#have i mentioned the fact that they’re both suffering from the loss of a loved one(s) or did i gloss over that point

[hershelwidget]

oohohhh i’m back on my spm x yls nonsense. ohhhhhh count inkling save me. oohuuhh professor bleck.

mumble mumble here’s very very loose concepts of the others (in the bleck gang/octonauts crew at least)

If Count Bleck = Professor Inkling, then:

Nastasia = Shellington

O’ Chunks = … ?????? A part of me wants to say Tweak or Barnacles but I know in my heart none of these three people would swap logically

Dimentio = Kwazii (you saw it coming from 3 years away)

Mimi = …man… Kwazii also works here ….

Mr. L = Peso. Peso. Peso. Peso. Wait h. Dashi. Dashi. Dashi. Dashi. girl i can’t pick

Ok you know whay this ones gotta end at Count and Professor mysteriously swapping places . there IS a too deep on this one lads

[eatommo]

Like Real People Do [d.d]

Summary: You and Mando have a history of broken hearts and are both looking for a place to land in the galaxy you live in, but you'll always have each other.

A/n: Not beta'd! mistakes are my own! and look a Hozier song to a Pedro fic what's new! I love this. I hope you do too! 6.2k

Cw: Canon typical violence, mentions of human trafficking, use of weapons, mutual pining, discussions of loss, discussions of war, brief mentions of grief, Reader is from Alderaan (trauma that comes from that), the reader has some of my tattoos because we love a self-insert, broken glass, pubic hair?, unprotected p in v, mentions of marking, hickeys, mentions of oral sex m/f receiving, fingering, the helmet stays on, breeding kink if you squint, as always touched starved Din, themes involving depression and loss, takes place post season 3 but has a flash back to season 1, I probably missed something but let me know!

It had been ages since you’d seen him. You’re not sure how many rotations, but not a day has passed that you didn’t think about him.  But there, just passing the entrance to the trading post, his shiny beskar helmet flashes over the crowd.  

You put your head down, looking at the spare parts you were hoping to auction off for some measly credits at a holiday festival for some caf and to help you hopefully buy some piece of junk craft to get you off this dusty and dry planet.  

Maybe you’ll be lucky and you can slink away, and evade an awkward reunion all altogether.  You found an outcropping and a small table covered in different smoked meats and small roasted animals.  

You try to sell the fact that you look busy while you think about the last time you spoke to him.  Your conversation about the rebel symbol marred into your skin with black ink, Cara had done it herself, and you’d helped her put the very same symbol on her cheek. The pain felt good, it mirrored the grief that felt immeasurable and it almost felt like a release of all of the terrible thoughts of your family’s final moments.  Had your family suffered? Did they even know what was coming for them?  

You were young and had just gotten off the planet in search of something greater, a higher purpose. Something to believe in, and the empire stole everything you’d ever known in one simple explosion. 

It had handed you a purpose, for a time. Working with the rebellion, standing with your Princess, and fighting and punishing the Empire for the loss of Alderaan.  Cara and you were hiding out on Sorgan after leaving your post as shock troopers. You were in the fresher when they started to tousle outside, you expected some gruff Klatoonian who she sharked in a bet, as it often was.  Instead, she lies on her belly, a blaster pointed at a chrome-covered Mandalorian, who is lying on his back with a weapon drawn.

The only thing that holds your attention is a little green baby holding a cup of soup, mirroring your amusement waddling up next to you.  

He coos, looking between you and his companion like he expects you to save him.  “Sorry bud, I’m with her.” 

An aggravated harsh pant cuts you off, “Stay away from him.” The blaster shifts to you, but you raise your hands and keep an even temper.  He looks between the two of you, who clearly have no intention or idea what he is in possession of, and offers to buy the two of your dinner.  

He didn’t speak much at first, but as you and Cara drank away a flagon of spotchka and you shared your interest in his ship, having to grow up around the rebel's fleet and wanting to see such an old military craft, he offered to show you.  

“It’s a short walk, the kid is falling asleep in your lap anyway.”  You look down at the little wrinkled green monster, blinking slowly with his massive eyes as you stroke his ears, you can’t help but fawn over him.  

“I can’t believe they’re hunting a baby.”  Whispering, as you feel the warmth of his tiny body, heartbroken at the idea of an imperial remnant looking for children.  

“He is older than I am.” His surprisingly playful voice almost startled you, he’d been quietly walking by your side as you carried the little guy nestled into your chest.

“He’s” you struggle to find words, but you can feel an energy emanating from the little creature in your arms “magnificent.” 

The Mandalorian hums lowly, agreeing with you.   There’s a pause for a few moments while you look over at him, “Did you find a lot of purpose? With the rebellion?” 

It's your turn to be broody, “For a time.” Suddenly feeling subconscious you speak a little bit more quietly, “Just waiting for the next thing to believe in I guess.” You sigh, gazing down into the dark black ink just above your rebel stripes, “It feels like I could keep fighting forever, but hearing all this, seeing such a small child threatened by the same evil as I was, it feels like I already have.” You’re not sure if he understands you,  or even what side of the war he stood on.  

“You feel like there’s reasons to fight.” He looks down into the baby drifting to sleep in your clutches.  “But afraid that you have no fight left.”  You half expect him to be criticizing you.  Mandalorians have lost almost as much as you have, but are warriors by nature and have fought and continue to be feared across the galaxy as mercenaries and bounty hunters.  His voice is soft, and understanding, as if processing his words himself. 

 You spot the ship ahead, falling silent in your admiration you trudge through the leaves and sticks that have fallen from the ship clearing its landing.  The ramp hisses as it falls open to welcome its pilot, but you stop outside to admire the twin engines and their decades-long wear and tear.  

Walking around the ship to admire her heavy laser cannons and her yellow markings.  He watches you with a quiet but proud silence, as you eventually shuffle up the ramp to set the little one into a floating pram.  Your eye catches a glimpse of a carbonite freezing chamber, and a little anxious butterfly seems to stir in your belly, how much do you trust him?  

“I always thought I’d die looking for a bounty when I got too old, too slow, or just in plain luck.”  You turn heel to face him, heartbeat clipping unsteadily in your chest, but you raise an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.  He hesitates and sets himself on top of one of the shipping containers. “But protecting this child has made me dream of a life I never thought I could fight for.” 

You can feel your body soften at his confession, cursing yourself for thinking lowly of a man whose been nothing but kind and trusting of you.  “I’m sure it's lonely.” You take a small but calculated breath, “He is lucky to have you.” The smile is soft, and you try to reassure him despite yourself. 

