#& i think ‘more visceral’ is something i will always chase because people already call it that (which makes me very happy) but you know. i f

[ankerias]

annoyed by my art recently ... im the closest ive ever been to being where id like to be stylistically & do actually like it now but i want to get more visceral and out there especially with composition. i think itd do me good to get a ballpoint pen and do as many studies as i can but my luck is a cointoss and keep buying already dry ones (TWICE NOW ..)

[wordstome]

Last night I did what I always do when I can’t fall asleep: think about fictional men. Here’s a list of wonderful stories written by incredibly talented people who have helped me think about fictional men by providing the most delicious playgrounds.

In the interest of keeping my recommendations brief, I'm going to talk about what I liked about the fic instead of summarizing what it's about. To know what it's actually about you're just gonna have to click through and read the fic <3

(and just in case anybody's gotten lost, this is all COD, mostly modern MW)

✦ complete ║ ➠ ongoing

König

✦Just Friends by @kneelingshadowsalome Salome is so good at capturing a very unique interplay between König’s social awkwardness and his deep, dark, nasty inclinations. He’s so feral and enjoyable to read, and the sheer force of his desire for Engel is downright intoxicating. I find it difficult to describe how much of an impact Just Friends has had on me and my portrayal of König, to be honest. There's a reason why three of Salome's fics are on this rec list.

✦Fatum Nos Iungebit by kneelingshadowsalome Five words. König with his cock out. That's it. Okay, but in all seriousness, I love his character applied to this setting. All the raw visceral violence a König could ever want, a pretty little lady in his bed—he's so boyish and happy in this au it brings me such joy. The way their relationship between him and Fee develops is so natural and so sweet. Please for the love of God read this.

➠Cat/Mouse/Den by @papaver-decervicatus The chase. The pursuit. The adrenaline when Mouse dances out of König's reach once more. I'm a little biased because I adore Julius and Jenny (I could call her Lucretia but the double J names make me giggle) as ocs already, but CMD is so, so well written. The tension, the flirting, the scene where he catches her falling out of the tree?! As I said in a reblog, I shrieked. You know when you're reading something that's so good you want to bite down on it and shake like a dog with a toy? (No? Just me?) That's how I feel about CMD.

➠Anything by @darklordofthesimp Anything, in only 7 chapters (they are hefty, don’t get me wrong), has turned König and Birdy’s dynamic from “THIS MOTHERFUCKER HAS IRREVERSIBLY SCARRED MY BODY AND MY BRAIN, AND I CANNOT TRUST HIM” to “these two are going to get married someday”. (author if you’re reading this, I say that not as an expectation or prediction, but as a vibe reading.) This one is for the hurt/comfort girlies. Also, shoutout to all the other stories set in the Anything-verse. Sunshine and Ghost are just soooo *grips my hand in a fist so hard it shakes*

➠If you need to be mean by @gremlingottoosilly This mostly serves as a blanket recommendation for all of Gremlin’s fics. I found If you need to be mean, and then visiting Gremlin’s author page was like opening a treasure chest. Want to be König’s pampered, (unwilling) little housewife? That’s If you need to be mean. Want a harem fic with almost all of the COD MW men? Gremlin has two, both with their own little spin to keep it fun. Do you want König to keep you in his basement or hunt you down as a serial killer? Gremlin's got it. Monsterfucker? Gremlin has that too. Special shoutout goes to 1295 kilometers. I think about fucking König on a train a lot now.

➠Break my mind by @kaiasdevotion (kaiasown on ao3) There’s no way around this. This fic has the most unhinged, kinky, downright dangerous smut I’ve read in the cod fandom so far (positive). Just Friends König is the metric by which I judge all other Königs’ nastiness, and Break my mind König is tipping so hard on the “unhinged horny violent freak (affectionate)” end of the scale he’s about to fall off. I don't know if you guys have noticed, but I've developed a taste for writing/reading from König's perspective, and he's so chillingly deranged in the most controlled way possible during the chapters from his pov. Incredible writing. Chefs kiss.

✦Experimental by @uhohdad (surgeoninspace on ao3) Alright, enough of just König being nasty. He is still nasty in this one, but he’s not the only one who gets to have a little fun and be a total creep. Our little scientist here is a grade A pervert, and I was delighted the whole way through. The most important thing I need in a fic is suspension of disbelief, and Experimental takes an unrealistic, maybe a little bit silly situation and makes it so believable. Everybody reacts the way you would expect them to, even if the scenario they're in is A Lot.

➠Little Mouse and Rotes Madchen by @sprout-fics I'm combining the recommendation for these two because while they are both very much distinct, unique fics, I love them the same way. Sprout is such an engaging writer, and the internal dialogue of her characters is so well done. It reveals their personality, motivations, and internal conflicts without being overly expository. Do you guys remember that post I put on the König bible about instant obsession? It's this inexorable attraction borne from obsession that sticks me to Little Mouse like a glue trap. (Is that too morbid?)

✦Hot in Sarajevo by @50cal-fullauto Rags' König characterization post is on my Königcore bible, for very good reason. They get it. König is a feral dog forced to live as a man and loves like a total maniac, emotionally and sexually. I marked Hot in Sarajevo as complete but I don't know how many parts there are going to be, and frankly, I do want more. However, if you're going to only read one part (which. why would you do that??? read both.) I recommend the second part. I want to write love like that. Goddamn.

Ghost

Yeah, this list is a little bare bones right now. I'm gonna get back to it, I promise.

✦Anhedonia by kneelingshadowsalome The way. Salome takes the "I would take a bullet for him but he's so cold to me" premise and then flips it entirely on its head for the second part is so important to me. The way Simon craves the reader is like human catnip. I reread this fic all the time.

Keegan

✦For the Weak and Weary by @halcyone-of-the-sea Read this if you want to believe in true love. That's all. Go on now.

Multiple

✦Easy by @danibee33 When people say "I wish this were a book!" about fanfiction, they usually mean it in a "this is good enough to be published by the traditional publishing industry" way. When I say I want Easy (and Diablesa) to be a book, I mean it in a "I want to get this story bound in a beautiful ass cover and keep it on a shelf so I can take it down and reread it whenever I want" way. I don't want the traditional publishing industry to get their claws in this, because it's perfect as it is. This fic is so wild and fun, and the character moments are so special and well done. Do yourself a favor and savor this one.

➠@ghouljams's entire blog [masterlist] "What do you mean someone's entire blog" YOU HEARD ME. Those aus are some good shit. Good characterization, delicious premises, love the group effort of it all. To absolutely nobody's surprise, my favorite couple is König and Bee from the cowboy au (ditzy but well-meaning and competent in her own way woman x big strong man who is obsessed with her and maybe also creeping on her, my beloved), but I also have a fondness for Ghost and Die from demon darlings au. Trust me on this one. Dig into those masterlists babey.

[rcksmith]

Spring breeze part.4 — Spencer Reid

Icon by @obiwansjedi

Part.1 Part.2 Part.3

Sumarry: After the breakup, Spencer and the Reader follow different paths and lives. But, after 8 years, Gideon's death brings an avalanche of emotions, putting the two face to face again in a reencounter that could break their hearts again — season 10 —

Couple: Spencer Reid /Gideon's daughter!reader.

Warnings: mention of death, mention of violence, death of the father, depressive thoughts, murder, crying, swearing, a lot of anguish, mention of love, fluff (but it has a very fluff too, I'm not a monster)

Word count: 5k.

A/N: This is the most sad chapter that has, I promise that the next will be very cute.💖

I saw Gideon's death episode again to make it as faithful as possible for you guys. I used the original Criminal Minds chronology too, being 8 years from Gideon's last appearance until his death.

English is not my first language, so I so sorry if have a mistake.

Let me know if you want to be added for a taglist for a specific fandom (Criminal Minds, The Umbrella Academy, Riverdale, Roman Godfrey, or all)

Requests are open. Love you ❤️

— — — — —

Hunting bandits. Save people. Improve the world a little bit every day. Those were the three things Spencer believed it was worth to be at BAU. It was worth fighting for, holding on, staying sleepless for days, being haunted by murderers by day and nightmares at night. For what it was worth looking at the abyss, even when it looks to you

Reid could deal with human perversion, with the thousand and one ways to practice heinous crimes, the sowing of evil and cruelty. He could cope with constantly being inside insane minds, learning his whys and mechanisms. He could take it. He put up with it day after day, case after case. He endured being tortured, stay being held at gunpoint, having a piece of his essence plucked with red-hot iron month after month. Spencer knew he could handle it.

But he couldn't handle death. Goodbye. It shattered his soul far more than difficult cases, pushed his own sanity to the limit. Perhaps burying his feelings as deeply as possible was just a method of delaying the wave that would drown him at one time or another. Inevitably.

Each farewell took a piece of Reid away. His father, his mother, Ellie, you, Gideon, JJ, were just a few of the people who left, living their lives elsewhere. But what about those who died? The victims, the children, Hayley, Maeve, Emily (even if only for a short time) and so many others. These took much more than a piece of him. Maybe costu his whole soul.

Spencer felt himself harden over the years, the cases, loss after loss, day after loss. He felt the purity of his own heart slip through his fingers like sand, the faith in humanity to be put to the test. Sometimes even faith in himself.

Was that the price to pay for that job? Being constantly vulnerable? See his life and the lives of the people his loved most at gunpoint?

It was worth?

Maeve's death shook him more than any other, sucking all the pink glow from his world, leaving him with only the cold feeling of hopelessness. A very deep void. It took a long time for memories of she not to hurt like red-hot iron, for his breathing not to be heavy. It took a long time to be happy again.

And when Spencer felt healed from the deepest wounds, the most visceral pains, he was hit again. Deeply. If Maeve's death was a wave that brought him down, Gideon's death was the tsunami that destroyed him.

“It's Gideon.” Hotch's voice confirmed the fear of everyone in that cottage.

Then Spencer felt shattered. Torn apart. Torn like a rag doll and placed on the fire. He wanted to scream, to scream so loudly that he would never regain his voice. He wanted to break something, destroy some, run away.

But run away from whom? From what? That pain or himself? If Spencer had been able to tear off his own skin at that time and be someone else, he would not have hesitated. Not having dropped to his knees in that cottage was a miracle, because Spencer no longer knew what was holding him upright.

Jason Gideon, in many ways, was all that Spencer had. He knew that they took different paths and traveled different roads, living different lives, but he believed that they always end up on the same, even one they was old. Spencer was sure that if he was dying on his knees, Gideon would be to rescue him. For all those 8 years, it was extremely comforting to think that Gideon was out there, living life, finding the hope he had in college, finding the brilliance the world had.

And Reid knew that Jason had you. And you had Gideon. That was the most soothing and comforting thought. No matter what, he knew that you would take care of Jason, just like he would take care of you. But now... now Spencer's world had dissolved in the air. Like a sandcastle knocked over by the wind.

And the pain was surreal.

When he realized, he had left the room, close to the... body. If he could, Spencer would have moved away from himself. How would he take it? One more death, another psychopath. How many other people he love will are died at the hands of the work he did every day?

The answer to all of these questions was frightening, and Spencer wasn't sure if wanted them.

The trip to the coroner was the worst Reid had ever done, talking about the body was the worst conversation he had ever had. And when Morgan put his hand on his shoulder and said that he couldn't close himself now, that they were going to get that son of a bitch, all Spencer wanted to say was that he couldn't take it anymore. That he couldn't breathe. The emptiness was too oppressive. So much visceral pain.

But that was not what Spencer said. He just clung to the only lifeguard in the middle of the rough and deserted sea: justice. Gideon deserve it.

Reid doesn't know how he managed to get back to the Gideon’s house, how he managed to hear Hotch and Rossi talking about what could have happened. But he was there, standing, by some miracle.

“Do you know who might want to have done this?” Hotch asked Stephen, who had arrived, his eyes red from the crying he struggled to hold.

“No. I know he had a list of things he wanted to do before he died... That's how we came back to speak, one of the things was to get back in touch.” His voice was so reminiscent of Gideon's that it was stabbed in the heart of Reid.

“Didn't he talk about being chased? Feeling anything strange?” Rossi commented.

Reid watched Stephen's expressions carefully, first because he reminded Gideon a lot, and second because he looked for any clues in his reactions.

Stephen took a second to think before saying: “No, but we both don't keep in touch daily, you know?” He swallowed a sob, probably with regret, but then his eyes lit up with some information: “'But Y/n surely know, they both spoke to each other every day, if my father was thinking differently, surely she know.”

The mention of your name hit Reid with a very different wave. Bringing a very different feeling than it should. At that moment, he felt himself holding the air.

For a second, a lapse of consciousness, Spencer had not connected any of this with your physical presence. The notion that you were Gideon's daughter was obvious but, for some reason, Spencer didn't think about the fact that you were going to be there. That you would share the same air with him again, the same place...

“We will have to call her, bring her here to see if something has been left, or taken. If there is anything important on the scene.” It was Hotch.

“I called her as soon as you guys called me.” Stephen said “She arrived from California the day before yesterday, my father and she were going to travel.” He tried to swallow the crying, his eyes trembling.

"And you weren't going?" Rossi added.

“I have a son and a wife.” He gave a smile broken by the sadness of the mourning “They would stop by before I go… Y/n was going to tell me the news, since our schedules hardly match much, she works as an astronomer in…”

“Caltech.” Spencer completed, without even realizing it, like a thought out loud.

“Yea.” Stephen agreed.

Spencer felt a chill go from head to toe, and another ton of feelings were thrown at his back. The reality that he was going to see you again hit him hard. Like an arrow. Suddenly, Reid wanted to get out of there. Run as far as possible.

He couldn't see you. He had no ability to deal with those feelings now. Not now, when his life was so overwhelmed with emotions for Gideon’s death that he still hadn't dealt Not when you aroused the feeling of... hope. Spencer can’t could hope, of any kind. Not for them to be taken from him with visceral force. Reid was already hurt enough for handling another fall.

“... But I don't think it's a good idea for my sister to be here, anyway.” Stephen continued to speak.

Rossi and Hotch frowned: “Why?”

“They were very connected. Seeing this scene is not going to do her any good...” he sobs this time “Y/n is not like me… she is sentimental, emotional. ”

“As long as you're trying to stay calm, she'll be the opposite.” Hotch completed.

“I just don't want my sister to suffer anymore and...”

But it was too late for Stephen to complete. It was too much for Spencer to escape. It was too late to be born again, in a different life.

A gray car moved forward on the stone road, at too high a speed not to have washed several road fines. That was so much typical of you who hurt Spencer's heart pieces more than he thought possible. More than he thought he could feel at the time. You were always so wild at the wheel. But Reid didn't have time to finish a thought, not even Rossi, Hotch, Morgan who was with them or even Stephen. Because car brutally stopped it, the door opened and…

And it was as if the sun came out from behind the clouds after years. As if summer had finally come after decades of overwhelming winter. In a burst, everything you've ever represented for Spencer has come back for him once again. And he felt the same thing that he felt when he first saw you, 8 years ago. And he was catatonic.

You got out of the car in a very hurried and desperate way. And as much as there were tears in your eyes and redness in cheeks, Spencer has never seen anyone so beautiful. Your hair was longer, in a brighter shade, maybe you had dyed it. Your features were more lyrical and beautiful, and Reid thought that the passage of time had no effect on you. While he considered himself just less clumsy over the years, you proved to be blooming like Romania's most superb rose.

“DAD!” But that was when your desperate voice brought Reid's consciousness back to earth.

You weren't calling your brother, you weren't asking why, you weren't in mourning. You were in denial. Disbelieving. You called out to your father, with the certainty that he would show up. And the despair in your eyes hurt Reid more than being shot.

But before the agents could do anything, you were running towards the house and Stephen ran towards you, taking you in his arms, trying to keep you from getting inside.

“LET ME GO, STEPHEN!” You struggled, trying to get rid of your brother's arms, your hair messing with the wind, tears streaming down your eyes. “They are wrong! It's not our father! Let me fucking go! DAD!”

“Y/n” Stephen had a broken heart in his eyes, some tears streaming down his eyes “You need to calm down before you get in there !”

“LET ME GO!” Yours sobs broke the hearts of the four agents over there “DAD!” You was cryng out, almost like a prayer, in a desperate call.

"He's gone, Y/n.” Your brother kept his arms stronger in you, trying to contain you while you struggle in trying to break free and go inside the house, under the illusion that you would find your father there.

“NO!” Now your crying was continuous “I spoke to him yesterday! It's not him, Stephen!” Then your brother turned you to him, holding you tight, and you melted into a visseral pain “It can't be him!”

“I know...” he sobbed, looking at you with the same shared pain “I know...”

So you gave yourself up to a painful, loud and desperate crying, the kind that won't let you breathe. And, unlike Reid, you fallen down. Your knees found the stone and grass floor, your hands clasped on Stephen's shirt, who knelt on the floor with you, delivered the pain you both shared.

You knew what your father's risks were in working in such a dangerous profession. Expose yourself to constant and frightening danger. You always knew about the risks, you just tried to ignore them all your life, sinking your fears about your father not coming home at night. Then, when he let the BAU, that fear dissipated. You felt a colossal weight being lifted off your shoulders, like tons of lead, and you let go of a fear so great that you didn't even know you had it.

For 8 years you thought that the chances of him not coming home were over, that the chances of seeing him the next day had increased dramatically. For 8 years you two traveled together, stopping at every type of diner for milkshake, chocolate ice cream and mint - his favorites - For 8 years you had your best friend, the only thing you knew you had in the world. You always knew that if you were drowning in the ocean, it would be your father who would give his lungs for you to breathe.

You didn't see a life without Gideon.

For you, you were crying for hours in what one day was your father's backyard, totally devastated, but for the rest of the world it was a matter of minutes.

Your sobs were so loud and real that Hotch and Rossi caught themselves with watery eyes, perfectly understanding the pain you were going through, the devastation. The two had lost many people, many of them being essential pieces to be able to continue breathing. Many of them felt wounds that would never heal.

But it was Rossi who approached you, the pain at the top of his throat, his mind wandering the day Gideon said he was going to have a little girl. Unlike Stephen, Rossi never saw you in person, but the sparkle in Jason's eyes whenever he talked about you, or with you on the phone, was enough to know that you were one of the essential pieces to keep breathing.

“Hi, my name is Rossi.” He knelt in front of you and your face went towards him, your cheeks and nose as red as your eyes.

“M-my dad talked about you."” You were still sobbing, slowly letting go of Stephen's shirt.

"Good things, I hope.” The two of you laughed like a sigh, and soon the pain returned to your eyes in a visseral way. “I know this is not fair, and I know it is asking too much, but I need you to go inside and try to find something out of place. Something that whoever did this to your father may have taken or left. ”

You closed your eyes in pain, tears streaming as you sobbed. Your hands, trembling and cold, went to your face, perhaps trying to hide from reality, perhaps wiping away tears. Maybe both. When you looked back at Rossi again, you saw the pain in his eyes too.

"I don't know if I can do it.” You admitted, your voice shaking.

"I know.” Rossi took his hand to yours, squeezing comfortingly “But only you can help us now, help other daughters not lose their father to the same killer. Being inside in the house can bring information that is in your subconscious. I promise you will make it, we will all be here with you.”

His handshake got stronger, and it reminded you of your father. That should have been the same way he comforted the victims' relatives, the way he was supposed to act with people.

'Everyone is somebody's son.' That's what Gideon said. It hit you like an atomic bomb. And, for a moment, you thought it was possible to die of sadness.

You squeezed Rossi's hand tightly, as if you were looking for courage. When you opened eyes again, you gave a weak nod. Carefully, as if any sudden movement is capable of causing you more pain, you stood up, your legs wobbly, your heart bleeding, sadness clouding your vision. Rossi put his hand behind your back, in a way to make sure him were there, as an anchorage in reality that would not let you get lost in the valley of sadness and pain.

As you walked up to the house, you didn't see the other agents, you didn't see the trees, the cars. At that time, you didn't even know what color the sky was anymore. It was like a suspended moment, when the world is in slow motion, the hemisphere is terrified. The sadness was palpable in the breeze, in the way that the rays of the sun did not reach the ground. The whole land looked like mourning.

As soon as you stepped inside the house, the smell of home and Gideon hit your nose, and you felt your face tighten in an expression of pure pain. You didn't notice the agents coming in behind you, you didn't notice Penelope and JJ. You just saw the furniture, the decor, his stuff. As if Gideon had just left for the market and was going to come back.

Everything was in was there. Minus the most important thing: him.

You did not notice when Rossi left you, you did not notice who approached. Everything was in a haze of pain.

But that's when you saw the strong blood marks on the floor, stuck to the wood with possession. A cold shiver as sighed from death ricocheted through your entire body, bristling all over your skin. In a burst, like the bursting of a violin string, the mist dissipated, the state of tupor burst, and reality hit you with overwhelming force.

And then the plug fell.

Jason Gideon had died.

You fell again, barely noticing the sobs and loud crying starting to come out again, the most desperate and painful in you life. But this time the arms that took you were different, bringing with you sensations that you haven't felt in a long time. That a long time ago you forgot that you could feel.

They were long, thin, and contained a vigor hidden beneath the thin facade. The smell of his presence was… heaven. That feeling was your anchorage on the high seas, in the valley of despair, and you clung to him for fear of drowning, of not finding your way back home.

You didn't have to see it to know who it was.

You turned to the arms that took you, now Spencer kneels with you on the floor, and you cried in a way that you never cried before, with a visseral pain. Your hands went to the brown cardigan he wore, closing there as if the fabric was your only chance for salvation.

