s angry about it.

he locks his fears and his doubts and his hesitations behind his teeth, where they cannot get out, where they cannot breach the space around him. “saito, if you can hear me, i’ll get there. i’ll make it. i’m coming.”

“aewon--- uctions--- put it--- on---”

and then the screen cuts completely to black.

#verse two. endymion #backstory #this is the fall of the emerald dragon

[anthropologicalhands]

Tarantism

Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing. 

Even when you are well-adjusted and living the best version of your life that you’ve had so far, some days are still strange days. Some days, you are attending your ex-boyfriend’s wedding where your other (now married) ex-boyfriend is standing up as one of the groomsmen.

Sure, there isn’t any bad blood, and your role at the wedding is to make music, not bear witness, but still, it’s hard not to feel just a little melancholy.

Thank goodness, then, for dancing.

Lots of dancing, including a tarantella that leaves all of you gasping and laughing and nearly in a pile of lace and tangled heels when your former roommate’s husband accidentally gets dragged the wrong way and missteps and nearly brings the whole wedding party crashing down. But the bride laughs, the groom gives a pithy one-liner after gently helping her to her feet, and nothing is ruined, so the party continues. Even those of your friends who are usually sticklers for propriety just laugh and pick themselves off the ground. Even Nathaniel.

You’ve been talking, the two of you. Not obsessively, or anything, but exchanging likes and comments across social media, messaging privately with good news from time to time, to offer updates on your lives and to share funny stories. If you’re honest with yourself, which you are better about these days, even when it really takes effort, one of the reasons your melancholy is not worse than it could be is because you knew you were going to see him and talk to him in the flesh, not through some electronic filter that gives you more contact than you would have had, like, a century ago but still takes out some of the nuance that only a face-to-face conversation can give.

It also kind of (definitely) helps that he’s also flying solo, which means you aren’t the only person in your immediate friend group without a date.

No other reason.

Unfortunately, there hasn’t really been time to talk yet, just the two of you, what with your role in the wedding proper, because you are still always a little nervous before a performance and because many of your friends are his friends, too, and they have their own conversations to catch up on and you don’t want to be totally ‘O’ about seeing him again.

Still, you catch him watching you as the bride walks down the aisle, and there’s a light in his eyes that hasn’t dimmed with the years and it doesn’t make you bloom, exactly, but it does make you sit up straighter, and look right back. Not long enough to forget yourself (it’s not such a worry any more), but so that he knows that you see him, and if that look was something real and fluttering that you could catch in your hands to keep, you would.

You want to dance with him but you really really want to dance with your friends, too, and apart from the disastrous tarantella, he spends most of the evening deep in conversation with your other friends and former coworkers and your gurl group is just so pretty in their dresses and all of you are giggly with champagne that you all get caught up in having a good time and before you know it the night is mostly over.

Your chance arrives shortly before midnight, when the floor hasn’t emptied but the music has slowed, and the bride and groom remain at the center of the floor, gazes locked, and your friends have drifted apart to wrap their arms around their significant others, their pinching heels now dangling from their fingers. Then you turn and, with light-headed determination, head straight for the MountainTop guest table.

Like most of the other tuxedo-wearing guests collapsed in their dinner chairs, Nathaniel has shed both jacket and tie, but he has also gone the additional step of unbuttoning and shoving his sleeves up to his elbows. It’s a good look for him – one you can’t imagine him have ever done when you first met, and almost all the more unfairly attractive for it.

Not that it hinders you the least in approaching him.

“There you are,” you say, faux-annoyed, entirely teasing, grabbing his hand and tugging hard, delighted by the solidity of him.

“I’ve always been here,” he protests, unfolding out of his chair and following you easily, which is true, has always been true, but just a matter of timing, and you shift so that your hand is nestled in his and your other hand rests on his upper arm, his other hand settling comfortably in the middle of your back.

You keep your shoes on despite the ache from all of your dancing, because you can’t afford to lose the extra inches, and it’s almost like the first time the two of you did this, only now there is no nefarious plot, just two guests at a wedding who can enjoy each other’s company.

“Hi,” you say breathlessly, because as much as you love grand words, you’ve never needed them when the two of you are together.

“Hi,” he returns, matching your grin. He’s always had a nice smile, and you like how easily he shows it these days, not just with you but with everyone.

(Even if you are pleased that it’s your smile on his face.)

“You sang really well tonight,” he says, and it’s not a smooth comment, but it’s charming, and your pulse stutters and spikes to hear it. Your body is cranky at you, not just for the shoes and the spanx and the dress but because your body remembers his body and it’s finding this extra distance to be rather absurd.

To the side of you, your married ex (not the just-married groom but the ‘old’ married ex, two years in and happy as a clam, and about to be a father), catches your eye and looks between the two of you, eyebrows raised as if pleasantly surprised. You flap a hand at him to mind his own business; he laughs and his wife looks up and immediately comes to your defense, tapping his nose to redirect his attention towards her. He smiles and turns his head to whisper first in her ear and then bends downwards, addressing the bump under her dress, and you smile at the sight. While there is the occasional twinge of melancholy over what could have been but wasn’t, mostly it’s a quiet kind of joy, to see him moving forward in his life with such giddy anticipation.

Nathaniel’s gaze follows your own, and you hear him huff a tiny laugh.

“I’m going to have to fly out again in a couple of months, won’t I?” he says, in a tone that would be exasperated, were the fondness not so obvious.

“That’s not unreasonable,” you say, refusing to be sympathetic, because that means he’s back in person and you will get to do this again. “And no complaining about people not organizing their life-changing events around your schedule. You’re not that kind of lawyer anymore.”

“That doesn’t mean I no longer appreciate a good schedule,” Nathaniel objects, almost affronted, and you roll your eyes but let the comment slide, because the fact is that these days Nathaniel considers a good schedule to include something beyond just work commitments, and that even if balancing life and work is a pain, it is worth the effort, and you like it.

“You can just send the largest stuffed animal you can find,” you point out. “If you really don’t want to visit.”