He looks at you standing but a few steps away from him, and nods, “I’m just as lucky.” 

The bustle of the holiday market slows to accommodate him, traversing through the stalls as all shapes and sizes scurry out of his way.  You swear to yourself, turning away and buying some meat you can’t afford.  When you hear your modulated name fall out of his mouth like a prayer, soft and delicate.  He steers around the crowd, veering right into your path as a child walks in front of you blowing bubbles from the straw of a festive drink.  

The Mandalorian approaches you with purpose, his walk deliberate and commanding as if everyone in the vicinity answers to him.  “Mando.” you smile briefly, warmth heating your cheeks, and the never-fading crush you have on this man skipping around your belly.  “Hi.” 

His gaze stays fixed as he reaches for your arm, touching a patch of ink that not only is new to him but you completely forgot about.  His glove runs over it and when it doesn’t smear it might’ve made his knees buckle. “The Crest.” 

You peer into the helmet, glad to have him near you again, and realizing how much you missed hearing his voice, a rush of blood washes over your cheeks again.  “Yeah,” you fumble around doubting your reasons for getting that tattoo in the first place, “I’ve been adding a couple of ships that are important to me.” 

You hear a small noise but are unable to determine the emotion behind it, “I was hoping to see you on Nevarro,”  your heart rate picks up in your chest, and of course, his helmet picks it up, “the last few times.” 

“I’ve been moving around, looking for something new.” There’s a sleepy squeal coming from his satchel, “is that?” He swings it around to the front and opens the top of the bag to reveal your favorite green forehead. “Handsome man! I’ve missed you little mudscuffer.” 

Mando chuckles under his breath as you pull the baby from his confines and offer him a piece of the meat you just bought. He swallows it down greedily.  “I swear he eats. He just woke up.” 

You smile and give him a playful look, “Is daddy feeding you enough munchkin?” You hand the baby another strip, Mando is glad you don’t see him adjusting his pants as the word daddy slips between your lips innocently, “Don't worry I’ll get you something sweet too.” 

Mando rests his hands on his hips, and shakes his head in mock defeat, “He’s not gonna want to leave.” He follows at your back as you carry the child through the marketplace, sometimes letting his palm rest on your back to keep close to you.  

He would not be one to admit but seeing you carry the child around reminds him of the times on Sorgan, of the weeks you spent together and his floundering inability to court you.  Even now the way you look at him has him hiding behind his beskar helm like a foolish schoolgirl.  

“He doesn’t have to, are you here for business?” You cast a look over your shoulder, “He can stay with me while you take care of whatever you need.” You find a stall selling some fruity overpriced drink for the planetary holiday. 

You look into your bag, coming up just a few credits short, and cursing at yourself.  Starting to walk away, “I’ve got it.” He cuts in front of you while gripping your shoulder and standing over the top of you, handing more than enough credits to the man in exchange for two drinks.  

Yet another blush creeps into your cheeks, “No need to spoil me.”  You offer the child his drink and he snatches it away from you eagerly with a screech.

“I want to.” That causes your brows to knit together and a deep ache below your belt to settle and warm. 

You sip away at the luxuriously sweet drink, wishing you could at least share it with him. “I have a room at an inn,” you offer, “or we could go back to the Crest, and catch up.” 

You lean against one of the walls so that you don’t accidentally traverse even further from his bounty.  “I don’t have the crest.” 

Your drink turns to ash in your mouth, “What? Is she in disrepair? I’m sure Karga-“ 

“It’s rubble on the planet Tython.” He’s sad, of course he is, but his hand finds the mark on your skin again, and you can’t help but mull over the memories, the connection you shared on that ship eviscerated. 

“I’m so sorry.” You let your head hang low, remembering how many conversations you shared hoping he’d invite you aboard as crew.  “I loved that ship. I mean not as much as you I’m sure.” 

He chuckles, thumb brushing over the silhouette as he speaks, “You don’t happen to know how to rewire an N-1 starfighter engine?”  

“I’m sure I could look at it, but I don’t think I’d be much help. Where the hell did you find one?” You’re a bumbling mess, wanting so eagerly for him to scoop you off this planet like he had before, but also knowing your heart couldn’t bear to watch him leave a third time.  

“I didn’t think so but I have no idea what you’ve been up to and-“ he pauses, stopping himself to watch you take a sip of the drink after licking some whipped cream off of the straw.  

“And?” You prompt him to continue, but he stares between you and the child who have matching bright red tongues and are both sporting some whipped cream out of the corners of your mouths.  

You catch a hint of strain in his voice, “We can rest at your place for a while. He’s due for a nap.” You squint at him a little, easily reading his stiff body language and the change of subject.  

At the word nap, the baby babbles away while chewing on the straw of his drink, “There’s a lot of sugar in this, so we might have to wait it out.”  

Mando lets out an exasperated sigh, “What have you gotten us into.” You’re both sitting on the floor of a modest single room with the little one taking turns climbing up and over the two of you.  

“You bought it,” raising your hands in defense, smile splitting ear to ear,  “I was going to split one with him.”  You reach out to try to grab his surprisingly quick body but he darts away with a giggle.  

“He’ll crash, eventually.” You could hear him talk about the baby for hours,  to sit with him and watch the two of them play together always felt like a treat on its own. “Get down from there.” 

“He’s fine, this place is a dump anyway.” You smirk over your shoulder as he climbs up onto your bed, rolling around and giggling half to himself while chewing on the mythosaur skull pendant around his neck. 

“How did you end up here?” Your face falls a little, but he’s kind, and soft, and you can tell he doesn’t want to pry but his curiosity is getting the best of him.  

“I was tracking a bunch of smugglers, the republic got word that they were hauling children to Canto Bight, and exporting them maker knows where.” You continue, trying to keep your breath even, “Cara had asked me as a favor, but I had a run-in with a group of pirates who saw my stripes and stole my ship.” 

“Does she know?” He shuffles closer to you, folding his knees in so that he can run a hand soothingly across the skin of your leg.  

“I don’t know,” You clear the tightness in your throat, “At least I don’t think so.” You find the words pouring out of you as if he is comforting you into realizing something you’ve been fighting for a long time.  “I don’t think I can fight like this anymore, and I don’t know how to tell her that.” 

He is quiet, giving a simple solemn nod, before pulling the rising phoenix from his back, and laying it on the floor.  He scoots closer to you, settling next to you as you both lean against the foot of your bed.  His beskar shoulder plate is cold on your cheek, as you lean against him, seeking reassurance you haven’t felt in so long.  

