#but if i lose i will die at nineteen without any of my loved ones even there.

[inamindfarfaraway]

It's so funny that Cass worked past her suicidal ideation by actually dying, allowing herself to be murdered, and then being brought back, so she could be like "Hmm. Disappointing" and move on with her life satisfied. All for the sake of being the most badass she could possibly be. Like. On one hand, she achieved her goal and did indeed get more badass afterward. But on the other hand. Therapy exists. She probably didn't need to do that.

[secretmellowblog]

When I say "Victor Hugo's depiction of Jean Valjean's grief over losing Cosette is a reflection of Hugo's own grief at the death of his daughter" I'm not just theorizing-- some lines from Les Mis are basically just ripped word-for-word from Hugo's poems about the death of his daughter. Here are a few of them. Leopoldine drowned horribly with her husband only a few months after they were married; she was only nineteen. Jean Valjean's paralyzing fear of Cosette's marriage, his misguided useless rage at her husband, and his violent grief over losing her and never being able to see her again, is heavily influenced by Hugo's own grief. I have trouble finding good English translations of some of Hugo’s Leopoldine poems online, and would appreciate better links to English translations if anyone has them. But In A Villequier, one of Hugo's poems addressing God with furious grief over the death of Leopoldine, he writes:

Consider again how I have, since dawn, Worked, fought, thought, walked, struggled, Explaining Nature to Man who knew nothing of it, Lighting everything with your clarity; That, facing hate and anger, I have done my task here below, That I could not expect this wage, That I could not Foresee that you too, on my yielding head, Would let fall heavily your triumphant arm, And that you who saw how little joy I have, Would take my child away so quickly!

Which is almost word for word just Jean Valjean's:

I have left my blood on every stone, on every bramble, on every mile-post, along every wall, I have been gentle, though others have been hard to me, and kind, although others have been malicious, I have become an honest man once more, in spite of everything, I have repented of the evil that I have done and have forgiven the evil that has been done to me, and at the moment when I receive my recompense, at the moment when it is all over, at the moment when I am just touching the goal, at the moment when I have what I desire, it is well, it is good, I have paid, I have earned it, all this is to take flight, all this will vanish, and I shall lose Cosette, and I shall lose my life, my joy, my soul....

And this from the same poem:

I keep seeing that moment in my life when I saw her open her wings and fly off! I will see that instant until I die, the instant, no tears needed! where I cried: the child I had a minute ago— What? I don’t have her any more?

Is a similar sentiment to this angelic description of Cosette “taking flight” away from Jean Valjean:

Cosette, as she took her flight, winged and transfigured, left behind her on the earth her hideous and empty chrysalis, Jean Valjean.

And the moment when Jean Valjean realizes she’s in love with Marius, and has been “lost” to him without him realizing it:

The unprecedented and heart-rending thing about it was that he had fallen without perceiving it. All the light of his life had departed, while he still fancied that he beheld the sun.

This from the poem Demain dès l'aube, where Victor Hugo describes visiting Leopoldine's grave:

I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, Without seeing anything outside, without hearing any noise, Alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed, Sad, and the day for me will be like night.

And Jean Valjean walking to Cosette's house, but never able to enter or speak to her:

There [Jean Valjean] walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point which seemed to be a star to him

This bit where Hugo talks about his faith weakening/cursing God in vain after Leopoldine’s death:

Consider how one doubts, O God! when one suffers, how the eye that weeps too much is blinded, how a being plunged by grief into the blackest pit, seeing you no more, cannot contemplate you.

Is similar to Jean Valjean’s spirtual self weakening and his consience “taking flight” at the idea of losing Cosette:

Any one who had beheld his spiritual self would have been obliged to concede that it weakened at that moment. (...) Grief, when it attains this shape, is a headlong flight of all the forces of the conscience. These are fatal crises. Few among us emerge from them still like ourselves and firm in duty.

Victor Hugo agonizing over his dreams of growing old with his daughter in A Villequier:

You make loneliness return always around all his footsteps.(...) As soon as he owns something, fate takes it away. Nothing is given to him, in his speedy days, for him to make a home and say: Here is my house, my field and my loved ones!

Jean Valjean:

“As one family! No. I belong to no family. I do not belong to yours. I do not belong to any family of men. In houses where people are among themselves, I am superfluous. There are families, but there is nothing of the sort for me. I am an unlucky wretch; I am left outside.

Victor Hugo's poetry in A Villequier again:

in the midst of cares, hardships, miseries, and of the shadow our fate casts over us, how a child appears, a dear sacred head, a small joyful creature, so beautiful one thinks a door to heaven has opened when it arrives; when for sixteen years one has watched this other self grow in loveable grace and sweet reason, when one has realized that this child one loves makes daylight in our soul and in our home,

Jean Valjean:

this man, who had passed through all manner of distresses, who was still all bleeding from the bruises of fate, (...) merely asked of Providence, of man, of the law, of society, of nature, of the world, one thing, that Cosette might love him! That Cosette might continue to love him! That God would not prevent the heart of the child from coming to him, and from remaining with him! Beloved by Cosette, he felt that he was healed, rested, appeased, loaded with benefits, recompensed, crowned. Beloved by Cosette, it was well with him! He asked nothing more! Had any one said to him: “Do you want anything better?” he would have answered: “No.” God might have said to him: “Do you desire heaven?” and he would have replied: “I should lose by it.”

Victor Hugo begging God to talk to his daughter again:

Let me lean over this cold stone and say to my child: Do you feel that I am here? Let me speak to her, bent over her remains, in the evening when all is still, as if, reopening her celestial eyes in her night, this angel could hear me!

Jean Valjean thanking God for letting him speak to Cosette one more time:

The good God says: “‘You fancy that you are about to be abandoned, stupid! No. No, things will not go so. Come, there is a good man yonder who is in need of an angel.’

I think the ending of Les Mis never made complete sense to me until I realized that Jean Valjean isn't grieving like a parent who has watched their child grow up; he is grieving like a parent who has just watched their child die.

[munsons-hellfire]

My Love Will Never Die: Prologue

SUMMARY: Circe Archeron is faced with the tragedy of losing her cousin when a faerie arrives at their home demanding to know who had killed the wolf.

PAIRINGS: Azriel x Circe Archeron x Eris Vanserra

CONTENT WARNING: None really, at least I don't think.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello and welcome to the prologue of My Love Will Never Die. I have had this idea for a while. There will be two other characters that will be introduced in this series. The first chapter will take place in A Court of Mist and Fury. I hope you enjoy this! Also I decided to write this in first person pov instead of 3rd person. If you'd like to be added to a taglist for this series let me know in the comments.

WORD COUNT: 3.7K

My Love Will Never Die Masterlist

Snow and ice crusted the earth below. But it didn’t matter to me, I stood tall in the snow covered trees. My dirty-blonde hair was pulled back and braided so it would be out of my way. I jumped from tree to tree, Feyre was always jealous of the fact that I had an easy time hiding in the trees. I had always felt this heavy weight on my back, and because of it I had learned to balance myself especially in trees.

They became my friends. Odd, I know, but totally worth it when we’d go out hunting. That’s what my cousin and I had been doing, hunting for food in this brisk winter. I could feel the cold running along my skin. I had been living with the Archeron sisters since shortly before they had to leave the luxurious home behind and move into a smaller home. I didn’t understand why my parents had dropped me off with my cousins, all I know is they’re hiding something from me. One day I’ll figure it out. But today I’m hunting in the woods.

Feyre and I had separated from each other hours ago. We’d hoped that by doing so we’d gain more distance to find something to eat. But so far I had no such luck, I was secretly hoping that Feyre had gained the luck today. Feyre and I had started to go out into the woods to hunt for food when we were fourteen. Her reasoning was a promise she’d made to her mother, mine was mostly because I didn’t like to be alone with Nesta and Elain when Feyre wasn’t there.

Our relationship was strained. Nesta hated me, I don’t know why. I guess she blames me for moving in, because soon after they could no longer afford anything. I’m not sure honestly, she doesn’t ever give me an answer whenever I question her, whenever I ask her the same question. She just lets it fuss out like it's nothing important and honestly I’ve given up trying to figure out why she hates me. Feyre and I are now nineteen, it’s crazy, I know but what more can I do in this life.

Most of the things I know how to do I managed to teach myself, reading is one of those things. I’m not as skilled in reading but I can get by somewhat. It’s not important right now anyway. I’ve tried to help Feyre but I don’t really know what I’m doing. Feyre has become my best friend, she’s more of a sister than a cousin. And I so badly wished to have had that sibling connection with her that Nesta and Elain have with her but seem to not care much about.

I shake my head, easily getting lost in my thoughts these days when I’m alone in the woods. I gripped the bark tightly, small scratches littered my palms. I tend to get my hands cut a lot when I’d climb up into the trees. Feyre always had something to say about it and I know she’ll most likely say something about it when she sees my hands. Sometimes I like to feel pain, and the only healthy way is to climb trees. I adjust myself trying to ignore the heavy weight on my back.

I knew at this point without having any luck it was time to call quits and head home. I was hoping that Feyre had already made it back to the small house. I lunge off the branch I was hanging out on, I grip onto the next branch holding it tightly as I swing back and forth. The slight pain in my hands is evident. Finally I’m able to let go of the branch and land on the icy ground. The ice crunches beneath my boot covered feet.

I pull my dagger from my holster, it’s not much but it’s kept me safe over the years since I’ve started hunting. I lower myself into a crouching position and release a breath. My breath mixes with the cold air causing it to turn into a mist. Just to be safe I always stay low to the ground to make sure I’m not caught as I walk back home to the house where Nesta, Elain and my Uncle are. All of whom probably aren’t doing anything.

An hour later I had given up on the crouching, but I’d made it home. The dagger is back in the sheath. I don’t need Nesta and Elain to know I have it. One day I’d found it near the border that separates us from the Faeries, it was calling to me. Odd. It was so odd that a dagger was calling my name. But I found it and since then it has been with me. Finally reaching the door I pushed it open and walked inside.

A soft grunt leaves my throat as I enter the house. The house had a small amount of warmth, I could feel it but it was barely there. Not that I mind, I preferred the cold anyway. At least that’s what I tell myself. My ocean blue eyes land on my Uncle and cousins all of whom are close to each other.

“Where’s Feyre?” Nesta questioned, not bothering to give me another glance.

“Like you care.” I mumbled the words as I removed my cloak from my body. It didn’t do much to keep me warm during the winter but it was better than nothing. “She’s probably still hunting, I didn;t have any luck but I’m hoping that Feyre found something.” I said that loud enough that all three could hear me. Nesta didn’t budge, nor did Elain. I walked past them making my way into our small shared room. Sometimes I wish I could sleep on the floor in the winter. I hate sharing a room with my cousins. Feyre not so much because she didn’t hate me.

I closed the door behind me once I was in the room. I needed to change into warmer, dry clothes. I tracked towards the dresser and kneeled down to stare at the painting Feyre had drawn on my drawer. I had the same recording dream, it was always blurry so I couldn’t make out much. But I got enough from the dream. I had asked Feyre one day to paint hazel and amber eyes, mixed with bat wings, shadows and flames. I could never really understand why I had seen those images so constantly in my dreams but I wanted to be able to see them no matter the time of day.

Feyre had even questioned me about it when she was painting it, but I just didn’t know how to answer it other than the fact that I had seen everything when I was asleep. I didn’t know who the eyes belonged to but I knew one day that I’d figure it out eventually. I knew whomever the eyes belonged to they would most likely be important to me. After pulling on a warm set of clothes I heard the front door open, followed by Feyre’s voice and shortly after Nesta’s voice.

“Where did you get that?” Nesta had asked, as I rejoined them. I glanced over at Feyre as she looked at me. Over the years Feyre and I had developed a secret sort of communication and were able to talk with each other via expressions. Feyre was asking for my help without actually saying something. I moved from my spot walking over to her.

“Where do you think I got it?” Feyre questioned back, her voice hoarse.

I looked over at Nesta and my Uncle, they were by the hearth warming their hands. I had noticed Elain but gave her no mind just like she did to me. I watched closely as Feyre removed a wolf pelt from the doe she had collected. Then she turned and took her boots off placing them by the door. Feyre turned back towards Elain and myself, she glanced at her second oldest sister before her eyes fell onto me.

“Will it take you long to clean it?” Elain had asked simply.

I took note of the question, it was directed towards me and Feyre. We were the only ones who truly knew how to clean an animal. It wasn’t a hard task to learn, all things considered. I released a huff and glided towards the doe. I paid no mind to the conversation going on currently. At some point Feyre had joined me and we began working together.

“Are you going to come with us to the market tomorrow?” I lifted my eyes at the question Feyre had asked. Then briefly I looked over at Nesta and Elain.

“I think I’ll stay here if that’s all right.” For some reason my voice was soft as I answered Feyre’s question. Feyre only gave a nod and the conversation dropped there. Eventually night fell and we were stuffed in the bed. I was exhausted from today’s adventure and ready for bed.

☾

I had spent most of the day with my Uncle though he hadn’t made much of an effort to talk to me. So I ended up in the trees. When I didn’t want to talk to anyone this is where I’d come. I’d pick a tree, climb it and sit on the branch. Sometimes I’d stay resting on the tree well past sunset to watch the stars shine brightly in the sky. This was my safe heaven and I didn’t know what I’d do without this. Feyre stood down below staring up at me.

“Come on, food’s ready.” She said my cousin was never happy that I could climb the trees. She also didn’t understand why I did it. In a sense I guess I needed to be closer to the stars or the sun or maybe the clouds. I never really knew, it was always a guessing game with my feelings. “When will you stop climbing into trees?”

I shrugged my shoulders, attempting to move the weight on my back. It always felt like something was dragging against the ground. I didn’t understand it, I had hoped to one day reunite with my parents and ask them why it felt that way on my back. I hadn’t seen them since they dropped me off at my cousins, so I guess I would never really get my answers. I looked back at Feyre realizing that she was still waiting for me to answer her question, the one I hadn’t answered yet.

“Never. It’s my safe haven away from Nesta, Elain and Uncle.” I finally answered the question as Feyre and I started walking back towards the home.

“Just don’t hurt yourself. I can’t lose my best friend.” Feyre looked at me. Her blue-green eyes blazing brightly. We entered the house, finally we were all sitting down and eating the deer. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to whatever conversation they were having. I would take small bites of my food to savor it, and in between I’d play with it until I decided to take another bite. A roar so loud I had to cover my ears brought me out of my thoughts.

Hesitantly I reached for my dagger, but didn’t make a move to pull it out of its sheath. Nesta and Elain were screaming, snow burst into the room we were in as the door opened and a growling figure appeared in our line of sight. I was so confused as to what was going on but finally I pulled the dagger out of my hands and moved in front of Nesta and Elain. The dagger was in front of me as I looked up at the beast. My heartbeat was beating so fast, I couldn’t seem to calm it down.

“MURDERERS!” Its voice was rough as it looked around the room. My breath caught in my throat as I glanced over at Feyre. We both knew what this was. Faerie. I couldn’t believe there was a Fae in our home. Who was it and what did they want? Those were the only questions that seemed to be running through my mind. “MURDERERS!” It roared again.

“P-please,” I could hear my Uncle’s voice from somewhere in the room. I couldn’t look away from the beast to figure out where his voice was coming from. “Whatever we have done, we did so unknowingly, and—”

“W-w-we didn’t kill anyone.” Nesta added, choking on the sobs that left her lips. I briefly pulled my eyes away from the beast and saw her holding the iron bracket over her head. I guess she hoped it would protect her from the monster at our front door.

“Get out,” Feyre snapped at the beast, she held a dinner knife in front of her. I shifted slightly and caught the eyes of the beast. It looked at me, then it seemed to halt its movements. It sensed something on me, I could tell. “Get out, and begone.” Feyre added. His roar was so loud it shook the entire cottage along with everything in it. Before I had a chance to speak I watched Feyre hurl her hunting knife at the beast. But he was able to block it before it made contact with his skin.

Feyre stumbled backwards almost knocking into her father. I stepped forward slightly, the faerie had almost killed my cousin. I had almost lost her. The eyes of the monster landed on me, he looked at me differently then he had looked at Feyre. I straightened my back slightly, moving my shoulders to adjust the weight on my back. It was almost like he could sense that something was different about me. That I was different from my cousins. But as far as I was aware whatever was different about me he couldn’t see it. At least that’s what I hoped.

“WHO KILLED HIM?” He roared out, pulling his eyes away from me to look around at the rest of my family. He stalked towards us, he set his paw on the table, his claws scratched into the table one by one. I shuddered at the thought of what those claws could do.

“Killed who?” Feyre was quick to ask the question.

He growled out, his voice was low, “the wolf.” I looked to my cousin as her eyes fell to mine. I hadn’t been with her but she had in fact killed that wolf. At this moment I wish I had been with her. Maybe I should tell the creature that I was the one who had killed the wolf, but I knew Feyre wouldn’t let me do that.

“A wolf?” Elain released a shriek, I had to stop myself from covering my ears when I heard it.

“A large wolf with a gray coat,” he snarled at us.

“If it was mistakenly killed,” Feyre said to the beast, her voice calm. “What payment could we offer in exchange?” I closed my eyes dreading what this creature might want in return.

“The payment you must offer is the one demanded by the Treaty between our realms.”

“For a wolf?” I asked, tilting my head. This was so confusing.

“Who killed the wolf?” His eyes whirled around the room staring at each of us. I moved my shoulders, stepping forward however Feyre beat me to it.

“I did.” She said.

“Surely you lie to save them, to save her.” He said pointing at me with his clawed finger. I gulped, I feared that he might try and take me instead of Feyre. This wasn’t happening, this had to be a dream. I need to wake up now, I go to pinch myself only it hurts. This is real.

“We didn’t kill anything!” Elain cried. “Please… please, spare us!” Nesta hushed Elain, though she did it through her own crying. I couldn’t bring myself to cry like they were. I guess because I had been hunting for a while with Feyre. Suddenly my Uncle was standing from where he’d been sitting, grunting in pain.

“I killed it!” Feyre said, I watched as the beast pulled his eyes away from Nesta and Elain to look at her. “I sold its hide at the market today. If I had known it was a faerie, I wouldn’t have touched it.” I knew that was a lie.

“Liar.” So did he, apparently. “You knew. You would have been more tempted to slaughter it had you known it was one of my kind.”

“Can you blame me?”

“Did it attack you? Were you provoked?”

I looked over at my cousin waiting for her to say yes, to say something other than the word that was uttered from her mouth, “No,” she said, with a snarl of her own. “But considering all that your kind has done to us, considering what your kind still likes to do to us, even if I had known beyond a doubt, it was deserved.”