He rolls his eyes at you, which you interpret as don’t be an idiot, I’m still gonna do both, even if that isn’t what he means.

“Plus, you’re back for good in a few months, anyways,” you point out. “There’ll be plenty of time for baby visits. Catching up with the echelons of West Covina’s elite. Catching up and all that jazz. Getting your groove back and falling into step with all the rest of us.”

“Right,” he says, and nothing else, because there’s still something left heavy between the two of you, like baggage or emotional stones or whatever visual metaphor works best, that you both know intrinsically, but that you can’t address just yet. Because right now it is almost like a dream, how he can reappear when you want to see him most, rather than the reality of seeing him every day, and as much as you want the reality, you are both figuring out what is reasonable to expect from each other.

Exhaustion pricks in your eyes, and you hide your face in his shoulder to smother your yawn.

“Long night?” he asks, his voice low and gentle.

“The longest,” you mumble, and you let yourself surrender to what the tired animal of your body wants and steps closer so that your personal space merges gratefully into his, so you can rest your cheek against his shoulder, imagine that you can feel his heart pounding beneath your cheek, evidence that he is here, for now. And will be soon back for good, in the future.

 Until then, you have dancing.

You hold each other and the melancholy, pale as a flame, extinguishes entirely.

#writing meme reply #crazy ex girlfriend #rebecca x nathaniel #ellie writes fic #Anonymous #so tarantism is not quite this - apparently #it is considered a hysteric behavior #but the tarantella is believed to be related somehow #so fun stuff #still i like the thought #also this is in second person because why not #highly experimental #idk i needed to write something

[lulu-balu]

Piper and Dorothy having a silly argument over hats

So for context, assume that Dorothy and Rusty have met up with Piper and co. after years, and Fen’s insistence results in Piper allowing the two to stay with the crew. Only problem is that it’s a bit cramped…

Piper jerked her head up from her desk as she heard a clatter coming from the other room, followed by an irritated “Coggarn it!”

Sighing, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and quickly sorted through her paperwork, before getting up to investigate the racket. Her steps were clumsy and lethargic as she descended closest ladder, but she trusted herself enough not to misstep or fall over.

However, instead of the satisfying clunk she was expecting when she touched the floor, her foot made a whumf sound as she stepped into something very soft.

“Hats, hats, everywhere! Why do you even have so many of them?!” yelled a short Steambot, who was currently digging herself out of an ample pile of headgear. She did not look happy, steam spewing out of her vents as she flung the hats out of the way like baseballs.

Dollie—no, Dorothy. Good grief, why can’t I remember this lady’s name?

“Sorry miss, but I’ll have you know that we take great pride in our hat collection,” explained Piper. She bent down to gather some in her arms, planning to put them in their rightful place—that is, a precariously erected tower of hats that, while Piper knew was disastrous, was currently the only way to efficiently store them in their cramped ship.

When she stood up, however, she was surprised to find the Steambot standing in front of her, or rather, below her. Being tall had its benefits, but Piper never expected one of them to be a tiny, outraged yet adorable Steambot glaring daggers at her.

“You’re proud of all of these? Really?!” Dorothy said, sounding like her father had just been insulted.

“Every single one.” Piper started putting them away.

“They fall over and make a mess every other day, some of them are ratty and gross, and some of them aren’t even hats at all!”

“Says the one with goggles on her head.”

“Where else would I put them?!”

Piper shrugged and bent down to pick up more hats. “I dunno, your neck, maybe?” At this point it was becoming increasingly obvious that the little Steambot was not amused with how nonplussed Piper was acting. While it was funny, Dorothy was starting to grate on her nerves. After all, this was the hat collection they were talking about. You don’t mess with Piper and Company’s hat collection.

Dorothy let out a snarl, muted by her closed mouth, as she plucked up a hat from the ground with harsh and jerky movements. “Look at this one.”

“It’s a bird nest.”

“Yes!”

Piper stared her down, as if asking her to elaborate on her point.

“Doesn’t it seem odd to you that you would wear the home of a living creature’s home on your head?”

“No…? Besides, whatever lived there has clearly abandoned ship.”

“THERE ARE EGGS IN IT!”

“Yeah, it’s a shame that two of them never hatched.”

Dorothy suddenly stopped, looking down at the nest’s contents. Two fully intact eggs were inside, but the third one…

“A baby bluebird hatched from one of them. The crew collectively agreed that our ship was no place for a baby bird to live, so Dora contacted an animal control crew and asked them to take care of it.”

Dorothy shook her head in exasperation, tossing the nest aside. Piper felt an itch of irritation at the sight, but restrained herself.

Picking up another hat, Dorothy said, “Look at this one.”

“An Octopus plushie. Let me guess, it’s a literal toy?”

“Exactly! Why would you even wear this? Why do you even have it?!”

Piper thought for a moment, but she couldn’t think of a witty comeback this time. Why did they have it, that was an easy answer, but why they wore it…

Balling her hands into tight fists, Piper became defensive. “We take everything we can get; that’s how space pirates work!” she yelled, looming over Dorothy and pointing an accusing finger in her direction

“But why do you wear it?”Dorothy repeated, putting on a smug grin. She felt rather satisfied seeing that she had finally made the normally stoic captain snap.

At that moment, Piper happened to look up from Dorothy to see Fen lurking in the back, curious about the heated discussion happening between their two best friends. At that moment, she was struck with an idea.

“You should ask your friend the same thing.”

Dorothy startled at this. “Who?” She glanced back, finding Fen waving nervously at her. “Fen?”

“Not only Fen, that copper friend of yours—”

“Rusty?! You’ve got to be kidding me. What does he have anything to do with this?!”

Piper knew from experience that the closest equivalent to cracking knuckles in a squabble was to gain a proud posture, so she straightened up, crossed her arms, and held her head high. “I’ve had a chat with him recently, and he’s quite the hat enthusiast himself. Told me he amassed a decent collection, he did. Some of them ‘aren’t even hats’ as you would put it.”