Silently a tear falls down your face, and as if prompted by his little superpowers the baby, climbs into your lap nuzzling your cheek and touching your face gently with a warm hand.  There are a lot of things this child is capable of, things you can’t begin to understand, over a lifetime that is marred with more violence and confusion than you will likely ever know existed. When he touches you, you can feel his pain and loss, but he also shares with you a joy and unfathomable curiosity over the smallest things he remembers.  

“I can’t take you on the N-1,” his voice startles you out of your stupor with the baby, “but if you’ll give me a few days, I’ll be back to pick you up, and you can stay with us on Nevarro until you find somewhere else, something else to do.” 

Your breath is shaking, and you’re not even sure the last time you felt safe enough to cry.  A small piece of you wants to run because that's what you've been doing for these last 10 or so years of your life.  Running from the Empire, running after them, and then running from yourself.  “I don’t think I could.” 

“Why not?” he reaches for your shaking hand, setting his gloved hand on top of yours, driving the energy in the room with the ease of piloting a speeder bike.  

“You’re a family, he has a routine, you’ve settled into this beautiful life that you’ve worked tirelessly for.  I couldn’t impose.” You try your best to sound strong like you’ve got a plan ahead of you, and the idea of not being around the two of them doesn't make your heart ache. 

He hums, and for a moment your cry is less of confusion and more out of pain.  His hand is gone from yours, and the lack of his warmth feels like a slap into reality, as you pinch your eyes shut to stop yourself from being embarrassed even further. 

You jump.  There's a much larger warm hand caressing your cheek, and turning your head into the dark stare of his visor.  You can see the tanned skin of his wrist as he turns your face slightly, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “It is the greatest mistake of my life leaving you on Sorgan.” 

You sniffle, the words sorting through the emotional fog of your brain, searching the blank emotionless canvas of metal for a hint of human connection, a flutter of an eyelash, anything.  You can’t find anything, until you hear the faint sound of his breath from beneath his mask, stuttering and insecure, his chest rising and falling like he’s fighting a battle with his own emotions.  

You feel it again, a swell in your chest of love and admiration and then you feel the tiny claws digging into the skin of your bicep. You look down at the tiny man as he steps between where your chests are separated by mere inches, “Could I have her come and get us?” You’re quiet as a loth cat, voice heady and rough. “I don’t think I could watch you go.” 

He lets the little one settle into his lap after a moment, this time you can hear relief and a half-broken smile in his tone, “Let’s just wait until he falls asleep, I’ll go to the ship and send a transmission.  I’ll come back with his pram, and then where we go. You go.” 

You clear your throat again, wanting so desperately for this to be real and aching to touch him.  “Okay.” your voice barely makes a squeak, he pressed the cold beskar helm to your temple.  

Wondering if he feels as raw as you, you place your hand on top of his suppressing the need to comment on how large it is, and tangle your fingers with his.  You stare at his hand, tanned and massive and warm. Human. You fold your legs in on themselves and shift your body so that you may properly look at him. 

The glove sits in his lap, and he looks so imposing in this tiny half-furnished room, polished and chrome in the dingy and ill-lit space you've called ‘home’ for these last few cycles.  You take his other hand, and look up to see if he’s going to stop you, but he is still and silent, so you slip the glove off his hand.  You trace from the tip of his middle finger, down his palm and up towards the pulse point of his wrist. 

He shudders beneath your touch, thankful for the mask to hide the crimson flush of his cheeks. He’s never had the opportunity to enjoy a tenderness like this, to feel his pulse quicken and the nervous butterflies he’s heard described during love stories on a holodrama.  It’s terrifying, he feels like he could vomit, but the way your delicate fingers trace circles over the palm of his hand makes him want to run his hands over every last inch of your body until he knows it inside and out like his blaster. 

The child settles into his lap, leaning his head against your arm as his head and eyes grow heavier with sleep.  “Why don’t we walk to your ship together?”  

Your eyes are bright, and he can tell by your posture that you feel better, but he can’t stop the audible grumble, not ready to let you or even your hand slip from his.  He nods and swallows harshly to clear his throat, “Alright.”

You walk across the market again, and the crowd parts before the two of you except this time you are holding onto his hand, and rather than trying to avoid his gaze like every other soul walking the market, you cling to his him trying to suppress the smirk curling the corners of your mouth.  

Nevarro has changed so much, you spend the first few days just getting accustomed to the new layout of the town.  Dropping the child, ‘Grogu’ (it took a while but it grew on you) at school, and then going to spend time in the market picking up some rations and some of the seasonal veg you’ve been coaxing into the little one’s belly.  

The domestic bliss that comes with living with Mando is both welcome and intoxicating.  You’re awake at odd hours of the night, talking and sharing stories about Jawas and your run-ins with Ewoks,  and sharing your dreams and hopes for the galaxy.  

He shares stories about Mandalore, about visiting there for the first time and bathing in the healing waters, about Bo Katan seeing a Mythasaur alive. All things you heard about as a young child, and symbols that brought hope and purpose to the entire creed were real and were aiding to heal the planet and its inhabitants. 

Then there were times when you both laid on the floor, watching the little one interact with a metal sphere, using his magic to hover it just out of your grasp and giggling himself to a peaceful sleep.  You’d lay together, wrapped in the comfort and protection of his house, and stare at the little man as he sleeps occasionally peaking into the reflection of yourself in his helmet, and blushing when you catch your own heart racing.

You want to tell him how you crave to be with him, how addicting his presence and his mind are to you, but you’re afraid.  Afraid to move too fast, to step over his barriers, but also knowing that each second without knowing the softness of his mouth is torture. 

The first time you see him in his sleep clothes, a plain dark green shirt with three buttons on the top and loose-fitting black canvas pants, no metal aside from his helmet, you choke on your cup of Jawa juice.   He’s large even without the metal beefing up his silhouette, his back broad and the fabric thin enough for you to see his muscles move as he opens a drawer for silverware. Even treating yourself to a glimpse of his waist and the way it tapers to his ass and hips.  

It’s become more common, in fact when he gets home, he almost immediately strips out of the armor in favor of something more casual and comfortable.  