So you looked at the immensity of the his brown irises.

"He was the only thing I had, Spen.” You sobbed loudly with the crying, gently swaying his coat, your voice utterly torn.

Spencer felt his eyes sting, his throat lock and the remains of what was his heart ache in a hideous way.

“I know.” He felt a tear run down his left cheek, his hands on your arms.

At this time, the two of you supported each other. Gideon meant a lot to you two. An irreplaceable role in yours life. And Spencer knew that was what you were talking about when you said:

"He was the only thing we both had.” You closed your eyes, your hands still firmly on his coat, your heart pounding.

But this time Spencer's voice was just as broken when he said: “I know.”

Then he hugged you.He hugged you for everything. He hugged you because it was a pain that only you two could understand. He hugged you because you needed it, and because he needed too.

Jason Gideon had a special connection with you two, a connection that only the two of you had ever experienced. Each relationship with Gideon was different, special in different ways, but only the two of you had him as a protector, mentor, a much more paternal and confidant figure. He was the kind of person you could leave your life in his hands, the kind who would teach you the secret of the worlds, show you what goodness was and at the same time strength. And you two had that.

You stained Reid's coat with tears, and Reid stained you with the strong smell he had. He stepped far enough away to be able to see your face perfectly, at a considerable distance, and, against everything he had ever done before with anyone, he took your face in his hands, his eyes fixed on your in pain shared.

“We will catch how did it.” Reid assured you, as if he had tattooed this words on your skin. You closed your eyes in pain, but he brought you back “Hey, keep looking at me."

So you did it. Because you would always follow Spencer. To hell if he asked.

"Don't take your eyes off mine, okay?” His voice was so sweet, so gentle, and you couldn't have done anything but agree. “When was the last time you spoke to Gideon?”

“Yesterday.” You replied “We were going to travel to the beach today, I took a vacation from work.”

“Was he at home when you two talked?”

The team looked at each other, with several questions in those look.

You denied it, the hiccup now because of the shortness of breath you had because of the crying.

“He stopped at Roanoke for...” and that's when you seemed to remember something.

Your eyes widened softly, your lips trembled, and you let out a stammering sigh as you try to remember something very important.

“What do you remember?” Spencer stroked your cheeks with his thumbs, trying to calm the beating of your heart that went back to being frantic and making you focus on the question, not the sea of ​​emotions you felt.

“He…” was when your eyes fluttered before meeting Reid's again. “He said he saw a woman on the news who was found dead. And ... and that he had to make sure of one thing ”

Rossi looked at Hotch, who gave an attentive and objective expression.

“Did he tell you why?” His eyes closed again and you sobbed. Reid moved closer, bringing your face back in his direction again “Look at me, Y/n.”

As soon as you did, he gave you a gentle smile, but contained all the pain in the world. He understood what you were felling.

“Why was he interested in the case?” He changed the question.

“I-it was something about...” you searched in your mind “Girl named Tara. I don’t know. He mentioned about a blue butterfly tattoo on her ankle as well, and that it was something to do with a… a case or something.”

“1978” Rossi interrupted and everyone looked at him “Gideon and I worked on a case in 1978, the suspect was never caught and Tara was a teenager who we thought had been kidnapped by him. The killer left dead birds in the hands of the victims ”

“But he didn't mention birds and...” That's when your eyes, fluttering, darted around the room and you stopped abruptly.

Spencer turned his attention to you again, seeing that you were staring somewhere. His hands slowly left your face and he asked:

“What?”

“The board.” You pointed to your father's board, which had a beautiful brown bird.

“Does say anything to you?” Rossi turned his attention to you.

You shook your head, your body too exhausted to go to the painting and examine it.

“He shot the board.” You looked at the agents “My father loved that painting, he never would have done that. Even though my father is stunned, he has the best aim I have ever seen.”

“The devil is in the details." Rossi went to the pinting and, after two seconds, turned to the team and said “I already know who did this.”

You let out a gigantic sigh of relief as the agents split up to continue the case, speaking so fast that you couldn't keep up.

“I helped?” You looked at Spencer, tears still shining in your eyes.

He smiled and nodded “Very.”

But when he got up, you took his hand, making Reid turn his attention back to you again, a questioning look on his face.

“You're going to get it, aren't you?” The sob invaded your voice "Promise me that you will catch him, Spen."

Reid took his hand in your, giving you a strong, comforting squeeze before saying:

"I will. I promise.”

And then he left, along with the other agents.

- - -

You thought you knew what pain was, the loss, the tightness in the heart. You thought that your many relationship breakdowns showed you what it was like to suffer. But you have never been so wrong. None of that compared to how you were now, to what you felt.

You would trade that feeling for anything in the world.

This was terrible. A cold, coercive, brutal and cruel feeling. As if you were at the bottom of a black ocean, unable to breathe, falling deeper and deeper, consumed by the overwhelming cold of the water.

It was impossible to say in words how you felt. But if it were you had to define it in one word you would say: pain. A pain that bends you, a pain that makes you want to scream, that pierces your lungs so that it is not possible to breathe, but that even so, you fight for air.

It was pain at its rawest, most brutal, sharp and atrocious like a dagger blade. You would go through Dante's hells for eternity instead of living one day with that pain.

Since Spencer and the agents went after the person in charge, you have sat on the steps of the front door, watching the nature, the shaking of the trees, but your attention was so far, far away. Perhaps unattainable.

Gideon always loved watching the seasons go by, and in that moment, you wondered if looking at the same thing he looked at every day would make you feel close to him. Feel with him. It had only been three days since you last saw him, when he picked you up at the airport, but you felt like you were past three lives. How would you go without it? How were you able to think of living without it?

You pulled your knees up against your chest, hugging your legs, the metallic, atrocious and icy taste of devastation stuck to yours in your mouth. The trees shook hard, forcing the birds to fly away, but you didn't feel cold. You were not feeling the cold breeze hit your body, nor were your muscles contracting in exhaustion from the hard wood of the steps you were sitting on.

The hunger, the cold, the heat or the craving could not reach you, as if the pain had paralyzed all your system. Probably your soul.

You didn't see when Stephen put father's blanket over your shoulders, nor did you hear his sobs for seeing you so devastated. But you smelled Gideon, and the warmth of the blanket was like having his arms around you again. Then the rest of the water in your body found its way to your eyes and crying was as automatic as breathing.

You were clinging to Spencer taking the son of a bitch who did it, trying to chase away any other thoughts that weren't about that. You didn't want to think about what would happen after he was caught. Which meant his capture for you. It would bring justice to Gideon, honoring his name, his life, but it wouldn't bring him back. What was taken from you would not be repaired, regardless of the end of that damned man.

When he was caught, you would have nothing else to focus on instead.

You don't know how long you stayed there. Hours? Days? The those peach and gold tones in the sky is from dusk or the dawn of a new day?

You had lost track of time, as if your watch had stopped since the time Gideon died.

The sound of cars on the road was the only thing that pulled you out of your fucking valley, and as soon as the black SUVs stopped, you stood up as if you had been waiting your whole life for that moment. The blanket fell from your shoulders, heart accelerated at an alarming rate, and for a second, everything was gone from your mind.

Rossi was the first to get out of the car, but yours eyes darted to Reid. You wanted to run, ask what had happened, listen to the answers. But you were paralyzed in place. Afraid of the truth, of reality.

What would become of you after that news?

Spencer came towards you without hesitation, and you couldn't take your eyes off him for a second. He didn't say anything, nor did he explain anything. It was not needed. The way he reached out his hand and placed your father's rings in your palm were enough answers.

Your whole body shook and you looked at Reid with more emotions than askers.

"He is dead." He told you, and it made you fall down again.

But this time you fell into his hugging, clinging to him in despair. There were many meanings in that embrace: gratitude, relief, fear, pain and grief. And Spencer hugged you back in the same way.

You two stayed that way for a while, even when the agents went to talk to Stephen, even when Garcia and JJ left the house, even when the cold wind hit you both.

“Thanks." You heard yourself say it, and Spencer shook his head, signaling that it wasn't necessary, and the two of you moved away.

So you went to Rossi, and hugged him too. In that second, Rossi could feel Gideon in that hug, and it took a second to not cry.

“Your father was a great man." He told you when the two of you walked away, and you agreed on a sad smile.

"He was." You looked down at the rings in your hand, staying a second there before turning to the agents and saying: “You guys are going to the funeral, aren't you? I ... my dad would like it w-very much.”

"Of course." Rossi guaranteed it.

As they walked away and went back to the car, heading for their own houses, your eyes met Spencer's and he whispered in the air to you:

“I will see you at the funeral."

You nodded, giving you a sad, grateful smile. And while everyone was leaving and you were looking at the rings in your hand again, you had a feeling that your story with Spencer had just started over.

A/n: I also lost a very important person to death, and for everyone who went through it too, I mean that no one is alone! My message box is open if you need anything! Love you❤️

Tagged @gublersuvula

@peculiarinsomniac

@measure-in-pain

@nobutalsoyes

🍒 @misshale21

[fbfh]

I mean, you did ask - leo x reader

all  characters are aged up to 18+ for smexy subtext

word count: 2k

pairing: leo x gn child of calliope reader

genre: adventure, romance, hints at a lowkey soulmate au

summary: after a bumpy reunion turned interrogation with your friends, you finally prove to Leo that you’re someone worth catching up with

warnings: swearing, friends hold you at knife point (for good reason) memory loss, dimesion/reality travel, the phrase “horrible sexy little goose” not about an actual animal, moderate time difference between worlds, reader is acting like a cocky piece of shit half the time, you call yourself sexy a lot, annabeth slaps reader and reader is unbothered, reader and leo hae very visceral reactions upon seeing each other, piper picks up on this, moderately aggressive face grabbing, discussing personal info with someone somewhat privately, brief mentions of hand holding and hair pulling during sex, you spill tea about the rest of the demisquad, I think that’s it pls tell me if I missed any

song rec: choke - i don’t know how but they found me

a/n: this is from a very vivid daydream I had so er ah if reader seems op coded that’s cause she is uwu

You were excited to reunite with your friends after so long, but being tied up and held hostage at knifepoint by the people you love who don’t even remember you wasn’t the welcome wagon you were hoping for. Then again, as a child of Calliope, you can’t say you’re surprised. 

Apollo has a lot of kids, but demigod children of the muses are exceptionally less common. They’re volatile, really powerful, extremely engrossed in their art, and usually care more about their latest thesis paper or painting or manuscript than going on quests, and more often than not have very specific powers. You, for example, love quests but feel like you never get to go on any, usually because you’re fighting monsters somewhere else. One fun little power you inherited from your mom is - somewhat involuntary - dimension shifting. 

A lot of times you just get summoned somewhere else, with a little inherent background knowledge and your weapon, set free into the new world like a horrible sexy little goose. There’s usually some kind of objective you need to meet; find this person, set something in motion, give someone support in a time of need, deliver a package. After that, you get sent back to your family at camp half blood. The catch, one of them at least, is that a few days Somewhere Else could be no more than a few minutes in your homeverse. 

Another catch is that because of all that, and the fact that you wouldn’t know how to begin explaining, let alone if anyone would believe you, no one knows you can do this yet. Chiron has an idea, but you’ve never told anyone outright. 

You guess now is as good of a time as any to come clean, as Percy holds his sword threateningly close to your neck. You let out a disbelieving laugh, and bite the inside of your cheek.

“Okay, okay… you want the truth?” he starts to back off, and you continue, leaning forward, “I’m not surprised you’d want to know where someone this sexy-” your words cut off as Annabeth’s hand slaps you across the face. You let out a laugh of disbelief, cheek stinging.

“A cheap shot, Annabeth? Wow, I really didn’t take you for the type,” she grabs your face, leaning in close, knife once again against your throat. 

"How do you know my name." She hisses, and behind her, the door opens. Messy dark curls peek over her head in your vision and you know instantly who it is. Your heart starts pounding, loud and hard, and something heavy starts swirling deep in your gut. Your eyes lock as soon as he enters the room and an instinctive smile blooms on your face, knowing what's inevitably on its way. 

"Hey Sparky…" 

Your voice, slow and drawling (and, he'd be lying if he didn't say kind of very sexy) impales him as soon as he enters the room. He watches your pupils expand, eyes locked, immediately swept away by your magnetic aura. A fox like grin decorates your pretty face, and he gets the feeling you know more than you let on. Way more. He's so drawn to you on a guttural level, way more than he's ever been to someone before. His face is hot, and when you slowly wink at him, he feels flames erupt on his cheeks. It takes him a second to put it out, feeling your white hot gaze on him the entire time. 

Piper, who's been helping with your interrogation, looks back and forth between you two as this progresses, taking in a breath and mumbling a shocked, "Oh," as she begins to understand. 

"How are those repairs coming?" Jason asks, oblivious to everything that's happening between you two. 

"Uh… nearly done…" Leo mutters, watching as you hold back an elated giggle at the sound of his voice. You never forget how good it feels to see him again, but the fresh feeling is always better than you can imagine. Jason glances between you two, and walks over to Leo, suspicious of your interest in him. 

"I'll walk you back," Jason says, glaring at you. Your eyes stay locked with Leo's until the door finally closes again. Piper stares at you, bewildered by the tension turned to frantic energy crackling around both you and Leo. She can sense it on him even after he's out of the room. 

Annabeth finally drops your face, pacing and pinching the bridge of her nose. Percy slams him hands down on the table and levels his face with yours. 

"I'm gonna ask you one last time. How do you know us?" 

You stare at the table for a second, still thinking about him. You have to see him again. You’ve waited for too long, you just can’t do it anymore. 

“H- okay. Um,” You blink a few times, facade falling away almost instantly as you look up in a silent prayer that this doesn’t go as badly as you feel like it will. You sigh, looking back up at the other people in the room, a new, deliberate intention in your eyes that they hadn’t seen before. 

“You want to know why I’m here?” 

Their answer is the silence that follows.

“You’re not gonna believe me.” They look around at each other, collectively thinking about everything they’ve been through in the last year alone.

“Try us.” Annabeth replies. You sigh again, and introduce yourself. “...I’m a child of Calliope, muse of epic poetry, and I know you all because we grew up together. One of the fun - quirks, I inherited from my mom is traveling into different stories, or realities, I guess. It’s hard to control, and sometimes happens involuntarily. I adapt to wherever I am, and the universe sort of auto adjusts to follow the rules that stories have to follow. 

The reason you don’t remember me is because I was gone for a really long time, and your story had to keep going. Trying to find me wouldn’t have moved the plot forward, questioning where I went would have been confusing, so it did the simplest thing and edited me out so you could get closer to meeting your objectives.”

Once again, their silence is your answer. 

“Guys, sidebar.” Annabeth says, pulling Percy, Jason, and Piper out of the room for a moment. The come back in a little while later, and she looks you dead in the eye.

“If you really know us as well as you say you do, prove it. Tell us you’d only know if we were as close as you say we were.” 

You sigh yet again, having lost count at how many times that’s happened today alone. You roll your shoulders and bob your head, irritable that you’re still restrained and itching to move. 

“Is there anything we can do before the whole tell me something really personal thing?” 

Percy looks at you, challenging.

“Can you do it or not?”

Another noise of exasperation leaves you, and you agree, resignation all over your face.

“You know what, yeah. Okay, we’re doing this. Someone go get Leo.” An involuntary smile once again launches onto your face at the mention of his name. Jason starts to object. 

“Hey, I’m not going to spill something personal about someone when they’re not in the room.” They agree reluctantly, and Jason leaves, returning again with Leo. You look at him again, enraptured by his presence. He can’t say he doesn’t like the attention - a hottie like you looking at him like that? Yes, please - but something about it feels different, and he gets the feeling there’s a lot more going on than they’re aware of. 

You nod your head once, indicating for him to come closer. He gets a little closer. You widen your eyes, nodding two more times, and he hesitantly gets within whispering distance. 

You turn your head to your left, dangerously close to his face. He can feel his pulse already speeding up. Heat radiates between your faces, your breath fanning over his neck as you whisper slowly,

“You really… really like holding hands, and when I pull your hair during sex.” 

He pulls away from you quickly, beet red, bewildered expression obvious to everyone in the room. “H-how-”

“How do you think?” You reply calmly, loving everything about him, “Okay, to be fair…” you nod once more, eyes flaring, and he leans in once again, equally hesitant and curious. Your words tickle his ear, seeming to light up his entire nervous system like a firecracker.

“I really really like when you bite that spot on my neck, just below my ear.” 

He pulls away again, trying not to literally and figuratively combust. He stares in your eyes intensely, searching for anything besides the truth. He finds absolutely nothing. He turns around, unable to look his friends in the eye. 

“They’re legit, guys.” 

“Wait, what did you say to him?” Piper asks, unsure if she wants to know the answer. 

“Yeah,” Annabeth agrees, “what if it’s some kind of mind control-” Your deep, burning desire to finally hold Leo after god knows how long is starting to beat your better judgement, and you really, really want to be untied from this stupid chair. “Annabeth! Your favorite show was Cyber Chase growing up, you used to come up with plans on how to defeat Hacker, your best was cutting off his food supply - good strategy, I’ve used it before, myself. 

Percy, you feel like you can’t sing because you were forced to participate in an elementary school recital and some kid called you tonedeaf behind your back, it kicked you right in the RSD balls. 

Piper, you’re a closet weeb, you watched Ouran High School Host club obsessively and still do sometimes, you fell for Jason because he had, quote, 'Tamaki's looks and Kyoya's brains, the ideal man'. 

Jason, that scar on your lip is from biting a stapler as a child-"

"Okay, everyone knows that-"

"-and," you continue, showing no signs of stopping, "the reason you ate the stapler is because you were pretending to be a trash compactor because you saw one on TV. 

Nico is totally not right outside the door keeping guard right now, but if he were and you asked him if he likes the diary of a wimpy kid movies he'll ask how the hell you know that - should I continue."

Again, the answers are in the silence hovering in the room. 

“I think it’s about time to catch me up on what I missed.” 

A beat passes.

“Right,” Annabeth says, blinking and readjusting her ponytail as she sits down across from you, Percy already taking the bindings off of your wrists, “so, about the quest…”

She starts to fill you in on the details you missed, bringing you up to speed. After a little while you all decide to call it a night. Piper senses your energy ramping up in spite of the exhaustion settling in. You finally bid them all good night, but Piper’s not sold by your forced yawns. After what feels like another lifetime, you finally leave the room you’ve been in for hours with one objective. 

You can’t stay away from him anymore, you have to find Leo. 

After navigating a maze of hallways and doors, you finally push open the right one to see him looking up at you, and find yourself saying for the second time tonight,

“Hey, Sparky…” 

His heart is racing, and he gets that heavy, full feeling in his chest again, not having fully shaken it from the last time you saw each other. Looking into your eyes makes him nostalgic for something he can’t quite remember, and he knows with full certainty that you have more history than he’s aware of. He wants more than anything in this moment to remember. He sets down the wrench in his hand, taking a step toward you.

“Hey…”

[passable-talent]

Part 7 of the Dai Li series please!!! Excellent work again, as usual- I'm DYING XD

guess how long it took for this request to come in?

eleven minutes!! thats a new record!!

and so we return... ANOTHER whole month later!

| part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 |

“I need you to tell me what happened to Iroh.”

Zuko kept your gaze, his eyes almost wide. You didn’t look away, couldn’t let yourself. A few heartbeats passed, and he looked away, shame clear on his face. 

“He was put in jail,” Zuko said, closing his eyes. “I visited him often, but when I went to help him break out during the eclipse, he was already gone.” Slowly, his gaze returned to you. “I wish I could tell you I knew where he was.” It made sense, what he was saying, and you knew he wasn’t lying. You had hoped something else had become of Iroh, that day, that maybe he’d escaped after securing yours, but some part of you knew that he was likely jailed in the Fire Nation, if not dead. 

Broken out, though. He had made it out- just like Zuko. Maybe, someday, they’d see each other again. 

But for now, you were satisfied. Zuko, though responsible for Iroh’s imprisonment in an odd way, was ashamed of it. And you wouldn’t hold against him actions that he was paying for. Your heart beating, yet stinging like a raw wound, you fell back into his chest, spending any long moment you could in his arms, the sky darkening around you and revealing its stars. 

The days before Sozin’s Comet just felt odd. 

Four days from the comet, you went to a play, which didn’t mention you at all. That pissed you off- you were instrumental to their escape from Ba Sing Se! Who the hell else would’ve protected Katara from Azula if not you? Not to mention Zuko died in it, which surprised all of you, most of all, Zuko. 

His upset from the night before bled into the next morning, when he attacked Aang. The terror in your chest, when you saw the fire struck toward the avatar again, was thick and visceral. You never thought you’d see him attack Aang again, not after Ba Sing Se, and you didn’t understand what had happened that made him so violent, so suddenly. 

But when you attempted to come to Aang’s aid, and stood between the avatar and the prince, you caught his gaze. That malice that you’d seen in Ba Sing Se, that you’d hated so much, that you expected to see now, in a prince gone mad- it wasn’t there. 

Zuko wasn’t doing this out of hatred for Aang. 

It stunned you enough that the prince slipped past you, continuing his attack. You watched as a spectator, until they dove into the attic, your mind swimming. What could Zuko be thinking?

Okay, so he was confused at Aang’s complacency. Real interesting decision making process there, Zuzu, attacking him to resolve such an issue. 