He released a growl to Feyre’s answer. I could feel the rage coming from the creature. I think we all could. I didn’t like where this was heading and I knew where this was heading. I didn’t want it to be the case. I can’t lose Feyre, she’s all I have. Sure the others are here but they don’t really care for me, I’m just an extra mouth that my parents forced them to take care of because they couldn’t handle whatever was wrong with me.

“What is the payment the Treaty requires?”

He continued to stare at Feyre as he talked to her, “A life for a life. Any unprovoked attacks on faerie-kind by humans are to be paid only by a human life in exchange.” Nesta and Elain stopped crying at the admission.

“I didn’t know.” Feyre said. “Didn’t know about that part of the Treaty.”

I couldn’t think of a way out of this, of a way to keep Feyre here with us. “Most of you mortals have chosen to forget that part of the Treaty,” he said, “which makes punishing you far more enjoyable.”

The panic inside me was flickering, I couldn’t lose her. He was going to take her away. I would never see the only person who understood me ever again.

“Do it outside,” Feyre whispered, her voice trembling. I wanted to cry for the first time in what felt like forever. But I still couldn’t bring myself to not yet anyway. “Not… here.”

“Willing to accept your fate so easily?” He asked. “For having the nerve to request where I slaughter you, I’ll let you in on a secret, human: Prythian must claim your life in some way, for the life you took from it. So as a representative of the immortal realm, I can either gut you like swine, or… you can cross the wal and live our the remainder of your days in Prythian.”

“What?” Feyre asked.

“Please.” I begged, no matter how hard I was trying to hold back my tears they had started to fall down my face. “Please don’t take her away from me. I can’t lose her.” I broke, as the words exited my mouth. My knees trembled and I quickly dropped to the ground staring at the beast.

“You can either die tonight or offer your life to Prythian by living in it forever, forsaking the human realm.”

I was shaking my head looking at my cousin. “Do it, Feyre,” my Uncle whispered from behind Feyre. “Go.”

“No. Please.” I cried out again.

“Live where? Every inch of Prythian is lethal to us.” She does have a point. “Why bother?”

“You murdered my friend,” he snarled at her. “Murdered him, skinned his corpse, sold it at the market, and then said he deserved it, and yet you have the nerve to question my generosity?”

Feyre stepped forward. “You didn’t need to mention the loophole.”

He released another snarl. “Foolish of me to forget that humans have such low opinions of us. Do you humans no longer understand mercy?” He’s so close to Feyre now. “Let me make this clear for you, girl: you can either come live at my home in Prythian—offer your life for the wolf’s in that way—or you can walk outside right now and be shredded to ribbons. Your choice.”

“Please, good sire—Feyre is my youngest. I beseech you to spare her. She is all… she is all…” His words seemed to die in his throat as he talked. “Please—”

“Silence.”

“I can get gold—” He tried to come up with a compromise, and I hoped that the beast would allow it over taking Feyre away.

“How much is your daughter’s life worth to you? Do you think it equates to a sum?” He questioned. Nothing came out to answer the question, the silence was deafening as Feyre stepped forward. She looked back at me, like she was sending her apology to me. I knew what it meant, she was leaving to protect all of us. And to honor the Treaty he was talking about.

“When do we go?” Feyre asked, I started shaking my head. I couldn’t breath, this was happening too fast for my liking.

“Now.”

I couldn’t hear anything after that. It was all silent. I wanted this to be a dream more than anything right now. I wish it were. I really do wish I could just wake up from this. I felt myself begging the creature over and over, asking to go with them. But Feyre turned it down before I even had a chance. I felt her arms around me as she said goodbye. But I still couldn’t process anything. Before I knew it she was gone, taken just like that.

I wouldn’t have my best friend with me anymore. I’d live a life without her and that broke me. I crumpled to the floor and cried out silently. I received no comfort from any of them the rest of the night. I just stayed on the floor until I eventually cried myself to sleep, hoping for a better future. Maybe I’d get a better future now. I just had to remain strong and not let my thoughts consume me. But that was a difficult challenge.

[mcmorare]

ok this drabble has been sitting in a doc for like a year and i cannot figure out how to finish it so i am just posting it now <3 completely hypothetical scenario where katrina gets to meet an alt universe version of wilhelm where he survived instead of her

Katrina had experienced hallucinations before. She knew what they were like. Knew what to expect. But never in a million years had she expected this. 

This shouldn’t be possible. Not even with her powers. There was no way that it really was him, Wilhelm, standing before her. The same boy she had met in HYDRA so many years ago. The boy who had died right before her eyes, had never gotten to grow up into the person standing before her now. But even if it wasn’t this exact face that she had seen, it was still unmistakable. They had been through hell together, their souls knew each other too well for doubt. It was him. 

“No.” Katrina shook her head, insistent. “You’re dead. I saw you die. Right in front of me. And then I saw it over and over again, and not only could I never forget it but I kept seeing it, hearing it, over and over again and I can still feel the blood on my hands and I know that was real. I can’t see things that didn’t happen. And I keep seeing that so I know it happened. You died in that building when you were nineteen and this can’t be real. This isn’t-“ She shook her head again. “Oh, God, there must be something wrong with me,” she breathed. “What the fuck is happening-”

“Katrina.” Wilhelm placed his hands on her shoulders, gently but steadily. “I know. I know.” 

“No, you don’t. Because you’re not real. This isn’t real, this can’t be real because you’re dead and you’ve been dead for years and I think I’m losing my mind-” 

“Trina.” Her frantic denial finally quieted, his eyes staring into hers. “I know. Because in my universe, it was you.” A quiet sigh left his lips as he paused. “I couldn’t move fast enough. And I spent six months alone in there paying for it. I’ve regretted it every single day since.” His voice was even, sure. “I promise you, it’s me. Just not the version of me from this world.” 

Her lower lip trembled, disbelief still clouding her gaze. Knowledge of that event itself was some level of proof - there had never been any official record, only the memories of those who had been there - but that alone wasn’t enough. She still couldn’t let herself believe that this wasn’t just some trick or dream. 

“You’re from a tiny shit town, like me. You ran away from home when you were 16. You have an older brother. You pay attention to the Austrian Bundesliga even though no one ever does because the actual Bundesliga is more popular, your favorite team is Rapid Wien. Your favorite in the Bundesliga is Dortmund. You have scars on your hands from trying to get rid of your powers. You love being in nature. I used to call you forget-me-not because of your powers, and my favorite flower is gladiolus. I taught you how to say them in Polish. Mieczyk i Niezapominajka. Remember?” He offered a small smile. “Stupid question. You never forget.”

Katrina stayed frozen for a moment. Then, all at once she lunged forward, arms clasping around him and fingers balling into fists around the fabric of his shirt. 

“Wilhelm.” Her voice was a trembling breath. 

“Katrina.” He wrapped his arms around her, eyes closing as his head came to rest against the top of hers, memory and emotion coming rushing back at the embrace that they had gone without for so long that he had almost forgotten how it felt. “Bardzo za tobą tęskniłem.” I've missed you so much.

“You’re… are you… how?” Even as she asked, she only wrapped her arms around him tighter. Still trying to find as much proof as she could that this was real, that he was really there in front of her. 

“I… Honestly, I don’t know how to explain,” he said with a slight laugh. “A very long story that I am definitely not focused enough to tell properly at the moment.” 

But instead of a response, she just sniffled, hiding her face in his shoulder. She had never imagined that she would get to see him like this. To see him grown, aged into the man he would have been if only she would have been faster. Done more. Out of everything she had done and failed to do, his death was by far one of her biggest regrets. The knowledge of how good he was, of how much good he would have put out into the world, weighed on her since the moment his heart stopped. A good person for her. It hadn’t been a fair trade. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice faltering. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Wilhelm-” 

“For what?” He asked as if he couldn’t comprehend why she had anything to be sorry for, why she felt the need to say it at all. 

“I couldn’t save you.” It took all her willpower to keep her voice somewhat steady and keep her tears from spilling over. “It should have been me. It was my punishment to take. You never deserved it. You were supposed to live. It should have been me. I’m so sorry.” 

“No.” Sharp wasn’t the right word, he was never that aggressive, but his tone was definitely resolute. “That was not your fault. You did not do anything wrong. And I know you’re not going to believe me right now, but you have nothing to be sorry about. Nothing.” He pulled away slightly, hands planted on her shoulders as he looked her in the eyes. “Do you know how happy it makes me to know that there is a world where you survived?”

[spookylair]

11/11/23, 3am

you’re a drumbeat in the back of my brain

two syllables, repeating: rolling off my tongue

in those moments where I forget I am alive

your name, your voice, your hands

the warmth of you, dissipating into open air–

(did they catch your blood, hold it in?

did they succeed in leading you home?)

we were two lost souls

swimming in our little circles

and I can’t tell anyone

who knew you & of you

what hell I’m in, here

grief is so intimate

so isolating

I’m alone in this

(you’re gone)

it’s been three weeks

and I’m only halfway here

breathing and eating and walking

while you’re miles and hours and lifetimes

away, some indecipherable chasm yawning between us

it’s still not real to me, this isn’t real. I’m not real

it can’t be over like this, not like this, no–

I keep fixating:

did you suffer? were you laying next to a table where you colored with crayons?

did you bleed out on a carpet that hosted sleepovers and late-night talks and family gatherings?

did you die in front of a TV that held you still for endless hours?

(I don’t know, I don’t know if any of that is true, I don’t–)

did you know it was him doing this?

did you know your mother died, too?

did you know you helped your twin escape?

(I know she buried you & her, three days later,

ringed by friends and family–)

I asked to come down for that

and was told no so very gently

ah, I am too loud for them still

my standing is hollow

without you here

I’m struck silent by the thought of you

it haunts my nights, drags at my bones

pulls me to stillness over and over

my dreams are full of you

finding your heart,

keeping you safe from your brother

a threadbare hotel bed

our road trip,

our single date,

that doomed kiss–

you, you, you.

you were dead already

when a car trunk swung down and sliced my nose open;

the ensuing anguish, the rictus of tears, the screaming

has left me with a crooked, tender scar

I find myself touching it

thinking of blood and pain

and the price of love

I was nineteen when I met you

and we tried so hard to pick each other apart

it took years to reach consensus, to find solace

to remember why we’d fallen in love in the first place

(you and me, orbiting endlessly)

it’s only now I realize I didn’t actually get over you

I was a coward: I figured everything was better left unsaid

because neither of us had the right to pry that door open again

but I wish I had stayed, when you asked me to. I wanted to.

I should have, maybe (even though others tell me what I did was

the right thing for you, avenues better left alone, what if you hadn’t moved on?)

I’d like to think you did. I’d like to think you barely thought of me

anything more, and I’m down the deepest hole I can find

convinced I don’t deserve the sunlight–

I’m withdrawing, keeping to the surface

turning away from others when I cry

deflecting, disarming, denying

keeping the focus away

but the grief blinds me

sends me crashing to the floor

I lose time, heartbeats, motion

I think: it can’t get any worse

but oh, I’m wrong

I’m wrong, I’m wrong

I miss you.

this can’t be the end

tell me I’m just dreaming

(come wake me up)

look

I wish I could talk about you

to any of our college friends

but no one knows what happened

there is no sympathy for me here

just stories lionizing you

(I do just the same)

or, that I could to any of my high school friends

because they remembered what you’d done

there is no sympathy for you there

just stories demonizing you

(it was what I needed)

trapped by our reckoning

frozen by the swiftness

of your departure–

listen

I want the right to mourn you

no caveats, no “we weren’t as close”

no “we haven’t really talked in months”

no “I don’t know his preferences anymore”

no questions about your growth & change

I want to grieve without judgment

without holding back, without worry

but no one really understands

ah god, am I alone?

I love you.

I loved you.

I loved you still.

my boyfriend points out you were my first love

and I’m gutted by this characterization

it feels wasted on me

I’m sorry for everything I said and didn’t do

for everything I did and could not say

for not seeing you when I should have

for not visiting you like I swore I would

for taking advantage of your generosity

I’m spinning out again,

the regrets choking me silent

I cannot keep doing this

so I’ll carry you with me

hope the intervening years

will grant me some measure of

peace (solace) healing

I know there’s a way through

(like how you showed me, after Mom)

but it’s cold comfort, living

without you here.

[tarotmander]

Death

A Poem By Sal Engle

I’ve spent a long time contemplating death.

For most it seems to be this hush hush, keep it hidden thing. 

But I never really got that sentiment.

As a kid I was afraid of death.

As a teen I longed for death.

And now as a man,

I accept death.

Death is nothing more than the end of one cycle before it inevitably repeats.

No matter your beliefs you have to acknowledge that death isn’t truly permanent.

Either you believe in another life after this one, be it an afterlife or reincarnation;

And if you don’t then you have to acknowledge that even once we lose all consciousness the carbon and electricity that made up our physical form is recycled into the Earth.

So no matter what you believe you have to believe that we never truly disappear. 

We leave behind our corpses, our memory, our legacies,

For better or for worse everyone who has ever lived and will ever live will never truly die. 

To me it’s strangely comforting. 

Death is a weird thing to be afraid of. 

It’s not something you can stop, or avoid,

Maybe you can prolong the inevitable but it’s still just that,

Inevitable.

Because one day we will all die. 

And the more you spend time fearing that ending,

Is more time wasted in this life? 

You, as you are right now, are a futile concept.

You will not wake up exactly the same tomorrow, nor did you wake up the same as yesterday.

One’s sense of self is as fleeting as the name of a past classmate.

You may vaguely remember it years down the road, but you probably won’t remember details about who the name aligned with. 

It’s the same for your sense of self.

No one really remembers who they were or what they stood for.

You may remember bits and pieces but so much has changed since then that it doesn’t really matter.

So if the past is so forgettable and the future is unknown?,

Why bother worrying about either?

Why not just focus on now, the life you’re currently living?

Death is something I have accepted for a long time. 

Men like me barely make it to adulthood as it is and those who do more than often will die by their early thirties due to suicide.

At nineteen I have already lived 54.3% of my projected life span. 

At seventeen I had already lived half of my life. 

Now I could sit here and explain why that is but frankly I don’t want to.

I was just happy to make it this long. 

And I plan on living the rest of my life as best I can. 

Don’t get me wrong, I still feel fear everytime I think it’s the end for me.

But every time I get over it.

Because frankly I’ve never wanted a long life.

When I die I want to be remembered in my prime.

I don’t want to wither away and forget everyone I love.

I don’t need to get married or have children. 

All I want is to know that I did my best.

Sure I may have fucked up a lot but all kids do.

I still did everything in my power to do better. 

I’ve helped people who couldn’t help themselves.

I’ve loved people who couldn’t love themselves.

I made a few lives just a little bit brighter,

I may have made some lives a little bit darker.

But I accept that.

No one is perfect, hell no one is even truly good.

People are shitty and selfish and rude,

But not always.

I know that I’ve done my best to fight for the future of kids like me.

Kids who society has put walls up against.

Longevity was never something the gods planned for me. 

And I’m okay with that.

A shorter life just means I have a deadline for my fight. 

So in the time that I have left I’m gonna fight as hard as I can,

I’m gonna love as hard as I can,

I’m gonna forgive those who try to get better,

And yes I’m going to hate those who let themselves hurt others without remorse or growth.

One thing you learn when you’re living on borrowed time is that not everyone will deserve your forgiveness. 

While not everyone who has hurt you meant to,

Not everyone who apologizes means it. 

If there is no sincerity in their actions then do not waste your time trying to find any. 

Spend that time and energy on those who show sincerity from day one. 

Don’t let them drain you of your ability to forgive.

If I die tomorrow I’ll be okay.

Because I know that I spent the last handful of years becoming the man I wish I had there for me growing up. 

But if I see you in fifteen years or so,

I hope you meet the man I want to be seen as.

A man who is in no way perfect, 

But a man who tried his hardest to be at the very least good. 

And remember when I do die,

And you write you're eulogies and your speeches,

Remember I was an activist, I fought for my rights and the rights of those around me,

My favorite flowers were daisies and white lilies,

I had a pet rabbit who I loved dearly,

I was honest to a fault,

And sometimes I was a real piece of shit,

But I was trying to get better,

Most importantly,

 I was a human.

And I never tried to be perfect. 

And that’s okay.

I’m not afraid of not being perfect.

I am afraid of never being anything at all. 

If I leave this world with one legacy I want it to be that I was stubborn,

That I didn’t stand down,

When I go I don’t plan on doing so quietly.

I will die as I lived,

I will die as a spectacle for all to remember.

[whirlybirdwhat]

a piece for the it’s pirates zerver sine: home: built stolen lost found

When Luffy is three, alone and abandoned in the world besides a grandfather who is never there, and a bartender who tries her best to be, he asks Makino a single question.

It’s from a phrase he had heard patrons of the bar say as they pushed back their seats and headed out the door, a phrase Gramps had said as he slammed through walls with a smile, a phrase, a word he had never known he meaning of. 

“Makino? What’s home?” 

Makino looks down at him, tugging on her skirts, and kneels down with a smile. “Well – home is a place your family is, and where you feel happy and safe. It’s a place where you stay, and can have a bedroom, and a place to put all your toys and belongings. Sometimes, it can even be a person!” She says  it so happily, so brightly, but Luffy only looks at her with wide, wide eyes. 

“Oh,” he says, and clutches harder to the toy boat in his hands. Oh. 

It is then, that moment, strikingly clear, that Luffy realizes he doesn’t have a home. 

(His grandfather is never here, Makino is good but she isn’t quite family, not in the way he knows it, and he had a small attic to call his without a view of the sea.) 

And, quietly, realizes that he doesn’t want one. 

(To have a place to stay, to remain still, to place all burdens on another? To call home somewhere stationary, unmoving, unwanted? It sounded like hell.)

Oh, he says again. Oh. 

-

When Luffy is six, alone and abandoned in a small village by the sea that he could never leave, he asks Shanks a question. 

It is a question that had been lingering in the dredges of his mind, ever since these pirates had barged through the door with songs on their lips and adventures in their minds, with not that word that he didn’t have leaving their mouths but rather tales of ships and voyages and seas.

“Shanks? Where’s your home?”

Shanks looks down at him, eyebrows quirking upward as he finishes his drink with a flourish before setting it down with a soft clink. His eyes are just as soft, like some how he understands that this is different from when Luffy asked about his favorite battles, when Luffy asked for a sip of his drink or if Shanks really had been at the bottom of the sea when he was Luffy’s age. 

“Home? Easy – it’s the sea, anchor!”