Tonight the energy is different. The kid passes out early and you’re soaking a pot you used for dinner in the sink when he emerges out of his room.  You hear his footsteps, but they’re muted and soft, he’s barefoot. As you glance over your shoulder as he offers you a glass from his bedroom you see he’s in briefs, (the house is admittedly warmer as the seasons change) but the shock is plain as day as you turn so quickly away the glass slips from your hand and shatters on the floor. But the image of his chest spattered with hair that trailed down his soft belly and into the top of his black undergarments. 

You both are silent for  a moment, hoping the noise isn’t loud enough to wake the baby, in his silence you swear, “Kriff, don’t move I’ll get a broom.” You shy away, looking to the ground for a safe path.  

He cuts you off arm darting in front of you to halt your movement,  “I’ll get it.” His hand comes to rest on your hip stalling your movements with his warm palm. 

His other hand reaches out and before you can grumble in discontent he's lifting you onto the counter. You sit there, flustered with your hands tucked between your thighs as he fiddles with the control of his helmet flicking through to see which would help him find the scattered pieces of glass the best.  

It's moments, but it feels like an eternity as he searches for a broom, sweeping the glass into a neat pile before discarding it into the bin silently.  He settles between your legs, silent as a mouse.  

“I'm sorry.” You smile sheepishly, struggling to maintain eye contact as he hovers in front of you, inches separating your face, and if it were any cooler you would’ve fogged the front of his mask with your breath. 

He chuckles dryly, “Don’t be, I’ll take it as a compliment.”  His posture is full of confidence, but also comfortable and relaxed.  You long to touch him, to run your hand over his chest and abdomen, to feel the muscles shift in his back as he- “Mesh’la?” 

You blink yourself out of a daze, “You should, you’re so handsome.”  He braces his hands on the counter next to your hips and leans ever closer.

“Yeah?” His voice is hot like a pant, stroking a fire in the room that neither of you are able to ignore any longer. 

“Yeah.” You smirk at him, emboldened and smoothing your hands up the strong plains of his arms, squeezing lightly around the muscles of his biceps.  You let your foot run across his calf, urging him closer to your body, his hands find your waist, firm but careful as his thumbs stroke the skin just below your breasts.  You curse yourself for even bothering with a bra band.  

“I like having you here.” His head tilts, you can almost see the gears turning in his brain as he continues, “Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this?” He uses his strength to pull you a little closer to him, so with each breath your chests touch and your core is flush to his abdomen.  “Having you in my kitchen, sitting on my counter looking so pretty, so-” He swipes the hair off your shoulder exposing your neck and throat, “edible.” 

Any chance you had of playing it cool is gone, you want nothing more than to bend to his will.  His hand disappears from your side, and he tangles it in your hair, using it to fix your eyes to his through the helm, as he strokes your cheek with his thumb.  You feel completely safe, but there’s something about him thats dangerous, hungry even, and it makes your skin damp with sweat.

He sounds like he’s in agony, like each passing moment without consuming you is torture, and you ache for him in a way that astonishes you, embarrasses you, not even sure that you could stand on your own two feet.  

“I need you.” He whispers, breath uneven almost a growl, “Tonight. Now.” He reaches between your legs, letting his fingers ghost over you ever so gently, as if asking, no begging, for permission.

You swallow hard, his helmet tilts, admiring you, and you hardly manage to stutter a yes.  Part of you expects him to be quick, tearing at your clothes and taking you right here in the kitchen. 

 He doesn’t.

 He goes slow, letting the crest of his helmet fall to rest on your forehead, taking his time to caress your hips, tracing up your sides and taking your shirt with it.  His hands are warm, but bring goosebumps to your skin as he touches you, hands squeezing your breasts and rubbing your nipple.  You keen, pressing desperately against his hands.  You lean in, placing a kiss to his collarbone, gentle and moving slow so he may stop you if he wants, but he drops his shoulder and tilts his head to expose his neck.  

You kiss his collarbone again, letting your tongue dart out to taste his skin, he’s vibrating beneath you. Trembling as you kiss the hollow of his throat and nibble at the skin of his neck.  You run your hands down his chest, basking in the intimacy and living for the scent of his skin.

He lifts you in a fluid motion, whisking you out of the kitchen and into his modest bedroom.  Laying you on the bed, he runs his hands down your legs and removes your pants.  You blush, unable to hide your arousal but noticing the prominent tent in his briefs, your mouth waters and you get to consider getting on your knees for him briefly.  

He’s faster than you, and not thinking about himself.  Ripping your underwear from your body and running the tip of his index fingers through your folds. “All this for me?” He circles your entrance, gathering your slick before brushing across your clit with leg-shaking precision.  

You chase his touch, the pleasure coating your tongue and fogging your brain even more than you can put into words. You beg for him to get closer, to press your bodies together until you weren't sure you'd ever part.

You're expecting to feel shorted by the absence of his mouth on yours.  No taste of him, and not getting to hear his words directly from his mouth, but his touch is consuming.  Like he's worshiping and waking each cell with caresses and adoration that's as palpable in the air as his sheets were soft on your back.  

There are noises, words you think, that he is muttering between each supple squeeze and tease, words you've heard him say before but their meaning is only now defined by his actions.  

Love.  He loves you.  You can feel it in the heat of his hands as he spreads your legs apart and admires the way you part for him, and he sinks two fingers into your fluttering pussy, pushing up and stroking something dangerous. 

His erection is nestled against your leg, and he shifts his hips with every twist of his fingers for a few moments, pressed between your bodies he feels a glimmer of relief with a groan, as much as he wants to bathe you in attention, he thinks that if he waits any longer his heart might give out before the best part.  “Mesh’la,” he twists his fingers as if to be sure you're listening, “Please.” 

“Yes,” you nod, swallowing harshly as he slips free of his underwear, cock springing free of its confines.  You gawk, unabashedly, as he did to you just moments ago. He's large, intact, leaning slightly to his left, and the skin is tanned brown, slightly darker than the rest of his body, thick and weeping out of the brilliantly flushed pink tip, the base adorned with sparse but dark hair that trails up to his navel deliciously.   When he steps between your legs and lets it rest on your abdomen to press your forehead together again, you feel its heady weight against you and stoop so low as to beg, “Please.”

You're echoing each other's moans as he grinds against your folds, coating himself in your slick before sinking into you in a single brutally slow thrust. When he bottoms out, you do your best not to squeak as the girth of his member breaks you open, it doesn't hurt, rather it feels like you've both waited an eternity to come to this very moment, euphoric and fulfilling the needs of your body and soul.  