Dorothy was already gaping, looking around for Rusty to earn an explanation, but the shy little Steambot was nowhere to be found.

“One of them is a little octopus plush much like the one you hold—”

On cue, light footsteps entered the room, their owner instantly drawing stares.

There was Rusty, a cute green cephalopod plush on his head.

“What? Fen told me to try it on. I rather like it.”

Dorothy’s optics twitched.“Rusty… that’s mine.”

Judging by the varied expressions of surprise on everyone’s face, no one knew this.

“You see, Miss Dot, there isn’t a solid explanation as to why ‘we wear it,’” Piper’s voice said from behind her. “All that matters is that it fits on wearer’s head and if they are content with it.”

Dorothy looked at Piper, then Fen, then Rusty, her continuously changing expression implying that she had just gone through a battle of sorts and that she was still processing everything that happened.

“I need to be alone for a bit. Scratch that; a very, very long time.”

#asks #SteamWorld Dig 2 #SteamWorld Heist #steamworld dig 2 spoilers #?? idk #my fanfiction #My writing

[kalesandfails]

Who tells your story

So here’s a story:

I went to a job interview and I sat for waiting long enough to rue, not just the fact that I’d forgotten to bring either of my two camisoles and was trying to pass off one of my running tanks  (they’re not the same thing, guys!) as professional wear under a suit more expensive than my wedding dress, but also: the fact that I’d come to the interview, the decision to leave my equally bewailed-over previous job for my current one, and several key life choices spanning from roughly the mid-nineties to now.

Why am I even here, I furiously texted my husband, who is almost never the right person to ask questions about my disastrous professional life, given that he’s held the same job for the past decade and manages to do it better from two hundred miles away than I’ve really done just about anything ever. Pro-tip, fellow dysfuncties: if you marry up, you need to find someone besides your partner to rage-text when your best laid-plans turn out to be fatally flawed from inception.

But the interviewer finally came out and I turned it on and strung together a story that seemed fairly compelling to me. It was like a date someone else would have, since I don’t make eye contact on dates: she nodded at the right places, I sounded smart and ambitious and full of ideas, not at all like the source of the suspicious gym smell that I optimistically chalked up to my anxiety. She looked me in the eye when I finished and told me, “I’m very impressed”.

Then, of course, she said that they were actually hiring for a floor nurse position, not the management position for which I had applied, but she would pass my resume along and “the team” would be in touch for a second interview.

And friends, like that sweet dumb boy who seems to feature prominently in every teen movie ever, I believed her for like a solid five days of no calls.

Well, okay. My twin useless braingoblins offered up two equally unhelpful narratives:

First, she saw through me and I am shit and the house always wins. You’re not just a nothing person, you’re a nothing person with the perverse ability to project intelligence and ability you don’t have, which is why people find you uncomfortable to be around.

Two, you are where (White) Jesus wants you and you’re doing something taboo and suspect, wanting more, and who do you think you are?

But here’s a third idea. It’s just, you know, this little project I’ve been messing around with, a few notes on my mind guitar. You can listen if you want; it’s no big deal:

The inability to draw inference from the things you experience — to read the room — is one kind of misstep. But the insistence on doing so in every circumstance is another.

This lady didn’t have a job for me, and that is why no one has called to offer me a job, and that is exactly what I know about this situation. She doesn’t know me in any deep way; we talked for about twelve minutes, two or three of which I spent wondering if my shirt smelled and whether or not this recurrent theme of “we-just-filled-that-job, how-about-this-much-less-appealing job” is actually some sort of professional version of cat fishing. Is it that hard to find floor nurses in long term care? (Yes, it absolutely is).

But. When I was telling this story, the person I was talking about did feel like me, more than the garbage person just pretending to be capable I was talking about before. I’d suggest a third option, an alternative to the grim “facts” asking to be faced above:

There is no actual connection between being a valuable person and getting what you want.

Growing up, expressing frustration or disappointment with my circumstances was a sign of a poor character, but identifying personal failings was a sign of humility. So you could never say: I don’t how the people around me are acting, but you can always say,  I hate myself for being such a bad daughter/friend/student/Christian that people that all I deserve is this lousy treatment.  

But I didn’t start out believing that I was bad and the things I didn’t like were my fault. I just started out not liking them.

You’re not going to solve a problem if you have to keep pretending that what’s bothering you is this whole different problem.

Today, try just saying, I don’t like this, instead of, I don’t like me because of this. Maybe it’s less that you feel bad about yourself around your friend or your boss or you wife. Maybe you just flat-out don’t like the way they are treating you, or the food in the cafeteria, or the way their fake cami stinks up your office. That is an opinion, and you are allowed to have it, and they are allowed to dislike that you have it, and at no point do you need to run back to this language of what you do or don’t deserve or whether the fault is theirs or yours.

You don’t have to earn the treatment you want from others. You don’t have to be a better wife or son or mom or friend or employee to be treated in a way you find respectful and validating. No matter what shortcomings you feel, or are told, that you have, you have a choice, all day every day: stay or leave a given situation.

And if you decide to stay, because maybe it’ll get better or maybe the next thing would be worse, you still don’t have to like it. Maybe it’s important for somebody else’s story that your dislike of what they’re doing is a manifestation of some personal failing of yours. That’s fine; that’s their story. Think of it like The Bachelor or Lost: deeply resonant for some, apparently, and wholly extraneous to you.

There’s one person telling your story, baby, and it’s not your colleague or your husband or your boss or an interview panel. Happy goddamn Thursday.

#recovery religion jobhunting depression eatingdisorder

[rlewis677-blog]

Title: CollegePower's Unlikely Moonshot

Lessons We have actually Learned on Our Quest to Construct Something Unbelievable from Nothing

It has been a lengthy and active voyage for the CollegePower group. The trip we've made together over the previous 15 years is one that none people completely expected and one that has checked the limitations as well as endurance of every participant of our group. We've had some superb successes and some disastrous failings, but as we ultimately see our dream becoming reality right before our eyes - through the contribution of our individuals and also our advocates, we feel that all the tests and also adversities of the past twenty years have been well worth it.