“The sea?” Luffy had never heard something more stupid, and that was saying a lot since all the stupid things he heard of were from Shanks. That wasn’t what Makino had told him, wasn’t what Gramps had explained, wasn’t anything like where your family is or place you stay. It was the sea – endless and vast and full of danger and sea kings and marines that like to give you Fists of Love and don’t come back. The sea didn’t have a place to have belongings or keep yourself safe. It – 

It doesn’t make sense. 

“The sea!” Shanks says with a grin, a sparkle in his eye like he gets before stands on tables and talks about the time he sailed to a land of samurai. “It’s any pirate’s home! It’s where our adventures await, and where our nakama are with us, and every day it bright than the rest, ain’t that right, fellas!”

“Aye, captain!” The crew drunkenly choruses, words already forming on their lips. 

“How does that one chorus go?”

“Which one?”

“Oh, I know! Gather up all the crew – “

“It’s time to ship out Bink’s Brew!” Shanks joins in, holding his hands out to Luffy and not even waiting till he grabs them to snatch him up in a dance. “Pirates, we eternally are challenging the sea.” His voice is joyful and loud with the way men get when the party in in swing, but there’s nothing but happiness in his steps as he guides Luffy onto his feet and twirls him around.

 “With the waves to rest our heads,  ship beneath us as our beds, hoisted high upon the mast, our jolly roger flies! Yohohoho-“

“Oi! Wrong part captain! It goes like this – “

“Dahahaha!” Shanks ignores them, only to bend down to Luffy’s level. “A pirates’ home is where he’s happy, Luffy. My home is with my crew and with some drink – or an adventure – in my hand. That’s the sea for me. Got it?”

Luffy doesn’t, but as Shanks sweeps him up into another round of Bink’s brew, he’s starting to find that the answer doesn’t really matter, not when he’s not alone here, with Shanks and pirates all around him

“Yohohoho, yohohoho!”

-

Luffy is seven, and he’s finally figured out what home is. Home is his brothers, running through the jungle, laughter and adventure and fun is every step. Home is the way Ace smiles when he thinks no one is looking, and the way Sabo is always the first to say Let’s explore! Home is coming home to a tree house, and never being alone. 

Home is Ace and Sabo and Ace and Sabo and – 

Home is burning. 

Home is dead.

Luffy feels hollow, feels like the world is crumbling out from underfoot, because everyone said that home could be a person but they never said that home could burn. That home could die. That home could go away and never, ever come back. 

Maybe that’s why Shanks said home is the sea and why Makino said that home is a place and only sometimes a person – because people leave and burn and never come back, and seas can’t burn or be destroyed. 

Luffy is seven, and he realizes again that he doesn’t want a home, not anymore, because all home does is burn. 

(Then, there’s a promise and a vow and Luffy is never going to lose home again.)

-

Luffy is seventeen, and he’s been alone for three years but not anymore because this time – this time he has a home that won’t burn, that won’t leave, because he is their captain and he will protect them. 

Home is Zoro and his quiet smiles, home is Nami, and her ink-stained hands, home is Usopp and stories that roll off the tongue, home is Sanji and meals made for comfort, home is Vivi and her kindness however far away, home is Chopper and his hugs, home is Robin and her cryptic statements, home is Merry, sturdy and true, home is – 

Ace, and Ace won’t burn because Ace is made of fire. Home can’t burn again. It can’t. 

It can’t.

-

Luffy is seventeen, and home is burning by his own hands. It’s a funeral, the only one worthy of Merry because the bottom of the sea is a dark place and she deserves a sendoff to light her way but – 

It’s fire, non-the-less, reminding Luffy of how Grey Terminal’s fire looked by the shore, and home – Merry, with her black eyes and painted smile, with her strong planks and her determined heart, Merry, home – 

It’s burning.

(He’s starting to think that maybe home isn’t what he’s always called it before – people and places that make you happy, that keep you safe.

Maybe it’s something else. Maybe it’s something that’s only this way because of him. 

Maybe – )

Sunny won’t burn, will never burn with a hull of Adam’s Wood, but Merry does, and it hurts. 

-

Luffy is seventeen and home is burning. 

This time – 

This time – 

This time – 

It burns it burns it burns it hurts it hurts Ace Ace Ace Ace why no Ace Ace please – 

Home burns in his arms, his big brother who is made of fire, who can’t be burned, burns in his arms, and it drips drips drips down onto Luffy’s chest and he can’t let go because this is home and this home can’t burn but it does and – 

“Thank you for loving me.”

Home burns. 

(It always does.)

“AAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

-

Luffy is eighteen and Ruskaina is sweltering and his chest is burning burning burning but he’s not home. 

He’s not. 

He’s…

He’s not alone. He’s not home. His crew (ZoroNamiUsoppSanjiViviChopperRobinFrankyBrook) is still there, still existing, but they are not home, any longer.

Maybe he is, to them. He’s burned, after all, he fits his own criteria. But they aren’t to him.

On Ruskaina, he makes this decision. He vows it, under the sweltering sun and with bandages wrapped around his chest,  with phantom pains on his finger’s where Ace’s vivre card singed him, with his mind alight with war. His crew is not his home, Sunny is not his home, because Luffy does not have a home. 

He does not want one, he does not have one, because home is a place that burns, and Luffy has been burned too many times to count.

-

Luffy is nineteen and older and stronger than all his moments before. He stands in front of his crew with a smile on his face and a burn across his chest, because he is not home, but his crew – 

His crew tumbles into his open, waiting arms, crashing him down onto to the ground as they come home. 

Luffy burns, and Luffy is home, and he will be King of the Pirates. 

For his crew – for people who are not his home but his family, his nakama, his treasure  - there is nothing else he could possibly be. 

[robininthelabyrinth]

anything with jin zixuan marrying into the jiang sect, instead of jiang yanli marrying out?

ao3

It wasn’t that Jin Zixuan didn’t love his mother – he did, he truly did. He loved her, he supported her, he stood by her side in every argument. He would do anything within his power to help her get everything that she wanted.

It was only that he took a very reasonable look at the circumstances and realized he couldn’t. He couldn’t get her the one thing she’d always counted for.

He couldn’t win the right of succession to be Sect Leader Jin.

Maybe if his mother had managed to stop his father from bringing home all his bastards – there were nineteen of them, all together, and those were just the ones that were willing to admit it so who even knew – he might’ve had a better chance, given that he was after all the sole legitimate son. But legitimacy only took you so far: he was neither the oldest of the children, nor the most capable, nor the most cunning. He wasn’t even the best connected, despite his maternal family’s support; that honor went to another one of his siblings, born to an especially well-connected family through unspecified circumstances that might or might not involve rape but which sufficient money had plastered over.

The only thing Jin Zixuan had going for him was his legitimacy, but his father had long ago taught him - however inadvertently - that there wasn’t anything magical about a wedding ceremony that made him better suited to the role of sect leader.

What’s more, in his heart of hearts, Jin Zixuan didn’t even want it.

He wasn’t – he didn’t really like fighting. Or politics, or scheming, or any of it. It just wasn’t his personality. He didn’t like games of influence, he didn’t like backstabbing people that trusted him, he didn’t like gossiping and slandering and not being able to believe in people’s good faith and any of that, and no matter how much his mom pushed him, he didn’t think he’d ever like it. 

But that was what Lanling Jin did, what Jilin Tower was like, and if he wanted to take up the Sect Leader’s seat and reside in the Fragrant Palace, he had to get over himself and accept that that’s what the rest of his life would be like.

Forever.

Until someone murdered him and took his place, anyway. It almost felt inevitable, sometimes. 

Or, because he really truly didn’t want the job, because he really truly didn’t want to die, he could try to think of something else. Some way out.

For example, he could, and did, go to Jin Ziyao and ask him for help.

Jin Ziyao stared at him, eyes narrow and calculating as they so rarely were – he was very good at keeping a bland polite smile on his face, the best at it of all the people Jin Zixuan had ever met, and he’d met a lot. 

“That’s an interesting thing to say, brother,” he said, gently eliding as always the fact that they were the same age, born on the same day to different mothers. “Very interesting indeed. I must ask, though - why are you saying it to me?”

“Because you’d be the best at the job,” Jin Zixuan said honestly. He really thought so: Jin Ziyao was smart and clever, cunning enough to wear a kind face and tricky enough to actually pull off the impression of actually being kind, since people were more willing to forgive kind people, but also ambitious and ruthless enough to survive and maybe even thrive in the political world the way Jin Zixuan wasn’t. “And because you’re smart enough to come up with a way for me to get out of this without dying, if you wanted to.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. Why would I want to?”

And that was the rub, wasn’t it? Jin Zixuan was the legitimate son, the rightful heir, and his father, their father, was just as likely to name Jin Zixuan as the next sect leader no matter how unfit for the role he was on nothing more than that basis as he was to name anyone else with a much stronger claim. 

It was in everyone else’s best interest to kill him, if they were ambitious.

Maybe not his sisters. They wouldn’t inherit no matter what happened to him.

(Sometimes Jin Zixuan wished he was lucky enough to be born a nobody, little Jin Ziyu, who just wanted to play with make-up and avoid all contact with his maternal Mo family. Nobody cared about Jin Ziyu, and everyone liked it that way.)

“You know my position,” Jin Zixuan explained. He didn’t need to say it out loud; he was bitterly aware that it was basically his only personality trait: legitimate heir of Jin Guangshan, the rich boy everyone thought would be the next sect leader unless someone else got in the way. “My support could be worth something to you.”

“Especially if it’s sincere,” Jin Ziyao murmured, looking thoughtful, contemplative. It wasn’t an outright no, anyway, or at least not yet. “And you would be sincere, wouldn’t you?”

“There’s a reason I said that I’m not fit for the role,” Jin Zixuan replied, his voice dry to hide the fact that his heart was in his throat. Jin Ziyao was the one most likely to succeed in finding a way to get him out of this mess, but he was also the most likely to figure out a way to kill him without being blamed for it, too.  There was a reason he’d come to him, but that reason was the danger - who was to say that Jin Ziyao wouldn’t decide it’d be safer to kill him, and to use this to accomplish it? He could be signing his own death warrant. “And even if you’re smart, competent, good at managing things, well-connected, and well-liked, you can still use my help.”

Jin Ziyao had only a single fault: his mother had been a prostitute. People still judged him for that, something which made no sense to Jin Zixuan whatsoever – it wasn’t Jin Ziyao’s fault what his mother did before he was born – but it meant he lacked legitimacy even more than the others. 

Having the legitimate son backing his claim would be a strong argument in favor of overlooking that.

“You know your mother won’t like it,” Jin Ziyao said. Testing, probing; he hadn’t agreed yet.

“I know,” Jin Zixuan said simply. “But I hope that she’d like me being dead less.”

He wasn’t actually sure about that. His mother loved him, yes, but he had never entirely determined if she loved him for himself or as an extension of herself – a symbol of what she would be fighting towards. A sign that her struggles with her husband had a purpose, that all her humiliation would one day be worth it.

That one day, when he was sect leader, she would become the true power in Lanling through him. 

(Jin Zixuan didn’t know what she imagined would happen to all his illegitimate brothers and sisters in that situation, and he didn’t want to; it put a sick feeling in his gut to think about it – which he supposed meant he did know, after all, what she would want, but was instead choosing to ignore it.)

Jin Ziyao studied him for a long moment, presumably trying to analyze his sincerity and how firm he was on the idea. 

Jin Zixuan didn’t rush him, knowing it was a gamble on his side as well: it would be worse for him to help Jin Zixuan out of the line of succession only for Jin Zixuan to change his mind down the road. It would make him look bad, make him a target for the others, and the backstabbing nature of Lanling politics meant that luring someone in with a request for aid was exactly the sort of trap someone might lay out.

Sometimes, Jin Zixuan was really, really tired of Lanling.

Maybe something of that showed on his face, because just when he was starting to lose hope, Jin Ziyao abruptly nodded – almost to himself – and said, “All right. How about your marriage?”

“What about my marriage?” Jin Zixuan asked, puzzled. 

He’d been engaged to his mother’s best friend’s daughter since before he was born, and amazingly enough the engagement had held despite everything – probably because they had barely met, to be perfectly honest. And also the fact that being surrounded by brothers that hid daggers in their smiles gave Jin Zixuan enough experience to realize that he was being deliberately incited when his so-called friends started telling him that he deserved better than a girl most often described simply as being nice.

After all, he’d already started doubting by that time that he even deserved the accident of his legitimate birth, so forget deserving any girl.

Also, being nice sounded…rather nice, actually. Certainly a relief, assuming she was actually nice rather than just pretending to be the way so many of his sisters were.

(None of them liked her, which suggested she might be.)

“You should get to know your intended better,” Jin Ziyao said. “Visit her more often.”

Jin Zixuan really wasn’t seeing the connection between that and his request for assistance, and Jin Ziyao’s gaze softened a little bit, though Jin Zixuan wasn’t sure if it was with sympathy or merely pity.

“It’ll make it easier for you,” he clarified. “For when you marry in.”

Marry in?

Marry in. The Jiang sect was a Great Sect, with enough power and influence to make unreasonable demands – and his father desperately wanted the alliance with them. If they could be convinced to demand that he marry in rather than having Jiang Yanli marry out, pointing to their smaller numbers or the tragedies that had befallen their sect…

Jiang Cheng would like having his sister around. He was also notoriously standoffish around women, and had viciously rejected any effort to be matched with one of the illegitimate Jin girls; it might even be possible to suggest to his father that allowing Jin Zixuan to marry in would mean that there was a chance that Jiang Cheng would be willing to leave his sect to a nephew surnamed Jiang, winning the Jin sect both an alliance and inheritance all at once.

Best of all, it had to be him. The Jiang sect had only agreed to the engagement because of Madame Yu’s friendship with his mother, not for any political reason; if his father tried to substitute him with someone else, they might break it entirely…

And someone who married out couldn’t be the heir.

“You’re a genius,” Jin Zixuan told his brother, who smiled crookedly in acknowledgement. “What should I do? Do I just – go over there? Send a letter? I can’t write letters…”

“Let me think about it,” Jin Ziyao said. “I’m sure I can come up with something more subtle than you.”

[winterscaptain]

roots.

Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: another one from 2026! aaron retires from federal service this year, at 57. 

words: 2.4k warnings: kids!, missing haley hotchner hours, language

summary: “Every day the increasing weight of years admonishes me more and more, that the shade of retirement is as necessary to me as it will be welcome.” ― George Washington, Farewell Address. au!october 2026

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SSA Mallory Kagan asks you to outline your career with the FBI - purposefully using your first name instead of using your title. It keeps the students guessing and paying attention. 

Plus, the payoff when they figure out who you are is the best part of the whole lecture. 

“My career at the FBI is more like a big tree than a path or a journey.” 

You look out over the classroom - blue shirts abound - and take a deep breath to center yourself. 

You’re used to giving this lecture with Aaron, but this is your first fall without him, which also means that this is the first academy class who won’t know him in person. 

They’ll only hear tell of the legend SSA Aaron Hotchner was stabbed nine times, lost his wife to a serial killer, and kept going. You know they’ll hear stories about his severity, his general lack of sunniness, hear rumors about the way he laughs with his children, his wife, and nobody else. 

You know the older agents tell stories about you, too. They say you ‘tamed’ Hotch, made him a little nicer. They might even say they’ve seen him smile at you, or they’ve seen you give him hell in public. 

Aaron Hotchner is practically a myth, now, only supported by your reputation, tall tales from academy classes of yesteryear, and his own legacy.

That retired bastard currently sits in your house with your kids, right on his fine behind, very likely falling into boredom-addled insanity. 

“Everything that I am - a parent, a wife, a friend, and an agent - is because of my work with the Behavioral Analysis Unit over the past nineteen years. My unit is my family, and I can’t get rid of them. Just like our own families, we love to hate each other.” 

The room laughs, and you know you have them hooked. 

“Jokes aside, I would encourage you to get to know your colleagues. Each relationship I built within my unit put a root into the ground, made the proverbial tree stronger - to extend the metaphor. I work with very few of the same people I started with, but I feel as steady and supported as I did back when they called us ‘The Elite Eight.’” 

You chuckle a little, clicking through your introductory slide to showcase a photo of the BAU in 2012. You point to each of them as you speak. 

“SSA Emily Prentiss, current unit chief of the Behavior Analysis unit and former head of the Interpol London office, responsible for taking down one of the most prolific international arms dealers in modern history.” 

The room is quiet, a little awestruck, so you add, “She’s a bit of a big deal.” 

They laugh.

“SSA Derek Morgan - you’ll probably hear stories about how he survived the Boston bombing with SSA Gideon in 2005, but don’t worry. He wasn’t there. He was with his momma in Chicago, celebrating her birthday.”

Another laugh. 

You’ve honed this routine over the last five years, knowing what to add, when to pause, what to cut if the students lose interest. 

“That said, SSA Morgan is one of the best profilers I’ve had the pleasure of working with. Today, he’s a consultant for DC Metro SWAT and is otherwise retired.”

Continuing down the line, “SSA Jennifer Jareau - JJ. Former communications liaison for the BAU, State Department, and DoD. She currently serves with the BAU as a profiler. If any of you are interested in PR or media relations, find an opportunity to speak with her about her experience. Her husband, Will, is a detective with the DC Metro Police and has plenty of stories of his own.”

A student raises a hand, and you give her the go-ahead. 

“Sorry for interrupting -“

You stop her. “You didn’t interrupt. You raised your hand. Don’t apologize for taking up space.” 

She smiles a little. “Okay. Um, I’m curious. How many people in your unit are married and/or have children? My understanding is that the work-life balance can be difficult in heavy-travel positions like the BAU.”

“It can absolutely be a challenge.” You look back at the photo. “In the course of my career, six of my colleagues have been or were already married and all of them went on to have children.”

“And you?”

You laugh a little, forgetting you’re alone up here. “Right.” 

The class laughs, and you point yourself out on the slide. 

“I still had my maiden name when this photo was taken, but now I share five children and a last name with SSA Aaron Hotchner.” You throw your thumb at Aaron’s likeness on the screen again for good measure. 

You check in with SSA Kagan to make sure you can share everything you usually do with Aaron present - your marriage was often the punchline of your lectures, letting you toe the line of humor a little farther than you normally would. 

She nods, a little smile on her face. 

“While I wouldn’t necessarily recommend dating your unit chief or marrying your section chief -“ you pause, holding your hands up in surrender to the echo of laughter “- even if they are the same person - you can certainly find the best people without looking too hard.” 

Hands shoot up into the air, but that always happens. It’s around this time people start asking the good questions. The people from their course materials and the people in front of them start to link together. 

They also figure out that you’re Agent Hotchner. That Agent Hotchner - the one married to the Agent Hotchner. 

You look out over the crowd again. “I know you have lots of questions, and I’m happy to confirm or deny any rumors about myself or my family, but,” you pause for dramatic effect. “Hold them for now - you’ll want to know the players before you ask the questions.” 