He grinds his pelvis against yours letting his hand shift to cup your cheek, staring at you, he hopes somehow you can sense it. How he is barely able to stop passing between the pout of your lips and the deep pleading look in your eyes, begging him for the same thing his heart is calling for.   He could weep, having finally shorn the armor to dedicate himself to you, because the truth is, all you needed was to ask. He would've dropped his creed, everything he had achieved, and the meek life he'd planned for himself to grovel at your feet for the rest of his human life.  

Devotion, that's what it was called.  He had felt at many moments of his life that he was in the right place, blessing along his journeys that started out as miracles, friends, familial bonds he didn't think he deserved.  It felt misplaced, the little blessings that had entered his life so quickly that he swore they had to have been accidents. It had taken losing the child and abandoning you on that god-forsaken planet, for him to reflect, and to realize that the life he deserved was not determined by some blasters and an army, nor his home planet.  He had the life he wanted in his palms once, and watched it slip through his fingers with the charred remains of his ship.  His grip tightened instinctively, twisting the sheet in his fist. 

It was you.  You were the representation of all of the things he wanted but never thought he deserved.  A family, a place to call home, and you even had committed something as passing as his ship to your skin with a permanence that scared him.  

Here your skin was warm, surrounding him, nurturing him, squeezing him, and his mind was trying so hard to be a person, not a machine, loving someone else for the first time.  

He found the words, he said it to you, over and over with his pelvis angled just right as he ground his hips into you.

He was throbbing inside of you, you could feel the slick slide and pulse of him with each thrust. The pleasure was so intense you were whimpering and mewling beneath him, wetness smearing onto your thighs and running on the sheets below.

You've had sex before of course, and now you seriously doubt you've been doing it right. You kiss at the hollow of his throat, and in response he hunches over you, arms on either side of your head, animalistic yet praising affirmations go straight to the building heat in your core.  

You let your hands, come up to his back digging your nails into his skin.  He moans in shock as his thrusts grow more frenzied, spurred on by the bite of pain at his back.  He reaches between you and circles your clit with his thumb, pulling you headfirst into your orgasm.  You're body goes taught and relaxes all at once, the pleasure blinding you as your vision goes white and each tilt of his hips makes you stutter out an overstimulated moan. 

The fluttering of your sex around him would be enough to send over the edge but as you catch your breath you begin to beg for him to finish inside you.  He does, still feeling you shivering through the after waves of your own, as he groans and revels through the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, complete with curled toes and a knuckle-popping grip on the sheets.  He’s still looking at you, the rise of fall of your chests bumping into each other and your breath fogging the front of his helmet so much that when you kissed right over his eye, he could see the imprint of your lips for just a passing moment. 

“I can’t believe we waited so long.”  You chuckle, all smiles but looking as dazed and spent as he felt. A shiver coming over him as the small sounds cause you to tighten slightly around him as he softens, his body incredible sensitive. 

“I’ll spend the rest of our life making up for it.”  You note the sound of him speaking through the grit of his teeth, and do your best to lie still, not wishing to be parted just yet.

Months later, you’re married in a private ceremony in front of friends and his brothers and sisters of the clan.  It's quick, and everything you had expected of a warrior’s wedding.  You get the mudhorn symbol tattooed into the skin nestled behind your ear, wearing it proudly and with your vows you are made a family, a clan of three in front of all the important people you care about. 

You’d be remiss if what had you most excited isn’t the filthy promises he’s made to you about that night, taking his helmet off and kissing you everywhere he can for as long as he wishes.  Promising to leave a mark over your new clan sigil as he marks the rest of your body for him, as you’ve done to him many times over. You get to admire his face and the most handsome man in the galaxy who kneels before you with reverence and vows to take care of you with more than just his words. 

[murmuur-vanilja]

On cocaine, identity and autonomy.

I do drugs. That is not some kind of secret, and that’s pretty much something I mention every other day without showing much restraint about what I reveal on it. In theory, it is my special interest, it’s something I have a genuinely insane relationship to, both as a practice and as my little niche inside the bigger interest that is biology. Therefore, in theory, I am in love with all of them, from the sedatives to the psychedelics, from the dissociatives to the amphetamines, and would be down to try each and every at least once. However, there is no doubt, when it comes to what really tickles my mind, to what I really vibe with: those are the stimulants (with or without hallucinogenic properties).

This has been a surprise to some people in the past, and continue to be, occasionally. Specifically, the main curiosity about this would come back to that point: why would I, already experiencing “schizophrenia” and chronic dysregulation of my sympathetic nervous system (tachycardia and throwing up a lot, notably), would willingly expose myself to the same effects, nay worsen them? To which I couldn’t quite answer, because it was more of an urge than a premeditated essay. I’ve thought about it though, and even when I couldn’t really explain it, I’d somehow mumble it had to do with autonomy, and somehow, identity.

That is to say, in a life where experience has proven time and time again that, whatever I shall do, my health concerns would never be listened to anyway, I would always be stuck with the symptoms. Under such circumstances, if whatever I do will result in tachycardia and arrhythmia anyway, I suppose I’d rather choose to go through it and give it positive connotations than merely suffer through it at random. That choice, yes, made my general health worsen; my heart is behaving in stranger ways than it’s ever been, and more frequently. Yet, as a personal way of living, even though it doesn’t benefit the general health, I do feel happier taking back autonomy over it for a bit even if it’s not “good”, or even if it were to shorten whatever my life expectancy is.

On the other hand, although there is no saying when I’ll get sick from something different again, no saying when I’ll be in pain from the chronic pain again, even “negative” effects such as throwing up on drugs feel nice. They do, because I’m in control. It doesn’t matter if swallowing a pill of ecstasy got me to get rid of everything in my stomach within an hour, because even if it weren’t also associated with a positive experience, I would know those effects fade within eight hours or so (or any other time frame depending on the exact effect and substance and dose, yada yada). And that is the only time I know when it ends.

In a way, you might call stimulants an aid to me. In my case, it’s not really anything like coping, or at least that’s seriously not a big part of it at all (in fact, in a bad mood, it might make me worse, and cannabis with the aim of relieving pain, for example, actually makes me more aware of background pain I had somehow forgotten about).

There are other reasons, very much related, for which they also help. I could name the memory loss as something that I live as positive, when my habit is to remember most everything, to be unable to forget. I could name even the hallucinations, for they’re closer to a happy fever dream than to the fears I sometimes get at night.

In addition to that, there is another big part to the why of drug use, in my eyes. As I mentioned previously, I do have a strong interest in them, and that’s to such an extent you might call it a core part of my identity. I do not believe drugs have to be a big deal, at all, whether it be positive, negative or anything in between. However, I think that just because they don’t have to be that doesn’t mean that they’re not effectively a big deal to some people.