We just desire to reveal just how happy we are to the celebrities that've stood up for us as well as helped to spread our message of freedom, possibility, and abundance to the world. We want all our advocates to understand that it is their belief in us and our goal that drives us as well as that we will never quit functioning toward developing the ideal feasible experience for our users as well as the various other individuals who depend on us.

If somebody would have told any of us 20 years ago that we would certainly believe so strongly in a company's vision that we would certainly be denying multi-million dollar financial investment uses from the several of the world's most prominent and successful capitalists to make sure that we can remain true to that vision, we would have said they were nuts. The course we've adhered to has teemed with surprises and also while we're anxious to speak concerning how fired up we have to do with our success, we've made a number of serious errors and also missteps in the process. We believe that by acknowledging and also finding out from things that have failed in the past, we can make it much more likely that in the future points will certainly go right.

Famous American inventor, Thomas Edison once said "I have not failed. I've just discovered 10,000 ways that will not work." In a nutshell, that price estimate summarizes our team's trip over the past 15 years. While we might not have quite discovered 10,000 ways that will not function, by now we definitely should have come close considering that we began our goal to construct the world's initial democratic social economic climate back in 2000.

In order to lay the foundation for our vision, we had to conceive of a method for individuals all over the globe to make acquisitions also if they had no financial institution account or credit scores card. Considering that the explosion of mobile modern technology gave many people cell phones we produced a service that would certainly allow individuals to pay using their mobile devices, SMS.ac, Inc.

We began to see development and also the production of revenue that we had wished for, yet as an increasing number of loan began to be exchanged with our new modern technology, a growing number of problems concerning fees began to accumulate. While the percentage of users experiencing these unexpected costs was very little and also commonly the charges finished up being valid, with numerous people utilizing our service even that tiny portion of unhappy users produced a big trouble for us and our mobile companions. Only by taking a trip throughout the globe once again were we able to enlighten sufficient of our users as well as companions to keep business model successful. And also despite also those efforts, we really did not have the manpower to attend to the concerns of lots of users, which left numerous disappointed and annoyed. To aid quit this from taking place in the future we got involved in the creation of the Mobile Consumer Bill of Rights which is recognized throughout the world as the criterion for mobile deals.

This experience taught us that it's not adequate to just provide a wonderful system for business; we have to also provide individuals a voice in how their purchases are handled, in where their cash goes, and also we must enlighten individuals on exactly how to ideal utilize our services. We aim to do that with CollegePower by providing users the possibility to democratically choose who runs CollegePower as well as by offering them accessibility to success trainers who have a vested rate of interest in making certain each user they mentor obtains one of the most out of CollegePower.

To take our vision to the next level, we created FanBox in order to assist individuals monetize their on the internet activities. FanBox was originally fulfilled with a lot of enthusiasm, yet we made the big mistake of enabling individuals to really conveniently welcome their entire email call list to the platform, which numerous ended up doing inadvertently. While we attempted to attend to the problem promptly and thoroughly, it's safe to claim that this was a public relations calamity for us that we're still kicking ourselves for years later.

In spite of the negative press developed by the address book debacle, FanBox took care of to create a great deal of earnings and to offer individuals new and cutting-edge methods to monetize their on the internet tasks in a manner that made an actual, favorable, substantial distinction in thousands of individuals' lives. As FanBox grew, we felt urged that our dream could come true and also we really hoped that we had ultimately get rid of the biggest challenges to attaining our vision.

The good times really did not last. In a means, we eventually ended up being targets of our very own success. Our mobile partners understood the number of numerous bucks in income were being produced and ended their partnerships with us to concentrate on creating their very own inner pay-by-phone systems. The unexpected discontinuation of many organisation relationships left us reeling and, regardless of our success, we were required to lay off numerous of our team members. If the duration of development had been a genuine high for us, this certainly was our nadir, as we were forced to watch people who had actually almost become our family members, leave.

After the discharges, our smaller sized team frequently offered their time, with several working weeks at a stretch without a day of rest. This type of commitment and enthusiasm is a huge component of why I directly believe we are mosting likely to succeed and why a lot of what we are attempting to complete reverberates with our users and also our companions. In the years that complied with, our team efficiently created as well as engineered 93 various systems that completely incorporate in to each other. It's these systems that now form the core of CollegePower which permit our users to earn far as well as away more loan on our service than on any various other social media sites system.

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[demonic-activity]

Vincit qui se vincit

He conquers who conquers himself

↢↢ alec lightwood fic // malec // coda-meta-fiction-mesh // read on AO3 ↣↣

“I always dreamed of meeting someone like you."

They’re standing in the middle of the loft. A place that is more home to Alec than Alicante could ever be, and that’s possibly all he had been trying to (rather typically disastrously) convey, but somehow the conversation took this turn that he hadn’t expected or intended. It doesn’t exactly slip out, and it’s not like he doesn’t mean it, but it takes Alec by surprise anyway.

It’s just that it isn’t true - not exactly.

He's happy to let it slide, though. Alec kinda hates having to explain himself, it feels too much like having to answer for something that's completely natural to him, and that is unfortunately something he has a lot of experience with. But this is sort of tantamount and although it's about him, it's also about Magnus; and, Alec realizes, he wants Magnus to understand - to understand him.

He's just not sure - fresh out of almost two decades of struggle - where he should begin to explain.

Years and years back, as soon as he was starting to become aware of such things as dreams and desires, he probably hadn’t dreamt of it. He wouldn’t have been able to conceive such a thing.

Later, he didn’t want to.

Dreams can be a dangerous and terrifying thing. Especially when you’re convinced they could never really come true.

Of course, Alec couldn’t deny there had been desires, fantasies, the painful and impossible what-ifs, taunting him. And yes, sometimes they would take the shape of him meeting someone - someone like him, for him, his. But it was always something fleeting, not something he welcomed, and it never tasted like anything like dreams were supposed to taste.