Three days from the comet. You run a drill- which didn’t make much sense as an actual plan, you had to say, but not many of these other teenagers had the benefit of actual military training like you. Your job was to draw fire with Sokka and Suki- and, though Sokka didn’t admit it, to be an earthbender who could throw up a shield at any time. It was fun training, which you hadn’t really gotten to be a part of for a while. 

Two days from the comet, and Aang is missing. 

Which is really, really, really bad. 

Like, sure, the kid wasn’t exactly super ready to face Ozai, but he’s still the avatar, right? That’s still got to count for something. And he’s missing, leaving a very gifted and still extremely underqualified gaggle of teenagers to face the Fire Lord. 

So you went to the Earth Kingdom. Zuko took you to an old friend named Jun, who seemed to go way back, back to before you’d met Zuko. She seemed like she’d be helpful, but then revealed even more deeply unsettling information- Aang was gone. Which was much, much worse than missing. 

So, facing the Fire Lord without the Avatar. How fun. 

And yet, there was a glimmer of hope, in the form of an old, smelly sandal, which really made you wonder why the hell Zuko still had it. And, really, now that you thought about it, how Zuko even got it. The Shirshu could definitely catch a scent from that- anyone with a half working nose could. 

One day from Sozin’s comet, and most of it was already gone, spent chasing a shirshu across the Earth Kingdom. Appa was the best, letting you sleep on a massive paw, and though he was itchy, it was much better than taking the time to set up your beds. Though, your rest didn’t last long- quickly you were ambushed, a ring of fire surrounding you. Four men looked down upon you, and though you didn’t recognize three of them, you did know King Bumi, and assumed that the others must be friends, if he were in league with them. 

“Well, look who’s here!” Bumi said, a snorting laugh following his words. You saw relief and joy on Sokka and Katara’s face, and so you knew that your assumption was true. It seemed like, for the first time in a few days, you were about to catch a break. 

“What’s going on? We’re surrounded by old people.” A smile cracking your face, you had to be grateful for Toph, and her outlook on the world. 

“Not just any old people. These are great masters, and friends of ours!” She bowed to an old man with long white hair. “Pakku.” 

“It is respectful to bow to an old master,” he said, returning her bow, “but how about a hug, for your new grandfather?” You raised an eyebrow as the siblings reacted with surprise, but not too much, like that was a normal thing to say, if exciting. Following their conversation, though, you picked up enough details to figure out a bit of the history that they must’ve had. 

“And this was Aang’s first firebending teacher!” Katara explained, and Sokka went on to explain the name of the third. 

“Master Piandao,” he said, and you smiled brightly, even if it was to yourself- this was truly a lucky day. 

“So, wait, how do you all know each other?” Suki asked. 

“All old people know each other, don’t you know that?” Bumi said with another snorting laugh. 

“We’re all part of the same ancient secret society,” Piandao explain, causing your gaze to shift to the matching uniforms they each wore. “A group that transcends the divisions of the four nations. 

“The Order of the White Lotus,” Zuko interjected, and you looked sideways at him, wondering how he knew that. He had a smile on his face- he looked hopeful. 

“That’s the one!” Bumi answered.

“The White Lotus has always been about philosophy, and beauty, and truth,” Jeong-Jeong began, and as you crossed your arms over yourself to protect them from the wind, you were glad that such a society exists in such a war-torn world. “But about a month ago, a call went out that we were needed for something important.”

“It came from our Grand Lotus,” Pakku said, diverting his eyes to Zuko. “Your uncle. Iroh of the Fire Nation.” While Zuko’s expression softened, yours brightened- Iroh was as trustworthy as you had always known him to be. You were glad to know that he kept peace just as much as he preached it. 

“Well, that’s who we’re looking for,” Toph said. 

“Then we’ll take you to him.” Reaching Jun and her shirshu, it felt sure that you were going to see Iroh again. But when you followed her for a day, the inevitability of it dribbled away. Yet here, again, your hope renewed, that you could see him again, and be reminded that there was at least one adult in the world that you could really, deeply trust.

“Wait,” Bumi shouted, shoving himself to the midst of the conversation, “There’s someone missing from your group. Someone very important... where’s Momo??”

“He’s gone,” Sokka said, clearly deeply troubled by having Bumi’s nose pressed to his face, “and so is Aang.”

“Oh well, so long as they have each other, I’m sure we have nothing to worry about!” Bumi said, prompting you to wonder what the king had seen and experienced to allow news such as a missing avatar to not startle him. “Let’s go!” 

It was a surprisingly far walk to the Order’s camp, in which the old masters caught up with their friends, and filled each other in on details. You kept quiet, having not personally known any of them. 

The sun came up as you reached the camp, and Zuko entered his uncle’s tent, to wait. You sat outside with Toph, but decide not to practice your seismics- whatever was happening between Zuko and Iroh deserved to stay between them. 

A nice stew was your breakfast, the gaang all sitting around its pot, with Iroh sitting at the head of the group. You’d sat between Zuko and Toph, one leg propped up on its foot with the other extended in front of you. Iroh had given you a long hug when he saw you- delighted that you had continued your path alongside the avatar, and secretly even more delighted that Zuko’s path had also lead him back to you.

“Uncle, you’re the only person other than the avatar who can possibly defeat the fatherlord,” Zuko said, and though you heard his mistake, you only smiled into your stew. 

“You mean the Fire Lord.” Because you could count on Toph to do it for you. 

“That’s what I just said,” Zuko snapped, but it was merely his temper, not true anger. “We need you to come with us.” Iroh seemed to consider for a moment. 

“No, Zuko, it won’t turn out well,” Iroh began, and you lifted your head, ready to hear true, unfiltered Iroh wisdom. 

“You can beat him,” Zuko insisted, before looking sideways across the rest of the group. “And we’ll be there to help.” You gave him a smile, but ultimately turned your attention back to Iroh.

“Even if I did defeat Ozai,” he began, “and I don’t know that I could, it would be the wrong way to end the war. History will see it as more senseless violence: a brother killing a brother to grab power.” Slowly you brought another bite of your stew to your lips, but once you had, your chopsticks slowly maneuvered around your fingers, finding a way to fidget as you considered. “The only way for this war to end peacefully is for the avatar to defeat the Fire Lord.” You let out a quick breath, recognizing the sense in his words, but feeling worry reveal itself. Wasn’t Aang... gone? Off world?

“And then... would you come and take your rightful place on the throne?” Zuko asked.

“No,” Iroh said, quickly, like he’d been prepared for such a question. “Someone new must take the throne- an idealist with a pure heart and unquestionable honor.” He was speaking directly to Zuko, and you understood before he’d had to say it. “It has to be you, Prince Zuko.” 

In all the time you’d known Zuko, you had known him as a lot of different things. Refugee. Waiter. Friend. Crush. Traitor. Enemy. Prince. Fire Nation. And in all that time, you’d realized his lineage, as the eldest child of the Fire Lord, and certainly most sane. Yet, in all that time, you’d never considered what he was poised to become: the Fire Lord himself. 

In that moment, you nearly felt the need to bow, or scoot away, as though you were reminded of his royalty, the true meaning of the term ‘prince’. Wasn’t the bloodline of the Fire Nation royals considered to have been made royal by the spirits? 

Inferiority didn’t even begin to cover it, but you’d worry about that another day. 

“Unquestionable honor?” He asked, looking away from his uncle. “But I’ve made so many mistakes.” At long last, days after you felt like you had finally forgiven the prince, you were put in a position where you could accept or deny the way he had hurt you in the past. But you weren’t just an earth kingdom citizen, not anymore. You were world-travelled, a soldier, a warrior, a friend to the future fire lord and the avatar alike. You knew the mature and good and right thing to do. And in that moment, it wasn’t to hold above him the things he’d done to you, but instead to recognize the way he’d overcome them. You shuffled closer to him. 

“Yes, you have,” Iroh admitted, his gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’ve struggled, you’ve suffered.” Gently, you took one hand from your bowl, and laid it on his, where he’d left it on his knee. He didn’t look at you, but his fingers slid around yours slowly. “But you have always followed your own path. You have restored your own honor. And only you can restore the honor of the Fire Nation.” 

“I’ll try, uncle,” he promised, and you knew he would make good on it. 

“Well, what if Aang doesn’t come back?” Toph asked, and you once again thanked her for saying the things you couldn’t seem to get past your tongue.

“Sozin’s comet is arriving, and our destinies are upon us,” Iroh declared, using his chopsticks for emphasis. “Aang will face the Fire Lord. When I was a boy, I had a vision that I would one day take Ba Sing Se. Only now do I see that my destiny is to take it back, from the Fire Nation, so the Earth Kingdom can be free again.”

“That’s why you’ve gathered the members of the White Lotus,” Suki said, her words prompting you to look around at the dozen other old masters, who would be more than capable of pulling your mighty home city from the grasp of a few Fire Nation soldiers. 

“Yes,” Iroh agreed, turning his gaze back to the prince. “Zuko, you must return to the Fire Nation, so that when the Fire Lord falls, you can assume the throne, and restore peace, and honor. But Azula will be there, waiting for you.”

“I can handle Azula,” Zuko said, malice written across his face, but this time for your first real enemy. 

“Not alone,” Iroh insisted, “you’ll need help.”

“You’re right,” Zuko admitted. “Katara, Y/N. How would you like to help me put Azula in her place?” A devious smile spread over Katara’s face.

“It would be my pleasure,” she said, and you couldn’t help but smile as their gazes turned to you. 

“She’s had it coming,” you said, cracking your knuckles of your free hand into your thigh. 

“What about us?” Sokka asked, from between Toph and Suki, “What’s our destiny today?” 

“What do you think it is?” Iroh asked, halfway to his next mouthful of stew, and for a moment you saw Mushi again, being cheeky back at the Jasmine Dragon when he suggested you do something that would put you in Zuko’s path. 

“I think that,” Sokka began, considering, “even though we don’t know where Aang is, we need to do everything we can to stop the airship fleet.”

“And that means, when Aang does face the Fire Lord, we’ll be right there if he needs us.” Toph’s attitude, as though she would take on the comet herself, and win, filled you with a sense of hope. You could win the day. 

You rested your back against Appa’s saddle, leaning over the side to say your goodbyes to the Order. 

“So if I’m going to be Fire Lord after the war is over,” Zuko said, once again reminding you of such an insane fact, “What are you going to do?” 

“After I reconquer Ba Sing Se, I’m going to reconquer my tea shop!” You couldn’t help but laugh, remembering the place you’d fallen in love with Zuko, back before the world had fallen down around you. You could imagine going back there, when it was all over. “And I’m going to play Pai Sho every day!” His happiness, his hope, was infectious. 

“Goodbye, General Iroh,” Katara said, and you leaned down on your elbow, as though you could give him one last hug before you left. You already had- but that didn’t curb the impulse. 

“Goodbye, everyone. Today, destiny is our friend. I know it.” You could believe him. For that moment, you were filled with strength, and the feeling that though the day would be hard, it would be won. It had to be. 

Appa kicked off from the ground, and you crawled to the front of the saddle, closer to Zuko. 

“Hey, Zuko?” You asked, taking a deep breath. 

“Yes?” he didn’t look away from Appa’s path, but turned his head toward you. 

“When this is all over, I...” you swallowed, hard, but kept yourself from putting it off any further. “I’m ready to love you again. I think I already do.” 

And then, in that moment, for Zuko, there was a thousand more reasons why he needed to win the day. 

-🦌 Roe

stay tuned (aka request) for the series finale... 

edit: | part 8 |

tag list: @lammello @kittyddandnyla @aangsupremacy @qquell @caitff @coldlilheart @sleeping-with-the-fishes @duh-dobrik @dxcter @furblrwurblr @eridanuswave @bernadineisreborn @angxlicwanda @lmaoashley-blog @celamoon @mywigglybaby @silentwhispofhope @the-girl-in-the-box @mavix @eury-dice3 @ninipoo1 @bigbuckyenergy @lucensei @srgania @uncovered-mad-man @11mb0 @deansbbysblog @pillowjj @ilovespideyyy @heavensgaymenace @thearachna-kid @llama2264 @anime-simp @akariblue @lostgirlheart @kacchasu @ctrl-alt-jeon @tadpoledancer @i-bitch-you-bitch @wetleafwrites @annie-17 @vintageroses10 @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @smol-vy @lana-isabelle @doomedcampesinos @luleck @izzieserra @little-miss-sleep-deprived

[sweetestlamb]

Save Me From The Dark

Summary: If I don’t lie to my heart, who will? 

Author's Note: The feedback to this story has been overwhelming and beautiful honestly, I've never done anything like this for a non canonical couple but so many of you have told me that this pairing makes sense to you too. They are just two lost souls to me and bringing them together is simply destiny. I saw on the timeline that TB was hard to watch tonight for my Seojun lovers,  I thought this might cheer some people up. Sorry for the brevity I’m writing between lesson planning, I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Special huge shout out to @ewolfwitchwisegirl​ who made a header for me, it's so gorgeous and better than anything I could have ever done. This chapter is dedicated to you for inspiring me with this masterpiece!! Everyone who makes a gif set, header or anything because of my story you are loved, thank you. I am honored.

p.s. the burn will still be slow but it’s slowly starting tehe. 

"What? Where is she now?" Su-ah's face scrunches up in disdain as Ju-Kyung explains what she missed while in the nurse's office, the shorter girl looks more enraged than she's ever seen besides when that video of her being bullied was posted. Su-ah and Su-jin came over everyday until she finally caved in and let them in, taking turns crying in their laps. She’d been so ashamed to face them only to end the night teary-eyed with snot dripping from her nose, as they took turns wiping her runny nose. It was disgusting, but in that moment she knew that all her fears had been for naught, they were her friends regardless of what she looked like beneath her foundation. They'd been her saving grace and two huge reasons she could walk back through those doors with her head held high. Suho’s constant love and support only helping to make her feel even more invincible.  She can feel that same protectiveness wafting off the her friend now, Su-ah is fierce when it comes to the people she cares about. She's just honored to be among that short list.

"She's okay. I covered her and brought her to the roof."

"And then you left her? All by herself?! Come on we have to go back she needs us." She staggers as Su-ah grabs her hand forcefully, spinning her in a circle but she digs her heels into the ground interrupting the motion.

Su-ah looks at her baffled, tugging harder. Her eyes squinted into two thin lines. Immediately she puts up her hands, calming the agitated girl.

"She's not alone."

Su-ah tilts her head cutely in confusion, seeming to consider who exactly could be with their friend and conjuring nothing after a short pause complete with a finger on her bottom lip. She puts the girl out of her misery and gives her the answer, "Han Seojun. He's with her."

She'd been just as bewildered when she saw the name flashing on her phone.

Han Seojun.

Sure they were friends, he was also Suho's best friend so they all hung out a few times but he'd never called her prior and she'd almost forgotten they even possessed the other's number. Making her believe that his reason for calling had to be important, since he’d never done it before so she answered without hesitation.

Before she could utter hello, he was barking at her "Where are you? Is Su-jin with you?" She looked over at the other girl, wind whipping her long raven locks wildly around her beautiful face. The frantic raise and fall of her chest was the only thing marring the picturesque sight. Breaking her from her admiration Seojun repeated his inquiry but there was an unusual quality to his voice the second time, he sounded as if he was pleading. She didn't know what was happening but he sounded as if every second not with Sujin was torture. Before he could repeat it thrice, she answered him.

"We're on the rooftop."

His speed reaching them was impressive, before Su-jin could fully interrogate her about who exactly was coming to the rooftop, he was already bursting through the doors and unafraid despite the wrath on Su-jin’s face, she stared in surprise as he called her princess of all things snarkily, she watched them appraisingly waiting for Sujin to sneer at the cutesy moniker but that reprimand never arrived. Seojun seemed comfortable, too comfortable easily pressing into Sujin's space as if he belonged there, as if he wanted to belong there. She felt like she was intruding watching them prod and snap at each other, so she slipped away no longer worried about her friends safety. She seemed to be in good hands.

She snaps back to reality realizing that Su-ah has been bombarding her with questions, "Han Seojun? Why is he with her? Was he the one bullying her, I'll get Tae-Hoon to kick his ass!" She looks at her friend considering her boyfriend, and then Han Seojun, almost in sync they both shake their head.

"No, forget that. He can't fight someone like Han Seojun, can you tell Suho to beat him up? Do you think he'll do it?"

She chuckles while capturing the other girl's hands, "We don't need anyone to beat him up. He didn't do anything, he helped us actually. He got everyone to go back to class and stop looking."

Now Su-ah looks positively beaming, smiling that bright wide smile that is definitely the reason that Tae-Hoon can't stay away from her.

"Why? Why did he do that? Are they close?" The girl ask coyly, always ready to matchmake. 

It's not her place to say, she's just a bystander and honestly she doesn't quite understand what's happening, Seojun is always full of surprises. So she tugs Su-ah away, knowing that if pressed Sujin will retract and push Seojun away on principle, she doesn't know what's happening to the other girl but when it all comes tumbling down it's clear that Seojun won't be far behind.

"I think they're becoming friends. Sujin could use some more friends, don't you think?"

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He doesn't know what he was expecting, it was a crazy idea. Absolutely insane. But regardless of the insanity of his words, he meant each and every one of them. Standing this close to the crying girl he could see the swell of her right cheek, the same cheek that had been bleeding the night they met. Ran into each other, might be more accurate.

It wasn't a fever dream or a hallucination. It was all painfully real, she was being hurt and nobody else seemed to know. She hid it well, even he could admit that her ice princess façade never cracking at school. She'd always looked like a perfect little doll in her designer clothes, he had imagined that she had a loving perfect family. He of all people knew that you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, yet he took one look at her expensive appearance and thought he had her all figured out.

He wouldn't make that mistake again.

So he knows that his suggestion is crazy but that doesn't ease the anger when she pulls away, turning her back to him before answering.

"No."

His fists tighten in the balls he has by his side but each quiet exhale that causes her small shoulders to lift up and down, unknowingly calms his rage and he finds himself smothering his own fury to offer another suggestion.

With a deep breath he says, "Ask Ju-Kyung if you can sleep over then. You shouldn't be alone."

She also shouldn't go home. Her words echo hauntingly in his ears, he used a belt. Bile coils tight in his throat, it was her father then he was the one hitting her, destroying his own daughter until she couldn't stand to be touched by others. The urge to fight has never been this visceral.

She sighs as if he's bothering her, he already knows what she's going to say before she says it, so he intercepts her stepping around her so they're face to face.

"I dare you to tell me to mind my business." He growls at her, giving her enough space so he's not looming over her much smaller figure but staring hard enough that she knows that he's serious, he's decided to make this his business she better deal with it.

She stares at him, mouth lax after his deep challenge glaring right back after she regains her composure but her eyes shift away, unable to meet his own now and without a word she huffs before stomping away. He watches her leave, knowing that he's reached the point of no return. He's going to follow this through to the very end.

If she tries to run, well he has long legs.

And a motorcycle.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The pain of her raw water soaked skin grounds her, but the swooshing of the faucet does nothing to drown out her thoughts as she rubs vigorously at her palms, scratching at imaginary dirt that will never be lifted from her hands. Making the water piping hot she hisses at the sting of the water on her bruised hand, she has to punish herself. She almost did something infinitely moronic.

"You almost said yes." She whispers to herself in the grimy school mirror, looking back at her own face in disgust. Feeling the flame of hope desperately grasping for air, yearning to awaken under the boys insistence.

She can't explain her reaction to him, they are nothing; less than nothing she wouldn't even consider him a friend.

Yet, he knows more about her than her best friends. Knows her deepest darkest secret and instead of gossiping or avoiding her, he's chasing her down and demanding to help her.

"He's insane. There's nothing to understand, there's no logic to insanity." She reasons with herself in the mirror, choosing not to focus on the fact that she's having a conversation with herself. His crazy is rubbing off on her, when she put her head on his chest it must have leaked on her.

She can remember the heat that always seemed to radiate from him, maybe that was a result of being loved. He was warm. She wanted to reach out and grab....

What? Grab what? She immediately reels her wayward thoughts back in. 

What am I thinking? 

She needed to stop her train of thought now. That had been a mistake, a lapse in judgement. It wouldn't be happening again. If he was hellbent on following her she couldn't stop him but she knew it wouldn't last, no one was that selfless eventually her pity story wouldn't be enough and he'd realize she wasn't worth the effort.

She tries to convince herself that this is what she wants. Lying to herself has become as natural as lying to others, it’s a means of survival. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Upon entry to the cafeteria every eye shifts to her or so it seems, time too stops as they all cease their conversations to watch her like she's an animal on display. Her skin prickles from the overwhelming attention before the silence bursts like a bubble and the noise washes over her, people begin to point in her direction whispering not so subtlety to the person next to them.

She almost bolts before she feels a hand on her elbow, her instincts almost make her snatch her arm away but the familiarity of the perfume halts her movement.

"Come on. We've been waiting for you."

Su-ah doesn't give her a chance to decline dragging her over to their table, Ju-Kyung's smiling face greeting them. She's shoved down onto the bench, in between the two like they're trying to shield her. The idea makes her feel warm and uncomfortable so she pushes it to the back of her mind.

She silently eats her food, staring intently at her tray before she finally relaxes as she realizes that no one is talking to her, they aren't demanding to know what happened. She's not ready to talk about it, not yet and they are showing her that that's okay. They will be here for her regardless of not knowing the full story. Under the table she discreetly grabs both of their hands, squeezing them hard. Squeaking in embarrassment when both girls twist and smother her in tight hugs, she pretends to loathe it pushing them both away but they cling to her until she gives in. She's so weak today.