In my case, because they allow me to thrive in an interest that define me (biology) and because they allow me to live at all, they’re definitely something that are deeply intertwined in my personality, and I was craving the stimulants from before I even got my hands on them. On top of it, you have the subcategory of psychedelics that play a major role in identity in the way that they (especially psylocibin) allow me to introspect and figure out some pretty important decisions and directions in life. You know, the rearrangement of the entire default mode and all.

I mean, if you were to lie down in the middle of a public park with birds and see a bunch of trans flags in front of you, would you want to think about how your identity and your drugs feed into each other? I sure did. Well, from this point on, it’s more like I could go on and on about a bunch of anecdotes and explain each of them, or talk about how they made me realise how a lot of my own psyche would work, and I guess I’d love to grow them too to complete the mad pharmaco-biologist finally in touch with all that was lost and grieved part of my deeper self.

Plus, you know I’m disabled. Of course, I’m disabled and mad (as in the kind of “mad” from mad pride). That isn’t going anywhere, both because no one’s helping, and because it’s simply something that will always be there. Both disabled and mad because they don’t fully overlap, especially as the reason I put “schizophrenia” in quotation marks is because I acknowledge the psychiatry survivor story that I have, but wouldn’t actually interpret my experience with that framework; if anything, it’s more of a spiritual thing to me (which in turn, informs my relationship with drugs).

Really, the final point I’m introducing here is that I have preexisting conditions that already defined me, so I might as well define myself further. In that way, it’s true still, “I do drugs” and “I’m interested in the topic”, but it goes beyond that, way beyond that, to the point that it barely is true when you put it like that. Rather, I embrace them and I love them like I love myself.

July 2nd. 2:27PM - 7:46 PM

[denimbex1986]

'Approaching Andrew Haigh’s bewitching “All of Us Strangers,” it’s best to submit to the film’s every whim. This intimate, heartbreaking fantasy centers around an irresistible premise: what if we had more time with someone we lost? Taking it further, Haigh (45 Years) cranks up the emotional stakes: what if that person, those people, weren’t actual angels but warm bodies with the capacity to express true love and dish out judgment and pain in equal measure. Backed by a stunning foursome (Andrew Scott, Paul Mescal, Claire Foy, and Jamie Bell), Haigh’s film earns and rewards the audience’s buy-in. Avoiding rote sentimentality, “Strangers” trades on the considerable chemistry between its key performers (Scott and Foy especially) to spin an imaginative conceit into an extraordinary fable which layers on the heartbreak, offering a complex tribute to love, death and life itself.

Watching a movie in a theater can feel like a public event; but really, it’s a private experience, since each person brings their own histories—all of the hurt, loss, and hope—into a viewing. The moments that sting in “Strangers” might vary from person-to-person, but the suffering rendered is ample, spread fairly evenly among the stars. Far from a dreary downer, Haigh deals with loneliness and loss with a roving, curious eye, going for the jugular and then pulling back, giving all viewers room to process what’s happening on screen and make those fictional maladies our own. At no point does Haigh or any of his game cast feel like they’re overdoing it, nor manipulating emotions for easy tears. The waterworks come, to be sure, but it’s the personal baggage that each viewer carries which will dictate the response, and that’s a testament to the story’s depth.

Of Time Passed and Walls Coming Down

A plot description is necessary, but inadequate: Adam (Andrew Scott) is a blocked writer who lives alone in a London flat. One night, his neighbor Harry (Paul Mescal) introduces himself, knocking on his door and flirting with a bottle in hand. Adam’s flattered, and maybe a bit scared, and above all he needs to get back to work, so he seeks inspiration back where he grew up, taking a train to the suburbs. Once off the train, he follows a mysteriously familiar face—seen exiting a liquor store—back to his childhood home. It’s Adam’s dad (Jamie Bell), mustachioed and looking not a year older than his son. The easygoing banter between the two leads and the warm greeting from Adam’s mum (Claire Foy) at the house overshadows the fact that both of Adam’s parents died in a car accident when he was twelve years old.

The casual reunion slips back to the ‘80s (soundtrack included) with ease, no need to rush discussing the obvious elephant in the room. But, in acknowledging how Adam has grown into a man, dad and mum aren’t ignoring the surreal dreamscape the trio inhabits. Invigorated, or maybe just love-drunk, Adam goes home and invites a sober and embarrassed Harry (“I don’t drink anymore”) over, and the walls quickly come down. That they have sex doesn’t hurt to break the ice, but it’s Harry’s sensitive inquisition and sharing of his own personal history which brings out Adam’s honesty. Adam admits that he hadn’t favored sex (“Because I was afraid it would kill me”) over the years, and when Harry mentions his family, Adam then reveals that both parents were killed decades ago. Harry’s therapeutic grace—neither shocked nor per-formatively pitying—has an almost angelic quality, a foil to Adam’s hardened exterior.

Humanizing the Dead and Paying Respect

Emboldened, and a bit mystified by his abundant companionship, Adam returns home again the next day. When his mum asks if he has a girlfriend, Adam clenchingly delivers the news that he’s gay. Watch this exchange on mute, and the two faces tell all the story. Foy is aghast, stripped of a poker face and making no effort to withhold disappointment, while Adam is wounded, yet continues to reassure mum (“It’s different now”), assuming the role of caretaker when he’s the one who deserves compassion and empathy. The next day, Adam’s father (mum won’t come downstairs to see them) wonders why he didn’t come out when he was younger, and in a shocking admission, tells his son that he probably would have bullied—or at best ignored—a kid like Adam growing up.

No one apologizes for these harsh prejudices, and Haigh’s storytelling skill is evident here, allowing the people to resolve conflict instead of editorializing or inserting some heavy-handed lesson about why mum and dad acted so horribly. They’re dead, after all. And by humanizing the parents, in all their folly, Haigh pays respect to the dead, letting them be who they are, or who they would’ve been, rather than summoning a more predictable trope of the all-knowing heavenly figures in classics such as “A Matter of Life and Death” (1946) and “Here Comes Mr. Jordan” (1941). The ignorance, in Adam’s eyes, doesn’t make his parents less capable—or worthy—of love. So he forges ahead, literally sandwiching himself between his parents in their bed, wearing his old pajamas, and talking about his childhood dreams of going on vacation with his mum, fighting and making up.