Besides, someone ‘like Magnus’?

Alec drinks in the view of his boyfriend standing before him: his sparkling eyes that try not to give it away but that secretly hold immeasurable kindness; how his whole body exudes grace with every move; the warm and melodious sound of his laughter; the vibrance and confidence with which he paints himself; and the vulnerabilities that lie beneath that imposing glamour, that are for Alec’s eyes only.  Alec’s heart rate picks up as he’s staring and he wonders how with the amount of blood his heart is pumping around it still manages to feel so incredibly full.

Meeting someone like Magnus, meeting Magnus - how could he have ever thought up such a thing?

Mostly it makes him a little sad to to have to think about his former dreams in relation to his boyfriend. For a long time he hadn’t been ready, and maybe when they met, he still hadn’t been. By the Angel, he’s not even sure he is ready now. But somehow, their paths had crossed at exactly the right time. Maybe that's all that matters right now.

Besides, he hadn’t always dreamed of becoming a high-ranking official within the Clave or the Council either. No - his dreams had been been infinitely more modest and yet laughably improbable at the same time.

If Alec were to try to put it into words he would say he always dreamed of simply being a complete person.

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“I didn’t want you to think there was something wrong with me,because I grew up in the Institute, because I always knew I couldn’t have what I wanted.”

Growing up, there was never one clear moment that brought it home to Alec that he was different, that there was something inherently wrong with him - at least in the watchful gaze of those around him. Even at the Institute, away from both mundane and Shadowhunter society, he and the other children didn’t grow up in isolation. They were still molded and shaped by a million cultural and societal impressions. Some lessons he remembered being told outright (“don’t slouch”, “eat your greens”, “it’s spelled a-t-q-u-e”), but more often - Alec guessed -  he learned how to behave through observation and imitation, through silent, contextual clues that he might not have even consciously picked up on. Even when he had been very young, Alec didn’t have to be told it was expected he would marry a woman shortly after coming of age, that he would pass on the Lightwood name - preferably to a couple of boys. Just like he didn’t have to be told that ichor burns your skin like a bitch, that you have to be polite to a Silent Brother and that a simple answer from a Seelie is rarely that.

Alec knew he had always felt a drive to not just function, but to be best, the smartest, to learn the fastest, to preferably never fail and at least contain his mistakes to single instances - not to be repeated. So he practiced and worked hard at meeting the expectations he could practically feel breathing down his neck, and he did his best to follow all these rules - the written and unwritten ones. Because he knew his trajectory, he knew what he had to do. It was almost a relief for him to find out that a combination of skill, training, dedication and repetition - it got him there, it let him tick the boxes of belonging, had him track the steps to succeeding.

Barring that one area, of course.

He tried - the Angel knows he had tried. He looked at girls, understanding perfectly well what he was supposed to see, to feel, to do. He knew equally well he wasn’t managing any of it. From boyhood on there had been countless moments, daily reminders and red flags that he was not speaking the same social code, not meeting the expectations that cluttered the air like low hanging fruit in an orchard, hitting him in the face every three steps. Even worse, these expectations had grown and multiplied as Alec grew up, till he was as good as drowning in a sea of overripe crops, afraid to squish them to a pulp as he still tried to cleave a path forward.

So, no, no one ever had to tell Alec he was gay, no one had to tell him it was not okay to be gay. It probably wasn’t till he was practically grown up that he even dared to voice the word in the deep confines his own mind - let alone out loud. That’s how unspoken this collective understanding went.

No one had to tell him it was something outside the realm of possibilities. It all went without saying.

“We’ve all got our things.”

Alec had long ago rationalized this one misstep in conforming as a shortcoming. Everyone has their weak points, right? Aaron, who had come along with his parents on a visit to the New York Institute and trained with Alec and his siblings almost daily, threw a pretty terrible punch, especially his hooks, but he was great with swords and a good strategist. He also had the most clear-blue eyes Alec had ever seen, but that wasn’t so much a strong point of the other boy as a shortcoming of Alec in noticing.

So this was his, his thing. Some shortcomings meant: try again, try harder. But he wasn’t a complete idiot, he had long since figured out this wasn’t something he could weed out or overcome. These were simply the cards he had been dealt and it wasn’t going to change, it was - and would always remain - what he was going to have to work with. He didn’t need to be fixed, he just had to learn how to manage himself.

So he adapted. He worked twice as hard in every other area of his life, he covered up his biggest weakness the best he could and tried to reconcile this part of him with the reality of life around him. He tried to imitate the picture of the perfect son and Shadowhunter as best he could, as though donning camouflage. Still it pained him, maybe more than anything, that there was no way for him to live his life authentically and honestly.

It was then, on the brink of teenhood, that realised his mistake in adapting so far: he shouldn’t have been so focused on what others thought of him as on what he thought of himself. Because, in the end, the only way to be honest with those around him was by lying to himself.

And the only way to lie to yourself is to make sure you really, truly, believe it.

“Emotions are nothing but a distraction.”

During the day it was all right. He could focus head-first on his strengths, shoot arrows until his fingers bled, spar with Jace until he ached all over, practice Chthonian till he’d nearly choke on his own tongue, or memorize the events of the 1815 European Downworlder Treaty like he’d been present at the signing. During the day there were distractions, there was work - holy shit, there was enough work - and there were his siblings. They often got on his nerves, but when they did manage to drag him out for a taste of their idea of fun, they still effectively took him from his own mind, from his own skin that felt more more like a stranger’s with each passing day.

The nights were another story. Alone, under the protective cover of darkness, away from scrutinizing gazes, demands and commands, and awkward interactions, something shifted, something slipped. There was a door suddenly ajar and it filled his mind with thoughts he could normally keep at bay.