"Oh. Seojun-ah over here!" Ju-Kyung blares in her precious ears, waving rapidly over her shoulder and she feels her stomach dip. Not him again he never ate lunch here and when he did it was with his gang, why was Ju-Kyung calling him here?

Pinching at her vulnerable thigh under the table, she hisses at the other girl "Hey! What are you doing? Don't call him over."

Unfortunately it's too late, she can already feel his aura behind them getting closer. There's barely room on the other side of the bench, then Hyun-Kyu yelps before looking up in their direction, then he swallows and nods as if receiving an order, he presses his glass further up his nose before collecting his lunch and leaving. She watches the interaction confused before turning to look at Ju-Kyung who has an exaggerated look of innocence on her face.

"I guess he was finished eating. It works out though, now Seojun can sit there."

He's slipping into the evacuated space before she can yell at Ju-Kyung for meddling. Huffing she burrows into her food refusing to look up. She’s only been ignoring him for a few seconds before he seems to reach his limit. 

"Give me some."

She watches in shock as familiar hands invade her space and grab her tray, pulling it across the table before lifting one of her sausages to his mouth with his fingers, the uncivilized swine. She's reaching out before she can reconsider or think about how they will appear to others she doesn’t share her food damn it, she reaches to cover his hand stopping him from biting and stealing her last sausage.

"What the hell are you doing? Don't touch my food." She scowls at him, grabbing at her food and humming victoriously when she gets it back. Only to stare wide eyed and flabbergasted as he shrugs before devouring the juicy morsel, directly from her fingers, a brief brush of warm wetness on her finger tips. They both freeze, staring at each other. The air between them charged, almost crackling from their locked eyes.

"Seojun! You're the man! You're a natural flirt, eating from her hands!" Appearing from thin air Seojun's gang boisterously chants his name, clapping him on the shoulder and she physically cannot be in this room any longer. She shoves her tray at him, grabbing her backpack before hopping over the bench.

"I'll see you both later." With a tight smile at her friends, she races from the cafeteria unaware of the eyes tracing her every step.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The rest of the day drags by, she spends it lost in a daydream making sure not to look at the boy behind her. She just wants to get home and lock herself away, this time nothing will get her to open the door. With a sigh of relief, she stands as the teacher dismisses them for the day. Packing up slowly to miss the surplus of students at the door, they are all still looking at her warily spreading rumors about her rudeness and supposed narcissism. Creating explanations for her scene in the bathroom, the majority of them painting her as stuck-up. She doesn't mind it's better than them knowing the truth. Let her be a rich spoiled bitch in their minds better that than a victim.

Like clockwork, Su-ah and Ju-Kyung latch onto her from the left and the right. She lets them pull her out the door and towards the entrance, absently listening to their heated debate of where they should eat today. She sighs out loud, amused but hiding it behind a passive face.

"Why are you even arguing? You know we’re such going to get spicy tteokbokki anyway."

They always do, it's like arguing is their warm up before the noodles because no matter how passionate they both get about the different possibilities they've never eaten anything else together.

Walking out the school gate, they all jump back as a motorcycle suddenly skids into their way blocking them completely. Instantly she's annoyed, breaking their linked arms she storms over to the idiot, shoving at his chest before shouting at him.

"Hey! Are you crazy? Were you trying to kill us?" She slaps at his helmet when he tilts his head at her, the loud knock satisfying as she glares at him. 

Then he reaches up like he's staring in a shampoo commercial and tugs the helmet off his head, hair stylishly falling onto his neck. Instead of looking upset at her rough treatment he smirks, leaning over the handle bar right into her face.

"Since when are you scared of my bike? Don't act so fragile princess." She gapes at him affronted by his unapologetic attitude, then further bothered by his second use of that infuriating nickname. She's nobody's fucking princess. As she opens her mouth to tell him this, he turns away from her before talking to Ju-Kyung.

"Take her to your house tonight. Have a sleepover or whatever you all call it. She told me she really wanted to ask you but she was too embarrassed." He points over at her, lying easily through his too white teeth. She wants to punch that smile off his face.

"Hey when did I say anything like that to yo--!!"

But he's on a roll, bulldozing through her interjections with the same ease he used that night on the highway. Pulling something from his pocket and thrusting it at her.

"Give me your number."

What.

"What?"

He looks at her like she's wasting his time, rolling his eyes before repeating slower, the asshole.

"Give me your number."

She scoffs at the brazen order, sneering at him before grabbing her friends. "Let's go."

But never of them are budging, so she pulls harder but still they don't follow and she turns to them both annoyed. "Didn't you hear me let's go."

"Give me the phone."

Her jaw drops as Su-ah reaches out at Seojun, he looks as surprised as she does before he shakes himself from his confusion and hands the girl his phone. Su-ah happily taps away before handing the phone back over.

"There you go." Su-ah smiles easily before tugging them all away now, she wants to fight her hold and run back and take his phone, delete her number and tell him once and for all to leave her alone and stop playing whatever game he’s playing.

"I'm hungry from all that arguing, let's get tteokbokki." Ju-Kyung states happily, leading them towards the shop.

She just goes along quietly, feeling outnumbered and indignant. They were supposed to be her friend. She pouts the entire way. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seojun watches the three girls walking away, eyes fixated on the figure in the middle until they turn a corner and disappear from his sight. She'd looked like she wanted to kill him, a woman had never looked at him with that particular expression before. She could be quite scary when she wanted to be.

Hooking his helmet onto the arm bar of his bike he finally looks down at his phone, thankfully still in one piece.

When he sees the number he smiles softly before his eyes shift down and laughter bursts out of his chest, he can't stop the bubbling bouts of joy that fall from his lips.

8298263098

Princess

With another chuckle, he pulls on his helmet before revving the bike to life and peeling out of the school feeling lighter than he has in a long time. He doesn’t question his gut, no he’s not someone who overthinks he jumps first and looks later. 

[heroprose]

aromatic;

a/n. forewarning for the usual vampiric shenanigans.

ship. hitoshi shinou x reader

summary. contemporary vampire au. (+ slight office au)

//

hitoshi shinsou despises you, you’re certain of this. 

what you’re not quite sure of is where all the animosity stemmed from, especially since he seemed to conduct himself well enough with everyone else. 

out of all your fellow colleagues, he treated you with the most transparent curtness, from promptly exiting whenever you entered the breakroom for a refreshment, to visibly retching the one time you tried to take an empty seat next to him during a conference (you’ll never forgive him for that slight).

it was really starting to grate on you. you were going to have to confront him about this yourself.

besides, you’ve no longer a choice in the matter: this unspoken tension had begun to affect the workplace, with people sometimes looking to and fro between you and him, confused to high hell why he always kept himself a good several meters away from you if he could-- not that you were complaining. social distancing can be quite mutually beneficial, after all.

and it wasn’t an issue you’d like to bring up with human resources either: that seemed a little too petty, even if he was literally gagging at your presence. 

you did try to ameliorate the work relationship-- really, you did. but there’s only so many times you can crack a joke and be left hanging in that awkward silence before you stop altogether. you once thought it’d been something you said in poor taste that made him abhor you so, but unless he had a seething hatred for mild puns, that didn’t seem right. 

and so what that you were a newer addition to the team-- you’d entertained the idea that maybe he had a thing against strangers, but hell, it’s been months and even interns get more conversation out of him than you.

although given his visceral reactions, you’re inclined to think it’s something about how you smell... but that’s just insane. you took your daily showers and used reasonable amounts of detergent in your laundry; and if you can take the pungency of axe body spray and the zestiness of dior’s sauvage on every man in the building, then he should be able to tolerate your own signature scent, which wasn’t even that bad... was it? 

no one else complained about it though. and you’ve even asked around too, so you know you’re not wearing absolute funk. it’s an unfathomable situation.

today, however, you forewent the perfume. if it really was the fragrance, then this should leave no opening. you’ve tucked the bottle in your workbag instead, in case you needed it like a piece of evidence for his rude behavior, ace attorney style.

you waited until lunch break, where most of the other colleagues would leave the building for nearby restaurants or go to the cafeteria, before approaching him. it was best this way, lest it got weird; at least only few people would witness it. 

hitoshi was currently invested in whatever it was on his computer, and if you were correct in his observations, he would pull out his own homemade meal shortly enough to eat at his desk. some days, he didn’t eat at all, which was surely unhealthy but you were hardly in the position to scold him considering your own bad habits. plus you didn’t want him to hate you even deeper. 

you got to observe this routine over a good number of weeks and it was truly no easy feat, with his desk set in the far corner of the workplace far from the wall-length windows and him being constantly out and about on his own assignments.

with your workbag in one hand, you walk up to him with as much nonchalance as you could muster. “hey! not going down to the cafe today?” it’s rhetorical: you knew he wasn’t.

he hardly responds, eyes flickering up at you briefly and giving a greeting nod before returning to his work. “mm.”

you round the corner of the desk so that you stand beside him. leaning down slightly to squint at the screen, you deliberately put yourself in his space. “oh wow, the deadline’s so far away but you’re already working on this part?”

he began to open his mouth, only to clap a hand over it with remarkable speed. and he coughs, goodness, with shoulders jumping.

“oh my god,” you can’t help but say as you withdraw. could he smell it even from your bag? you weren’t even sure if it was the perfume or just you anymore. “okay, i’ll cut to the chase. can we talk? alone?”

you’d think he would think it over, at the very least, to give a semblance of polite reflection. “no,” is his immediate reply, spoken forcefully, so forcefully that a lone passing colleague even gives you two a glance. 

“i was, uh, just leaving,” they say. “want anything?”

“i’m good, thanks,” you reply, bidding them farewell with a breezy smile before refocusing on hitoshi. he has already turned away from you, eyes blazing at the computer screen.

without another word, you reach over, placing a hand over his, and drag his mouse to click out of his report.

“what do you think you’re doing?” hitoshi demands, jerking away from your touch. and he’s angry now, genuinely irritated: you can see it in the way his jaw tightens. too bad you’ve been annoyed ever since you’ve been moved to this department.

“it was google docs, relax. your work is saved,” you soothe over. “now come with me. i just want to talk to you for five minutes, tops. please.”

he’s deeply conflicted for a heartbeat, but finally relents. “five minutes,” he echoes. you give him the space to stand up, clutching your workbag strap tightly in your fist. if he knew what this was about, he gave no mention as he walked openhanded behind you.

hastily, you lead him to the breakroom. with its doorless entrance, you assumed that the ventilation there would be moderately good, if it got too stuffy for him. then again, you wouldn’t of minded if he suffocated a bit either. admittedly, the entire floor was probably empty save for you two, so this dialogue could’ve been held out in the open but it didn’t hurt to have that extra layer of seclusion. 

“i already know,” you say into the quietude, leaning against the counter. behind you, the coffee machine beeped every so often. someone should get that fixed. you cross your arms and look at him carefully. the vents are tinny above you two, warm air rushing out noisily.

“you-- what?” his dark eyes widen ever so slightly, and for once, his expression isn’t quite so tense with you. “what do you know?” he must’ve not expected you to be so direct. he takes his hand out of his pocket.

“you know what i’m talking about. why you treat me like, i don’t know, the plague?”

“i don’t do that.”

“you nearly threw up when you saw me.”

hitoshi stays silent. ha, gotcha! “i only coughed,” he relents eventually.

“whatever. and i know it’s not me and that it’s really all you because guess what? no one else has this problem. and i’m thinking you don’t want me to air out your business to everyone else because that would be...” weird, for one, but you didn’t want to ruin your own case. “doesn’t matter; in any case, there’s no reason to be rude over this.”

“alright. so you know. i avoid you because of your scent.” his voice is dangerously calm. “what are you going to do about me, then?”

“about you?” you repeat with a scoff, “oh, so i should report you? what would i even say? HR would laugh at me.”

he smirks, chin jutting out. “right.”

“so now i only have one question. wait, make that two.”

“go on.”

“how should we fix this? because obviously i don’t want our little dance to start affecting our work ethic. you can’t wave me away forever. it’s how i smell, right? do you have a recommended detergent or deodorant, or something?” you ignore the fact that you’ve technically asked three questions.

“none of that covers it,” he mutters and your jaw drops. “masks don’t help either.”

“no way. i smell that b-- you know what... moving on. we’ve got to compromise somewhere though. but not my perfume.” your hands reflexively ball up. there’s no camera, so if you did something unsavory, there equally wouldn’t be any real witnesses...

“your perfume,” he repeats, seemingly dissatisfied. 

“yeah, no way. that’s my signature scent. go wear nose plugs or something, if it’s that bad. and i can’t believe you say scent and not body odor, like just call it what it is! damn.” 

the coffee machine lets out its intermittent beeps. hitoshi just stares at you, mystified. then, he breaks into a snort, like he’s the one who can’t believe he’s having this discussion. “i understand. in that case, i see no solution.” whilst bringing a hand to the back of his neck, he starts to move, intent on passing you to exit the room.

you let out a frustrated noise. “you leave me no choice, hitoshi.”

intending on presently the bottle to him proudly, perhaps even spritzing him once for good measure, you jam your hand into your workbag to fish your perfume out. you grab onto the rectangular shaped glass, and pull it out with great gusto.

and it goes terribly. 

to your horror, the bottle slips like butter between your fingers and sails, tumbling down to the floor right in front of you with a heartrending crash, glass splintering like ice. the beautiful blue lid goes spinning across the tiles, and like that, the whole room now blooms a gorgeous citrus, white floral scent. “oh nooooooo! shit!”

no longer minding him, you go to pick up the shards, bending down at the knees with a sigh. gingerly, you begin to clean up.

“hey, be careful. i’ll get a dustpan,” you hear him say and it’s one of the nicest things he’s ever said to you, but in your melancholy, you shake your head solemnly.

“no, no, i’ve got this. i’m just so-- OWW?” you wail without warning. you drop the wet shard you were grasping, still slick with liquid. “ugh, never mind. get the dustpan.” you bring yourself up on your feet again.

using your shoe, you kick the shards into a more cohesive, but wet pile. the clattering of the glass causes you some emotional pain. “terrific,” you mutter, watching blood bead up at across two of your fingertips. “well, at least i won’t be wearing that anymore. right, hitoshi?” you ask sarcastically. shaking your hand to rid it of perfume residue, you end up just flecking your blood droplets all over the floor. you glance up when you’re met with silence. “hitoshi?”

“nnngh...” a low, deep groan escapes his throat, and immediately he turns his cheek and takes several stumbling steps away. he grits his teeth, the vein in his neck growing more prominent like it’s physically paining him to pull apart from you. “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me...”

“you okay?” you close in on him. it felt almost backwards to ask such a query, seeing as you were the one bleeding. “maybe you should sit d--”

“get away from me,” he all but spits out, eyes squeezed shut. “you set this up, huh? figures.” stray hairs were falling into his face as he presses a hand against his temple and bit back another groan. “i was doing just fine before... so why... nngh.”

you purse your lips. “hey! what do you have against dolce & gabbana’s light blue eau de toilette? it’s a perfectly respectable, fresh, work-friendly fragrance! it was, at least!” you wanted to shout. but that didn’t happen, as your concern and confusion won over your sense of petulance. “set what up?” you ask, bewildered.

on closer inspection, he was not, in fact, okay at all. 

for a second, you thought he was having an allergic reaction. that would certainly explain his avoidance of your body, and perhaps why even a deep black had replaced the cool purple in his irises when his eyes snap open to glare. his pupils were blown out despite the bright tube lighting overhead, and his mouth parts wide.

yet an allergy did not explain everything. as opposed to weak, however, hitoshi suddenly looked frightening. 

because, instead, what came out of your mouth was a strangled, “uh, what the-- are those fangs?” 

and indeed they were, confirmed as they descended upon your skin before you  could even blink. at the very least, he had the decency to pant out a small but distinctively unapologetic “sorry” before his lips pressed around your bleeding fingers, tongue hot against the stinging cuts. 

you hope fervently your coworkers take their leisure at lunch.

[kuroopaisen]

imitheos. (oikawa tooru)

➵ oikawa barely recognises the god he used to be. 

wc: 3.8k

warnings: gn!reader, greek god au, melancholia? angst? is that something to warn people about?

a/n: so this got away from me, and ended up half a character study, but,,, @kacchand (sorry for tagging this one but i couldn’t tag @kacchand-archive aa) thank you so much for the warm, lovely things you’ve said to me ever since stumbling across my blog, and for complimenting my oikawa specifically. it’s those sorts of compliments that makes me feel all soft!

Oikawa Tooru. He’s still not sure of the name. He never chooses them himself; they come to him, quite naturally, each time he assumes a new form. Each time he knits himself a backstory, he wonders what this life will bring. If it will be better than the last.

He hasn’t always been Oikawa Tooru. He’s been many other forms littered throughout history, recycling the same ego. And before each of those, he was Apollo.  

Apollo had been a god amongst gods, deity of so much and so many. He could absolve men of guilt, gift mortals with the power of prophecy, balance their lives in his hands as he commanded the fate of their crops. Even the gods feared him, loved him, revered him.

But he is no longer Apollo. He is a whisper of him, a half-forgotten shadow.

His old name is everywhere. Rocket ships, theatres, philosophical concepts. He’s watched countless effigies to his old self shoot themselves into the sky, chasing a distance once thought unreachable. They always seem to take the light with them, blazing into the darkness.

But Apollo is just a name, now. Everything he used to symbolise seems to pass through him like white smoke.

It’s so hard to find the light in this endless winter.

Archery is just a niche hobby, now. Wars are won through other means.

Disease and the means to combat it are far past his sphere of influence now. Both continue to take on new and frightening forms that even he couldn’t conjure.

There is no space in this world for prophecy anymore. Such things are considered untruths, the trade of hackneyed swindlers masquerading as fortune tellers.

But poetry. Poetry refuses to die.

Sunday afternoon. The sky is already dark. Slam poetry night at a dingy little coffee shop. He’s sat in his usual spot, a dark corner that grants him a clear view of the makeshift stage at the back of the shop. It’s the best spot to melt away into, to become a true observer. 

He’s not sure why he’s come here. The coffee itself isn’t particularly good, nor is the atmosphere of the place much to his liking. It’s a little dingy, reliant on weak oil lamps for light. He knows that it’s supposed to give off a retro vibe, but he thinks it just makes it miserable. There’s the smell of musk too, permeated through both wood and cushion. 

 But something is drawing him to this place. Something, beating against the fabric of the universe, is telling him that this is where he’s supposed to be.

He still doesn’t know why.

You smile at him from across the room, giving him a small wave. You usually work Sunday afternoons, right until close. He isn’t sure of your name, and usually, he wouldn’t care.

But every Sunday, you seem to take it upon yourself to fulfil his orders. Once upon a time, he would’ve been sure that it was his charm that induced you to do so; mortals often found it hard to resist the gods, after all. But he’s not so sure he can still claim that allure.

“You’re becoming a bit of a regular,” you smile, setting his drink down in front of him. Something made with honey, but he’s not sure what. He never pays much attention when he orders.

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re always here on Sundays,” you nod, daring to meet his gaze. “But you’ve never performed yourself.”

Oikawa smiles. One person, at the very least, has noticed his existence. That’s as powerful as a prayer these days.

“I take it you’re a fan,” you remark, eyes scanning his face.

Oikawa nods. “You could say that.”

You smile. It’s small, and he wonders if it’s merely a nicety. “Of slam poetry in particular, or…”

Ah. Yes.

He wants to say it’s because he’s tired of typical poetry. Tired of all its embellishments and platitudes. Slam poetry is newer, younger, angrier. There’s a rawness to it, a rage that speaks to something more visceral in him. Pretty words are not enough anymore.

It’s an offering of something else, of a yearning he still struggles to place. It’s a call for something better, for change, for vindication.

But he won’t bore you with that. You’re just a waiter, making small talk to be polite.

“My preferences change often,” he shrugs.

He appraises you for a moment, clad in a button-up shirt and dress trousers, a charmingly small apron wrapped around your waist. He’s not paid you much mind before; maybe because he’s been looking too hard.

He once thought that this café was drawing him towards a modern muse, an echo of Melpomene. Or perhaps Erato? But it hadn’t been that at all. It had been a call to draw him to you.

For what, he can’t say. But this small moment, this little recognition in the back of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday afternoon in the midst of winter, is the closest he’s felt to worship in aeons.  

He fears, for a moment, that you might be Daphne. Or maybe Marpessa. He’s already lost another Hyacinth; not to death, but to the rhythm of life. The pull of a world to which Oikawa couldn’t follow. How long had it been since Hajime left?

Oikawa can’t say.

But he’s been so lonely. So faded.

Whoever you are, whoever you were, does not matter.

What matters is that you’re the first person in a very long time who can see him.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Back again,” you smile. Another drink with honey is placed in front of him. It’s the only thing he’s been ordering for the past few weeks.

He nods, looking up at you with a smile. He knows it’s dead behind the eyes, but he’s trying. He hopes, quietly, that the darkness will mask it. 

“You must really enjoy the poetry,” you remark, looking over your shoulder.

One girl has just finished, face flushed with both nervousness and pride. She is young, perhaps barely seventeen, but with the fury of someone who knows too much about the horrors of the world. She’d done quite well by Oikawa’s account. He hadn’t derived much joy from it, but she certainly has potential.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, taking a sip of his drink.

“Do you prefer more…” You pause, brow furrowed as you search for the words. “Traditional poetry?”

Oikawa shakes his head.

Perhaps his tastes would err more to the modern, if he knew more about it. But the fact of the matter is that he simply doesn’t have a clue. Too much time spent with volleyball preoccupying most of his thoughts, and very little time keeping up with the artistic scene of the last decade and a half.