The Necessity of Preserving the Past

Of course, Adam insists that Harry meet the parents, and when that visit goes awry, it sets in motion a breathtaking, enigmatic finale. Part of why a plot synopsis here is particularly insufficient is because any number of Haigh’s strategies could come off as contrived or frivolous. (A grown-up Adam wearing his childhood clothing, for one.) But these are calculated risks, and Haigh’s leaning on his own imagination, subverting certain death-and-after-life cinematic touchstones to unveil a singular love story, whose components: father/son, mother/son, mother/father and Adam/Harry are all so clearly too good to be true. Credit goes to Haigh for pulling this off, but much needs to be said about the otherworldly performances. Foy, to me, is the beating heart, and her two-hander scenes with Scott (equally commanding) are still vibrating in my head, like so many of Haigh’s on-point needle drops.

It’s customary to see the bereaved on-screen, mourning a loss and, if they’re lucky, achieving some closure. But Haigh’s gamble is to show that those who survive and grieve aren’t the only ones who have suffered. Dead parents hurt too. And if that sounds glib, it’s just another coup of Haigh’s to make us cry for the departed, not because we miss them—there’s that too—but because they’ll never live to see us love, hurt, fall down flat and soar again. This is a film that offers a realistic depiction of a magical scenario, and is less concerned with answers than questions. Talking to his mum in bed, Adam describes—with a smile—a dream in which they went on vacation and just kept fighting. Death might kill part of the future, but luckily for Adam, the past didn’t evaporate alongside it.'

[tallmantall]

#JamesDonaldson On #MentalHealth - Not Harmless: #SuicidalIdeation

Not everyone thinks of killing themselves, but a distressing number of people do. #Suicidalideation, sometimes referred to as #suicidalthoughts, is exactly what it sounds like: it’s thinking about, perhaps making a plan, playing out in your mind what death by your own hand might be like. Just because the term suggests that the action is not taken to its ultimate conclusion does not mean it is not to be taken seriously or that the person suffering is looking for attention. What they may be looking for is someone to help them. And if you pay attention to the symptoms, you could be the one to help. Those symptoms can range widely. Visible end-of-life preparations – giving away your property or possessions, saying farewell to friends and family, acquiring the means to the end such as a gun or lethal chemicals: these are perhaps the most obvious symptoms. Or you may observe an increase in risky #behaviors like #drug or #alcohol use, even reckless driving. #Suicidalideation (or #suicideideation) can be part of a bigger-picture #mentalhealthissue, like a depressive or #bipolardisorder, which means that familiar symptoms and effects of those conditions can also be a factor: feelings of worthlessness, loss of interest in pleasurable activities, or #isolation from others. It is also possible that there may be no symptoms at all. Some people keep their feelings hidden, their #behavior controlled, and show no particular signs of any distress. You think they’re ok and have no reason to doubt this. In some instances, you might be concerned about someone’s mental state simply from observing what life has thrown at them. #Suicidalideation can stem from a great many causes, but what those causes mostly have in common is a sense of having lost control of – or purpose in – life. Legal or financial troubles; loss of job, property, health, or a loved one: traumatic changes in life can often have traumatic consequences for our #mentalhealth. And if your #mentalhealth is already fragile, then #suicidalideation can sometimes be an effect of your condition or occasionally the medication you are taking for relief. #Depression, #anxiety, #bipolardisorder, #schizophrenia, #PTSD are just some of the #mentalhealthissues that can bring with them thoughts of #suicide. When it comes to paying attention and trying to help, the literature on #suicidalideation mostly agrees that in many cases paying attention is, in and of itself, the needed help. There is a persistent but mistaken belief that you or I can push someone in the direction of #suicide simply by mentioning it. There is no evidence that asking someone if they are feeling suicidal causes suicidal feelings. It’s not a case of: “Funny you asked, I was thinking I should spend more time working on a suicide plan.” In fact, asking someone if they are feeling suicidal can show that you care about how they are feeling and offer an opportunity to talk about what may be a very difficult subject. Feeling suicidal – however that may be expressed – is a pretty clear sign that someone is in need of help. Showing someone you care about their distress and being open to listening to whatever it is they may have to say about it can be an important first step toward getting that person the support they need. #Mentalhealthprofessionals may draw a distinction between passive and active #suicidalideation. The former – passive #suicidalideation – describes someone who might express or experience #suicidalthoughts but isn’t actually making any preparations for #suicide. The latter describes someone who both wishes they were dead and is planning to make that wish come true. For most of us, the difference between the two may not be much more than semantic. The line between passive and active #suicidalideation isn’t particularly difficult to cross anyway: wishing you were dead escalates to trying to be dead with as little effort as buying a box of pills. #James Donaldson notes:Welcome to the “next chapter” of my life… being a voice and an advocate for #mentalhealthawarenessandsuicideprevention, especially pertaining to our younger generation of students and student-athletes.Getting men to speak up and reach out for help and assistance is one of my passions. Us men need to not suffer in silence or drown our sorrows in alcohol, hang out at bars and strip joints, or get involved with drug use.Having gone through a recent bout of #depression and #suicidalthoughts myself, I realize now, that I can make a huge difference in the lives of so many by sharing my story, and by sharing various resources I come across as I work in this space.  #http://bit.ly/JamesMentalHealthArticleOrder your copy of James Donaldson's latest book,#CelebratingYourGiftofLife:From The Verge of Suicide to a Life of Purpose and Joy http://www.celebratingyourgiftoflife.com Whether their thoughts are visible or invisible, active or passive, someone who is having #suicidalthoughts is in distress. They need protection from those thoughts and the harm they might do to themselves. They need help. That help might come in the form of a consultation with a medical professional, or a call to an official source of assistance (TT’s Lifeline – a 24-hour hotline – is available at 800 5588). But that help can start with a simple question: “Are you feeling suicidal?” It’s ok to ask – and essential to listen. Remember to talk to your #doctor or #therapist if you want to know more about what you read here. In many cases, there’s no single solution or diagnosis to a #mentalhealthconcern. Many people suffer from more than one condition. Read the full article

[sanisse]

Did Elrond not want to court Celebrian for a while because he thought she could do better? I heard this from somewhere and I wanted to know if it was correct.

I’m going to preface this by saying that we have like three canonical sentences about Celrond, but from those I determine that just can’t be the case.

After the fall of Eregion, Celebrían, Galadriel, and Celeborn fled to take refuge in Imladris, which was originally founded by Elrond right at that time to be a military outpost and refugee camp in the years leading up to the Last Alliance. Tolkien writes that this is when Elrond and Celebrían met: “It was here that Elrond first saw Celebrían and loved her, though he said nothing of it.”