Hands drop, but pens start moving. You continue down the line, skipping over Aaron. 

“SSA David Rossi, a founding member of the BAU in the late 1980’s. He worked closely with SSA Jason Gideon, developing a database that we use to this day - one that outlines signatures, modus operandi, and victimology of modern serial killers. SSA Rossi is also well-known for his books - ten of them, in fact, that cover what we do in a kind of…” 

You search for a word. 

“Conversational format. He retired a couple of years ago, and is a full-time grandpa to all 16 of the BAU offspring.”

A few scattered chuckles pass through the room. 

“And then we have Dr. Spencer Reid - I could enumerate his degrees, but we don’t have that kind of time. He’s the smartest person I’ve ever met, and remains an asset to the BAU in the field today.” 

You click to another slide - a photo of all of you taken a few weeks ago. 

“SSA Matthew Simmons - retired from the United States Army and former member of the FBI International Response Team, or IRT. He’s been with the BAU for ten years now. Like Dr. Reid and SSA Prentiss, he knows multiple languages - which comes in handy.” You look out and raise your eyebrows. “I hope all of you did well in your Spanish classes in high school - you might need it.” 

Another laugh. 

“SSA Luke Alvez and Technical Analyst Penelope Garcia are another pair that come from, shall we say, nontraditional backgrounds. While Garcia is no longer with the BAU, SSA Alvez is also celebrating his tenth year with us this fall.” 

A student raises his hand, and you call on him. 

“Isn’t Penelope Garcia the hacker known as The Black Queen? I learned about her work when I was at MIT.” 

You snort. “Nice way to slip in you went to MIT, there, bud.” You pause, waiting for the ruckus to die down as the student in question turns bright red. “But yes. Her experience was invaluable to our team. Just to keep up, we stole an analyst from the NSA to replace her - nobody else could cut the mustard.” 

You look back, stepping forward and pacing as you speak.”And finally, Dr. Tara Lewis. Formerly working in the FBI Counsel’s office as a forensic psychologist, she joined our team on cases where specific pathologies were in play before becoming a full-fledged member of our team.

“So, as you can see, there are so many varied qualities we look for in profilers, and your own path will be informed by the skills you develop, your temperament, and your dedication to the work itself. There’s no right way to be an agent, and when you leave the academy in five weeks, the whole world of the bureau will be open to you.” 

Clicking back to your introductory slide, you turn to the front of the classroom. “I know all my colleagues well enough to take any questions you may have about their careers and paths through the bureau. For any questions I can’t answer, I am happy to direct you to them with the understanding they may not get back to you due to our caseload. I’ll take your questions now.” 

Hands shoot up into the air, and you specifically call on the student in the back - the one you know has a question about Aaron. 

“So, when you say SSA Aaron Hotchner, you mean the same one that worked the Boston Reaper case for ten years?”

SSA Kagan checks in with you, ready to shut him down, but you call her off. 

“That’s right. SSAs Jareau, Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi, Dr. Reid, Miss Garcia, and I worked that case in its final year as well.” 

“I have a follow-up if that’s okay.” 

You tacitly give him leave to continue. 

“How do you handle cases that get that… close? I know there were considerable...” He searches for the right word. “...challenges. How did you guys deal with that?”  

Good question. 

Returning to the podium, you lean heavily against it, lacing your fingers in front of you. “You’ve all read the Reaper case file, yes? It’s still included in the MCRT training courses?”

There are nods around the room, but you check in with Kagan anyway. 

“The declassified version is covered,” She says. “They’re familiar with the full scope of the case.” 

“Okay. So, as you all know…”

You remind them what happened, from 1998 to 2009, finally landing where the students want you. “And on November 23rd, 2009, Haley Reneé Hotchner was George Foyet’s 40th and final victim. She was thirty-nine years old. And she was my friend.” 

The room is dead silent, all eyes on you, somber and attentive. 

“The case was personal. It became personal because Foyet forced our hands. He attacked Agent Hotchner in his home and then targeted his family. So, the question is, how do we deal with that? Right?” 

Even Kagan’s watching you closely. It’s the first time you’ve covered this case without the rest of your team. In your joint lectures with Aaron, the case is off-limits for questions. She’s never heard you tell the story in your own words. 

You take a breath. “And the answer is… you don’t.” 

There are some confused faces, so you elaborate. “There isn’t anything you can do to push the case away from you - that’s how people get hurt. In the meantime, you make adjustments. Agent Hotchner placed Agent Morgan in an interim unit chief position until the case was over, for the sake of his health and sanity. We chased down every lead, understanding that the faster we caught Foyet, the faster Haley and Jack, Agent Hotchner’s son, could come home.” 

A young woman in front tentatively raises a hand, and you open a hand to her. “Yes?” 

“What happened, you know, after?” 

“We moved on as best we could. Going back to my original point -” 

You leave the podium and take your place in the center of the floor again. 

“- the trust you have in the people you work with can carry you through a great many things. And not all of you will see horror every day - but some of you will.” 

You pause for a moment, hoping this is the part that really sinks in for them. 

“Always have something to come home to. Always have something or someone that brings you peace, that can take you away from the work.” 

+++

You set your things down and walk through the door, immediately accosted by two almost-eight-year-olds and their over-eager little brother. 

“Momma!” 

You haul Elliot onto your hip and kiss Sophia’s head as Caroline burrows into your side. “Hi, darlings! Did you already have dinner?”

Sophia moves to answer, but Aaron’s voice shoots around the corner. “Yes!” 

With a smile, you seek him out, dragging the girls along with you. Lo and behold, Aaron’s at the sink, washing dishes. Isaac’s supervising - sitting on the counter, swinging his feet. 

Aaron gets a kiss on the cheek from you as you pass and he turns over his shoulder, chasing you until you peck him on the lips, Elliot squished between you. Your son squirms, and you set him on the ground to chase after his sisters. Isaac hops off the counter likely off to investigate the happenings before retreating to his room for the rest of the evening.

For once, you’re left alone. 

“How was your lecture?” 

Your arms free, you wrap around him and rest your full weight against his chest as he backs himself into the counter. “Went well. Missed you, though.” 

The corner of his mouth tips up. “Did they ask about Foyet?” 

“Mhmm. It was a good segue into trusting your team and building each other up, knowing when to step back, etcetera.” 

He nods. “Good way to bring it back around. How’s Kagan?” 

“She’s good, loving it, as always.” 

“Think she’s ever gonna retire?” He asks, tucking into your neck. 

You laugh as he presses kisses to the underside of your jaw. “Probably not.” 

Aaron leans back to look at you, bringing his hand to your face to brush over your cheekbone. “Are you ever gonna retire?” 

“Probably not.” 

“What if,” he says, his hands slipping into your back pockets, “you retired in…” He does the math in his head. “Thirteen-ish years and I make it worth your while.” 

“Oh yeah? Worth my while? And you’ll be, what, a hundred years old?” 

His eyes roll so hard you’re sure he could see his own brain. You pull him down for a kiss, but it doesn’t stop him from mumbling, “Give me a fuckin’ break,” against your mouth. 

“Never.” 

+++

tagging: @writefasttalkevenfaster @quillvine @stxrrywildflower @hurricanejjareau @ughitsbaby @rousethemouse @criminalsmarts @genevievedarcygranger @ssaic-jareau @hotchsflower @hotchslatte @risenfox @mrs-dr-reid @mrs-marcus-moreno @pan-pride-12 @sunshine-em @jdougl-love @dreila03 @forgottenword @aaronhotchnerr @ssa-morgan @tegggeeee @abschaffer2 @ssacandice-ray @ellyhotchner @lotties-journey-abroad @mrs-joel-pimentel-23-25 @mooneylupinblack @ssareidbby @qvid-pro-qvo @mandylove1000 @jeor @wakatoshislover @word-scribbless @bwbatta @capricorngf @missdowntonabbey @averyhotchner @joanofarkansass @popped-weasels @evee87 @nuvoleincielo @ssahotchnerr @this-broken-band-girl @winqhster @reidtomestyles @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @the-falling-in-the-danger @softbibxtch @iconicc @mangoberry43 @andreasworlsboring101 @kerrswriting @mac99martin @itsalwaysb33nyou @baumarvel @messyhairday-me @ssworldofsw @deagibs @crazyshannonigans @moonshinerbynight @jhiddles03 @teamhappyme @mendesmelodies @starsandasteroids @unicorn-bitch @ambicaos​ @itsmytimetoodream @pinkdiamond1016 

[jadelotusflower]

It’s Cold in that Fridge: The Case of Nakari Kelen

Since The Case of Mara Jade has been doing the rounds again, I’ve finally gone back to this post that has been sitting in my drafts for literally years. So let’s honour this absolute badass who deserved better:

Once upon a time, the Star Wars universe was but six films (and a tv series) in the story of the Skywalker family. But beyond George Lucas’ story was an absolute boatload of books, comics, games, and other materials that made up the Expanded Universe. When Disney purchased Lucasfilm and the rights to the Star Wars saga, everything in this universe was decanonised and deemed “Legends” - some aspects of this universe were retained or re-purposed, others sit in Disney’s figurative vault and will likely never see the light of day (and seeing how the ST turned out, maybe that’s for the best).

But this transition between Legends canon and Disney canon was not so simple, because the nature of publishing meant that there were novels approved during the time of Legends canon that would be released in the time of Disney canon. In particular, there had been the planned trilogy “Empire and Rebellion”, set between A New Hope and The Empire Strikes Back, with each novel from the perspective of one of The Big Three.  

Razor’s Edge (Leia) and Honor Among Thieves (Han) were released prior to the Great Canon Split of 2014.  But while the Luke-centric novel had been planned, it was not due to be released until well after the Split. So Heir to the Jedi (so called as an homage to the Legends progenitor Heir to the Empire) became one of the first books of the Disney canon.

What does this background have to do with Nakari Kelen?  Perhaps nothing, but I do wonder how the writing process was affected by the shift from Legends to Disney - was the novel a relic of the old EU with any reference the LFL storygroup didn’t like excised during editing, or was it a trendsetter for the new EU, a Sign of Things to Come?  

The most salient point being, of course, that Nakari Kelen - like so many love interests before her - was not allowed to go along her merry way at the conclusion of the novel, but was shoved into the fridge.

If there was one constant of the Legends EU, it was that Luke Skywalker’s love interests couldn’t catch a break. Mara Jade naturally lasted the longest relationship-wise, with almost twenty years of marriage to Luke before some bright spark decided she had to go (as per the aforementioned case study). But before Mara there was Jem, Shira Brie, and Gaeriel Captison (who came close to escaping the curse), and in the Legacy of the Force series they brought back sole survivors Akanah and Callista, only to kill them off for good too (and rather brutally, if I may add).

So perhaps when Kevin Hearne began writing HttJ within the confines of the Legends continuity, he was merely sticking to the status quo, or perhaps once subsumed by Disney they needed to make sure Luke's slate was clean (so to speak).  And I can’t put all the blame on Hearne since I don’t know whether it was his idea, or LFL mandated - but regardless it was a poor decision.

The root cause of fridging, imo, is limited imagination.  How best to cause your male protagonist pain if not kill off someone they love, or at least have strong feelings for? The answer is of course, easily. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The Luke Skywalker of HttJ is fresh from his victory in ANH, a lieutenant in the Rebellion: young, not dumb, and full of...

Nakari Kalen is an absolute Queen a civilian volunteer and crack-shot sniper who loans her ship Desert Jewel to the Alliance. Luke is immediately attracted to her, they bond over a mutual love of fast ships and leaving behind desert home planets, and engage in the inexpert flirting of two nineteen year olds while also risking their lives several times over.

I want to make it clear: I actually really like this book. It's a breezy read, almost serialised as The Early Adventures of Luke Skywalker, and is ofttimes genuinely funny. And credit where it’s due to Hearne, many of of the supporting roles in the novel are female. Other than Nakari, there's Soonta, the Rodian who gives Luke her uncle’s lightsaber, Sakhet the Kupohan spy, and the Givin cryptographer/math genius Drusil Bephorin. In a genre where male characters are often the default for these kind of roles, it was nice to see, but makes the regressive fridging of Nakari even more egregious.

Luke and Nakari make a good team fighting brain-sucking monsters and Imperials, but more importantly they have fun together - she encourages him to work on his Force skills, and he successfully moves objects with his mind for the first time (leading to Nakari adorably dub him "a little noddle scooter"). It's a very sweet, if brief, relationship, and a respite from the danger of the mission. They spend the night together (leaving the reader to decide exactly what happened behind closed doors), and share a kiss before splitting up to try and escape bounty hunters. No prizes for guessing what happens to Nakari immediately after she received the Skywalker Kiss of Death.

I assume there were two motivating factors for why Hearne and/or LFL couldn't let Nakari live:

1. If she survived, fans would wonder why she doesn't appear in ESB/subsequent material.

I recall this bandied about on forums back at the time of the book's release, and to that I say - so what? Fans are always going to wonder, and try to paper over the gaps in canon, to make up their own headcanons to explain any any perceived inconsistencies. It's certainly no reason to kill someone off.

It is in fact possible for two young people to have a romance that just fizzles, or doesn’t work out for whatever reason - it should not require great maneuvering or explanation. If Nakari doesn’t show up in the next book in the timeline, what about it? The reader is smart enough to assume she and Luke broke up, decided to just remain friends, whatever. But it seems that the only way for a female character to exit stage left is for her to die, which is bullshit.

And actually, there's no reason why she couldn't have shown up again. ESB and RoTJ cover a month and a few days, respectively, of Luke's life - just because there was no mention of Nakari doesn't mean she didn't exist at that time, whether or not she and Luke were an item. She could have made an appearance in a subsequent novel, or Rebels, or the comics - she could have become a recurring character, showing up when the Rebellion needed her, or - heaven forbid - even have her own comic/book/show! Her existence in Star Wars canon didn't need to begin and end with Luke Skywalker, merely to service his plotline and backstory and abandoning the richness of her own.

No, the only reason Nakari had to die was to facilitate this:

It was a blow to the gut, realizing what that sudden absence meant. I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but I had felt Nakari's life snuffed out through the Force, and into that void where she had shone anger rushed in - anger, and a cold sense of raw power and invincibility...I took a step to join in the hunt but stopped, breathing heavily, unaccountably sweating even though I felt so cold inside and the power of the Force roiled within me... I shook with emotion and power, and none of it felt the way the Force had before...I saw what kind of space it was , a black hole that would always be hungry no matter how much I fed it. I might never feel warm again if I didn't get myself under control.

Luke feels the dark side and is tempted by the boost of power it offers him, but immediately identifies it as dangerous and unnatural. I can understand why Hearne wanted to include this - it is a book of firsts after all: Luke's first solo mission, his first time using telekenisis, and ending with story with his first experience of the dark side makes sense. But it wasn't necessary, which leads to:

2. How to push Luke to touch the dark side without killing someone he has romantic feelings for?

Also, obviously, shite of the bull (or nerf, if you prefer). Even if this brush with the dark side was absolutely necessary for the novel's climax, there's any number of ways it could be achieved. At this point, Luke is fresh from losing important people in his life - Owen and Beru, Ben, and Biggs - lumping another death on top of that a narrative trick for Luke to react not only to losing Nakari, but the others as well. But it's cheap, the first card in the deck, and why not show a bit of imagination? Luke is young and inexperienced enough at this point that any number of things could be the catalyst - the whole book he's struggling with his growing powers, why not try and reach too far in the firefight with the bounty hunters, his anger and frustration with himself in not doing enough trigger the dark side temptation? It would work thematically and doesn't involve a fridging that ultimately has very little payoff.

Because Nakari is killed less than ten pages from the end of the book - afterwards Luke grieves, but ultimately chooses to honour her memory and be grateful for what he learned with her, recommitting to becoming a Jedi. It's all very surface level, and once again a female character's death facilitates a male character's development. Was it so imperative that Luke lost someone he cared about as part of this story? Sure, this was a time of galactic civil war, and it's far from unrealistic that these stories have a high body count, but who to make collateral damage remains an authorial choice, and in this case Nakari Kelen was (a) a female character of color, (b) a love interest of the protagonist - not just of this book, but the entire Original Trilogy.

I don't know to what extent (if any) race had to play in the decision. I'm sure there was a segment of the fandom absolutely livid that Luke Skywalker kissed (and maybe had sex with) a black woman. Was her death LFL hedging its bets, or demonstrative of the general lack of attention/respect they show their characters of colour?

In any case this was a chance to stand out from the old EU and it's fridge full of Luke's dead girlfriends, but instead they chose to introduce and kill off Nakari for the sole purpose of Luke's manpain and character development, and that's gross.

And then there's this:

A grisly yet reliable fact about custom bounty hunter ships is that you can always count on them to have body bags stashed somewhere for the easy transport of their kills. They often have built-in refrigerated storage, too.

NAKARI IS KILLED AND LITERALLY STORED IN THE FUCKING FRIDGE I COULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT I WAS READING.

I really hope this was unintentional on Hearne's part, because yikes. He was halfway there, this book was full of interesting female characters who had agency - Drusil in particular was a delight with her super math and inability to understand human interaction. Nakari was full of life and fun - capable but relatable, showing a different side of the Rebellion and those that suffered under the Empire's rule. Fridging her in her first appearance is considerably more vile, because it reduces her to a footnote of Luke's story, a plot device to Help Him Grow, rather than a springboard to tell more of her own story.

Because Nakari was a compelling character ripe for spinoff potential. I would absolutely have read or watched her continued adventures, juggling missions for her father's Biolabs company and trying to aid the Rebellion, shooting her slug rifle and cracking wise, maybe even finding a way to amplify her mother's song Vader's Many Prosthetic Parts to really stick it to the Empire, or try and free the political prisoners on Kessel.

The old EU was made great by allies and enemies of Our Heroes showing up again to help or hinder them, and/or branching out into their own material. We fell in love with them, and followed their stories even as they diverged from the main saga, eager to read more about their lives.

Nakari Kelen never got that chance. In many ways, she exemplified what Disney Star Wars was to become: an exercise in wasted potential.

[ariainstars]

Will Din Djarin and Grogu Have to Part?

Since this question has been discussed quite controversially in the fandom since the second season of The Mandalorian, here are my two cents about it. 