Generally, he reveled in darkness; it was where he fought demons, where he felt at home - familiar and secure. It was what he knew and in that, it was safe. But darkness was also dangerous, because in that safety and comfortability he could almost feel his guard slipping. Darkness can cloak you, hide you, can give you something of a free reign within its obscurity. In it he was as near invisible as one can get. Being in the dark felt the closest to being himself, truly himself, and it absolutely terrified him.

He was aware of the painful irony - a Shadowhunter afraid of the dark, of facing demons; albeit so wildly different than the ones he faced every day.

Then there were the dreams. When his mind would finally tire from overthinking every interaction he'd had, every move he'd made, and the tossing and turning gave way to sleep, his subconscious reigned free and there was no longer any control over his thoughts. He remembered waking up a particular night at fourteen from a very vivid dream involving him and Jace, and he hadn’t been able to look his best friend - his adopted brother - in the eye for the rest of the week.

More often, it wasn’t a particular person so much as scenarios, impossible scenarios of strangely wonderful intimate moments. Sometimes they were just sweet, sometimes they were hot, but they all left him feeling hollow and slightly nauseous upon waking.

He didn’t always remember his dreams, but just waking rock hard with a vague, receding, recollection of a body, a nameless face, a touch, meant that Alec knew enough.

He had never felt more alone or at war with himself than when he woke from those kind of nights.

The hormonal teenage years had been the worst, but as he got older and gained more control over his body, he started to fear that it wasn’t so much the REM sleep kind of dreams he had to worry about. That - as much as he had tried to avoid it - somehow, ideas had taken root in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind.

One day, he had been rushing down the street - glamoured and as oblivious to the mundane world as ever - when he’d come across a tableau that stopped him dead in his tracks. Just two men on the sidewalk, walking together, checking out window displays, holding hands. Just that. Except not at all because it was enough to quietly rock his world. All air had seemed knocked from his lungs. Alec felt as though he was caving in on himself, like he was a house of cards and not flesh and bone. He had dashed into the nearest alley, gasping for breath. Thoughts spinning in a mindless swirl of incoherent fragmented snippets, rearranging themselves with every ragged gust of air leaving his throat.

He couldn’t explain it to himself, at first, why he was reacting so strongly, but he couldn’t force the image from his mind either. He felt sick. And then he felt sick with himself for feeling that way. Self-loathing mixed with pre-existing self-hatred till it formed a giant mass of revulsion burning through him, leaving no vein or artery untouched to the point where he wondered what would come pouring out if you cut him open.

He didn't know how long he stood there, bowled over in a nameless alleyway, slowly losing control. He replayed the image over and over in his mind till he could come to no other conclusion. It wasn’t that he didn’t know this was a … possibility for - for others, it wasn’t that he’d never witnessed it so up close, or even the fact that no one had seemed to bat an eye. It was rather that a part of the illusion he had created for himself started to come undone, ripping at the seams, in those few seconds he had stood there, staring, taking in their clasped hands, easy smiles and soft looks. Because before anything else, before reason, before confusion, before shutting it all out, there had only been a single thought. Baffling in its simplicity.

I want that.

It was ludicrous, really, because he knew, he had always known, that nothing like that was for him. And he had dealt with the reality, the clear-cut facts of his sexuality, he’d managed it. He had set up rules for himself and and a strategy to go from there. Besides, Alec knew he wasn’t a romantic. Even if he had been attracted to women, he was sure he wouldn’t moon over them as ridiculously as Jace did, or be at the receiving or granting end of any so-called ‘grand gestures’. That wasn’t for him. That wasn’t who he was. Was it?

That was what brought the panic to a peak. After all the deception and creation of narratives he’d undertaken on his own behalf, a heinous thought suddenly surfaced in the back of his mind and sent him reeling, the bile rising in his throat once again. I don’t know myself at all.

And then he threw up.

“Life isn’t about what you want to do, it is about what must be done.”

Over the years, he had retreated further into himself and he knew it wasn’t exactly healthy, but what could he do? He was deathly afraid that even opening up ever so slightly would cause everything to unravel completely. His carefully crafted house of cards would collapse, and he didn’t think he could live with what would come crawling out from the rubble.

Izzy looked more and more worried and hurt every day. His mother would barely look at him at all. And Alec... well Alec had a hard time facing his mirror image as well.

He knew it wasn’t working out. Since the incident in the alleyway, he’d become aware that he wasn’t exactly immune to any kind of feelings. So he had to reassess, reacquaint. No problem. So far he had been mostly familiar with the needs, had been prepared for them. So what if one way or the other - despite carefully fencing off specific parts of his mind - certain wants, ideas… dreams had started to spread, inching their way through his limbs like tangled strands of ivy. He was aware of it. Just another layer to the flaw he had built his existence around, no big deal.

Except yes big deal.

It was like there was another voice inside his head, one that had been slowly gaining in strength and volume as he lay in bed staring at the dusty, vaulted ceiling of the Institute. From a barely audible whisper to a steady stream of live commentary, an incessant hum. It got harder to ignore, but he could do it. He had to do it.

In the end, knowing what was at stake, what he craved simply didn’t matter. In the grand scheme of things, what did it matter what he wanted? It was almost laughable to think of his own wants as eclipsing the cause he stood for, had stood for all his life.

So he steadfastly ignored the murmurs in his mind, the turn his thoughts sometimes wanted to take, the paths his eyes wanted to stray. And he was doing an okay job of it. Not great, but okay.

Till everything turned to shit, and his life became a confusing mess of the Cup, Valentine’s daughter, Downworlder affairs, raves, necklaces and lares.

Till he turned around.

And in Alec's head the voice didn’t whisper, didn’t speak: it roared.

“You can’t change who you are.”

“And you can?”

- “I know who I am”

He’d take it out on the punching bag like he could punch his life back in line, back in order. It didn’t exactly relieve him of his frustration, but it was better than doing nothing, than being a prisoner to his own thoughts that rang loud and clear inside his head, but never out of it.

Alec knew he was homosexual, had known it for many years. He wasn’t denying that. All he was trying to deny was how much of an influence that should play in his life. Was it too much to ask to get a say in that?