He can’t speak as an expert. But he can speak as the god who invented poetry, who gave mortals the means with which to express their magnitudes. A gift, he’d said. To turn the human experience into something beautiful. But was it for them, or for him?

“The anger is sincere,” he muses, “And they all seem to have poured their soul into their poems.”

You nod, smiling at him. “I wish I was that creative, at their age.”

He looks at you. You look about the same age he should be; twenty-something, maybe? Young, perhaps still in university.

You’ve been spending your breaks with him for a few weeks now.

He doesn’t mind; in fact, he enjoys the company. And, you seem to care about what he has to say, which certainly fluffs his ego.  

Why you would care so much about an odd, discreet man sitting in a dark corner of a coffee shop is beyond him.

But he wants to know why. Know more about you. What you love. What you desire.

“What do you want to do with your life?”

The question is sudden, perhaps a bit invasive. It flies from his lips before he has time to reassess it, to craft it into something a bit less intense. He fears, for a moment, that it might scare you – that it might be a bit too much.

But you laugh, tilting your head at him. “That’s a bit of a big question, don’t you think?”

He smiles. “You must have some idea.”

You sigh, shrugging. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I need to survive university before I can start worrying about that sort of stuff.”  

He hums.

“What about you?” You ask, polite smile gracing your lips.

He bites the inside of his cheek, his brows creasing. “Not sure.”

He might have dreamed of greatness a while ago. He would’ve chased volleyball, brilliant and vibrant as he was.

Who would have thought that Apollo would find his heart in something so coarse as sport? For a moment, however brief, he’d felt like he might be able to shrug off this immortal shackle. To exist for himself, and not as a mere echo reliant on mortal belief. To maybe, finally, have a chance to live as he wanted to, dictated by his own desires.  

That last spark of vibrant humanity had spluttered out the day they lost that one fateful match.

He had wanted to chase his own dreams, the tangible passions he’d discovered as a mortal. He hadn’t wanted to be this, a pathetic half-god that was fading into the grey. But that was the trappings of his dying godhood – a life half-lived, a dream unfulfilled. Where would he be, if he had been able to take on the world as Oikawa Tooru?

Happier, he supposes. Though, he can’t be sure. Because maybe this early evening, grey and cold and bitter, almost tastes like happiness. Almost. And he knows why.

☉ ☉ ☉

There’s a glow to him. He doesn’t notice it; he’s been brighter in the past, blindingly radiant. He was once considered the most beautiful of the gods for a reason.

But to you, this distant, peculiar man is beautiful. There’s something of a fallen giant to him; is he the sort of person whose glory days has long since passed? Had he been a high school hero maybe?

There’s something else to him, too. Something strange. Something esoteric.

You don’t quite know how to explain it.

It’s like he’s asking – no, begging someone to acknowledge him. To breathe new life into him.

And for all his strange, aggressive indifference, there’s a little flame in him. One that seems like it’s been burning for centuries, too stubborn to flicker out.

You haven’t missed how it’s getting brighter.

He only comes in on Sundays, staying from three until eight. If his prolonged presence bothers your co-workers, they don’t mention it.

Perhaps it’s silly to be so fascinated by a complete stranger, especially one that simply sits in a corner and watches. Perhaps it is even sillier to spend your breaks with him. But it’s as if you can’t help yourself; something pulls you towards him, even if you don’t understand it.

“What about the Greeks?” You ask one evening, sitting next to him in his booth.

His smile is bemused at best. “What about them?”

“Well… they’re classics,” you muse, “Are you a fan, or…?”

“Homer can suck my dick,” Oikawa grumbles. He never quite forgave that man for the unflattering portrait of his godliness.

You laugh. There’s an echo of a lyre in it. He wonders, for a moment, what you might look like with a laurel woven through your hair, smiling on a Pierian coast in the height of a blistering summer.

He doesn’t let his mind wander too far.

“I’m not really one for poetry,” you murmur, looking down at your hands.

“Is that so?” Oikawa smiles, taking a sip of his coffee. It’s lukewarm after sitting on the table for so long, but he doesn’t mind.

You shake your head. “I find it difficult to wrap my head around. It makes me feel kind of stupid.”

He nods. He used to understand poetry so well – in the darkest of nights, it was often the only thing he understood. It used to be laced with his very being, threaded through his body like veins. But now, it just fills him with bitterness.

“I like the classics, though,” you smile softly, playing with your fingers. “There’s something about the simplicity and straightforwardness of the language that appeal to me. And, I don’t know…” You bite your lip. “Some emotions seem to transcend time and culture. And some of the classics are so… raw. So… human.”

‘Human.’ He gazes at you, that word in particular playing over in his mind. There’s some truth in the classics, he supposes. Something in them that echoes across the centuries. But he’s been around far too long to care for patterns and parallels.

“Sorry,” you blush, smoothing your apron. “I must be boring you.”

“Not at all.” Oikawa shakes his head, leaning towards you. He takes another sip of his coffee. It’s cold now. “So, you’re a history buff, then?”

Maybe you are Clio, after all.

You shrug. “Only ancient history, really. But I haven’t read as much about it as I should’ve.”

“Are you a fan of the myths?” He asks, a playful lilt to his voice. He knows you won’t get the joke, but he doesn’t mind.

“Some,” you nod. “Why?”

“Know any about Apollo?”

“Apollo?” You smile. His old name sounds like a melody on your lips. “As in the god?”

“Sure.” Who else could he mean?

You pause for a moment, pressing your lips together. It’s a beautiful silence.

“Have you read Plato’s Symposium, by any chance?” You ask, gaze meeting his.

He nods. He doesn’t mind Plato; the man had been grateful for the gift of music, after all.

“There’s a story in it I really like,” you murmur, eyes turning towards the roof. “Well, it’s more of a myth, but… it’s the one about soulmates.”

“Oh?”

“Do you know it?”

“Vaguely.” Of course he knows it. He just wants to hear it retold in your voice.

“Well, alright,” you clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter. “There were three kinds of humans, descended from the sun, the earth and the moon. All had four arms and four legs, two faces, et cetera. But, the gods felt they were too unruly and powerful. By Zeus’ count, this was unacceptable, and he wanted to humble them.”

Oikawa hopes his expression is neutral enough. How is Zeus? Is he still around?

“Instead of simply destroying them, he split them in two,” you continue. “And that made us miserable.”

Your use of the word ‘us’ intrigues him, but he wants to save his questions for later.

“But, Apollo took pity on us,” you smile. “He decided to patch us up, and shape us into, well… the form we have today. The story goes that our navel is where he sewed our broken skin together. But he turned our heads around to what had once been our back, so we’d have to look at that mark as a reminder of our punishment and how incomplete we are.”

It does not matter to him if there is any truth in this story. Regardless, it certainly sounds like the folly of the gods.

“Once we were split, the two halves were flung to the far ends of the earth. From then on, each of us yearns with both body and soul to be reunited with our other half.” Your voice is so lyrical, so comforting. It is, perhaps, the closest thing to music he’s heard in a while. “Those of us who are lucky enough to find them supposedly know no greater joy. We’ll never feel so understood, so complete. Most of us though, will never know that joy.”

Perhaps the gods didn’t deserve the reverence they got. Perhaps they really had been tyrants, all along. But then again, there was little love between gods and mortals; if anything, worship was simply a reflection of the fears the divine inspired.  

A new question itches at the back of his mind.

“Do you believe in life after death?” He asks.

You blink at him, eyes wide and round. “Well, I… I don’t know, really.”

He knows it’s a heavy question. He knows that he didn’t prepare you for it, and that it’s only tenuously connected to the conversation at hand. But, he always found that people were at their most honest when they were caught off guard.

 “I don’t like thinking about it,” you admit, looking down at your hands. “It makes me all existential.”

Oikawa nods. Most humans react like this.

The relationship between mortals and death has always fascinated him. Fear, loathing, regret. It’s all bundled together. Sometimes, there is comfort. Sometimes, there is a sense of calm. But it is never easy to face the unknown, after such a brief stint of being alive.

It’s something he cannot understand in this existence of his that stretches itself thin across the millenniums.

What is death to a god? He imagines it must be something like relief.

☉ ☉ ☉

“Do you write yourself?” It’s a little question, one he knows was coming.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

You sit next to him in the lamplight, eyes sparkling as they always do. If he was more human, maybe he would compare them to the stars. Or perhaps the ocean after a storm. But he is not human, much less a poet.

How does he say that he’s never needed to? That his patronage, his presence alone was enough to inspire those classics you so dearly love? That he himself has never put lyrics to the human experience?

He has always been a god. There is no beauty to his experience; only in those small pockets of human intimacy he’s been granted across the centuries. There is no beauty to the life of a god – only fire, and fury, and hubris. Even his body is unlike yours; he has no heart, and he bleeds ichor.

“Not really,” he shrugs. It’s all he can say.

“‘Not really’ implies that you write at least a little,” you smile, leaning towards him.

He shakes his head. “I didn’t really have time to do something like that.” He pauses for a moment. Should he tell you? Should he reveal more of himself than is maybe wise? “I played volleyball in high school.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, tilting your head at him.

“I was good, too,” he sighs, brow furrowing. “But my team never made it to nationals.”

“Oh.” You look genuinely sad. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. There’s little else to do.

“I wanted to go further,” he admits. The lamplight casts a long shadow on his face, each feature soft and delicate as marble.

Each form, each reiteration, wants more.

So much of what he’s done this time doesn’t echo the traditional Apollonian figure. There is no art, this time. No song.

There was drama in sport, but it was different. It had filled him with a passion he’d never felt before, beating in his chest just like a heart would. It provided that rush of adrenaline, the brutal awareness of the importance of just one moment. Eternity stretches on forever for a god, but a game must end. Perhaps, in some way, death is very much the same. 

He wants that closure. That passion for the now. 

Now, more than ever before, he wants to be mortal. To lose himself in the storm that is being human – he wants it all. He wants to let go of the god he no longer is.

Where does Apollo end? Where does Oikawa Tooru begin?

☉ ☉ ☉

Time is passing again. Each day is over before it’s even begun, slipping through his fingers like a lucid dream. A heartbeat that isn’t his own thrums in his ears, quick and loud and frantic.

And yet, he finds himself outside the coffee shop, standing on the curb. You’re next to him, hands dug deep in your pockets. He’s arrived earlier than usual, catching you right at the beginning of your shift.

There’s something he wants – no, needs to say. Something that can’t wait.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, looking up at the sky. It’s pale, a shade found in-between blue and grey. A perfect winter sky, one you might find on a postcard trying to capture the beauty of the season.

Something is pressing on his chest, heavy and immovable. It feels like a goodbye.

“What for?” You laugh. It really is a delightful sound.

Where to begin? You couldn’t possibly comprehend it. Nor would you believe him. If he speaks too frankly, you may not remember him fondly.

“For the coffee,” he says.

There’s more he wants to say. Something about how, maybe, in another life, there could have been something more between the two of you. Something quite beautiful.

But he knows it’s wiser not to speak that into being. If you feel even a modicum of these emotions, then silence would be an act of kindness.

“Are you… going somewhere?” You ask, all signs of levity gone from your face. He regrets speaking at all now.

“Something like that,” he murmurs. It’s the closest he can get to the truth.

A long silence ensues. Oikawa doesn’t know if he should try to fill it; perhaps he should just let it sit for a while? To enjoy this little moment with you, standing with you in front of a dingy coffee shop on a dour Sunday night in the midst of winter.

Because this moment cannot last. Because nothing can.

“Well,” you clear your throat, eyes lingering on his face, as if you’re committing each detail to memory.

He smiles at you. He’s not aware of it, but it’s almost blinding. It brings a warmth to his face that you’ve never seen before, a warmth that makes him so striking, so beautiful, that you know you won’t be able to find the words to praise it.  

“I hope I’ll see you again,” you murmur. It’s the best you can manage, keeping your feelings in your heart as best you can.

“Me too.”

He means it.

It’s time to go. Where, he’s not sure. But, with all the courage he could muster, he turns his back to you, making his way down the street.

There’s a space in his heart for fear. But it’s empty. Whatever’s coming, whatever’s about to change – he’s ready for it.

He welcomes it.

☉ ☉ ☉

He opens his eyes. He’s tangled in blankets; his own, or someone else’s?

One thought.

My name is Oikawa Tooru.

In the haze of a Sunday morning, he knows nothing else. His eyes flick to the blinds as they flutter with the wind that whispers through his window.

The light floods in.

It’s finally spring. 

[maxwell-grant]

You've talked quite a bit about Shiwan Khan, would be OK with talking about the other villains who show up more than once, Benedict Stark and The Voodoo Master?

The Voodoo Master tends to get overshadowed by Khan by virtue of being less prominent and because, in a lot of ways, Mocquino does feel a bit like a prototype for Khan. Like Gibson was testing the waters of what kind of major supervillain he wanted the Shadow to have, and was gradually figuring details like the hypnotic traps and unique henchmen and mystic background and a fraudulent dark magician figure with Mocquino, before Khan blew it all up to bigger proportions. Twice already we’ve had instances where Mocquino was set to appear in a Shadow adaptation after Khan, and said adaptations got canned before he could show up (and I don’t think it does either character a favor if Mocquino comes after Khan). And of course Mocquino has the problem of being an ethnic supervillain whose identity and name are tied up to grotesque prejudice that twists cultures and beliefs into Hollywood boogeymen, and the novels sadly treat vodou beliefs far less charitably than how the other novels approach tibetan/asian mysticism. It’s definitely a problem, but not without it’s solutions.

Putting that aside, The Voodoo Master trilogy is very fun, the first novel in particular was the number one rated Shadow novel in a fan poll back then. Personally, my favorite is City of Doom because of it’s blend of gothic, urban and industrial settings, great battles even for a Shadow novel, and a spectacular finale, but they all have very strong points. And I do like Mocquino himself as a character. He is historically significant as the first true supervillain of Shadow Magazine (if you don’t count other odd criminals like The Black Master or The Cobra). He is different from Khan personality-wise in the sense that he is more of an old-school supervillain, who likens his conflict with The Shadow to a “game” they play, who likes to boast and brag about his powers and whose goals largely revolve around extortion. He has a vendetta against industrial society (although he himself employs industrial tactics, because he is a hypocrite), and said vendetta being largely just him trying to destroy it so he thinks people will fall in line with his cult more easily. Unlike with Khan, there’s no delusions or aspirations of grandeur and greater purpose here, it always comes down to crime and profit with Mocquino and he barely bothers to pretend otherwise.

He is resourceful and insidious and racks up a bigger body count than Khan on City of Doom alone, and there’s a real creepiness to his zombie minions as they are regular people stripped of all identity and forced into becoming walking meat shields. I think one way to make him work better on his own could be by playing up his ruthlessness and charm, and focus on the mind control/cult leader aspect. Make him the Jim Jones of Shadow villains.

Justice Inc redesigned him to look like Boris Karloff, divorced him of racist trappings, played up his dark magician persona and ballooned up his abilities into outright superpowers, all of which worked quite well as the closest he's ever had to an update And interestingly, there’s some odd Joker-esque aspects to him in his final appearence in Voodoo Trail:

Though almost silent, the explosion was forcible. The tank disgorged a greenish gas that spread like an expanding monster, filling the entire room that the trio had just left. 

There was something parched and withery in his face, particularly noticeable when The Shadow saw the Voodoo Master's profile. Mocquino bore the scars of flame, not only on his face, but upon the scrawny arm he extended from his robe. Those burns showed like livid brands: a fitting mark for a supercriminal.

That hissing sound in the zombi cave! It was gas, leaking from underground pipes that led into Manhattan. Filtering through the porous stone, it gathered other chemical elements. Mocquino must have discovered that leakage and noted its effects. He had put the discovery to his own use. 

...lips formed a grin so jagged that it was difficult to note where his mouth ended and his scar began.

Mocquino's shrill laugh told that he expected his men to overwhelm The Shadow through force of numbers.

Honestly, “Doctor Mocquino” I think is a better name for him than Voodoo Master. A Rogues Gallery isn’t complete without a major Doctor in there, and divorcing Mocquino of “Voodoo Master” and all that implies could be the better way of making this character work again. Play up the fact that he’s exploiting Caribbean religions and citizens for personal gain and roping them into his crime ring, maybe even have him use similar theatrics as The Shadow to paint himself as this great master of voodoo, but in the end, he’s always just Doctor Mocquino, an evil, rotten shyster who puts his knowledge to use for evil and evil alone. 

Responsible for the first and only cliffhanger of Shadow Magazine with the kidnapping of Rutledge Mann, Benedict Stark is easily the single worst scumbag out of all Shadow supervillains. Just this completely horrible, wretched monster who ends up being somewhat dissappointing and frustrating of a villain in my view. Despite having quite a bit going on for him, Stark is not really interesting enough to warrant the 4 novels he gets, and where as Khan and Mocquino usually escape The Shadow thanks to prior planning and last-minute escape and strokes of luck, Stark seems to get away with it only because the narrative says so, not nearly as impressive as the other two despite being far, far worse, which makes it you don’t want The Shadow to match wits with him, so much as you just want The Shadow to kill him as soon as possible. In fact, here’s what Stark gets away with in the first ten pages of The Prince of Evil alone:

He gaslights a man named John Harmon into thinking he was developing amnesia

Gets Harmon to sign away enough money to be bankrupted for life, and no one, not even his wife, believe him when he says he was conned

Causes Harmon to commit suicide. 

Then, while Cranston's talking with a friend of Harmon named Jackson who wanted to help him, the two go to Jackson's house to find it completely destroyed, his priceless belongings acid-ruined. 

Then, they find Jackson's dog dead, with it's throat slit, and a Bible scattered nearby with the story of the good Samaritan marked, making it clear that this all happened because Jackson tried to help Harmon. 

And then, as Cranston tries to stop one of Stark's goons from brutally assaulting a boy who was just paid by Cranston to watch his car, he gets attacked and knocked unconscious.

And THEN, the henchman gives the kid a brain concussion and then hauls him in front of a coming truck, with Cranston just barely saving the kid in time as the henchman escapes.

This is just the first 10 pages. Not even Spider novels usually start with this many atrocities happening all at once. Whatever problems Tinsley has as a Shadow writer, I’ll give him this: He definitely knows how to go from 0 to 100 in ways Gibson never would. The book obviously doesn’t keep this up forever (thank goodness), but The Prince of Evil is really all about building up Stark’s presence as this new ultimate Shadow villain, and I think the build up is quite solid up to a point.

He’s established as possibly the richest man in America. Where as Cranston is a millionaire, Stark is a billionaire, who owns “ailways and steamships, factories and mills all over the United States". Nobody knows what he looks like, nobody’s ever seen a picture of him, and Cranston, who knows everyone and everything, has never once laid eyes on the man. We also know in advance that he uses drugs delivered by chewing gum to turn his thugs into bloodthirsty savages who desire only terror and torture and inflict those at his beck and call, and we get a passage where Clyde Burke ingests one of these gums, experiences it’s effects, and ends up chasing down a mouse and killing it, for no reason other than it was the only living being nearby, much to his horror. And it very nearly develops into something even worse:

He could hear the snoring of a man sleeping inside a cellar apartment. Clyde halted. His fingers tightened on his iron bar. He guessed that the man asleep inside was the building janitor. He fought against a hot impulse that flared anew in his blood.

He wanted to kill that janitor! He wanted to smash at him with the iron bar until the man was battered and dead! Murder seemed so exciting. And so easy! Clyde could picture the terror of his victim as he struck at him. It would be sheer delight to maim the fool before he killed him.

The thing that saved Clyde was the thought of the chewing gum. He knew that the savage whisper that urged him on to murder was not his own brain talking, but the voice of a powerful drug.

Laying the bar on the concrete floor, he ran for the cellar exit. He didn't glance back. He was afraid that if he did, he'd be tempted to pick up the bar and commit a senseless and brutal crime.

The cold bite of the breeze was like a draft of cooling water against his parched lips. He began to get a grip on himself. Once more he was Clyde Burke, a normal human being who would go out of his way to avoid hurting a fly.

Stark has weaponized and mass-produced a drug that creates an army of Mr Hydes at his beck and call, that can turn even one of the kindest and most heroic characters into the series into a sadistic maniac itching to main and murder anything that’s in front of him, and that alone is not just a much more viscerally horrifying kind of mind control than what Khan and Mocquino use, it’s also got a an edge to it more suited for gritty urban drama. It’s an idea I definitely would have liked to see used again even after Stark’s out of the picture.

And then we actually get to see Stark for this first time, and he’s described as a grotesquely deformed baboon man leering at his beautiful secretaries, who deliberately employs the most attractive people to make his own deformities stand out further, and who is cartoonishly vile everytime he opens his mouth. He never really displays exceptional cleverness, compared to other Shadow villains, except for the fact that he keeps suspecting Cranston is The Shadow, and sometimes just seems to get really lucky. Stark tends to get much, much less interesting as the build-up evaporates and he has to stand on his own feet as a character, I barely remember anything he did in the following books. At the time, I thought Stark’s characterization was weak, and I still do. 

This text blurb here was used on a promo S&S did for Prince of Evil, and it starts by talking about incredibly well-liked people who are kind and how Stark is the opposite because he's evil. Of course, as we all know, evil and well-liked are not opposites. 