Luke and Anakin

A subject my husband and I can’t agree upon 😉 is the character of Luke Skywalker. I always liked him, while my husband finds him annoying. But consider: Luke’s hotheadedness, his naivety, his obstinacy, are perfectly normal for a young man of nineteen or twenty. Given A New Hope’s roots in classic Western, Luke is the typical greenhorn, who tries to man it up but doesn’t know how to do it yet. Luke is a normal adolescent with dreams and ambitions. Remember how we see him playing with a toy skyhopper at his uncle’s homestead? He obviously feels safe there. His aunt and uncle later even sacrifice their lives rather than revealing to the Imperial stormtroopers where R2D2 is, because they know that Luke went in search of the droid, and they don’t want them to find him. Luke is a good boy though raw and green. In the end, his story is a success because he chooses to use his powers to save the ones he cares about, even when it’s a father who, except for saving his life at the last moment, never did anything good for him.

Now compare him to Anakin Skywalker, his father, at the same age: many fans define young Anakin as a whiny, arrogant brat and they’re not so wrong with that. Anakin comes over as an irritating person, much more so than his son, because he is emotionally stunted, having spent the last ten years being told to stifle his emotions and not to allow any personal attachment. Which blatantly failed: we see right away that his bond with Padmé is still intact although they didn’t meet in the meantime, and we witness him getting mad with fury and hatred when his mother has to die in that cruel, meaningless way when he could have saved her had he arrived just a little sooner. Young Anakin is unbalanced and frustrated because by now he knows his enormous powers but is not allowed to use them in a way that actually makes sense to him. Anakin is a family man: his instinct is to protect. But at age nineteen, thanks to the uncompassionate mindset of the oh-so wise Jedi, he already is a ticking bomb.

Now to Our New Heroes…

While the first season was about Mando’s redemption and hero’s journey, the second one thematizes the development of the child. Until now he hardly wielded the Force and most of the time he’s just being cute and getting into trouble, but that’s not simply bothersome, nor is it unfitting for the narrative: it’s normal. Grogu is being a child at last, because he can, and he can because someone is looking after him and genuinely caring for him.

Look at him: the little cookie monster is having a blast. He’s meeting people and making friends. He’s enjoying life (including food). He can let go, because he knows that “daddy” has his back. Literally!

Which is why I don’t believe that Grogu will choose to join some Jedi or other: it would be pointless for his story. Grogu has the chance to be the child he could not be until now, and since he thankfully ages slowly, he’s taking that chance. Like with his predecessor Yoda, there is more to Grogu than meets the eye: he understands more than he lets on. He’s making experiences, and he’s learning from these experiences. Instinctively, he wants Mando because he wants belonging. My take is that he will learn how to have healthy attachments, and that if he is to be the future Yoda in some distant new tv show or new trilogy, he will be very different from this one in that he won’t discourage Force-sensitive children from learning how to love other people in a proper way. Also, Yoda lived mostly at the Jedi temple, which from the outside reminded of an ivory tower and indeed did shield the Jedi from seeing many of the ugly things happening outside. Grogu is travelling: he witnesses the injustices in the galaxy with his own eyes. 

One of the crucial messages of the Star Wars saga always was how wrong it is to separate families. Palpatine’s greatest villainy was making people who belonged together mistrust one another until they resorted to violence. What’s worse, he enjoyed it.

To remain in balance, children need to grow up serene and protected. Anakin, the Dark Father, was the most blatant example for this: his mere existence was a living proof for the Jedi’s failure. Terrified of his former padawan’s turn to the Dark Side, Obi-Wan set the seal on his fate right when Padmé was succeeding into making him go away with her. The Jedi was aware that Anakin was a husband and future father at this point, but the convictions of the Jedi had been so deeply ingrained into his mind since he was small that he believed them to be more important than Anakin’s role not as a Jedi, but as a human being. Still twenty years later, he tried to trick Anakin’s own son into killing him. Anakin’s soul was saved, though only by a hair’s breadth, due to his son’s stubborn compassion. Anakin had been willing to sacrifice everything to save his wife; Luke chose to rather give up his life than his integrity, which is why the moment when he throws his light sabre away before Palpatine is so significant, setting him apart from Anakin.

None of the surviving Jedi would have lifted a finger for Anakin: to them, he was a damned man. Which he was, but that was largely also due to the Jedi’s sins and not only his own. They never showed regret or assumed that they might have wronged him. The aim of both the prequel and sequel trilogy was not to excuse Darth Vader’s / Anakin Skywalker’s or Kylo Ren’s / Ben Solo’s terrible deeds, but to demonstrate that their fate could have been avoided; that they were not alone with their guilt but had been for a large part pushed into their role by their environment, instead of being, as the cliché runs, “mad guys who choose to be evil because they want power”, like e.g. in a James Bond movie. (Except of course for Palpatine, but even he got a second chance through Rey, equally powerful but much more well-meaning than him.)

Conclusions

The message of Star Wars is not about the all-powerful Jedi and the significance of their order: they are not some kind of superheroes who will return and save the galaxy. I daresay that who hopes to see Luke Skywalker, e.g. instructing Grogu, will be bitterly disappointed. If Luke would enter the narrative, the story would become about him, making the show’s set-up and title pointless. His story, the Hero’s Journey, was accomplished with Return of the Jedi, which is why George Lucas never wrote a continuation. Luke himself developed his capacities instinctively, both Obi-Wan and Yoda had little time to train him. (So much also for Rey being “a Mary Sue who knows how to wield her power without training”.) It obviously does not take years and years of learning at a Jedi temple to learn to wield one’s Force powers: it appears that what padawans are taught there, more than anything else, is how to control their feelings. Which is unrealistic on the long run, because every living being wishes for personal fulfilment and even the greatest Jedi can’t live solely for others.

Will the child’s Force abilities fade in time without training, the way Ahsoka said? They won’t. The show is set some 25 years after the fall of the Jedi Temple, and yet Grogu managed to make a mudhorn float in the air with his power. He was exhausted afterwards, but he managed. In another episode he healed Greef Karga from a mortal wound and he is the first Force-sensitive whom we ever saw with this capacity. In the next episode he rejected a fireball with his bare hands. The Force is strong with this one. He does not need a Jedi master to train him. What he needs is to develop a good judgement about what he should use his powers for, and when he should not. 

The saga as a whole always showed a clear structure where the puzzle pieces fit together, adding up to one final picture: life is not about power but about love and belonging. Power can win, but that victory is always short-lived. Who chooses power over compassion in the end will always lose and have to look back on a destroyed world where there are only losses and bitter memories.

Ever from the first episode, The Mandalorian lived from the dynamics between the gruff but kind bounty-hunter and the innocent yet powerful child. At its core, it is a father-son relationship: tear them apart and the whole story ceases to make sense. By the beginning of season 2 Din Djarin and Grogu have grown so close that you could hardly fit a sheet of paper between them. Their story is not about rebuilding the Jedi order, it is about healing together, overcoming loneliness and trauma, starting a new life together. 

Maybe they will be separated at the end of the second season, e.g. by Moff Gideon who wants the child for his despicable experiments: but if that happens, I can foretell what the next season will be about: 

Mando will move heaven and hell to get “his” child back under his protection. Because contrarily to both Luke and Anakin, he is a father, and a good and devoted one at that.

[fanficparker]

A GAME OF DIAMONDS AND HEARTS // H.O.

>> CHAPTER TWO

"The reward of sin is death? That’s hard." - Doctor Faustus, Marlowe

(Frenemies to Lovers! Mob AU! ) Harrison Osterfield x Fem!OC

Word count: 2.45k words

Warning: Swearing, jerk behaviour, keeping hostage, guns, blood and violence, sexual tension.

Synopsis: After the sudden death of his uncle and the eccentric multi-millionaire mafia king Lufian Clarke, Harrison Osterfield’s almost decent life is mostly devastated especially when half of what should be rightfully his fortune is transferred to their immediate rival for reasons he doesn’t know. What’s remaining is him trying to figure out how to deal with this collaboration of two rival corporations that don’t belong together and work on the side of the woman he never knew would ever be referred to as his partner in crime while they are dragged into a mess bigger than what they were trained to handle.

<< ONE [ MASTERLIST ] THREE >>

"Kill her."

Harry coughed. Twice.

"You know that's not possible," because if it was, wouldn't they have eliminated all their rivals already? The mafia was no easy business. It was equivalent to living on the edge without a rope tied to your waist to pull you back in case you fall off the cliff. Rather there was a rope tied to your ankle, waiting for the perfect opportunity to pull you down.

Harrison licked his dried lips as he rose from the desk, stepping closer to him. "Yeah and that's why Tom should be here, not you." He paused for a moment before mumbling: "Kid," amusement crossing his sharp features.

Harry's stomach rumbled with anger. Oh, and you are an obtuse twenty-four-year-old crazy old man who is also a big ass jerk.

He wanted to punch that grimace off his face.

The only reason he was a part of the mafia was that he believed in Clarke's philosophy, his ideology, his way of dealing with things but with Harrison on board, was it even the same anymore?

Harrison crossed the nineteen-year-old, barging into the door to exit the room. "Ask Tom to meet me in the car at seven. And until then I don't want a single soul near myself." He stated before putting a foot out of the door.

Harry expected to hear his departing footsteps but Harrison rather took a foot back, meeting the redhead's eyes with a steady gaze.

"And from next time," He warned, "knock before you enter." And with that he left, his footsteps echoing behind him.

All Harry could do was clench his fist.

***

It was a business agreement but it felt more like a marriage. An unwanted, forceful one. One where you hated your spouse to the moon and back and yet had to lose a part of your bed, life and love.

Why would you ever do this to me, Clarke? Why would you?! The anger and frustration bubbling inside his chest were too much to handle. He had left along with Tom and had captured one of Dino's closest men.

Dino was one of their new clients and had lately caused a lot of trouble from not paying the amount he owed to actually trying to fly off Europe.

If it was for any other day, Harrison wouldn't even bother handling Dino or any of his men by himself but today he needed a punching bag. A punching bag on whom he could pour all his pent up rage out. Beat his torment off another person's bones. That made sense to him.

He had dragged the man in the dark of the abandoned warehouse— the place Dino once used as a storage for his illegal weapons. The place he had tried to erase, pretend that it never existed.

Tom tied him to the chair for enquiry but Harrison was in no mood for that. He had already made up his mind. He didn't even let the man lift up his head to comprehend what was happening before Harrison's fist made a sharp contact with his jaw, knocking him to the floor along with the chair.

Tom watched from the side as Harrison grabbed the man's shirt, now dusty and violated with stains of fresh blood mixed with spit, establishing the chair back on the cemented floor with a thud. "Ask your boss to show up, will you?" He raised his voice several octaves as if to mock him for being so weak and helpless.

With blood sputtering between the guy's teeth, he tried to speak, "I--"

But Harrison instantly cuts in, circling around his chair, "Oh wait. What can you even do? You are useless for both me and Dino. That's why Dino left you here. He doesn't give a fuck if you live or die." He halted his steps and pulled the man's hair, sharply forcing his head back, jarring his neck, painfully stretching the muscles of his throat before spatting into his face, "You hear that? You. Are. Worthless."

And then he again swung his fist across his face, just this time he didn't stop. His knuckles throbbed with the sharp collision of bone against bone. His skin turned bright blue hidden by red. God, it felt good.

"We don't wanna kill him." Tom reminded, voice laced with disgust. This was brutal even for Harrison.

"I want to." He groaned, fisting his hands in the man's shirt.

"And here I wondered, Clarke's scion would be smarter."

His neck snapped at the voice. The source of the words— the silhouette emerged from the door, her heels hitting against the cemented floor as she strolled towards the blue light that filled the otherwise dark room.

Harrison recognised the voice well, he didn't need to wait for it to materialise into human form but he also didn't want to hear it, let alone see the person whom it belonged to. Somethings are inevitable, anyway.

"What are you doing here?" Tom was the first one to speak, his eyes focused on the woman who stood just a few feet apart from them, her shoulder-length dark hair sitting as a tight ponytail, high on her head, giving her the illusion of height.

She crossed her arms over her midsection, one foot slightly ahead of the other and let out a breath. "That's not a question, you ask your boss. Especially in that tone." Her words were sharp but not her voice or tone for that matter. For an outsider or an amateur, it would appear as if she was just there to ridicule the two boys. Yeah, in some way, it was true except for the 'just' part. Both Tom and Harrison were neither an outsider nor amateurs to read into that. They knew why she was here.

Harrison asked anyway, swallowing his boiling rage, "What the hell are you doing here?"

Her lips twisted into a half grin. "Well, you can ask that though."

The small laughter that followed her words made a muscle tick in his jaw. He was this close to snapping. Snapping to no avail. Snapping for vain. She had won. She had won his prize and there was nothing he could do to reclaim it. He couldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing that she got him. No, she didn't. He reminded himself. No one could.

"I just came to check on you guys. Also, considering the fact that none of you noticed me standing right outside this room..." She looked over her shoulder, pointing a finger at the door, "Anyone could have shot you dead right there."

"And oh my god!" She gasped upon turning back to the scene, her voice infused with fake concern, "What have you done to this poor soul?"

The tension that hung between them had managed to make the muffled cries of the fourth person inaudible to the three pair of ears in the room. Maybe because he was the rat rather than the conventional elephant, people were so used to address.

"He is my client," Harrison growled, low in his throat— a thinly veiled attempt at trying to keep things civil.

"Not just yours." She corrected, flashing a small smile in his direction, more of a grimace, walking towards the man tied to the chair. The two guys watched her with narrowed, questioning eyes as she removed her coat, the draping neckline of her red top doing the bare minimum to cover anything.

She slouched across his chair, wiping the blood from the corner of his lip, softly smearing it across his cheek.

"Is this bad boy bullying you?" She momentarily shot a glance at Harrison. The man nodded, too afraid and too injured to speak.

Clicking her tongue in disdain, she gripped his chin tightly, her nails digging into his skin as she pushed the chair to the back, supported only by one of her heels. He jerked in his bonded state.

She leaned near his face, her breath tickling in his ear. "Why not better start behaving then?" She whispered, her lips brushing against the side of his face. "I don't like pretty faces as yours harmed."

Her finger traced over his lower lip, her nail scratching his wound in ways more sensual than painful. "Will you comply?" Her eyes flickered down to his lips.

He nodded instantly and desperately. He was charged up; her scent was filling his senses. When her eyes were back to his face, his slid to take a peek at her cleavage, a mixture of fear and excitement dotting his sweltering forehead with beads of sweat.

"Good boy," she muttered and dragged her foot away from the chair, installing him back to where they had started.

"P-Please..." The guy managed to utter when she moved away, urgency evident in his voice. A triumphant grin got pasted over her face in response, making her laugh at his needy request.

Harrison could bet that the guy had a mild erection even in his blood ridden pathetic state. The scene almost made him puke. Where he was using force and blood, she was using her body, sex as a weapon. Definitely not his way of working. Yet, he failed to suppress the dull tightening sensation in his abdomen—and the part below it.

She walked up to him, pulling her hair down, brushing them with her fingers. Her laughter had long subsided but its residue was still echoing in his head. He hated that. He hated her.

"Doesn't it spark old memories, Osterfield?"

His face flickered with annoyance. It was in his best interest to ignore her words.

"Let's talk over at dinner." She offered, carrying her coat on her elbow. Yeah, they very much needed to talk even when he didn't prefer it. So, he walked out of the room, waiting for her to follow.

"You should seriously take him back to wherever you picked him from." She instructed Tom as if Harrison wasn't enough for him to deal with.

***

"We had a reservation," she smiled at the hostess, "by the name of Sandhya Omar." Harrison, on the other hand, was somehow managing not to kill. Her, specifically.

The hostess smiled back, taking a glance at the register in her hand, "Welcome, Ms. Omar. Let me escort you to your table." She smiled at Harrison too. He didn't appreciate the gesture.

She led them to a table perfectly designed for two, for a date perhaps, placed on a quiet, dimly lit balcony. Harrison removed his blazer, hanging it over the chair before folding the sleeves of his beige-coloured shirt over his arms and occupying the seat. The hostess dragged Sandhya's chair, letting her sit.

She mumbled a quiet thank you.

"A waiter will be here shortly." She informed and left. She didn't lie; not a minute had passed and the waiter was already there, passing them two menus and pouring clear champagne into their flutes. Before he could proceed to light the candles decorated over the table, Harrison interrupted:

"We don't need that."

"Of course we need that, darling." She cuts in, smiling so pleasantly at him, just like a cat would smile at a canary.

It was the waiter who smiled back, at both of them, actually. "I will come back for the orders when you both are ready."

"Thank you. We will take some time, though."

"No worries, Ms. Saan—dha—ya."

"Just call me Sandy, it's fine." She shrugged away his absurd pronunciation of her name. The waiter just passed her an apologetic smile, walking away, leaving them in solitude, surrounded by nothing but luxury and privacy.

"Talk?" Harrison began.

"What?" She pretended to be clueless.

It was a game for her.

Not for him.

"You wanted to talk."

"You don't?"

He wasn't having it. So, she simply rolled her eyes, choosing to initiate. "Okay... I will start," she let out a breath, "My mob wants me dead because they want what I have inherited."

Funny, they and Harrison were on the same page.

"And you walked here alone?" He quirked a brow.

She slumped in her chair, one foot crossed over her knee, "You see, I am not alone." Her hands gestured at him.

He snorted. Ridiculous.

"You seriously think that I want you any less dead than them?"

"Yeah."

"That's foolish." He leaned across the table, elbows pressing against the wood, "I'd kill you the second I'd get the chance." He stressed certain syllables, gritting his teeth in fury. His tone dripped scorn.

"No, you won't. You need me." She stated as a matter-of-fact, straightening her back.

"You wish." He replied quickly, scoffing at her misplaced confidence.

Her phone on the table vibrated, providing them with the much needed break from cocking their verbal guns at each other. The sneer on her face vanished in a heartbeat, quickly replaced by fear as soon as her eyes scanned the glowing screen. She tapped the dial on her watch before leaning across the table.

"Listen carefully..."

He didn't.

Her hands grabbed his collar, pulling his face closer to hers, tautly stretching the fabric of his shirt, "Your life is at threat too!"

Her eyes glanced at her watch again.

"Four minutes and they'll be here." The slight flicker of the candle burning across the table animated a dance of shadows on their faces, projecting the fearful vibrations in her stomach onto the surface. "For both of us," she clarified, their face centimeters apart.

He laughed pulling himself back, not considering her words any worthy of his contemplation, smoothening the creases she had created on his otherwise crisp shirt. But she was quick to pull him again, not allowing his eyes to focus on anything else but her.

"This is no drill, Harrison." She warned, her dark eyes cold and hard and locked on his blue ones.

"In four--three minutes, there will be a smoke bomb thrown below our table, and that's our only chance to escape. Take the left side, use the pipes to climb down as quickly as possible. A car will be waiting for you at the side of the street."

He squinted his eyes in disbelief, an expression of boredom covering his face. "Why would I trust you?"