He was trying, goddamnit, he was trying to just live his life, to reconcile who he was with everything else he was supposed to be. Who he was and what he was.

Izzy had - more than once - declared him to be repressed. Alec loved his sister, more than maybe anything in the world, and she was often right about him, but this would probably never stop rubbing him the wrong way. Repression seemed to indicate he was forcing the issue from his mind. How could he explain to Izzy that his sexuality was sometimes all he could think about?

Surely, in his teenage years he’d repressed a lot, but along the way to adulthood he’d come to accept himself the way he was. He’d come to terms with his reality, he wasn’t running from anything, he wasn’t in denial, and he wasn’t repressing any feelings he had. He simply wasn’t acting on them. Isabelle - the Angel protect her - didn’t see that. For some reason she just couldn’t accept his fate the same way he had done a long time ago.

Around him, his life was crumbling. Everything he derived his self-worth and pride from, everything he’d worked towards, it was slipping away. Jace felt further removed from him than ever, his parents had not only betrayed his trust, but also all the supposed morals and values they had always stood for. Now a homicidal maniac was threatening their world, war was on the horizon, and nothing he did seemed to work out.

And this - this was his last vestige, the last area of his life he had any control over. He couldn't let anyone take it from him. He wasn’t repressed, he was just resigned.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The only sound in the room was that of flesh hitting solid leather, and his labored breathing. He tried to drown in it, disappear in it, like he was one with the room. He was the body and the punching bag - just fighting himself.

“You have to be true to yourself."

- “I am.”

All day Alec had been busy mindlessly choosing from an array of near-identical objects, variations of linen, china, and endless combinations of flowers. Who gave a fuck? Apparently all these decisions were paramount. And maybe it did feel important, but for all the wrong reasons. He had no doubt his sister would have been able to make all these selections on her own perfectly fine, but she had insisted on him weighing in - all the while sending him sharp glances and not so subtly giving him outs with regards to the whole ceremony.

Alec felt more exhausted from this ordeal than he had ever had from a training session or hunt, but sleep still wouldn’t come.

Why didn’t anyone get it? Why was everyone giving him pitying looks and treading so excruciatingly lightly around him? Why was everyone judging him for what was supposed to be his choice, and the only logical and proper choice at that?

Magnus called it ‘living a lie’, Izzy construed it as him following his parents’ orders and ruining his life, Jace insinuated he wasn’t being true to himself. None of them got it.

He was true to himself. This was who he was. Gay, yes, but more importantly: fighting hard for his family, the Institute, all of their honor and future opportunities. He was trying to gain control, crucial control, over the situation with Valentine and over the Institute. Trying to ensure everyone would be safe.

This wasn't his parents marrying him off, this wasn’t the Clave dictating what he had to do or brainwashing him. This had nothing to do with sexuality or preferences, with romance, with social codes or expectations. This was about him.

Yes, Magnus was… confusing and nerve-inducing and sort of incredibly wonderful, really. But the point remained: Alec had to do right by himself. He needed to do this. He needed to marry Lydia. Not because he loved her, not because it was expected of him, not because he was in denial or unable to be true to himself, but because - because - he had to be true to himself. This was the moment where he could put his ideals, his beliefs, to the test.

Alec turned over in his bed once more, tangled in his worn cotton sheets, and breathed in harshly even though it barely seemed to make a difference. This was his choice and he would stand by it. This was him, proving himself to the world.

It didn’t taste like the sweet success he had hoped it would, though. If anything, it tasted like bitter regret.

“I thought I was doing the right thing, but this, it isn’t it.”

Alec fiddled nervously with his bow tie, the one he was supposed to put on in a couple of hours. This day was flying by in a daze and he was feeling consumed by nerves the one moment and completely numb the next.

The voice in his head had steadily increased in volume in the past few weeks, and now it was something of a daily shouting contest in his mind.

He didn’t think he had any chance of winning that contest. Having locked himself in his room for the larger part of this day, he was actually afraid he might be going mad.He'd been arguing with himself for hours on end.

And that’s what brought it home to him, hitting him in the face like a quick jab posing as a right hook: he had indeed been arguing with himself this entire time, not anybody else. The voice in his head was just as much him as the thoughts it seemed to continuously interrupt. On this lifelong issue of Alec, nobody was actually coming for him, nobody but himself.

It was a startling, haunting realization: that the threat to his carefully constructed manageable situation wasn’t from any outside forces, but rather from within.

He desperately tried to make sense of this braintwister. Because maybe, maybe he didn’t have to reconcile these two voices, the two aspects of himself, because all of it, everything, it was him. Attraction to other men, discomfort with that very same concept, hesitation, confusion, dedication to the Shadowhunter cause, to his family, his drives, his honor: it was all him, would always be him.

He had been so busy accepting that his sexuality defined him, would always be a part of him, that he hadn’t stopped to think that so would all of the other integral parts of his life. He wouldn’t stop being an eldest child, an older brother, a protector, a soldier, a Shadowhunter. He wouldn’t stop loving archery, valuing sincerity or thinking strategically. He didn’t have to work extra hard on those parts of him, just like he didn’t have to ‘work’ at being gay. Of course, he would always try to be a better version of himself, but he didn’t have to compensate or sacrifice other elements, like his romantic life, for a fear of losing everything else that made him, him.

To be gay.

To be a Shadowhunter.

These concepts had always warred within himself, but maybe it wasn’t so complicated, maybe he had already proven - in the 23 years of his existence - that he could have both, could be both. Because he was - simple as that. There was nothing to compensate for.

A strange relief rocked through him such as he had never felt before. Fiercer than when Jace had agreed to be his parabatai, than when he was appointed acting Head of the Institute, or than any of the moments they’d all made it out of a difficult hunt unscathed.

The springs in his decades-old mattress squeakily complained as he sagged down on his bed in a daze. He swallowed past a lump in his throat that only seemed to grow and grow until there was no way out. No way but out, and he cried - properly, with abandon - for the first time in years.