Stark may have been a tad more interesting had they went with the angle of him being a horrible monster who's also incredibly popular and beloved and friendly. About 70% of The Shadow’s villains are already middle-aged to elder rich businessmen pretending to be good, so maybe Stark being young and attractive and initially sympathetic-looking, atop being the richest and cruelest of them all, could also help set him apart. Sort of an evil Harry Vincent maybe. 

But instead he's so obviously and viscerally awful all the time he shows up, so incapable of restraining himself, that it's impossible to buy him as a deceiver who’s pulled the wool over society’s eyes. At the time, I thought to myself that he was just painfully obvious of a villain and too brutish and stupid for me to buy that he’s supposed to be the richest criminal genius in America. 

But then again, nowadays I’m well aware that wealthy and respected figures of society, who are cartoonishly horrible even openly in public, is just what billionaires are like, so maybe Tinsley had a point here. 

[itsapapisongo]

“WEBBED SURVEILLANCE”

Pairing: None, though I won’t blame you for any spotting Ho-Yay banter/interactions.

Genre: Superhero | Comedy | One-Shot

Word Count: 2.0K

Warnings: Language

Summary: An exasperated Spider-Man (Mark Lee) trails the elusive Black Cat (Lee Taeyong) across town, hoping to knock some sense into the master thief.

Notes: This was supposed to be the first of a series of one-shots focused on original characters face-claimed by several members—from NCT to Stray Kids to SEVENTEEN—but I decided to drop the whole face-claim thing and simply go full what if x member was a superhero route instead. A choice that is partly inspired by @vernosaur​ and her awesome fic Playing Hero.

Edited: 20.09.25 (last update ) | 20.12.06 (recent update)

HE had planned to land on the floor, but it was already occupied.

“Oi!” Spider-Man exclaimed, his voice a nervous, high-pitch. “Nope!”

In the nick of time, without missing a beat and with superhuman ease, he performed an in-air flip and clung to the ceiling, arms extended to either side of his body as though to maintain balance. He didn’t need to be so theatrical but he had been caught off guard. Ignoring a reaction as visceral as this one had become harder and harder to contain; more often than not, sheer instinct kicked in and he just went with it.

Spider-Man stared in disbelief at four of the ugliest Komodo dragons he had ever laid eyes on and they glared back at him, thin tongues slithering in and out of their snouts. He could hear them hissing—or snarling, he couldn’t tell—and gulped, shocked at how late he had come to notice them. A tingling sensation notified him of potential danger but he hadn’t imagined it would be a quartet of monitor lizards casually dragging themselves on such a small apartment.

He’d set up his phone and laptop to monitor emergency channels, in hopes that it would direct him to where he could make a difference. Robberies, fires, break-ins, super villains being up to no good was what he had in mind but apparently the universe had other plans for him. And so, in a matter of minutes, a routine night of surveillance turned into a bizarre chase across the city. He had been swinging non-stop for the past hour and half, chasing the elusive Black Cat across town, mumbling to himself that he probably shouldn’t have made such a dynamic entrance in Inner Demons territory.

You gotta time your quips, man, he scolded himself when everyone hauled ass in different directions and he lost sight, albeit briefly, of the Cat. The master thief had connections with just about everyone in the crooked lane that was Enn City. Following the guy meant getting in a heap of trouble but that was already part of the job so what the hell, right? He just hadn’t considered Komodo dragons to be part of the equation.

The chase led him to the shady part of town, where the properties looked ancient and in need of a new coat of paint, and into the lost (apartment-sized) world of Komodo Land. The Black Cat had been quick to find and subsequently hide in this narrow, five-story monstrosity that oozed with not-so-chill vibes and shamelessly overpriced and claustrophobically small apartments. It reeked of neglect, nicotine, and chemicals, as though it had been repurposed for some clandestine drug operation.

Spider-Man wondered if it had been a deliberate ploy to distract him. After all he had checked the lobby and the first floor and found no sign of the master thief. What he’d found instead, much to his disgust, was the stench of the dragons’ dinner, excrement, and urine.

Just my luck, he thought, crawling across the ceiling and scanning the rest of the apartment: the door had been left ajar and there was nothing but a bucket and a mop by a corner. The pungent smell stung his nostrils even through his mask and he resisted the urge to gag by clearing his throat. One of the Komodo dragons stared, as though it could see right through him. Big bioluminescent green eyes stared back and narrowed until becoming thin slits of contempt and disgust. Behind the mask, Spider-Man cringed.

Who knew something could smell so bad?

“Good Lord,” he whispered, gently shaking his head. “You guys should think about cleaning after yourselves.”

As he shifted his weight and positioned himself to face the door, crawling slowly toward it, he saw it. A shadowy figure in the hallway outside the apartment. The figure moved itself with grace and purpose and just enough that Spider-Man caught a glimpse of his face in the dim-light of the hallway. Aware of the now incessant hissing—or snarling, Spidey still couldn’t tell—of the lizards, the figure turned toward the half-opened door then dashed into the hall.

Pushing himself off the ceiling and clinging to the door, not trusting his new Komodo besties to not take a chunk out of him, he peered into the narrow hallway and saw the Black Cat running toward the elevator. Spider-Man gracefully leapt off the door and slammed it shut behind him because there was no way in hell he was going to leave those beasts out of there.

Who waits for an elevator while they’re being chased?

Spider-Man groaned and shook his head.

The chase was on—again.

ALRIGHT, folks, let’s do this one last time.

His real name is Mark Lee.

He was bitten by a radioactive spider—or at least, he thinks it was radioactive—and for the last year and half he’s been Spider-Man. By chance, fate, or design, he’d been bitten. Just like his idol: Peter Parker, the original Spider-Man. Mark would love to call himself the One and Only Spider-Man but knows it would be a lie and disrespectful to Parker. So, in a town as big and as shady as Enn City, Mark did what he could and took up the mantle, making it his mission to live up to his idol’s example and use his powers for the greater good.

The encounter made him superhuman, granting him spider-like abilities. He can leap great distances, cling to almost any surface, and sense when something is about to threaten him, allowing him to avoid and react to danger with ease in the blink of an eye. The bite not only made him quicker on his feet but it granted him superhuman strength, stamina, reflexes, as well as enhancing other skills, such as his balance and dexterity, that he’d honed over the years as an athlete. Physical education was certainly less of a hassle after that.

The suit—black and green—represents his passion and ambition and paid homage to the original Web-Slinger by keeping the same spider symbol upon his chest and back; the web-shooters, designed by Joshua Hong and Moon Taeil, make it easier for him to move across the city and enable him to snare criminals; and the mask offers anonymity, protection, and comfort, a way to fight crime and keep his life as boring as it always has been.

Being a hero was no easy feat. Mark is aware of this. He does his very best to kick ass and take names. Life has meaning, even if it includes being pounded into the ground and fighting guys in colorful suits that possess, whether innate or manufactured, unique abilities that rival his own. New threats crawl out of the woodwork but he’s ready for all of them. Because he’s Spider-Man and it’s his duty to kick ass and keep people safe.

But sometimes, no matter how cool it might feel, being Spider-Man can be exhausting.

THE Black Cat was fast.

Not Quicksilver fast, but definitely-athlete-fast. Like, come to think of it, track-star fast. He moved with such complete control of his body that for a second Mark felt jealous of his flexibility. He dashed and shouldered a door open at the end of the corridor, promptly disappearing through it. Just then, as if on cue, the elevator binged itself open. It was empty. Obviously. The Cat had no plans on waiting for it and had been a last second attempt to lose his pursuer.

Mark sprinted after him and launched himself forward with a leap that had him cling to the ceiling then bounced on a wall and thrust himself toward the exit the Cat had improvised for himself. He noticed that the master thief’s choice of exit was the emergency staircase. Instead of descending, the Cat ascended not by foot but via grappling gun. Seconds before he was propelled upward, they came face-to-face.

The Web-Slinger, albeit reluctantly, admitted the elusive and perpetually frustrating thief was quite the looker—even if a good part of his face was still concealed by the domino mask-like goggles he was wearing. The lenses were pristine and made his eyes visible: one was dark, the other bright blue. His complexion was pale, his hair a mess of red and white. When he smirked he came across as both charming and devious, a strange mix that only added to his allure.

You seriously gotta focus, the Web-Slinger scolded himself. There’s no time for man-crushes.

In the blink of an eye, the Black Cat was whisked away and the sound of the line echoed in the empty staircase.

Seriously?

“Son of a—hey—that’s cheating!” Mark exclaimed as he leapt on the stair’s railing then aimed his web-shooter at the Cat’s feet. “Gotcha!”

Only he didn’t. The webs flew past the Cat’s head and attached themselves to the railing three stories up. Spider-Man groaned, shook his head, and released the weblines. He cracked his neck and knuckles, inhaled through his nose then exhaled through his mouth. With all the strength he could muster and crouching as low as he could, while still balancing himself on the railing, he sprung upward like a bullet. He flew, matching the Cat’s altitude, and caught him mid-air before he could disengage the line on his belt. The impact was harder and a bit more painful than expected; it was bound to be either way. Mark shrugged it off with a faint grunt. The Black Cat? Not so much.

Shooting his webs to a railing, the Web-Slinger managed to hold them suspended before completely falling. The Black Cat groaned from the whiplash but was still conscious and strong enough to smack Mark across the face, using him and the web to ascend as though he were back at climbing the rope in PE. Mark groaned despondently, his upper-lip stinging, then saw the master thief run through a door that led to the roof.

You gotta be shitting me.

He spun another web, triggering the web-shooters to pull him up, and dashed through the door as soon as he touched ground. The Black Cat, who had a decent head start, was running toward the edge of the building’s roof. He leapt on the edge and looked down, as though to prepare himself to jump. Yet, before he could he even think about doing that, two strong web-lines dragged him back. The master thief landed squarely and pathetically on his back. When he blinked and groaned, pain shooting through all of his back and some of his buttocks, he saw a pair of green eyes squinting right at him.

“Hey,” said the Black Cat, trying to conceal a smirk. “How’s it going, Webs?”

Mark tilted his head, arms crossed. “It seems like we’re in a rush, aren’t we, Puss in Boots?”

The Cat scoffed and cackled sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Though he could make another run for it, he remained on the ground. “I thought you’d be taller,” Black Cat exclaimed, sounding disappointed. “Like way taller.”

“And I thought you’d be—uh—less of—dammit.”

Mark groaned and rubbed the back of his neck when his quarry stared at him with a smug half-smile. The master thief shrugged, chuckled, then his hands moved to either side of his head faster than Mark could register it. With acrobatic ease and proficiency, the Cat performed a perfect kip up and was instantly on his feet. If he was winded and exhausted from the chase, he didn’t show it.

“Cat caught your tongue?”

“Funny,” mumbled Spider-Man. “Real funny.”

“Not as funny as this.” The Cat titled his head to the side. He was still smirking as he sang, “Oh Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream—make it the harshest pummeling I’ve ever seen.”

“What are you—?”

And there it was. A second too late but still there. His entire body buzzed, goosebumps spreading everywhere, and his head felt heavy as a wave of nausea hit him like a punch on his gut. Everything momentarily slowed down but before he could react to the danger, before he could even register it, he was swept aside with such force that felt like a van had smacked him squarely across the side. The pressure and velocity of it overwhelmed him. He flew, high and far away from the building’s roof . . . until he wasn’t. 

He didn’t know where or how he landed. He just knew, as everything turned dark, that everything hurt and there was definitely a good amount of sand in his pants.

[anywhozits]

Or maybe there’s something better?

Rating: T

Words: 1736

Pairing: Kristanna

Summary: After the birth of their sixth child, Kristoff and Anna come to realize that maybe some skin to skin snuggling with their daughter is actually the most blissful kind of snuggling in the world. (here’s a link to part 1)

aka some cavity-inducing fluff to help with social distancing/quarantine woes :) 

The doctors and midwives finally leave the happy couple alone. They clean up the birthing chamber to the best of their ability, confident that after the sixth delivery in this birthing chamber they have it all figured out. She is stable. They are stable. Both Anna and the baby. So soon after the baby’s birth that Anna is still sticky with sweat.

Since then…since the three Bjorgmans are left alone… some period of time passes. Seconds, minutes. Hours, probably.

Time doesn’t matter anymore. Not when Anna has her new daughter skin-to-skin on her chest, not when Kristoff has one arm wrapped protectively around Anna’s shoulder, the other tracing every square inch of his child’s small body.

Her small body.

Their daughter, only two hours old. So new to this world.

And now she sleeps.

Their nameless daughter. Their perfect surprise.

They’d counted her fingers, her toes. Ten of each. Her hair—like Anna’s, for now. Deep red, auburn, specifically, still wet.

But she looks like her papa, too. Many features already unmistakably Kristoff. Her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her jawline. Her nose maybe a perfect cross between the two of theirs.

She blows a little bubble with her mouth. Anna giggles. It’s cute.

Kristoff kisses the top of the baby’s head, right on her matted auburn hair.

They’re in awe. They’re in love. Their perfect little creation sleeps peacefully on Anna’s chest and she’s safe and wonderful and she’s theirs.

So, they stare at her. As intently as they can. They watch her every movement, however subtle. They count her breaths, watch her chest rise and fall and rise and fall. The way her lips curl, the way she opens her mouth in a tiny O, her little tongue escaping, flailing about clumsily in the air.

“You did so well, baby.” Kristoff squeezes her shoulder. Not exactly the first words he’s spoken since their daughter’s birth, but some of the first. “You’re amazing. I’m…” He kisses her cheek, chastely, lovingly. “I’m so proud of you.”

Her already-red cheeks flush even more. She looks down at their baby and then back at her husband, beaming so genuinely that her eyes are barely open. And then she lets out a breath. “I’m exhausted.”

He kisses her again, arm still wrapped around her shoulders, hand still resting on his baby’s back. “I don’t think I could do it.”

“You couldn’t,” Anna laughs.

“I just…It was so fast this time. You… you really—did so well. We only had to count to ten three times.”

“She really wanted out.”

“Eager, just like her mama.”

“Elsa would say it’s because she’s a Leo,” Anna adds.

Kristoff makes a noise that sounds a bit like a grunt. He typically follows any mention of astrology with an eye roll and a ‘that nonsense, again’ but when he looks over at his wife and sees that her eyes are shooting daggers at him, her bottom lip jutting out slightly, he holds back. Today, he lets it go.

Instead he thinks of Owden, their other Leo, and his eyes go wide. “Well…best of luck to us, then.” They love Owden, of course, but he’s a bumbling hyperactive wild child who can’t seem to sit still for more than 30 seconds. Prone to darting away from family and into crowds. Prone to playing extremely stressful games of hide and seek in the middle of the busy market. Prone to putting Kristoff on edge chasing after him at full speed, hoping to not return to the castle and admit to his wife that he lost their son somewhere in town.

Anna laughs. She’s never had to sprint after their son and it shows. “I don’t know… I sort of think she’s going to be…” Taking another look at the baby still sleeping on her chest, Anna ponders this, chewing on her bottom lip. “A real fighter. Like… of all our kids, she’s the fiercest. She’s gonna climb her way to the top of… something. She’s gonna be really strong. She probably already is really strong.”

“I like that,” Kristoff says. He brings some of Anna’s hair in between his fingers, twirling the sweaty locks around, knowing how much she loves it when he plays with her hair. “Fierce, like her mama. A regular fiestypants like her mama.”

“Aww, are you gonna be a little fiestypants, sweetie?” Anna’s hand rubs her daughter’s back. Their little girl sticks out her tongue again and both Anna and Kristoff go giddy at the sight. “I’ll have to remember to ask Elsa to do a full chart reading for her later.”

Kristoff doesn’t comment even though the word ‘nonsense’ is still playing in his brain.

“I need to say again, though, baby—you’re amazing. I know—it seems like it hurts so badly, but you’re so strong—”

“Like her!”

“And you…got through all of the pain and you’ve done that five times and once for twins and our—she was inside of you what—thirty minutes ago?”

“I think it’s been a few hours, honey.”

“But she was… inside of you. And you… did that.”

Anna nods, the whole concept of birth feeling like both a huge deal and also no deal at all. “Do you think this’ll be our last time?”

“Do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” Anna says. “I just… it’s hard for me to imagine. Not having more moments like this.”

She closes her eyes for a second, content, and then opens them to lock eyes with her husband. She smiles. He smiles back.

They both look back at their daughter. Her chest still rises and falls and rises and falls.

And then her small body stirs, tiny arms pumping little fists onto Anna’s chest. Arms stretching forward like a superhero, her mouth opens wide in a yawn. The cutest, daintiest, most perfect yawn Anna and Kristoff have ever seen.

Anna’s eyes prickle with tears and she laughs at this realization. “She yawned and I’m crying! I… I just love her so much. She’s perfect and you’re perfect, Kris…” Fat tears roll down her cheeks and she has to readjust. She picks up the baby and hands her to Kristoff, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands, trying to keep the steady stream of tears at bay.

Kristoff tries to hand her back to Anna but she shakes her head. “You hold her. It’s your turn.”

He places her gently on his chest, makes sure her little arms are properly positioned on either side of her head. That her right cheek is resting comfortably on his muscles. Now that she’s on his chest, he can really take in just how small she is. His hand is probably double the size of her head. Her whole body barely takes up the top fourth of his torso.

She pumps her little arms again, but now her curious eyes open, ready to take in the world. They look up to stare exclusively at the exact point Kristoff’s dark blue robe meets with the light skin on his neck.

Kissing him romantically on the cheek, Anna snuggles in close to her husband. She rests her head on his shoulder, sighs, and focuses her attention back on their daughter.

Anna basks in this moment of peace. Watching Kristoff’s large hands exploring their daughter’s fingers and toes and back and ears makes Anna’s heart soar. His mouth curls into a smile as he runs his hand over their baby’s nose.

He looks so… happy.

It makes Anna’s eyes sting with tears. How lucky she is to have this. To have them.

Soon enough, their daughter’s eyes flutter closed once again, no doubt feeling relaxed and protected by her papa, enough to drift off with such ease.

Seeing this, Anna knows there’s nothing better. Nothing better than this, here, now. Them.

Her family.

Her rock.

Her loves.

And then… she realizes something. It hits her viscerally, and she jolts a bit, enough that Kristoff notices and turns toward her. “You okay, darling?”

“Yes! I’m… more than okay. Because I have an idea!” Anna squeals, quietly enough to hopefully not wake the baby, but loud enough to get her point across. “For her name. Unless… do you have anything?”

“Oh no. Nope.” He shakes his head. “Not even a little bit. I’ve got nothing.”

“It’s Kirsti. That’s my idea—her name is…” Anna smiles. “I want her name to be Kirsti.”

“Kirsti? Hmm…” Kristoff takes it in, unsure. “Isn’t that a little, well—close to my name? Won’t it be confusing?”

Anna can’t contain her grin anymore. “No, that’s… that’s the point, Kris. It’s different enough to be… different. But. I want her name to be Kirsti because it’s close to Kristoff. I want to name her after you.”

“What?”

“I want to name her after you,” Anna repeats.

“You…” He’s in complete and utter shock. His mouth goes dry. “You want—why?”

“Because you’re…” She smiles, already tearing up again. “I love you so much, Kristoff, and you’ve made me a mother six times and I want our daughter to grow up knowing that she’s named after the most amazing person I’ve had the pleasure of calling my husband for the last ten years. And I want her to be her fiercest and strongest self and do the most fabulous things with that name of yours and—"

“Maybe she should be named Anja, then.”

Anna smiles but shakes her head. “No. Kirsti.”

He sighs, he kisses her cheek, and then looks back down at the newborn angel snuggled on his chest. “Kirsti.”

“It’s perfect, right?”

“You’re perfect.”

“Kirsti’s perfect.”

“You’re right,” Kristoff says. “She is.”

They smile at each other, then. Kristoff starting to give into Anna’s whims. Kirsti.

His heart does a thousand somersaults. Flattered is a gross understatement.

Because all his life he’s wanted this big family. All his life he’s wanted people to snuggle and hug and connect with. It took until he met Anna to finally realize this, but he knows for certain it’s always been there.

And now… there’s Kirsti.

Kirsti feels like proof of something.

Before he can control it, tears roll down his cheeks.

“Kirsti,” he says, looking down at her, watching her suck her fist as she sleeps. His tears grow fatter.

What he always wanted… here, touching his skin, relaxed against his chest. This really is the perfect snuggle.

[areiton]

i'll fall alone in the dark

He meets Spiderman on a battlefield but he meets Pete while he’s on his back in the compound. Tony is gone, chasing Rogers and Barnes and Rhodey aches to follow him and a kid is sitting in the corner of his room, his face a mess of bruises.

~*~ 

Read on A03

~*~ 

Tony comes home. 

For days, weeks--since the dust coated that Wakandan battlefield and they realized just how much they’d lost--since Tony vanished without a trace and everyone decided that meant he was dead like Tony fucking Stark hadn’t made a lifelong habit of living just to spite the assholes who said he wouldn’t--

For too long, Rhodey had been quiet, faithfully believing when arguing with Rogers and the rest did shit. 

Tony comes home, because Tony always comes home, and Rhodey is there, a step behind Rogers, fury burning through him because Rogers is the one taking him from Nebula, Rogers is staring at him, all hungry and desperate and incandescent, and that--that is Rhodey’s job. 

Rhodey brings Tony home. 

Since that first night at MIT when he dragged a belligerently drunk billionaire out of a party and poured him into his bed, that has been his job, and he’s good at it. 

Rogers holds him up and Rhodey’s eyes skip past Tony, up the walk where Nebula stands staring sadly at Rocket, and--

“I lost the kid,” Tony says and the world fucking stops.  