She sighed, pulling a compact case, keeping it between them, the mirror facing his side. His pupils dilated noting the reflection on it. It was the reflection of a person, holding a sniper rifle, standing on the rooftop of the building across them.

A chill crept through his heart. Their eyes met again.

In a tone that lacked any hesitation and provided no explanation, she gave away the second part of the answer, "Because Clarke didn't die... He was murdered."

Yeah, people like Clarke don't just die.

____________________

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…TO BE CONTINUED…

>> Send me an ask or just reblog/comment this post with ‘Tag me’ or fill this NEW TAGLIST to get added to the taglist of AGODAH.

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[dorminchu]

ALL THESE THINGS THAT I'VE DONE

The war against Paradis is over. Eren and Annie are forced to confront their mortality in a world that seems to have no need of them, and their significance to each other. [Post-Canon]

I didn't know there was an ereani week this year until a couple days ago, but I figured: cool, I should probably post something. Title comes from the track of the same name by The Killers.

The prompt is: Day 3 (4/12): "I love you" / "I loved you"

[Ao3 | FFNet]

i.

When the war was over, it was Armin who took the glory. That was a new look for him, Eren thought. Smart but eternally overlooked until he inherited the role of the Colossus Titan. Willing to carry the burden of humanity's savior without much complaint, unlike his teenage self who had always been plagued by doubts and fears. Eren wouldn't have thought Armin would be ready to chew the bullet while he quietly slipped into the background—but he was the leader, and Eren had always been accustomed to his status of figurehead.

Their roles had inverted with age.

As part of an overarching deal with Queen Historia, Eren was granted quarters—a cabin ten miles from the border of what had once been Wall Rose—and a modest pension, as long as he held his tongue and did not make any attempt to intercept the negotiations between Paradis and the surrounding countries. Eren put in an application for professor at the local military academy and spent the days trying to record what he could remember of his experiences in Marley.

The cabin had been around since the start of the war. About ten or so miles from the nearest village. Perhaps even before Eren was born, when Paradis was just a penal colony in name and the boundaries on inhabitable territory were less strict. The pipes still worked and there was evidence of an outhouse as well as quarters for a small animal—he wondered if it had been a hunter’s lodge.

After growing up in the back end of Shiganshina for the first nine years of his life and living in barracks and halfway houses for the next ten, it was a lot quieter. He felt oftentimes as if he were on a permanent state of leave, awaiting orders that would never come. There was so much time to fritter away now, without a war on the backburner.

ii.

In a bid to lessen the severity of his scarring, Eren tried growing a beard. He couldn't sprout a full one like Zeke could, just the chin-hairs, an innate reminder of his days in Marley. Most often he kept his hair pulled back in a short ponytail or else cut it short in the warmer seasons, though never as short as it had been in his days of adolescence.

He'd regenerated his leg and other limbs since the ceasefire, regained his motor functions in a week-long, agonsing process that he was sure Hanji would've loved had she been alive to witness it—but a day or so after settling into the cabin the old pain was flaring up again. He had a vivid memory of asking Commander Hanji once, at seventeen, after exhausting his father’s journal, but the only conclusion either of them could come up was phantom pain. Even if he were whole and unmarred, he did not anticipate sleep as any source of relief. Colours in his right eye gradually turned dull and it was getting harder to read even by candlelight, disorienting to walk out into harsh sunlight. Eventually he just began wearing a patch for the sake of simplicity. His other eye was unaffected.

He could still remember Ramzi's face better than most of his dead Scouts and it kept him up at night for hours. His way of life—the Titans, ODM gear—was quickly being phased out, trading blades and canisters for rifles and ammunition. His place among the armistice seemed moot.

Eren thought more often of his father. He did not wish to, explicitly, but the memories of him that popped into his head were usually indecipherable and triggered by stress.

The doctors in Marley would define this as shellshock. Other times they left impressions like the outline of the sun under closed eyelids; warmth, family, agony, guilt that would eat away at him for the rest of his remaining life.

Eren was, at least, confident in the fact that he was nothing like his father. He didn't pretend he was doing anything morally righteous, nor had he allowed himself to be molded into a pariah like Zeke. He had only accomplished what those same men were afraid or unable to do. It was nothing to crow about. He did not blame Zeke for that upbringing. Eren had taken action, knowing he would be hated and feared by his own comrades. He could only leave behind his memories in print, and if by some Godforsaken chance they somehow managed to fall into the hands of a like-minded company—well, perhaps one day he would be understood or misconstrued further. Rotting in the ground he could not defend his truth or bias.

But while he was alive, he could not rest. He knew better than most that all of this was fleeting.

It wasn’t as though he was out of shape with all the walking. He still stuck to drills in the morning to keep himself busy; awaiting orders that would never come. It sounded like something Armin might say. But Armin was content to busy himself with the sons and brothers of deceased bureaucrats; the succeeding generation to the brilliant men and women who'd led them right into the mouths of hell and out again.

Commander Hanji was dead. Commander Irvin had been dead four years now. Captain Levi was on his way to retirement and attempting to get Mikasa to replace him.

After seven years of military service his soldier’s inclinations remained unshakeable. He'd wake up every morning, going through the motions as though he were still a stowaway in Marley. He'd never allowed himself to consider a life beyond the pretext of enlistment and eventual expiration within the Scouting Regiment, much less the seemingly endless war between Paradis and the rest of the world. In the best case he had assumed he would die eventually, of old age or a more unheroic death out in the field. He'd never allowed himself to be ruled by that fear of mortality because he had to eradicate the Titans first—it was a child’s logic that had gotten him through military academy. Yet here he was, nineteen, with four going-on three years left to kill. Annie had three, going-on two. That was the only certainty she'd admitted to him without need for prying.

So Eren had to be sharp for the rest of their sakes. The war on Paradis had ended and brought with it economic turmoil. A mourning period that seemed to extend indefinitely. The next decade of prosperity would not be won in a year, nor three, and it would come on the backs of the losing side and breed the same old resentment, and then inevitably the same slow descent towards outrage and madness and oppression. Always in the back of his mind like the learnt urge to drink, or his inherited memories—he could almost convince himself of his hard-won stability. It was a good enough reason as any to stop answering Mikasa's letters.

iii.

The door opened to reveal the very last person he had ever expected to see again. She was every bit the woman he had seen in Marley and little of the girl in the crystal remained. What could he say to a four-year old crush-turned-heartbreak whose face he could scarcely recall among the hundreds of thousands of other casualties? "You shouldn't have come back."

When he moved to close the door, she stopped him with her heel. "I'm no longer a Warrior, nor a soldier. I have nowhere else to turn. You and I understand each other, so there's no point in bloodshed."

He gauged this, chewing his tongue. "Did someone send you?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "No one you'd know."

"I suppose you were sent here to finish the job for Marley?"

"No." Bluntly, she forced herself into the doorway. "I came here on my own. I just—"

"—all right, it seems like there's been some kind of miscommunication between you and whoever sent you."

"I was told you'd be able to accommodate me." 

"I don't need anyone else here."

Annie squinted at him. Her hand was clenched tightly on the doorjamb. "You must get bored living up in the mountains. And you could use another pair of hands if you're not regenerating." Eren said nothing. "Did you carve your eye out again?"

"Goddamn you," he growled, and wrenched the door open.

He let her walk past the threshold. Looked at her once, and then away. "I'll set a place aside for you to sleep," indicating a well-worn sofa, "you can stay as long as you need to until you find somewhere you like."

"I don't know why you're so upset. You could have killed me years ago. You've had every opportunity, and yet—"

"—I've moved on." He said it flatly, almost resigned. "You haven't, obviously."

Annie didn't flinch. "So you're just going to stay here and wait to die?"

"I keep myself busy."

"What do you do?"

"I teach the new cadets over at the Academy. It's about two hours from where we are; nothing special, but they seem eager to learn."

"I see."

He turned finally to face her. "What about you?"

Annie hesitated. "Used to work with the other displaced soldiers up until a few days ago."

"How'd that treat you?"

"It was all right. Why, are you too good for it now, now that you're a war hero?"

Eren ignored the barb. "It's been a while since everything settled down, so I wondered how you would fare."

"What, so you just popped up in this house?"

He scoffed. "Of course not. There was a tribunal, and it was decided to let me live on the condition I'd be kept far away where I wouldn't bother with anyone. I can't say the same for the others."

"You sold them out?"

He chuckled. "I didn't have to say much. They did it to themselves. We shared a common goal at one point but never the same ideology. At the very least, I can say I took no pleasure in what I—"

"—Ackermann gave you an out?"

Eren gauged the sharpness in her tone, the stiffness of her posture. "I didn't ask her to." He frowned. "You never told me how you got here. Did Mikasa have something to do with this?"

Annie froze, then averted her eyes. "I didn't have much of a choice. It was either come here or work myself to death doing manual labor. I wouldn't have minded that."

"Why didn't you tell me that she sent you?"

"I don't know. She seemed to pity you."

"Oi, it's not your fault. She can feel however she wants." He sounded bemused, scowling. "What the hell else she she think I'm going to do in four years? I have no plans to start another war."

Annie finally eyed him in her peripherals. "We didn't talk much other than that."

Within the next few hours he'd gotten a few more details out of her. In exchange for agreeing to be quartered here, her record was wiped clean. She had recently reapplied for the MP brigade under a new name and secured a position as secretary in the Karanese district headquarters. She had also admitted to him that she was dying to get back onto the streets again.

As a bedfellow Annie was, in some ways, more than he could've hoped for. Despite the introduction, she talked far less than they had as cadets. She did not seem particularly happy or unhappy, just neutral. She woke up each morning at six hours and left to do her drills. She would come back in an hour and offer to help him with whatever menial tasks needed doing, as if they really were holed up together in the remnants of a cabin lost ten years ago to a threat that would live on in sordid, haunting memory. The kind of life one would find beyond the realm of a weathered photograph. 

Unobtrusive without becoming idyllic. The best outcome he could afford her was three years of uneventful domesticity.

They didn't spar anymore. Not for lack of want, or kicking the habit. Eren just couldn't keep up with her the way he used to. His leg was shaky and she pointed it out first. It would have an impact on the kind of punishment he could take as opposed to when he was fifteen and shrugged off every injury like it was nothing. His eye was not healing. 

Annie was in better condition. Just by studying her gait it was obvious that she'd taken better care of herself. She had not had to bunk up with a gang of stinking, vulnerable soldiers riddled by shellshock. Trying to communicate with them in German worked, but it got him a lot of funny looks and no end of comparisons to fathers and grandfathers enlisted or long since dead.

Annie wasn't interested in his stories from Marley but she didn't brush him off either. She just tolerated it in a much more polite way than Mikasa or Armin would.

At twenty years old she came up to his chest. Either the crystallization had stunted her growth or she was naturally short. She was also scarred enough down her face but it was of the same sheer consistency as her hair. You would only know what she was if you were paying close attention.

She got skittish and temperamental if he tried to push his luck training with her. Initially it had pissed him off:

"What do you think I'm going to do?"

She'd looked at him bluntly. "You're still recovering. Why overexert yourself?"

He'd never told her about his injuries but the idea of her picking up on it this quickly rankled for reasons he did not care to discuss. "I'm not a kid."

Something flashed in her eyes. "I'm not going to push you."

And that was the end of it. He'd decided that this ritual mattered more to her than him, and respected her space. He still did his own drills.

But every time they locked eyes now he'd get that same, absurd itch in the back of his mind from a year ago. Sharpened his tongue and made him want to speak in ways he didn't think he should attempt to justify whilst sober.

iv.

Days passed. He did not always see her until late in the evening.

In the middle of the night he rolled over onto his bad leg and the pain woke him. In silence he got up, not enough to require medication but still pretty uncomfortable.

“Eren?”

He went still. Annie was up herself, over by the window, staring at him as though he were on his deathbed. In the low light her eyes looked strange and luminous. “Does it hurt?”

“Does—what?”

“Your leg.”

Eren sat up slowly as not to aggravate his condition. She didn't say anything else. “It’s not so bad that I can’t sleep.” He studied her face for signs of age, finding naught but scars, a weariness in her eyes he could speak to. She didn't frown. She just watched him coolly. Eren shrugged. “You can’t sleep either?" No answer. "Thinking about to-morrow?”

“I can get you something for it.”

Eren shook his head. “That's not necessary."

"Don't be stupid."

"This isn't something I can just take pills for.”

"It's chronic." Her tone pregnant with incredulity. "Why haven't you seen a doctor for this?"

"Annie, what the hell is a regular doctor gonna do for either of us? We already fix ourselves. There are other veterans that have been stranded here, they aren't growing their limbs back. They need all the help they can get. Anyway, it's only, what, three more years of living? I can take three. Fuck, I've taken ten."

The more he kept talking, the darker her eyes became. Clench in her jaw, tautness of her shoulders, pronounced enough to notice from a distance—an involuntary reflection of his own revulsion.

"I don't know how you managed to win one war, let alone, if you can't even prevent yourself from running into the ground." Her voice was icy and distinctly contemptuous. She stalked over to him. Cold fingers dug into the meat of his naked shoulder, pushed him upright between the wall and headboard; tight, controlled movements. "Four years later and you still want to pretend you're a fucking martyr. It might've worked on Mikasa, but I'm not your sister. I'm not going to help you hurt yourself."

She kneaded at his leg in a much brusquer way than the way the orderlies in Marley. Eren didn't argue. She was not going to take no for an answer. When it was done she coaxed him to lie down again. He stiffened as he felt her weight join his on the mattress, curled almost tentatively against his chest. She didn’t try to hold him, just huddled as though for warmth. She did not explain herself.

Eren had a vague recollection of the last time this had happened. Back then she came up to his chin, rather than the middle of his chest; their disparity was only thrown into relief. He could feel the human warmth of her through the thin undershirt, the softness of her hair on his cheek. He’d dreamt about this a lot when he was sixteen, while the tragedy of her betrayal was no longer fresh but still painful in his mind. He had no energy left to hate her then, for she was not his enemy.

He heard her breathing even out.

She had stayed this long. There was no sense in abandoning her now.

v.

Sometime after that, Eren started noticing her in more tangible ways. Smell of her hair. The subtle glint in her eyes in lieu of a smile. She'd wait up for him in the mornings before he left. He'd tell her good-bye.

When he came home he’d catch her eyes lingering on him in profile.

Just one day too many of the same quiet inactivity. The fact that they had slept in the same bed was just a catalyst of how familiar they were with each other already.

She woke up an hour later than usual and, fuming, went out to train. A light rain had started. Eren made breakfast. Over the next twenty minutes the light sheet became much more torrential. Annie came back in about half-an-hour, dripping water all over the floor. He would've told her off but she grabbed his wrist. He turned as she leant up and took his face in her hands and kissed him like her life depended on it.

Maybe the situation had always been building to this. He had forgotten about its immediacy until the moment presented itself. But now there was nothing left to say. So he gathered her up and placed her on the counter, kissing her breathless, bunching up her threadbare shirt, palming her tits through the military-issue brassiere—he muttered, "see, I thought you were just being nice," and she scoffed, set her heel to the small of his back even as he put his mouth on her. She was chilled from the rain; it was not yet summer. Half-dressed and needy, he took her right there on the countertop. Afterwards, there was no shame or lingering uncertainty that would have been present as cadets. She pressed her cheek to his.

"I'm going to be away for a while. It's higher pay if I stay in Karanese. Maybe two or three weeks." She looked up at him. Her eyes were bright but her tone was stoic. "I just…" She trailed off because he was only looking at her face. Eren smoothed her damp hair away from her cheek.

"I love you." Then he stopped. Like he was finally coming to grips with the idea. Annie blinked rapidly. A crease formed in her brow. Her mouth worked but no sound came out. Eren kissed her chin. "But, if you're gonna be trackin' mud everywhere you'd best clean it up after yourself."

She finally came back to herself. Shoved him lightly in the chest. "Fuck off." Then hoisted herself off the counter, fixed her trousers, and asked in a dry voice where he kept the washbasin.

vi.

On his own the cabin felt distinctly empty. Sometimes he'd wake up hard and just—take care of it. Annie on top of him. On her knees. Pulling him up to her. He missed her a lot more than he'd care to admit to her face and it wasn't just in the sense that she was available. She'd probably just smirk at him anyway.

But when she returned it was nice to have her around, even for a little while. She kept to herself and he gave her space; it was as though she had never left.

It was still morning. He was working when he felt her come up behind him, hands slipping over his wrists. “Oi,” he muttered, “I’m a little busy.”

“You’re just sitting there.”

He scoffed. “Really? How would you know what I’m doin’?” No answer. Eren closed the book. “You really are demanding, ain’t you?” Faux-annoyance. But he turned.

She looked prettier in uniform. Hair pulled back into less of a bun, more of a severe ponytail. She was looking him up and down as though deciding something for herself.

She leant down, kissed him firmly, nipping at his lip until went with it, half-amused. She stepped back, breathing evenly, eyes glinting. She cupped his face, a vestige of tenderness he did not anticipate.

Then her eyes shifted, something empty, strange. A harsh crack against his jaw he could not anticipate and he took it, worked his jaw, blinking rapidly. “What the hell are you—?”

Annie jerked her head back slightly, fixing him with the same expectance he realised he’d completely misinterpreted. “Hit me.”

Eren didn’t move. Her jaw trembled, then set. He caught her wrist. “That’s enough.”

“Why?” She sounded annoyed. “It’s all right. I can take it.”

“What is this?”

“I’ll be dead before you anyway, it would be easier just to take—”

“—I said that’s enough,” he said, terse. “I’m not going to do anything to you."

Her brow furrowed. "I thought you understood.”

Eren just stared, fighting to keep himself calm when he wanted to grab her shoulders and demand her to justify why the hell she wanted to be hit. "What am I supposed to understand?"

Annie’s eyes darted over his face and then to his wrist. “I want you to hit me back.”

“I’m not going to do that.” He cupped her jaw and she almost flinched; his stomach twisted. “Do you understand me?“

Silence built up between them. "I know you’d stop if I asked you to.”

“I’m not going to wait until after I’ve hurt you to stop.”

Annie pressed her face into his chest. He took her by the shoulders, watching her stiffen.

“Do you hear me?”

She nodded.

"Why d'you want me to hit you?"

"Do you want a list?" He gripped her tight enough to make her flinch and immediately regretted the look of fear that came across her face. He let go of her. "I’ve been complicit in the death of your comrades.” Her voice thickened. “And I’ve taught you everything I know. You don't need me here for anything other than your own gratification.” Returning to the facade of impassivity with unnerving ease. “So, there’s no point in comparing our tallies.”