“I’m the same person I’ve always been. Now everything’s just out in the open.”

It was one thing grappling with this paradigm shift in the safety of his own bedroom, but by the time he stepped out he got smacked in the face with reality, with the expectation and stress hanging heavy in the air. It felt like too little, too late. He wasn’t ready to put his new-found perspective to the test, and he wasn’t one to forget the promise he had made.

Everything went so fast and before he knew it, he was up on that dais, feeling far removed from everything below him, stuck on a mile-high tower rather than a few steps up.

The sound of a door swinging shut brought him back from his trance, and the sight of Magnus Bane at the other end of the aisle toppled his tower. In that moment, everything else just ceased to exist. Inexplicably, it simplified everything.

For once Alec’s mind was blissfully quiet.

Jace whispered something at his back and Alec brought his attention to those immediately around him. The most important people in his life. For them, it was okay, it was fine, he was certain of that. Even for Lydia, apparently, even though he hadn’t been sure there. So, in the end, it was just him, standing in his own way.

Every step felt a mile-long.

It wasn’t so much walking towards Magnus as it was walking away from a reality where he didn’t have the option, towards one where he did.

And he felt sure - for the first time in his life - that for him, whatever would come from that option, living with it would mean living whole.

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Ever since that conversation about his job offer, Alec can’t stop thinking it over all evening. He only pays half a mind to their conversation at dinner, he brushes his teeth mechanically, goes through all the motions, while he turns his own words over and over in his head. Magnus probably notices his merely physical presence - he always reads him like a large-print book - but he leaves Alec to his thoughts, confident in Alec’s ability to bring it up when he’s ready.

They’ve been in bed for about half an hour, Magnus already dozing off, when Alec finally speaks up. It’s little more than a whisper, but Magnus immediately stirs at Alec’s side.

“So when I say I’ve always dreamed of meeting someone like you... it’s true, but it’s also not. I’m not sure. I - it’s complicated.”

There’s a moment of silence in the bedroom - Alec can hear his heart pounding in his ears. 

Magnus’ voice is soft and balming and he tangles his fingers with Alec’s.

“So tell me.”

#malec #alec lightwood #magnus bane #malec fanfic #shadowhunters #sh fanfic #fic promo #fanfiction #ao3 #i did a thing #mine

[whipplefilter]

Small fic of Chase Racelott winning a race? (In honor of yesterday's win?)

There’s no point in messing with perfection! I see no reason why we can’t imagine Racelott’s first win like Elliott’s, and that story’s already been told. I don’t feel like I’d personally gain anything by fictionalizing it, so I’ll politely decline your fic request this time. But! For anyone following this blog who’s in Cars fandom and into the Next Gens but isn’t into NASCAR, here’s basically how it went down:

This is Elliott’s third season in the NASCAR Cup series. He’s young, talented, popular, and is the son of an extremely popular NASCAR driver. For all that, though, up until yesterday he’d never won a Cup race–he’d come extremely, devastatingly close a number of times, but never managed the win. This season, his team’s coming off some massive reorganizations and a new car to finagle with and to be honest, it hasn’t been going particularly well. The team’s definitely been making consistent improvements, but sometimes slow and steady isn’t really enough in the span of a NASCAR season. Needless to say, it’s been a struggle.

Two weekends ago, though, was really solid for the team, and in particular for Elliott. This weekend, he nearly qualified on the pole. Things are looking promising. (Oh, and Sunday was his crew chief’s birthday!)

Elliott holds his ground in the first half of the race, trading the lead primarily with Kyle Busch, a championship-winning seasoned veteran with 6 wins to his name his year alone.

As the hostly contested race draws to a close, much of the field makes a critical pit stop.

Well. 

Some cars make a pit stop.

Others instead engage in an absolute trashpile basketfire disaster baby chaos simulacra of a pit stop. We’re talking guys flying through the air, hoses dragging, tires bouncing, cars suffering critical damage, the whole shebang.

And by “others” we mean polesitter Denny Hamlin, driving the #11. (That’s Denny “Pit Stop King” Hamlin to you!!!)

In addition to the 11 team’s miscue, Kyle Busch also suffers a critical error on this pit stop, knocking him to the back of the field and out of real contention for the win. (NB: Where this would have proven disastrous for pretty much anyone else this late in the race, Kyle Busch still finished in third place somehow, because he’s Kyle Busch.) 

With Hamlin and Busch effectively out of the picture, this means the race for the win is pretty much Elliott and last year’s defending champion, Martin Truex Jr. 

As you might imagine from the words “defending champion,” Martin Truex Jr. is a hard guy to have on your tail as you try to keep your lead on one of the most challenging tracks on the circuit–and a track that the very same Martin Truex Jr. where Martin Truex Jr. also happens to be the defending race winner.

For the last 9 laps, Elliott and MTJ are neck-and-neck, tenths of seconds won and lost by the smallest mistakes, the finest avoidance of missteps. They’re tearing down the course having left the rest of the field half a lap behind them. They’re going absolutely full tilt.

And then, on the very last lap, Martin Truex Jr. runs out of fuel.

Shortly thereafter, after almost 100 attempts, Chase Elliott skates across the finish line a first-time NASCAR Cup race winner. Then he runs out of fuel, too.

As the rest of the field catches up, his friends and colleagues congratulate him on his win with the sort of fervor NASCAR reserves for first wins and long-awaited ones. This one is both.

Then Elliott’s teammate, seven-time Cup champion Jimmie Johnson, backs up to line his car up behind Elliott’s and gives him a push so that Elliot can make it the rest of the way around the track and all the way back to Victory Lane.

Meanwhile, in Elliott’s hometown of Dawsonville, Georgia, famous for breeding moonshine runners-turned-NASCAR drivers, the pool hall siren blares in celebration. Though the race yesterday was in New York, down in Georgia the town stays up. They wait outside, in the dark, for the eventual headlights that will tell them that Elliott is home.

#chase elliott #chase racelott #nascar #watkins glen #watkins glen 2018 #asks