~*~ 

He meets Spiderman on a battlefield but he meets Pete while he’s on his back in the compound. Tony is gone, chasing Rogers and Barnes and Rhodey aches to follow him and a kid is sitting in the corner of his room, his face a mess of bruises. 

“Who are you?” he asks, his voice a rough rasp. 

“Hi, um, Colonel Rhodes. I thought--um. If you want. I can stay with you,” he says, bright and innocent in a way no one in this compound ever is. “I--if you want? I can call--” 

“There’s no one,” he says, before the kid can offer. Mama died, and Jenny--it’s better to leave her outta this. 

Tony is the only family he’s got. 

He doesn’t realize he’s said it aloud until the kid says, “My aunt--she’s all I have. And I know I’d want her, if I were where you are. I’m not Mr. Stark. But I’ll stay, until he gets back. If you want.” 

The kid looks braced for rejection and he aches, a bone deep hurt that has nothing to do with his spine and everything to do with the team. 

Tony is the only family he’s got. The rest of them--

He opens his mouth to tell the kid to go. What he says is, “Pick a movie, kid. The silence is gonna get awkward.” 

~*~

Rogers dismisses it, says they all lost. 

It’s something he keeps turning over in his head, because he believes that. And yeah, ok, he’s not wrong. They all lost in a spectacular sort of way. 

But Tony reached out, confided in him--and Rogers didn’t even understand.

“What kid?” Natasha asks, once Tony is in medical and they’re waiting to debrief. She’s looking at him, and Rogers does too, bland curiosity on his face. 

The kid, Rhodey wants to say. 

Because there are kids--Harley, Riri, even the bots. 

But there’s is only one kid. 

How the hell does he explain Peter? How does he explain that Peter saved Tony, saved them? How does he explain a kid that was so damn good, so damn brilliant, that it brought Tony back? That losing the Avengers, Rogers betrayal almost broke Tony, did break Rhodey, and Peter was there, eager to learn, anxious to help, impossible to resist, and it was Peter who coaxed Tony out of his depression, who grinned at Rhodey when he came back, exhausted from PT. 

It was Peter, the need to protect him, the inability to stop him, that made Tony rework the Accords, that  made Rhodey step back into the War Machine. 

Peter wasn’t just some kid. 

In the end he explains it the only way he knows how, and he doesn’t give a damn how Rogers and the others take it. 

“Peter,” he says. “Tony’s son.” 

~*~

Peter was Tony’s first. 

But somewhere along the line, between movies and villains and science projects and lab experiments and takeout at three a.m., he became Rhodey’s too. 

He knew Tony would be a good dad. He’d seen the way Tony was with the bots and with Harley, with his niece until-- 

Tony was always going to be an amazing father, and Rhodey--Rhodey was always going to be that uncle, solid and steady, who spoiled the kids rotten and dragged them into and out of trouble, just like he always had for Tony. 

~*~ 

He sits by Tony’s bed, the same place he’s always sat when Tony was hurt, and waits. 

Because he has always been the place where Tony falls, the place he crashes apart, and Tony is being piece back together, is alive, even if the doctors aren’t sure how, even if he’s more fragile than Rhodey has ever seen him.

He sits by Tony’s bed, and he waits. 

And after twelve hours, Tony blinks, stirs restless on his bed and Rhodey shifts. 

It hurts, watching Tony’s face, the way it crumples, heartbreak and grief writ so sharp in the lines on his face, in the emptiness of his eyes, in the way he reaches out, blindly grasping and chokes out, “Peter.” 

Rhodey catches him. 

Rhodey catches him, holds him together while Tony sobs against his chest, and he never once cries himself. 

~*~ 

He watches Tony throw his heart at Rogers, watches him fall apart. 

He watches when he tells Pepper about Peter, watches grief age her pretty face in a way that he can feel in his own bones. 

He listens to the mad plan to rewrite time, and he goes with them, because there’s a chance, thin and grasping and he doesn’t trust Rogers, doesn’t trust any of them, but he can’t back away from the chance. 

It fails. 

It fails, and they fail. 

~*~ 

He doesn’t know if it’s worse that Tony doesn’t look surprised, crippled, by their failure, or not. 

~*~ 

Tony is different, after Titan. 

The world is different, and that matters, but Tony has been the epicenter of his life for over thirty years, and this is no different. 

He’s withdrawn, quiet, refuses to engage with the remaining Avengers at all. He’s touch starved in a way Rhodey hasn’t seen since college, spending long hours in Rhodey’s lap or curled into his side. 

He never talks about Peter, though. He clings, and sometimes, he cries, and Rhodey is steady and solid and holds him together when Tony is falling apart. 

Once. 

Just once. Tony looks at him and says, softly, “I miss him, platypus.” 

Rhodey holds him tighter. “Me, too, peacock.” 

~*~ 

The truth is--he does. 

He misses Peter so much it aches.

The whole world lost, the whole fucking galaxy did, but Rhodey’s world has been small since Mama died, and Jenny walked out of his life. 

His family is Tony, and the people Tony gathers around him. And all of them--Pepper, Happy, Tony--survived. 

Peter is the gaping hole in their world, the missing piece that no one can look past, and he misses him, a visceral aching loss that he can’t get past, and doesn’t know how to live with. 

~*~

Mama died. 

She died in a home invasion that made no goddamn sense, a random act of senseless violence.

Jenny didn’t. 

Jenny didn’t but she walked away. Rhodey was a superhero who couldn’t keep his family safe, who had chosen a rich white boy and left their family behind. 

And maybe that wasn’t the whole story, wasn’t the true story--but it’s the story Jenny told, and she scooped up his niece and vanished and he lost his Mama and his baby sister and his baby niece and he never quite got over that. 

He couldn’t get over losing his entire family in less than a month. He lived with it and through it and he carried it with him. 

Losing Peter is like that. 

He carries it with him. 

~*~  

The world is a crumbling mess and the Avengers are broken, scattered. Tony doesn’t care and Tony doesn’t care, long enough that Rogers comes to Rhodey, intent and earnest and concerned. 

“He almost died,” Rhodey says. 

“His son died in his arms,” he says. 

“He isn’t going to fix this,” he says. 

“Fix your own goddamn mess,” he snarls. 

He leaves Rogers there, starled and shocked and Tony curls in his lap and neither of them talk about it. 

~*~ 

Sometimes. 

When the Compound is quiet and the world is still and the grief is swamping, he will go to Peter’s room, curl in a corner and cry, silent and shaking, for the child that they lost.

His grief is an immense and private thing, small in comparison to Tony’s all-consuming loss. 

He grieves alone, falls apart in the dark where no one can see him, and in the morning, he smiles and he nudges Tony to eat and he puts on the suit and goes out to piece the world together. 

~*~ 

Tony tells him. Pepper is asleep on the couch and they’re sitting outside, the eerie silence almost familiar after a year. The air is clearer, and as he stares up at the star spangled sky he dreams he can see Titan. 

“We’re moving,” Tony says. Rhodey closes his eyes. Unsurprised, but still--it stings. “I can’t do this anymore,” Tony says, soft, plaintive. 

“I know,” Rhodey says. 

They’re silent, Tony leaning against his shoulder and the stars overhead. 

~*~ 

The night before they move, Rhodey finds himself almost at a loss. Pepper is already gone, supervising the movers. Tony is awkward and anxious at a team dinner for a broken team he doesn’t trust. Rhodey--Rhodey feels torn between two worlds and he misses Peter so much it hurts. 

He slips into the boy’s room in the dark, when the Compound is quiet and it doesn’t smell like Pete anymore, but it still looks like him, layered in every surface and space, and he feels familiar tears prickle the back of his eyes. 

He’s only a little surprised when Tony slips in behind him, curls on the bed against his back. 

“You never said you missed him,” Tony whispers. 

“He wasn’t mine to miss,” Rhodey says, and it’s true and it’s not. 

“Pete belonged to all of us,” Tony says, fierce and sad. “He loved all of us.” 

Rhodey shudders, twists and hides his face against Tony’s chest, and cries. 

Tony’s arms around him hold him together as he falls apart. 

~*~ 

It never stops hurting. 

It never gets easier. 

But the dam breaks, and Tony talks about Pete, sometimes. 

Rhodey does. Pepper does. 

Sometimes, Rhodey can think about him and it’s a familiar ache instead of a needle sharp stabbing pain. Sometimes, he can think about him and he smiles. 

~*~ 

The world spins on and he does what he can to fix it, to put it to rights. 

Pepper has a little girl and she isn’t Peter, won’t ever replace him, but she’s brilliant and beautiful and Tony smiles at her, holds her like she’s precious and grins, proud and pleased and eager to share this miracle with him and Rhodey holds her, holds his niece and blinks back tears. 

“You’ve got the best daddy in the whole world, sweetheart,” he whispers. 

~*~ 

Scott comes and he brings hope with him and Tony--

Tony kisses the sweetest smartest baby in the world and puts on the suit and lays it all on the line, his eyes bright and fiercely determined, and Rhodey thinks, again, the same thing he’s thought so many times. 

Tony was always going to be an amazing father.

[thegalapogos]

Early bloomer, late bloomer I

I started blaming myself for things I had no control over. I didn’t know it back then, but that was when I started slowly losing control of my own life and feeling disconnected from my needs and wants.

“I’m really not as clever as I thought I was,” I remember thinking, countless times whilst laying on my bed late at night before falling asleep. “I really should’ve listened to my pessimistic side a lot more, and not think of myself so highly.” It sounded hopeless. It was hopeless. Day after day, after day, I experienced explicit demonstrations of horror and hatred towards me. I had no one to turn to. No role models to follow. I was being picked on on a daily basis for something that is intrinsic to myself as a person. Something that I could not change. And God knows I wanted to change so much back then. But that’s not something that can happen.

Middle school was a nightmare. I remember walking with a handful of friends between different school buildings on a September afternoon. I think we were going to have an Arts class next. I could feel the last remnants of summer still in the air. The sun was shining bright, and many students were enjoying recess just outside of their classrooms, laughing, playing and chasing each other. The feeling of having separate classes in different buildings was still kind of foreign to me. I was distracted, thinking about all this, when all of a sudden a girl that I had never seen before jumps from within a group of students enjoying their recess and stops in front of us, and just stares.

We all just stopped walking and stared back at her. She had this mischievous smile on her face. The kind of smile I’d grow to recognise and fear for next few years of my life. What is it that she wants? I started feeling nervous, mainly because I was a shy kid and I didn’t want her to ask for money, rob us, or something of the sort.

She just started counting us, pointing at us with her index finger. “One,” she said, pointing at Francisca. Francisca just frowned, unsure of what was going on. “Two,” she said, pointing at Maria. “Three,” pointing at Marta. “Four,” pointing at Raquel. My 10-year-old ass knew where this was going. She then faces me and takes a deep breath. “Five girls!,” she proclaims, proudly. After seeing the confused expressions on our faces, she just let out a loud cackle. Some of her friends, still sitting on the concrete bench that she jumped from, laughed with her. I was so embarrassed that I didn’t want to look towards them, but all of sudden I noticed that we’ve caught the attention of everyone in a 50-metre radius. I was petrified. I hated being the centre of attention. This was the first time someone picked on me for being perceived as gay. At first, I was confused. Why was she picking on the fact that I was friends with four girls? Am I not supposed to be friends with girls? On the other hand, I knew exactly what she meant and what her intent was. I just don’t remember how I got out of that situation. But that was only the first of many.

During the next two years, I went on to be bullied and harassed almost on a daily basis. My only reaction when people were picking on me was to look down and not say anything, hoping that whoever was tormenting me would just leave me alone. It didn’t always work. Eventually I would dread walking between buildings, checking the way before following my friends to our next class. I started taking mental notes of where my main bullies used to hang out, at what time of the day, and what day of the week. I would make up excuses to my friends, so I could go to the bathroom or get an Iced Tea from the main building’s vending machine, so as to make a detour and avoid the bullies, meanwhile risking facing another one in the absence of my friends. But it worked, most of the time.

I remember trying to figure out why people started being so mean to me all of a sudden. I had never experienced bullying up until then. I was a pretty sociable and popular kid in elementary school. I was friends with everybody before. Why was I being antagonised? Was it because all my friends were girls? I only knew a few girls in my 5th grade class because I knew them from elementary school. I didn’t know most of the boys in the new class. Maybe I suddenly became gayer as puberty was approaching? This was my main theory back then. But it became clear to me over the years that prior to this I was just living inside a walled garden. My friends from elementary school were already familiar with my mannerisms since we were very little. So it was never a shock to them. I wonder if that made them more accepting of gay people as they grew up.

I didn’t know what caused so many people to suddenly go out of their way just to mock me. I didn’t know most or any of them. Was I that flamboyant? Were people mocking me behind my back, and the rumours spreading from word of mouth? I didn’t know. What I did know is that I started getting very conscious about the way I walked, talked and gestured. I would try to mimic male friends, so people perceived me as more masculine and stopped picking on me. I was worried about the image I was projecting, 24 hours a day. But that didn’t seem to make much of a difference. Of course it didn’t.

I remember dreading going to school in the morning. I wanted to vent to my mom so badly. But venting meant, at the very least, exposing a very vulnerable part of me that I was already hiding for years. In the worst case scenario, venting would mean coming out to her. And it would be a long way before I felt ready to do that.

I remember feeling powerless. All these bullies were bigger than me, or they would act in groups. My friends, although they liked me, didn’t do anything to defend me, for the most part. I felt like they pitied me, and frankly that hurt almost as much as the bullying itself. I remember a guy picking a fight with me as I was walking and talking to two friends of mine. He said he would turn me into a “canned sardine”. I didn’t even know who he was. I felt like responding that day, so told him in a tongue-in-cheek manner that I’d turn him into a “Bairrada-style suckling pig”. It rhymes with “canned sardine” in my native language, so it was kind of funny and my friends chuckled. He was walking the opposite way, but he turned around and started punching me. I defended myself and tried punching him as best as I could, but he was at least a couple years older than me and therefore a lot stronger. I can only remember my friends yelling “Stop! Stop!” repeatedly. But it would never end.

Teachers would hear altercations between me and my bullies, even inside the classroom. Sometimes, they would try to stop the arguing, other times they would have a smirk on their faces like they were mildly amused by what my bullies were saying. Very rarely they would take my side. I really felt like I had no one to defend me, and that I was inherently inferior to my colleagues.

There was, however, a day that sticks out to me as a good day, when my friend Marta was witnessing one more instance of me being mocked and staring at the ground, waiting for the bully to focus his attention on someone or something else. I remember not expecting to hear her high-pitched, yet assertive voice contrasting with the jokester, “I’m-already-going-through-puberty” tone that my bully had. “What the hell do you want?”, she asked him. He just looked amused at that little girl with her tiny voice, but combative stance. “He’s not gay but even if he was, so what? Leave him alone!” I felt so warm and fuzzy inside when I heard that. He kept trying to ignore her and focusing his attention on me, but eventually he got annoyed with her and left. I remember feeling thankful for her intervention, but I was so embarrassed that I never told her. To this day, 20 years later, I still admire how she’s able to stand up for herself in the face of bullies and bigots. I wish I could be more like her.

In those days, any day without hearing or experiencing homophobic bullying was a good day. Being called a fag was definitely the worst thing I could ever be called - my Arts teacher calling me a retard on one of the first few classes of the year had nothing on the casual homophobic slang I heard outside the classroom.

As the first trimester of fifth grade went on, I slowly started getting the respect of my closest colleagues, either because I was a great student back then, or because I really was a doormat and I tried to be nice to everyone, even my bullies. Some boys in my class would still pick on me occasionally, but the episodes were not as bad. But every time someone new got to experience my gayness, it was almost like going back to square one. It was still visceral and violent every time, even if was just an uttering of the word “faggot”.

In sixth grade, a boy that had been in my class the previous year came up to me and apologised. He said he was sorry, and that he shouldn’t have said the things he said. It was probably the only time a bully apologised to me, at least in a heartfelt manner. I have never seen him again after leaving that school at the end of the year, but I will forever cherish the moments when he went out of his way to say “Hi, how are you?” to me. It was such as simple gesture, but it was meaningful to me, and it was such a rare occurrence back then, that it always brightened my day.

Things got better in some ways during the subsequent years, but in reality the bullying never really stopped until I was a sophomore in high school, while my confidence remained mostly below average well into my college years. I still feel like I haven’t fully recovered from the years when I was bullied. I still fear making new friends and worry if they perceive me as gay right away. I am still extremely self-conscious and waste precious energy on policing my mannerisms in public.

I wonder if gay kids still have it this hard nowadays. I hope not. Most kids that age are cruel, but what I experienced was, to me, in another level of cruelty. I don’t wish it upon anybody.

[lo-lynx]

Dangerous women in His Dark Materials

CW: Sexism, racism

Spoiler warning: spoilers for all of the His Dark Materials book series. Extremely tiny spoiler for The Secret Commonwealth.

In the opening pages of Northern Lights, we meet our heroine Lyra Silvertongue as she sneaks through the collage where she has grown up, to get access to a forbidden room. Her daemon Pan chides her to behave herself, which she, of course, does not listen to; as the lovely hosts of the podcast Girls Gone Canon are fond of saying when anyone says “Lyra, no”, her immediate response is “LYRA YES” (look, I tried to find a specific episode where they say this so I could reference that, but even though I love their podcast I didn’t want to relisten to hours of the podcast just to find that). In many ways, Lyra is perhaps the very definition of the word “willful”. Another early example that the reader gets of her willfulness is in the second chapter of Northern Lights when Lyra’s relationship to the scholars of Jordan Collage is described: “(…) they were men who had been around her all her life, taught her, chastised her, given her little presents, chased her away from the fruit trees in the Garden (…)” (Pullman 2011a, 19). That last part about chasing her away from the fruit trees in the Garden is particularly interesting since it clearly connects Lyra to Eve and the Garden of Even. Later in the story, we find out that Lyra is prophesised to play a sort of Eve 2.0 role, something the Magisterium dreads (Pullman 2011c, 68). I’ve previously written about the power relations in His Dark Materials and their connection to gender and sexuality here. In this essay I want to continue on a similar track, by analysing femininity and female sexuality specifically, and the Magisterium’s view on them.

But before we get into all of that, I want to return to our dear Lyra. When the reader is first introduced to her, she’s disobeying rules, and this is, of course, a theme that continues through the series. Throughout the books, she is constantly doing things she’s not supposed to do, no matter what the adults or institutions around her say. She is at different times described as “half-wild, half-civilised”, “fierce and stubborn”, and having “some nerve” (Pullman 2011a, 19 & 120; Pullman 2011b, 202). Now, this portrayal of a half-wild young girl sounds very similar to the idea of the “willful girl” that Sara Ahmed describes (2017). Ahmed writes that wilful girls show up in all sort of fiction, and one specific example that she gives is the Grimm story called The Willful Child. Ahmed quotes the story in her text, and since I think it is very illustrative of the point both she and I try to make I will do so as well:

Once upon a time there was a child who was willful, and would not do as her mother wished. For this reason God had no pleasure in her, and let her become ill, and no doctor could do her any good, and in a short time she lay on her death-bed. When she had been lowered into her grave, and the earth was spread over her, all at once her arm came out again, and stretched upwards, and when they had put it in and spread fresh earth over, it was all to no purpose, for the arm always came out again. Then the mother herself was obligated to go to the grave, and strike the arm with a rod, and when she had done that, it was drawn in, and then at last the child had rest beneath the ground. (Grimm & Grimm 1884, 125. Quoted in Ahmed 2017, 66)

As Ahmed points out, it is only when the willful child gives up her own will that she can become at peace. Furthermore, Ahmed writes:

Note that the rod, as that which embodies the will of the parent, of the sovereign, is not deemed willful. The rod becomes the means to eliminate willfulness from the child. One form of will judges the other wills as willful wills. One form of will assumes the right to eliminate the others. (Ahmed 2017, 67)

Now, if this doesn’t describe Lyra’s story, I don’t know what does. Ahmed also notes that willfulness is generally a trait which is assigned to girls, while boys are described as “strong-willed” instead, a more positive trait (ibid, 68). This is because girls are generally not supposed to have wills of their own. However, it’s not just girls who are not supposed to have wills of their own, of course. Ahmed also notes that a similar framing was used to describe enslaved and colonised people, who were often positioned as children, and was supposed to obey their master (ibid, 80). Continuing with the theme of the strong arm who breaks expectations, Ahmed references the famous speech Ain’t I a Woman by Sojourner Truth (ibid, 87). For those who don’t know, Sojourner Truth was a former enslaved black woman and abolitionist who in 1851 held a speech at a women’s convention in Ohio (there exist several performances of this speech that you can find online, I would especially recommend this one by Kerry Washington and this one by Alfre Woodard). There she criticised those who said that women should not have rights because they were the so-called weaker sex. It is said that during her speech, she bared her right arm to show her muscles and pointed out that as a formerly enslaved person she was hardly weak. I’ll return to this speech later, but here I’ll just reiterate the point that Ahmed makes: “The arms of the slave belonged to the master, as did the slaves, as the ones who were not supposed to have a will of their own.” (ibid, 87). This, I think, is a point that becomes clear throughout the His Dark Materials. The powerful claim the right to override the will of the marginalised, be it women, people of colour, or other groups. In previous essays, I have written about how this becomes clear with the illusions to eugenics, etc in the series, so I will leave that here for now. But it is important to remember how race and class interact with gender, and I think that if Lyra didn’t have white privilege and class privilege, she would have a much harder time getting away with being so willful.