“Annie—"

“Are you stupid?” Annie spat, the most emotion she had exhibited thus far. “You've taken my country and my life and my father and you—now you want me to love you back. You want to marry me as if we're ever going to—I'm the one who killed your friends, why would you ever want to be reminded of—"

"You love me." She looked helpless in her vulnerability. "What? What's the matter?"

"Why would you want me? I—I can't even have children. I'm going to die in four years. I'm going to watch you die unless I kill myself fir—"

"—Annie—"

"—you could fuck anyone you wanted!" she exploded. "Why does it have to be me?"

"Because you don’t have to earn anything from me! I just want to be around you—can’t you accept that?”

Annie kissed him hard. He trembled though he was holding her.

“Take me to bed." Eren opened his mouth and she kissed his chin. “I want you to take me to bed. I—”

Even then, he was hesitant to touch her. She led the way, stripping down to skin and splaying on his bed. He caressed her when she asked him to, a gentleness in his hands that betrayed his own sympathy; for once she didn’t chastise him.

Her scarring was far more pronounced in the light. He'd noticed before, briefly on the counter and more clearly with enough attention, but not like this. It clustered around her sternum and down her spine. He wondered, briefly, if that was why she'd wanted to do it quickly. Now her eyes were bright and shimmering but she took him into her, reached for him.

"Is this OK?" His voice was a croak.

Her eyes flickered to him. Cautious, sure. "Yeah."

He was on his knees, lifting the small of her back, working her towards a much sweeter surrender. He slid one arm around her waist to support her and touched her breasts, the side of her neck, cupping her jaw. His thumb ran over her scarring.

“Annie.” She gasped at the sound of her name. “Ann. Look. Come here.” She was biting her lip. Head fallen back, her hair was almost diaphanous in the light. He murmured her name and she was shivering with emotion. She turned into her elbow and told him in an unsteady voice to go faster, and the bed creaked to match him.

Her body arched, jaw slack. She wouldn't stop shivering. Her voice did not rise in expectation. It just wavered, edgeless.

He took her wrist away from her face and—she flinched. This serrated, ugly, sound that jerked out of her body. He pulled out, holding her. “Look at me,” his voice hoarse and horrified, “please.”

Annie curled up against his chest and shook. Eren just kept apologizing. She didn't push him away.

Eventually she stopped. Raised her head. Their eyes met and she lost composure again. He brushed her hair from her face. “Stay,” she croaked, “please. I need you.”

He kissed her brow. She almost flinched. He tucked his chin into her shoulder, arms around her back, until she’d calmed down.

"You don't have to do anything," he said quietly. "Do you understand that?"

"I know."

Laying prone, she only came up to his sternum. Annie sat up first. She got to her feet and went over to the window. Her shoulder was parallel to the glass. His attention stayed firmly on her profile. “You’re gonna get colder than hell. Come back here.”

She turned and glanced at his forearm curled half-surreptitiously against his stomach. Scar tissue along her breasts was prominent. In the dead light of this cloudy, April afternoon she finally looked her age.

There was a naked uncertainty in her eyes that made him freeze. "You're not my father and you never will be. You've been kinder towards me than I deserve, given the circumstances. I wish I could despise you."

Eren rolled his shoulders. The silence held for a while. "I don't know if what either of us have done can be forgiven. But, as long as you’re here, I want you to know that I don't hate you." All she did was stare, a slight crease in her brow. “I never could.”

“You love me,” she said. Not with scorn. Like she was testing the idea in a way they would have shied away from as kids. She averted her face towards the window.

She watched him get up and tensed. He limped towards her in a couple strides and draped the blanket around her shoulders with the same tentativeness. She did not put her arms around him. She pressed her face into his shoulder. His arm came around her back and she closed her eyes, just existing in the cold slats of wood against her feet and the rise and fall of his breast.

He put the blankets around her and laid beside her.

He’d always supposed he would heal with enough rest. He didn't know how to put what he felt into words, but eloquence had never been his forte. It was not unlike laying on your deathbed, mulling over all the things that hardly seemed to matter until there was no time left to spare.

There was no pain now, just certainty in the presence of another—the old urge to drink was absent.

This is a cleaned-up version of a couple tumblr WIPs + some old/new material blended in for fun. Think of it as a pilot episode for a much larger fic.

For what it's worth I did like the ending of AoT. Elements of that ending will likely factor into the aforementioned larger fic. I am totally disinterested in arguing about ships or wasted potential—at this point, I’d rather write whatever seems interesting, and leave it at that, canon or not.

And hey, if you think acknowledging canon will override my crippling addiction to the "morally challenged antihero/problematic blonde" dynamic… I really don't see that happening. Even after exiting this fandom, it's like, ALL I've been writing for a year (looking at YOU Insult to Injury) and I feel like I'm going insane. Back on topic though: Now that AoT has concluded, I find I am far less stressed at the prospect for writing for this series again. It won’t be my main focus, but I do like this fic’s concept enough to flesh it out.

[ghostmartyr]

SnK 133 Thoughts

They’re trying to stop the apocalypse but they’re dummy traumatized and the clap of their sins keeps alerting the glow tree.

Kids, just remember: Body count doesn’t matter, it’s how you feel while producing that body count. If you’ve killed people to stop genocide, you are not immune to being party to genocide. ⭑⭒⋆

I’m being reductive because I’m not too eager to go over how not all murder is created equal again.

Going by a good faith read, I do think what the narrative is attempting to establish is that these characters all know what it’s like to be backed into a corner and do desperate things they’re horrified by.

Putting aside the extra psychological difficulties of his childhood preceding the choice to knock down the wall, Reiner believes he’s saving humanity. There’s an island full of devils, and he’s attacking them. He, Bertolt, and Annie are dumb kids who do what they’re told. Because they think it’s right, or because they want to go home, or just because they are dumb kids.

Armin’s killed plenty of people with the power of the Colossus. He can’t plead innocence; he attacks Liberio’s port intentionally, knowing exactly what terror the people on the ground will be going through.

Connie kills the friends he’s trained with for years, when the worst thing about Reiner and Bertolt revealing themselves is feeling betrayed by comrades he loves.

None of this is directly equivalent. Dumb children at war are trying their best. Always, this conflict has been orchestrated above their pay grade. RAB get abandoned behind enemy lines and are told to make the best of it. Armin destroys Marley’s port because Marley will not stop going after Paradis, and Eren has forced a renewed conflict that they need to move against fast. Connie betrays his friends because they’re okay with letting the rest of the world die.

No one on this ship has enjoyed any of this. They have consistently been doing their best with the information given to them while people with more power drag them into fights that never should have happened.

Shiganshina falls because Marley chooses to murder Paradis.

Liberio falls because Eren turns himself into Paradis’ only hope and puts himself into a situation he can’t win alone.

In the crudest way of putting it, these people are grunts. They’re not the ones who picked the game being played. They’re the ones being manipulated into war after war.

That’s why they look at each other without counting the bodies. It isn’t the scale of their actions that hits at this moment, it’s the decisions they’ve made to be part of it. They choose to keep fighting. When it creates an outcome they hate, what can they say? ‘Look what you made me do’?

Whatever their reasons, and whoever set up the board, they are the ones who participate. In this case, pure moral imperative is the driving force. Daz and Samuel die because they’re willing to let genocide go uncontested. That’s on them.

Guilt doesn’t work like that, though. Daz and Samuel die because they are killed. Connie kills them. He betrays their trust.

All of this is to say that the people on the ship truly do understand each other perfectly, even despite the difference in scale. It’s a bit on the nose, but I don’t think anything they’re going through is at odds with the people they are.

Applying that feeling to Eren is a feat of misguided grace that... hell, I don’t know.

As a human person, I like grace as a concept and want more of it. I don’t want the world to burn, I want the burning to stop, and for everyone to be okay in the end even if they don’t deserve it. A world where we all get precisely what we deserve seems an incredibly dark place to me. That doesn’t leave room for mercy or kindness. You get what you earn, and nothing more.

The more time we spend on this portion of the story, the more I’m inclined to think that the themes agree with me. Our heroes at this point aren’t full of the rage they’re entitled to. Every inch of them is tired, and they’re not here for more death. They’re willing to keep going, but even the thought of killing Eren, when he’s massacred thousands, makes them all hesitate.

Everyone wants to go home and have the fighting stop.

That’s all.

Whatever happened, and whose fault it is -- forget all of it, just give them a place to rest and have it be over.

Thematically, yay. I approve. Beautiful. We start out with a series that makes a name for itself almost entirely on the back of the spectacle of violence, and after years of participating in that violence, the main cast wants nothing to do with it anymore. Love it.

Within the plot, I am not in the mood to have Eren’s traumatized friends apologize for not understanding him.

I get it.

I get why they all feel this way.

I do not like reading it.

They’re projecting their own guilt on someone who has shown a reckless disregard for their lives and sanity.

They’re trying to reach Eren as a human being and friend when he’s done his absolute best to make himself unreachable.

That’s sort of the point Reiner thinks is being made. Eren has intentionally set them up as his adversary so that if he has to be doing all of this, maybe there’s still a chance someone can stop him.

Okay, fine.

It falls short for the same reason all of Eren’s stuff is falling short.

We don’t actually know what the fuck is going on with him. We’re guessing.

You know those picture puzzles you do as a kid? Draw a line from bubble 1 to bubble 2 to bubble 3, and eventually you will make a bunny. Or a dog, or flowers, or something that looks like a picture in the sloppy mess of numbers.

Eren’s general portrayal matches that of a toddler who doesn’t yet know his numbers, and understands the instructions to be that he’s trying to get to the last bubble by scribbling lines through all the other bubbles.

Look, it’s a bunny.

And Eren’s friends are all like, oh wow, that’s such a good job! We’re going to put it on the fridge!

Then people come over and are like, why is there a constellation of a deer jumping through a house on the fridge, but they hear the child did it and immediately are like, oh yeah, that’s the best bunny I’ve ever seen, I can’t draw like that.

The child, being a child, is like, ‘Damn right. I’m going to be in bunny museums.’

Meanwhile, I’m just going to come out and say it.

It’s not a fucking bunny.

What it is, I don’t know, but it is not a bunny, stop calling it a bunny, it is actively erasing the knowledge of what a bunny looks like in my mind.

So ends this skit on what Eren’s portrayal has been like.

Eren has decided that this is all necessary. He doesn’t like it, and wants someone to stop him, but he is totally going to do it, and he knows he’s going to do it because future vision told him so and he’s really sad about that even though he’s emotionally in a place where genocide sounds like the only way out but that is wrong.

I think I’ve said before that Eren getting to this place mentally isn’t too off the rails. His sanity has been deteriorating with each mission, and he’s nineteen. Snapping like this could arguably be expected.

But the last we see of Eren’s thoughts, we still have this back and forth of how he refuses to yield the future to fate, but he already feels condemned by that future because he chooses to cause it.

Eren is clearly trapped by this web of contradictions, but his motivational core is so obstructed that it’s hard to actually connect to. It is easier to say that Eren’s gone off the deep end than it is to spend any amount of time asking how Point A became Point 3.

That’s frustrating, as a reader. I don’t want to be told a story, I want to experience it.

Eren’s experiences are not universal.

I need some hand-holding here. There needs to be a few more clear indications of Eren The Person, and how the individual we know wrapped around to making these choices.

Hooray, he’s not taking away their powers.

The guy he let run his cult still nearly killed all of them.

Hooray, he’s protecting his island.

He just actively courted an international incident so everyone wants the island dead.

Yes, Eren thinks that hope is lost before he makes these choices. That’s how moving forward drags him to this place; he doesn’t have the vision to imagine a world where this isn’t happening.

If you don’t fight, you can’t win, and Eren’s still fighting. But he’s forgotten what winning looks like. All he knows is the dreary march forward.

I would like for that to be explicit, not me extrapolating. Because even as I’m typing all of that, and feeling like it makes sense, it has the confidence of tissue paper, and I know my numbers, but half the numbers making this bunny were missing, and I’m not an artist.

The story I’m digging around here for is one I could like, but I don’t trust that it’s actually the one being told, because too much feels unexplained and weird. You can’t just make your main character nuts and use that as an excuse for anything.

Well, okay, you can.

You shouldn’t.

Please don’t do that.

Which I guess leads us to Eren and OG Ymir doing a Shining twins thing.

Here is my wild speculation.

The Attack Titan is the only Titan capable of resisting the Founder. It cannot be controlled, it simply continues forward, fighting for freedom.

When Eren talks to Ymir, her eyes losing their shadows are the cue for him taking full control of the Founder.

Now we’re back here, and her eyes are shadowed again, with Eren’s joining the ride.

I think that where we’re going to end up is that Eren’s mental fragility made him incredibly susceptible to the Attack Titan’s core nature, and enough of that nature aligned with Eren’s that everything except pursuing a way forward fell away. The Attack Titan is Ymir’s furious will, and she’s had it suppressed for 2000 years. I don’t think either one is emotionally capable of surfacing and deciding to resist the urge to march forward and destroy this world that has cursed them so.

Making my theory that yeah, okay, Eren’s lost it, but he lost it with the help of ancient plot magic, which we are now seeing the full extent of.

Does that have any basis in anything?

Who the fuck knows.

But one thing is very clear: Eren’s not free.

“In order to gain my own freedom... I will take freedom away from the world. [...] You are all free.”

The Attack Titan “has always moved ahead, seeking freedom. It has fought on for freedom.”

Eren, embodiment of the Attack Titan, is the first one to hear Ymir in 2000 years. Going with the vaguely logical theory that Titans are all pieces of Ymir herself, the Attack Titan is the part that rebels against every indignity she bows to in life.

Zeke frees the Founder from its promise of peace. Eren frees Ymir from the chains tying her to the royal family’s will.

All that’s left is 2000 years of trauma, and the ability and will, for the first time, to lash out.

It’s not what you’d call surprising.

It’s the getting here that I take issue with. Now that we’re here, yeah, got it. But I really don’t feel like Eren’s journey here has been done well enough to capture the emotional rawness that is trying to be accessed. His friends are shouting for someone who is effectively dead, for all the presence he’s showing.

Then you’ve got Annie and Kiyomi sad.

ON A BOAT.

While Falco wants to be a Titan with WIIIIIIIIIIINGS.

Kiddos, you’re very cute, and I support you not wanting to sit still and do nothing while the world is ending, but I can’t begin to express how little I care.

Except that your families are alive and you two and Annie deserve to be reunited.

SO FINE, OKAY, FALCO CAN HAVE HIS WINGS AND SAY HI TO HIS PARENTS AND GABI CAN SAY HI TO HER PARENTS AND ANNIE CAN SAY HI TO HER DAD AND IT’LL ALL BE FINE DOES ANYONE KNOW WHAT THE FUCK WE’RE GOING TO DO ABOUT EREN?

BECAUSE YEAH, I’M SURE THE AIRSHIPS ARE JUST GOING TO SPLODE HIM AND END ALL OF THIS AND EVERYONE WILL HOLD HANDS AND SING SONGS THAT THE EVIL HAS BEEN DEFEATED AND THAT WILL BE THE END OF IT.

Conversation: FAILED

Attack: probably FAILED

GO AHEAD, MANGA. SHOW ME THE DEUS EX MACHINA. I’M NOT GOING TO LIKE IT, BUT I AM PREPARED FOR IT.

inb4 yeah they just are going to bomb Eren with Armin that’s how we end this.

133 status: Still Looking For A Win Condition (This Ain’t It Chief)

[cyberfairyblog]

Why Jillian Sucks

Hi, welcome to Odyssey Mystery Hour! I'm your host @gritsandbrits and today I'll be talking about a hot topic in the AIO fandom! Wanna know the tea? Keep on reading!

In the weeks I started getting back into the radio series, the newer episodes have started to irk me, mostly because of one of the more annoying additions: Jillian. Marshall. 😬😬😬

Even though I ship Jason with my self insert OC this not going to be about her. There's a lot of reasons why I do NOT like the idea of Jillian x Jason becoming a canon thing on the show. I hope to describe these feelings as best I can.

Who is Jillian you might ask?

Well to put it simply, Jillian is what happens when a Soccer Mom and a TikTok boyfriend mate and spawn an unholy baby and name them Rachel Berry. Out of the aspects of Nu!Odyssey I dislike, Jillian is the one thing I truly despise. Thankfully I've met fans who share the exact sentiment! 😁😒

Double-N Annoying, Double-O Nincompoop

Making her debut in 2018, Jillian is described as lively and upbeat, if a little high strung and immature; the perfect recipe for Kid Appeal! Before she moved to Odyssey she lived in different cities and worked nineteen jobs before becoming roommates with Connie and her sister Jules.

Now this is actually a fairly interesting set up: a new character struggling to find purpose only to discover it in a quaint small town. But as it turns out her going through that many jobs seems to be more than just struggling to find purpose.

When I first saw her design my thought immediately went to the smarmy classmates I went to school with.

We're introduced with this iconic line: "Hi!! I'm Jillian Marshall, double-L Jillian, double-L Marshall! It's so nice to meet you!"

With that one sentence I knew I was about to die.

The following episode has Jillian bumbling through every job interview much to Connie's duress after which she conveniently ending up working at Triple J Antiques...the same place Jason works!

A little backstory on Jason: he is the adult son of John Whittaker, one of the show's main character, and a bit of an Ensemble Darkhorse. He was introduced as a secret agent meant to bring action and intrigue into the show. He was set up as a charismatic and reckless sort of guy clashing with the calmer Jack Allen. After the Green Ring Conspiracy Saga, Jason officially retired from James Bonding and settled down to work at the Allen's antique shop.

Given his immense popularity there's understandable concern for how he is written and who he gets paired up with. So what does that have to do with Jillian.

Well, the idea of Jillian working at the same exact place as Odyssey's resident bachelor and calling him cute raises a few eyebrows.

"B-but Grits all she did was call him cute! You're reaching too far into this!"

Am I? Look I know this wouldn't be much of a big deal too but that is a subtle tactic the writers threw in to get the cogs turning for Jillison. Jason is clearly uninterested and even implied to dislike her. Jillian bemoans this but Connie reassures her that that's not the case. But hey at least she called him cute so OF COURSE she's going to end up being his love interest!

To me removing a character's core trait to justify a romance means you do NOT know how to actually write a compelling romance. It's trite, it's forced and painful to listen to.

It's also obvious she's a replacement for Bernard, given they have similar personalities and her brief stint on TV (which she also failed at lol). But whereas Bernard was actually endearing, Jillian seems more of a cliche womanchild with zero self awareness and tact. No actual depth, just a personality that is incredibly dumbed down and even insulting. Seriously they made her the dumb blond stereotype in an era where we should've moved on from that! 🤦

Did I mention she goes to church?

Yep she's gonna be one of those Christians.

Literally Loveless, Literally!

Oddly enough the narrative frames this as a rivals to lovers thing, where Jason is both the charismatic friendly guy and the super uninterested Straight Man. The constant twisting the turning makes him go OOC. See we know he's fit better as the former because that goes in line with his canon personality. But when they make him the latter he just comes off as unnecessarily mean. This is turns frames Jillian as someone we should pity: "Oh the attractive male doesn't like me because I went into his office without permission!!"

Wouldn't it make more sense for Jillian to be the one uninterested in a romance since her focus in to find a job/better purpose and romance might distract her? That would make a fun subplot...IF SHE WASN'T OBNOXIOUS!

A pattern I noticed and several fans pointed out: Jason's previous love interests were consistent in that they were strong minded women who challenged him in different ways. Their personalities bounced off creating a fun dynamic that was entertaining to see. Even though they didn't end up with him, you can still see and hear and feel their chemistry which is my goal for Jason x OC. Tasha doesn't make Jason OOC & they had a bittersweet arc, so their interactions were organic. Monica only made him OOC because she was a villain actively manipulating him. So again that worked in terms of story and led to Monica's redemption if my memory serves.

However, Jillian's dynamic is not that fun to listen to. You can feel her annoying Jason through the airwaves. She's strong but only in the sense of feeling something hard underneath your back laying on the bed and realizing that's just your earbud. She's vibrant yes but what else? She doesn't have any unique traits to contrast Jason, and any attempt at a contrast would mean making him act out of character. Adding her bumbling clumsiness and annoying voice, Jason would get tired of her very quickly. He's the type to go for people to have intelligent conversations with, not make him lose braincells. She could very well bring out the worse in him, it'll be an unhealthy relationship.

Here's a tidbit worth mentioning: the VA for Jillian actually auditioned with Jason's VA Townsend Coleman. Now that is big ass red flag right there! No hate towards the actress, just throwing that out there. There's also a facebook page dedicated to Jillison. Typical FB stupidity ramped up to eleven, or AIO fans who see something in Jillian; or at least THINk they see something worthwhile in her.

It doesn't help the writers keep insisting that these two go well together. The audience knows they do not work well as a pair but the narrative keeps insisting they are anyways. I recall an episode that had them pretend to be married while undercover and it was bad. Like REALLY humiliating to see Jason put in that position. He also told her to shut up much to my joy because she could NOT stop being irritating for five minutes. Alas the show still tries to justify Jillian being the Perfect Woman for Jason when she's anything but. And not even endearingly imperfect.

Follow Up

These tags I wrote on one of the AIO posts describes how I feel about Villain Marshall and the Jillison coupling as a whole. It just wouldn't work because Jason needs someone that can actually CHALLENGE him, have their own personality that can bounce off his (without being forced), and most importantly DOESN'T AGGRAVATE THE FANDOM!!

I have not met a single person anywhere that say they like Jillian. It's a different story apparently on the Club App - they like her for reasons I'm too cowardly to find out. But no, she sucks as a character. She makes a annoying friend, and is not a good addition to the show, much less a good love interest.

The only good thing she brought us are the nicknames we gave her 😌

That's all for now thank you for tuning into the Odyssey Mystery Hour. Next week I'll be talking a bit more about my OC Vanessa and her role in the world of Odyssey! Goodbye and make sure to lock your doors to prevent Jillian from coming in!!

[jae-daddy]

Chubby (20) (Final)

Jaebum AU Series 

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven / twelve / thirteen / fourteen / fifteen / sixteen / seventeen / / eighteen / nineteen / twenty (final)  

pairing: jaebum x reader genre: romance, mature, drama plot: you are getting bullied and im jaebum, your crush, decides to help you by fake dating you a/n: at the end, hope y’all like it <3 not edited... thank you for everything <3

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at Jaebum through your blurry tears. You couldn’t watch what you had done to him. You didn’t want to see how much you had broken him.

Your hands tightly clutched onto your skirt as tears fell from your eyes.

Something about Jaebum had always soothed you. Something about him always made you forget your haunting memories. There was something about the way Jaebum’s eyes shone that always told you that he understood.

You had seen ghosts similar to yours haunt his smile before.

But now, you realise they were the same demons. You were the reason for them; you had created those demons.

Your cowardness was the reason why he would miss his sister forever. You were the reason why a part of him would always remain broken.

You had done this to Nora. You had done this to Jenny. You had done this to Jaebum.

You had done this to the boy who smiled with sunshine, and whispered summer wind into your heart. You had done this to Jaebum. You have given him wounds that he would carry forever.

You bit your lip as you thought of last night. When your biggest worry was Jenny, now it didn’t seem that significant. It was nothing compared to the pain in your heart as you thought about the ache in Jaebum’s.

He had told you he loved you. He told the girl who killed his beautiful sister, Nora, that he loved her.

You hated yourself.

“Jaebum,” you whispered, your voice so soft. You were scared to speak any louder. You weren’t scared of Jaebum, but you were scared of something else. You were scared to break the delicate calm sticking to the air.

You knew it was the silence before the storm. You knew whatever happens next will be painful and messy. You knew you were standing in front of the storm slowly creeping towards you.

But you didn’t want to run away.

Even as disgust for yourself ran through your veins, you wanted to remain next to Jaebum. You didn’t want to leave him alone. You wanted to be there for him, no matter how he reacted, you wanted to be there for him.

It didn’t matter if the storm coming tore you to pieces, if it meant not leaving Jaebum alone, you would stand through it.

“I know,” Jaebum spoke breaking the silence.

You bit your lips as you closed your eyes tightly.

Did he know how you felt? Did he know how your heart was breaking into a million pieces? Does he know how every inch of your body and mind was telling you to run away, but you remained on his couch because your heart couldn't move?

You peered up at Jaebum, your vision clear for a second before new tears sprung in them.

Jaebum was looking at you now. His face dark in thought, his eyes burning and his lips drawn into a frown.

You hated seeing him like this.

“I knew it from the beginning,” Jaebum finally said.

Your whole world rung with blinding white as everything in you froze. You blinked through your tears as you looked at Jaebum who lifted his gaze from the ground to look at you.

The way Jaebum looked made you hold your breath. His face pained with guilt and sadness as he looked at you with distant eyes.

“I knew from the start that you knew Nora... like that,” he spoke carefully. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t move. You couldn’t move. All you could do was look at the messy-haired Jaebum in front of you, sitting on his knees as he carefully watched you.

“Well, not from the start,” Jaebum continued in your silence. “I didn’t know when I first moved schools, or really, I didn’t know until that Valentine’s Day. My mum-”

Jaebum stopped as he took a shaky breath.

“The first time I saw you was at her funeral.” You met his eyes when he said this. “I went outside because it was suffocating in that hall, with people telling me how good of a person she was, and how much she would be missed. I just couldn’t stay there, so I went out for a smoke, and then I saw you.

“You looked so broken. You couldn’t go inside the building and I just felt bad for you. The way you were crying...” Jaebum trailed off at the memory.

You remembered the day clear as yesterday. You were outside the old building, your mother going in to give her condolences, but you couldn’t bring yourself too. You cried on the steps at the side of the building; you had cried so much you were sure you were going to die. You didn’t know it was possible to feel so much pain and still be alive.

You sat there crying. You sat there missing your best friend.

When your mother showed up, you found an umbrella placed over you. You didn’t realise it had started raining. But there was a big dark green umbrella placed above you on the higher steps protecting you from the rain.

“I couldn’t talk to you then,” Jaebum pulled you back. “I couldn’t comfort you or ask you what was wrong. I didn’t know if I could handle your pain, I knew I couldn’t take your share of the pain when I was feeling... so much. So, I just left you an umbrella and walked away, hoping it was enough.

“I went back to live with my dad once again, but nothing was the same. I would end up coming here every other day because my mum stopped eating and just living. She would cry and mourn, until one day, she- she tried to end it.”

Your heart hurt. Your heart for the boy sitting in front of you for being so strong by himself.

“She was hospitalised, started to lose her memory slowly. On good days she can recognise me, so that’s nice.” Jaebum gave you a weak smile, making your heart shatter. “After a few years, my dad got remarried and started to make his new family. I decided to move in with my mum, but when she worsened, I wasn’t enough to take care of her anymore.

“I couldn’t live in that old house anymore. So I decided to move here. It was a week before school started when I moved here, and then I saw you again by the supermarket. You weren’t crying anymore, but you still looked so sad. And then, we ended up in the same class,” Jaebum snorted at the joke fate, destiny, or his unlucky stars were playing on him.

“You still looked so weak. Every time I saw you I couldn’t help but remember you crying that day. I was jealous of you,” he laughed humourlessly. “I was jealous that you could cry so easily. I was jealous of the way you could still smile and talk to Jin. I was jealous that despite crying like that, you still were nice to me even when I did nothing for you.”

You wanted to interrupt him and tell him that he shouldn’t be jealous of you. That even before this all started Jaebum was already helping you through the pain. He was the only thing that gave you happiness and made you feel something other than numbness and pain. You wanted to tell him that him stacking books that were scattered as you sat there crying on the floor with bruises was more than enough for you.

That somehow, Jaebum had become the thing keeping you going.

But you couldn’t say it. Your voice stuck somewhere under your sinking your soul as you listened to Jaebum show his heart.

“And then that stupid Valentine’s Day came,” Jaebum looked up and stared into your startled eyes. Apology swam in those warm brown eyes as his lips thinned into a frown. “I didn’t mean what I said that day. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

You almost smiled thinking back to the first words Jaebum had said directed towards you.

Tong-tong.

The word that had haunted you ever since you could remember. When Jaebum had said those words, you felt as if your whole entire world had dulled and become grey. All the dreams and hope in your mind burst with that one sharp word.

“I said it without thinking it, but I didn’t say it to hurt you,” Jaebum pleaded. “When you ran out of class I felt like such an asshole. And then you didn’t come to class for the next few days and I felt like the worst person. When Mr. Kim was making the new seating plans, I told him to make me sit next to you so I could learn from you.”

You stared at Jaebum, who smiled slightly at the surprised look on your face.

“That weekend, I was finally clearing out boxes from the old house when I found her diary. She wrote about you. In the beginning, it was her and her other friends, and what they did to you. She wrote about how she couldn’t look at you when your tears mixed with your cries. How she couldn’t stand there watching you beg to be let go, and then give up and look at the ground. She couldn’t look at the same ground as you so she always stared at the sky, hating herself for not being strong enough to help you. For not being strong enough to tell her friends to stop.”

The eyes fell from your eyes carelessly. You chocked back a sob threatening to escape. You knew how she felt. You knew how she felt. You knew how she felt.

And you forgave her. You forgive her because she was your first friend. She was the first to look at you and smile kindly. The first to make you laugh and laugh at your jokes. The first to talk to you about boys, the first who sleepover at your house. The first friend you studied with, cried with and laughed with.

“Her book slowly began filling up more and more with you. She wrote about the times you would jump in and try to stop them when they were hitting her, but end up getting hurt worse than her. She wrote about the countless times you would wake up at the nurse's office with new bruises. She wrote about the promise she made you take with her; to not jump in.”

You sniffled as you furiously wiped the tears at the memory of her. You missed her. You missed her so much.

“When I read the diary I knew I had to make it stop. I knew I had to stop you from getting hurt. I wanted to protect her like you tried to protect her. But I didn't know, but I could help you.”

You dug your nails into your palm as your mind roared inside you. You didn’t protect her; if you did she would’ve been alive.

“I told Jenny to stop, I showed her the diary. But she wouldn’t listen to me, and I couldn’t think of any other way to protect you. I needed to keep you by my side. So I made up the whole fake dating thing as an excuse to keep you around me.”

Jaebum looked at you again. He slowly got up and walked towards you. He knelt in front of you, his warm brown eyes watching you. It felt as if he was almost caressing you with his gaze as if that was all he could dare to do.

He took your cold hands in his warm ones.

He gazed into your eyes and for a moment, you forgot everything once again. You forgot what was happening, where you were or the pain ripping through your heart.

All you knew, all you could do, in that moment, was love Jaebum.

In that moment, all you could do was love Jaebum so much that filled it could fill all of space and time.

“Even if it started with a lie,” Jaebum said with the gentleness of the moonlight. “Even if it started from a hopeless place, what this is right now, is real and it's beautiful. Every moment that I spent with you, every moment that you have smiled at me. Every time I held your hand, every time you would look at me with those eyes. Every minute that I spent with you doing the simplest thing or doing nothing at all. Every second with you, y/n, I have done nothing but fall in love with you so deeply and hopelessly that it terrifies me like nothing ever has.”

“I want to spend every waking moment of my life with you. I want you to meet my mum and dad. I want to wake up in the mornings and see your face. I want to talk to you as I go to sleep.” Jaebum smirked at himself, as he rolled his eyes through the tears that glistened in them. “I can’t believe I am actually being like this, but when it comes to you this is all I can do. All I can do is love you and want to be with you.”

Jaebum searched your face for any sign of acceptance or rejection, but all you could do was look at the beautiful man in front of you.

“I understand if you want to stop,” Jaebum nodded, his voice sincere. “I understand if all this is too much. I know all this started in a dark place, and I get if you have your doubts. But if for a single moment, you have felt the same as me. If you felt this was real, please don’t walk away from this.”

You stared at Jaebum as tears rolled down your cheeks. Jaebum reached up with shaky hands and wiped them away.

“Jae,” your voice scraped against your dry throat. You glanced at your hands as your lips frowned shook a little as you cried.

“You don’t understand,” you rasped meeting his eyes. “If I had jumped in that day, she would be here. I hid.

“While they beat her up- while she was coughing up blood and crying in pain. I hid.”

Jaebum didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“She gained conscious in the hospital for a brief moment,” Jaebum spoke his voice raw. “Nora was able to say goodbye to all of us. She had even asked for you, but none of us knew who you were. She said that she loved you.”

You didn’t hold back the sob that rose out of you this time. Jaebum was instantly next to you, hiding you in his arms as he gently ran his hand over your back.

“The only reason the paramedics were able to bring her around was that they got there on time,” Jaebum whispered, holding you tight. “Someone had called them. You had called them, and that’s the only reason she could say goodbye.

“The doctors said she already had a ribcage shattered,” Jaebum’s voice broke as he spoke. “It had pierced her lungs causing it flood. She wouldn’t have made it. All the head injury did was black her out so she didn’t feel those last painful moments.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t say anything.

All you could do was hold onto Jaebum as you cried your heart out.

“I’m sorry Jaebum. I am so sorry.” You cried. “I am so sorry Nora. I am so sorry. I’m sorry.”

You cried.

You cried for the friend you had lost. You cried for the daughter her parents had lost. You cried for the friend Jenny had lost. You cried for the sister Jaebum had lost.

You cried for the pain they felt. You cried for how much they missed her.

You cried for Jaebum.

You cried for how much Jaebum had gone through.

You cried for everything.

You cried.

And finally, you cried for yourself.

__________________

Your whole entire life you had always believed that you were bullied for a reason. At first, it was because you were weird, then it was because you weren’t pretty. Then it was because you were a little chubby, and lastly, it was because you deserved it.

You believed you deserved all the pain she felt in the moments your friend took her last breathe.

But then, you met Jaebum. He made you laugh, he made you smile. You spent so much time with him that the way he treated you was how you started to believe you should be treated.

He showed that you didn’t deserve the pain. You deserved happiness, kindness and love. You deserved to laugh and love without guilt. You deserved everything in the world that Nora did. You deserved all the happiness that anyone else would accept.

It had been almost two months since that night in Jaebum’s apartment.

You were nervous, your palms sweaty as the plastic-y paper crumbled loudly in your hands. You took a deep breath as you looked at the flowers.

You smiled bittersweetly.

It was the same kind that Nora had seen that day. It was made entirely of filler flowers, and it was beautiful. It was simple, unique and breath-taking; just like her.

“Are you ready?” Jaebum asked as he stood next to you, straightening his button-down shirt.

You quirked an amused eyebrow at him making him roll his eyes, “You’re wearing a dress, y/n.”

“But that’s because it’s my first time meeting her,” you frowned at Jaebum, making him smile in return. You let out a deep breathe before straightening the dark skirt. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Ms. Im, your son is here,” the nurse said as you followed behind Jaebum. You watched as an older lady, in her late forties, rise from her seat.

You halted in your steps as you saw her smile. It was almost as if Nora was standing there with the light beaming in from behind her.

“My baby!” She greeted her son, giving him sloppy kisses on his cheeks. “You look so handsome!”

Jaebum flushed at the compliment, swatting it away, “Aye, eomma, you’re only saying that cause I’m your son.”

“Of course,” the lady laughed, her eyes almost disappearing. “All your good looks are from me.”

The two laughed before Jaebum’s mother noticed you standing there awkwardly.

“You,” her smile dropped a little. “You were a friend of hers.”

You nodded, gulping nervously.

Ms. Im pushed back the sorrow that flashed on her face for a moment before smiling at you brightly.

“I’ve seen you in her photos,” she ushered you closer to her. She wrapped her arms around you as she patted your back, “thank you for being a good friend to my daughter.”

You closed your eyes and hugged her back. Before you could say anything, she pulled back and looked at the bouquet.

“Oh, how pretty! Are these for me?” She cooed, as she took them off you. She smiled at you lovingly before turning to Jaebum who watched you both silently. “Tell me who’s prettier, me or the flowers?”

Jaebum tsked his tongue playfully, “Of course, my mother.”

You laughed along with them, as you settled on the sofa. Jaebum and his mum began talking and you watched them.

“So is she your girlfriend, Jaebum?” Ms. Im turned to you, with a warm smile. “I like her.”

You blushed, your cheeks burning, but before you could answer Jaebum jumped in.

“I’m trying to convince her to date with me,” Jaebum sighed, his eyes peering into yours playfully. “But she won’t accept me.”

Your cheeks flushed more as you looked at his mother.

Ms. Im laughed harder as she patted your knee, “that’s right, dear. Don’t give in easily.”

“Oh,” Jaebum smiled, groaning playfully. “Not you too, mum. Now, she’ll never say yes.”

You looked at Jaebum, his eyes watching you.

Ms. Im began telling you both about the new flowers that she planted in the garden, but you couldn’t concentrate. Jaebum listened to his mother, but his eyes remained on you.

He winked at you after a minute.

You rolled your eyes in return.

The smile on your lips not going away no matter how much you tried to push it away.

______________________

Authors Note:

after more than two years, chubby had finally come to an end. thank you to everyone for reading and loving this story so much. i hope everyone who reads them realises they are worth so much more than how people see them, and learn to forgive themselves. you guys have honestly been so kind and patient with me and my slow as writing lol. thank you for everything, I hope you enjoyed it <3