Now, Ahmed notes in her text, that all of these stories in literature about willful girls really go back to the “first” willful woman, Eve (Ahmed 2017, 70). These other stories:

(…) becomes a thread in the weave of the stories of willful: returning us to Genesis, to the story of the beginning, to Eve’s willful wantonness as behind the fall from Grace. The wilfulness of women relates here not only to disobedience but to desire: the strength of her desire becoming a weakness of her will. (ibid)

Here we see another twist of the willful woman; the woman whose desires overpower her self-control. Having returned to Eve, which I previously noted is deeply connected to Lyra since she’s considered an Eve 2.0 of sorts, it feels necessary to look at how the Magisterium of Lyra’s world sees Eve. The Church in Lyra’s world (in a parallel to our own) teaches that when Adam and Eve ate of the fruit of knowledge in the garden of Eden, their daemons settled, and they start experiencing shame over their bodies (Pullman 2011a, 370). That is of course also the moment sin comes into the world, and the first humans are cast out of the Garden. I’ve previously written about how this has led to the Church wanting to control sexuality and sin (both in our world and Lyra’s world). If possible, they would eradicate sin from the world altogether. As Mrs. Coulter puts it in The Amber Spyglass: “If they could, they’d go back to the garden of Eden and kill Eve before she was tempted.” (Pullman 2011c, 205). The church here puts the blame for humanity’s sinfulness on the first woman, and much like in our world, I would argue that this has been transferred upon women as a whole. As for instance, Yolanda Betata Martín has written, in the middle ages, the church would generally describe female sexuality as particularly sinful, if not outright demonic (for instance by linking it to witchcraft). She writes:

First, the sexuality is perceived as an activity linked exclusively to reproduction and no to sexual pleasure. Second, female sexuality is projected symbolically as a phenomenon endowed with negative connotations and even destructive defined in terms of greed, insatiability and animality. Both beliefs are based more immediate ideological patristic discourse, i.e., in a Discourse of biblical inspiration that projects an image of women deeply misogynist based on the biblical figure of Eve and her role in the Edenic fall. (…) The Discourse gives patristic principles of rationality, morality and intellectuality to men so that women are defined, following the principle of otherness, as irrational, immoral and visceral. This view of feminine nature, supported ideologically on the supposed natural inferiority of women under the Edenic fall, is radicalized throughout the Middle Ages and especially from the thirteenth century. (ibid, 48)

Women are, therefore, simultaneously seen as potentially dangerous and inferior. Sounds familiar? This, I would argue, is not just how Lyra, but perhaps, even more, her mother Mrs. Coulter, is seen by the Magisterium in His Dark Materials.

Now, I’ve pointed out how Lyra most of the time outright goes against the wishes of the adults around her (with some notable exceptions of course, she is Lyra Silvertongue after all, and can be really sneaky). Mrs. Coulter, on the other hand, usually plays into the perception people have of her. In a world where she can only hold a limited amount of official power (she can’t become a priest in the church, and rise in the ranks in that way, for instance), she has been forced to rely on other means (Pullman 2011a, 372). In this patriarchal world it is quite clear that women are generally devalued, I mean, just look at the disdainful way Lyra describes female scholars at the beginning of Northern Lights (ibid, 71). Lyra is however transfixed by Mrs. Coulter’s charms, and to the reader who already knows how she kidnaps children, it is clear that these charms are dangerous too. But to Lyra, and quite a few other people in the story, they are not obviously sinister. Later, in The Amber Spyglass, Mrs. Coulter uses these same charms to trick Metatron (Pullman 2011c, 405). She seduces him, while simultaneously portraying herself as a weak woman. As a reader, you definitely realise by this point, that the Magisterium is right in fearing both Lyra and Mrs. Coulter. To quote Sojourner Truth (see, I said we’d return to her!):

Then that little man in black there, he says women can't have as much rights as men, 'cause Christ wasn't a woman! Where did your Christ come from? Where did your Christ come from? From God and a woman! Man had nothing to do with Him.

If the first woman God ever made was strong enough to turn the world upside down all alone, these women together ought to be able to turn it back, and get it right side up again! And now they is asking to do it, the men better let them. (Truth 1851. Quoted in Women’s Rights National History Park n.d.)

Yes, these women will turn the world right-side-up again. They’ll create a world (more) free from religious control, and with more equality.

I want to note, that when Lyra sees the female scholar Dame Hannah Relf again, at the end of The Amber Spyglass, she thinks that Dame Hannah is much more clever, interesting, and kind than she thought before (Pullman 2011c, 515). Perhaps Lyra has just grown up, perhaps she has learned to value women more, I’m not sure. However, Lyra definitely has changed. Later in the same chapter, she is described as defiant but lost by Dame Hannah. I don’t quite have the space to go into Lyra’s changing character later in her life, mainly in The Secret Commonwealth, here but perhaps that’ll be a separate essay one day. However, I think it’s quite clear that Lyra has lost some of her wilfulness and daring (not all of it though). And, if she is to save the world again, then she must regain that. Perhaps that is part of Pullman’s message to his readers; be critical of authorities, be brave, be willful.

As we’ve seen throughout this essay, the patriarchal society in Lyra’s world is fearful of willful girls and women. This fear goes all the way back to their hatred and fear of Eve, and their resentment of her being responsible for humanity’s expulsion from the garden of Eden. As Sojourner Truth puts it, they’ve seen that women are strong enough to turn the world upside down. Therefore women, and their sexuality, must be controlled. It must be demonised, and women must be seen as inferior as to not get too much power. In a way, the Church’s fear is proven correct by the story; the women of the story are able to change the world again. This time to turn it right-side-up.

References

Ahmed, Sara. 2017. Living a Feminist Life. Durham: Durham University Press.

Beteta Martín, Yolanda. 2013. “THE SERVANTS OF THE DEVIL. THE DEMONIZATION OF FEMALE SEXUALITY IN THE MEDIEVAL PATRISTIC DISCOURSE.” Journal of Research in Gender Studies Volume, 3:2, 2013, 48–66.

Pullman, Philip. 2011a. Northern Lights. London: Scholastic.

Pullman, Philip. 2011b. The Subtle Knife. London: Scholastic.

Pullman, Philip. 2011c. The Amber Spyglass. London: Scholastic

Women’s Rights National History Park. n.d. “Sojourner Truth: Ain't I A Woman?” National Park Service. Accessed March 22, 2020. https://www.nps.gov/articles/sojourner-truth.htm

[holdthosebees]

Never Quite Free

Author’s Note: Part 2 of my series, WKELTAOTTMGATMASFAB. Part 1 and explanation here. In this installment: Jon and Martin, in (web-induced) retirement.

Pairing: Jon/Martin, kind of

Quote: Just the whole damned song.

It shouldn’t be possible, the level of domesticity they fall into. They move out into the countryside, away from London and the Institute, and into a tiny little house with a blue door and a neat little garden plot. Fewer people means fewer temptations on Jon’s part, although sometimes he passes someone in the produce aisle or in line to buy coffee and just knows, in that terrible visceral way, and he wants. If Martin is with him, and he usually is, he’ll put a hand on Jon’s shoulder or back and steer him away, the touch gentle but firm. If Martin isn’t with him, Jon will ball his own hands into fists in his pockets and bite down on his tongue until the urge vanishes or the person leaves. Some days, it’s all he can do not to chase after them. Martin gives him a worry stone with a depression like a thumbprint in the center, and its weight in his pocket is both promise and constraint. Another anchor.

    Martin gets a job as an assistant at a bookshop. It doesn’t pay much, but they have the funds they took from the Institute when they left, which they know no one will come looking for. Basira promised them as much, when she took over as head. It was enough to buy the house, and it’s enough that Jon doesn’t have to work, not yet. Instead he spends his days cleaning and gardening and cooking and trawling the internet for supernatural forums, tracking any sign of the lightless flame, or the web. It isn’t enough. Basira sends him statements every month, wrapped up neatly in a cardboard box. These also aren’t enough. 

When he gets the package Jon spends the next three days holed up in his room, reading, devouring. He is no longer the Archivist, but once you are marked you can never return to what you were. Martin leaves food on a tray outside of the door and knocks every night to remind him to sleep. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t. When he emerges finally after those three days Martin takes the rest of the statements up to the attic for later, then manhandles him into the shower. Their life together is full of many petty intimacies, some of them uncomfortable; Martin’s hands against his scalp while he washes out his hair is one of Jon’s favorites, although he would never admit it out loud. He can tip his head back under the hot water, sated and safe, and allow himself a short period of rest. 

It doesn’t come easy. The nightmares haven’t stopped, although the new ones come less frequently. One morning he remarks to Martin over breakfast that perhaps he is outliving the statement givers. He makes a joke about hunting them down and killing them for a good night’s sleep, and Martin purses his lips and unfolds his morning paper a little too roughly in response. Later, Jon insists on doing the dishes even though he cooked, and Martin insists on helping even though he’s wearing a decent button up because he has a shift soon, and they even sing a long a little to the radio as they clean. 

This is something Jon has discovered about Martin since they moved in together: he likes to sing, is good at it if he thinks no one is listening, but will try to hit the high notes even if they’re way out of his range. It was annoying, until it wasn’t. And then eventually it was annoying again, but a different, softer kind of annoying, and Jon felt comfortable in the fact that even if he complained Martin would not stop singing, not entirely. 

There’s a cat in the bookstore where Martin works, and Jon starts bringing him lunch as an excuse to see the cat, and then just to get out of the house. This is how he meets Martin’s coworkers: Allen, the owner, who is slowly going deaf. His granddaughter, Kelly, who smells like bubblegum and has never left this tiny town. Amina, who keeps lizards and asks Jon leading questions about how he and Martin met and how long they’ve been roommates, and how nice it is that they’ve found each other. Jon doesn’t bother correcting her. There aren’t words to describe the ways in which he and Martin are connected to one other, not in English, but the closest one is probably husband. 

The world goes on. Jon gets occasional emails from Daisy with rambling updates, most of the information personal. Mixed into the snippets of office gossip and meditation on new tattoos are bits of important information: the Lonely was going to attempt another ritual, the Vast made an attack on the archive, Basira came in one morning and found her entire office covered in cobwebs. Always long after the fact, too long for him to be of any use. He tries not to miss it.

Whenever he thinks about returning to the Archive he remembers the door in his mind, and it is only the thrumming of the thread that binds him to Martin that prevents him from trying to go back. Even for a moment. Just to see a sliver of that endless ocean of knowledge, pure and beautiful. It makes his head ache just imagining it, and he can feel the press of Martin’s concerned disapproval. 

They are tethered to each other, and eventually to the house as well, and Jon does his best to make peace with that. He mostly succeeds, although not without incident. It is five years after they moved in together, five and a half since what Jon has privately and sardonically started to refer to their ‘wedding night,’ when Jude Perry finds them. Martin is at work. Jon is busy in the garden, weeding out the basil. The summer sun is hot on his back, and he stops to wipe sweat off his forehead and grab a drink of water when he sees her. 

She’s leaning on the fence, her arms crossed, watching him. When they make eye contact, she waves, a sarcastic little flip of the hand. Jon stands slowly--his legs aren’t what they used to be, are aging as fast as his mostly-grey hair--and walks down the garden path towards her. He stops three feet away, his burned hand tucked out of sight in his pocket. 

“What do you want?” he says. Once, it would have stopped Jude Perry cold, holding her in place until he’d drained her of information and fear. Now, she only laughs. 

“Don’t even try it, Archivist,” she says. “Except, you’re not the archivist anymore, are you? Pathetic. I was just in the area, thought I’d drop by. See where the Mother of Puppets stashed you away.” 

“Don’t try anything,” Jon says. He puts a little force behind it, voice dropping into a growl. 

“Or what?” Jude is clearly enjoying herself. The wooden fence post has started to smoke where it meets her skin. “You’ll throw a trowel at me? Ooo, scary.”

“I might, if you don’t go away.” 

“Tell me,” she says, tilting her head to the side, “does it hurt, being put out to pasture like a lame mare? Knowing that your little friends in the institute are harnessing the power that should have been yours? Does it rankle, being shackled at the leg to that useless man--”

“That’s enough,” Jon says, with more confidence than he feels. He hefts the trowel menacingly. “Tell me what you’re doing here, or get out.” 

“Don’t fuck with me, Archivist,” Jude Perry says. Her fingers tighten on the rail, and the smell of woodsmoke fills the air. “I could burn this all down around your ears. Maybe you’d even thank me, eventually, for freeing you. If I don’t kill you first.”

“No,” Jon says. “I don’t think you can.”

Jude Perry says nothing. Her upper lip peels back, revealing teeth. 

“If you could,” Jon continues, emboldened, “you’d have done it already. I don’t think the web will let you. For whatever reason, it wants me alive. And you’re not powerful enough to fight the web, not yet. Not on your own.” 

“You’re pathetic,” Jude Perry says. “There’s nothing here worth burning.” She turns away, gives him a jaunty salute as she leaves. Over her shoulder, she calls, “You can’t pretend forever, you know!” 

Jon watches her go. He has clenched his burnt hand too hard; it throbs where his fingernails dug into the skin. Martin will be home in three hours, at which point they will make dinner in companionable silence. If it’s a nice night, they’ll take chairs out to the back deck, and eat while watching the stars. Jon will ask Martin about work, and Martin will ask Jon about the garden. They’ll ignore the strands that bind them together so tightly that sometimes Jon takes in a breath and feels Martin let it out, and they’ll ignore the fact that Jon barely picks at his food and Martin flinches and goes still whenever he sees a house centipede or an ordinary earthworm, and later on in bed they will cling to one another and whisper where only the night can hear them of the dead, of Tim and Sasha and Martin’s mother and everything else they’ve lost, or else they’ll lie in silence and wait for the tide of distant and unforgiving dreams to break. “I know,” Jon says. Then he turns, and walks back to the garden. There is still work to be done before nightfall, and the basil isn’t going to weed itself.

[mst3kproject]

1009: Hamlet, Prinz von Dänemark

I spent a buck-fifty Canadian to download this movie. There’s not much you can get for a buck-fifty Canadian.  One sour soother, maybe, or a chipped coffee mug from a garage sale that has a photo of somebody else’s grandparents on it.  So now you know how much Hamlet is worth.

We all know the story of Hamlet, whether we wanted to or not. King Hamlet of Denmark was murdered by his brother Claudius, who then married Queen Gertrude and stole the throne.  We can’t be having that, so the king’s ghost appears to his son, Hamlet Jr, and tells him he must take revenge.  Junior then spends the whole rest of the play wandering around pondering the afterlife and battering his girlfriend Ophelia before finally running Claudius through during a climactic duel during which pretty much everybody else dies, too, except for the ones who were already dead.  Nobody has ever given me a convincing explanation of why these people have names like Horatio and Laertes instead of Svend and Rolf.

I’m definitely not going to try to review Hamlet itself, Shakespeare’s play, because I don’t know a damned thing about Hamlet.  I deliberately went out and murdered those brain cells with alcohol immediately after writing my final exam.  Instead I’m going to have to talk about this movie in itself, how it fares both as a film and as a retelling of this story.

That second point is a big one.  Hamlet has been done, a lot, and as the bots point out with their sketch about their all-percussion version, it’s really hard to do anything unique with it anymore.  If you’re an acting troupe who wants to give it a try, that’s cool because it means people will get to see live theatre, but if you’re making a movie you really need to bring something new to the table.  An interesting interpretation, an actor or director that people really want to see, an unusual setting or time period, something like that.  This Hamlet has none of that.

I am reasonably sure that what the movie is trying to do is to look like a stage play, much as The Magic Voyage of Sinbad was trying to look like an opera.  Sinbad pulled it off with extravagant sets and operatic bombast.  By contrast everything in Hamlet, from pillars to thrones to flights of stairs, looks like it’s made out of concrete.  There is very little music, which somehow makes the whole thing feel even more doom-and-gloom-y than Hamlet already does.  The costumes go for a semi-fantasy look somewhere between Elizabethan and medieval, which is very stagey, and the effect is heightened by the fact that most of the characters never seem to change their clothes. The actors don’t look comfortable in them, though, which means they look uncomfortable in their characters as well. Queen Gertrude in particular looks like she’s too worried about damaging her gown to move easily in it, and the giant chain around Claudius’ neck is absurd.

Adding to the impression that the movie was shot in somebody’s basement, it’s lit very pootly when it’s lit at all.  A lot of shots are quite dull, lit in a way that shows where things are but doesn’t create mood or drama.  The film is in black and white and the characters wear black, or at least colours so dark you can’t tell the difference, which leaves night shots (such as the one where Horatio and the guards are chasing after the king’s ghost) looking like a bunch of heads floating around.

It is, of course, very difficult to judge a dubbed performance. The actors we’re watching appear to be going for a sort of heightened melodrama, part of the idea that we’re meant to feel like we’re watching a stage play.  The dub actors, on the other hand, don’t seem to have gotten the memo.  A lot of them mumble, particularly Maximilian Schell as Hamlet, which is really weird because he’s dubbing himself.  Sometimes they manage to make the Shakespearean English sound very natural, but that often jars with the physical performances.  I have no idea what sort of accents some of them think they’re doing. There are a few who don’t seem to be trying to do an accent at all, while others sound like they’re aiming for British (because it’s Shakespeare?), German (because the movie’s German?) or Damn Worwelf.

Most of the actors are kind of bland-looking, and those who stand out do so because they look weirdly wrong for the parts they’re playing.  Polonius with his little mustache looks like a physics teacher who feels naked because he’s not wearing a necktie.  He’s also dubbed by John Banner, so if you keep hearing this is so klandinkto! every time he speaks… that’s why.  If Hamlet himself looks familiar, it may be because Maximilian Schell was Dr. Reinhardt in The Black Hole, or maybe it’s because he looks a lot like the guy in Atlantic Rim that I referred to as MacGuyver. He’s a very fine actor who won an academy award for Judgment at Nuremburg, but he’s way out of place as Hamlet.  His Hollywood good looks and crooked little smile make it feel like he’s trying to play Hamlet as a dashing heartthrob.

For all that, there are a couple of moments in this movie that I quite like.  The scene in which Hamlet is nodding and smiling to the wedding guests while the Too Too Solid Flesh soliloquy begins in voiceover is quite nicely done.  It gives you a very visceral sense of this man who is forced to bottle up his anger and grief.  I also like that during the Murder of Gonzago scene, the camera focuses not on the players but on the audience reaction.  Claudius and Gertrude smile at each other when the players talk about love, and then grow uncomfortable as the play condemns re-marriage.  Ophelia’s embroidery is an attempt at symbolism, the arum being a popular funeral flower.  Too bad it’s so in-your-face that it loses all subtlety.

On the whole, though, Hamlet is just dull.  The spartan, ugly sets and dark costumes offer us very little to look at, and in some of the darker scenes there’s almost nothing to see at all. The physical and dub performances don’t match, and neither hold the attention.  Watching it feels like a two-hour slog through a tarry morass of depression.

I kind of wonder what the purpose of this movie was supposed to be. It was made for TV in the sixties, and I guess it was an attempt to capitalize on the Germans’ love of Shakespeare – because Germans do definitely love Shakespeare, sometimes considering themselves to have a better claim on him than England because unlike the English, they respect him.  More Shakespeare plays are performed in Germany every year than in England, and in the leadup to World War II the Nazi regime tried to get rid of him, couldn’t, and had to settle for picking and choosing which translations were ‘German enough’ for them (this always reminds me of the joke about Hamlet being better in the original Klingon).

If this is the case, I would like to know what the Germans who saw this movie in its original broadcast thought of it.  Sixty-year-old reviews of made-for-tv movies in foreign languages are hard to find even online, so I honestly have no idea.  I know that people who have seen this English version hate it, and I have a hard time imagining it being much better in German even when you love Shakespeare unconditionally.  The fact that the Germans do love Shakespeare just makes it seem that much more likely that they’d consider this dreary pork-filled version an insult to him.

It’s also interesting to think about what made the Best Brains pick this one out as an MST3K project.  The movie is definitely bad, and in its own way it fits right in with a lot of the black-and-white crap from the Joel era that tries so hard to be important and just ends up being depressing.  Yet the source material remains as something a lot of people would consider untouchable (the Germans being high on that list… although Shakespeare himself, purveyor of fine penis jokes to Her Majesty the Queen since 1591, would probably be totally okay with the MST3K treatment.  He must have heard way more vicious audience commentary).  My guess it was something they considered a challenge to themselves, in the same way as RiffTrax tackled Casablanca just to see if they could do it.  The Amazing Colossal Transplanted Sci-Fi Channel Episode Guide entry on the episode is kind of interesting, as Kevin mentions the feeling that they had to be funnier than usual in order to live up to the play’s legend.

My high school English teachers (the same ones who inflicted The Most Dangerous Game on me) insisted that Hamlet is a play which should make you think.  I’m pretty sure this is not what they meant, but the thing I’ve always found myself thinking about while watching or reading it is the idea of marrying one’s brother’s widow.  The church of the time said that this was equivalent to marrying one’s own sister (Claudius indeed calls Gertrude our sometime sister) and frowned upon it most heavily, and this would have been common knowledge in Elizabethan England because it was Henry VIII’s excuse for divorcing Catherine of Aragon and marrying Anne Boleyn, Queen Elizabeth’s mother (never mind that he’d also fucked Anne’s sister Mary).  By portraying this as villainous behaviour, Shakespeare was sucking up to the Queen, emphasizing that her mom’s marriage was way more legit than Catherine’s.  Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.