In Tolkien’s other writings, he mentions that it’s custom among the elves not to have children/start families during stressful/chaotic/dangerous times. Baby elves need to be spiritually fed by their parents as well as physically fed or they’ll basically die. It’s very hard for a child to thrive with just one parent, let alone none if something happened, so elves avoid starting families during risky times.

Since everything was so dangerous, Sauron was running amok with a huge army, Celebrimbor was now Celebrimbanner, and Elrond has been freshly assigned Vilya and is Gil-Galad’s herald, general, minstrel, and seemingly a chief military surgeon and was also constantly going off to war and fighting a literal minor god, I assume that he didn’t say anything because he just didn’t want to break her heart. It’s better not to say anything than to say something/begin courting her and then fall in battle and leave her alone until she sails. Elves mate for life.

This seems further supported by the fact that they married VERY shortly after Sauron was defeated during the siege of Barad-Dûr.

Also— I genuinely think he would have been too busy to court, and they were both mourning the loss of Eregion, thousands of friends and family members, most especially Celembrimbor (Elrond was sent by Gil-Galad with an army to save Eregion and Elrond was too late. Sauron flayed CeleBB and hung him out as a banner of flesh. I’m sure Elrond saw this. Cel might have too, as they were escaping the city.) Elrond’s probably wracked with guilt. Both of them have like the mother of all PTSD and trauma.

So basically TLDR: I literally think Elrond just decided it was a horrible time to date and decided it was probably best to wait to say hello until he was fairly certain he wouldn’t die in battle in .3 seconds and neither of them were suffering from grief and severe war PTSD.

Also Cel was homeless and a houseguest…so I feel that would be kind of poor taste to ask her out when they’re literally living in his war camp because there’s nowhere else to go! 🤷‍♀️

[kirain]

I started playing rdr2 but stopped because like idk but I can't seem to get over the fact that all the women are prostitutes and they don't really have any important roles. Like what's Abigail do? Ooh she's a mother who's always mad? What do the other women do? Oooh they sleep with the gang. What's Sadie do? Oooh she becomes a badly written femme fetale who suddenly becomes a flawless killer. The women are just so badly represented.

I get the feeling you didn't play the game naturally or see any random encounters, because none of what you said is true. There's a lot to unpack here, so let's start with the "all the women are prostitutes" comment.

First of all, none of the women are prostitutes, a fact that deeply irritates Micah. During a coach robbery where he rides with Arthur and Bill, he even says, “Why the hell do we need a gaggle of girls who won’t even fuck you if you put a gun to their head? Is it too much to ask considering they get a piece of every damn dollar I bring in?” Poor baby. He even tries to proposition all of the women (Grimshaw included), but they all insult him and send him running with his tail between his legs. It’s hilarious and I love it. Arthur also responds to Micah with, “Everyone does their share. I don’t see you lifting a finger around camp.”

Now a bit about the girls:

Mary-Beth was a skilled pickpocket, but she ended up being caught by a group of her victims. She mentions this during a conversation with Arthur, where she points out how hard it was for women who came from nothing, and the inequality of it all. RDR2 actually regularly highlights how difficult frontier/outlaw life was for women back then, often pulling zero punches. While fleeing her pursuers, Mary-Beth luckily ran into Hosea, who helped her escape and welcomed her to the gang. You can see Dutch lusting after her a few times, because he's an old pervert, but she always shuns his advances. She was never a prostitute and she was actually underage when she joined.

Tilly was a child outlaw and a member of the Forman gang from the age of twelve. She ended up killing the leader's cousin because he [as is heavily implied] tried to rape her. She was around sixteen at the time and tried to return to her mother after the ordeal, but she unfortunately passed away while Tilly was running with the Formans. Out of options, she eventually joined the van der Linde gang after Dutch saved her from some unspecified trouble. You can find most of this out during one of my favourite side missions, where she gets kidnapped by Anthony Foreman in retaliation for killing his cousin. With Grimshaw’s help, you can rescue Tilly and put an end to it once and for all. She was never a prostitute and was also underage when taken in.

Susan Grimshaw was one of the original members of the gang and one of Dutch's first lovers. They parted amicably and both fell in love with other people (Dutch with Annabelle, and Susan with a doctor who sadly ended up dying), but she stayed with the gang because of their mutual respect for each other. She later became the arbiter of the camp and a kind of surrogate mother to Arthur, John, and the other girls. She was never a prostitute, but rather a rough-and-tumble outlaw.

Karen is a little more complicated. Overall, she was a scam artist (Hosea even called her an “actress”) who sometimes lured men into brothels, then stole from them or picked their brains for leads. That doesn't necessarily mean she was a prostitute; however, it just means she used sex as a manipulation tactic. Out of all the women in the group, she was the freest and most unconventional. She also stood on guard duty and participated in heists. The only man she ever slept with in game was Sean, and his death absolutely devastated her. If you talk to her or observe her interactions, you also discover she’s a raging alcoholic suffering from some very deep-seated issues. She likely did have to do things she wasn’t proud of in order to survive, but in my opinion that makes her one of the most realistic members of the group. She was never described as a prostitute.

Molly was an aristocrat who left her family to be with Dutch. His abusive treatment eventually led her to suffer an identity crisis, where she ended up hysterical and heartbroken. Her story is sad, but she was never a prostitute. If anything, Molly is the best example we have that Dutch views people as items, not human beings.

Abigail is the only prostitute in the game, but by the events of RDR2 she's an ex-prostitute. To say she's nothing more than "a mother who's always mad", I feel, does her character a great disservice. First of all, she left that profession behind to raise her son, to give him a decent chance in life. Unlike John, she stepped up immediately to become a responsible adult. I don't think people realise how impressive that is because, one, she could've easily abandoned Jack at the roadside (which was common back then), two, she could've induced an abortion, and three, she was quite young when she had him; around nineteen years old.

You say the women are "poorly represented", but they're stronger, smarter, and more mature than most of the men. A few of them even become self-sufficient in the turn of the century, something dear old Dutch couldn't even do/accept. Abigail in particular helps Sadie mourn her husband and the two grow very close. Their interactions are both grounded and heartwarming, with Abigail telling Sadie she’ll suffer the loss of her husband, but that it’ll get better if she keeps on living. She takes care of her, and Sadie later returns that kindness. These women are so full of quirks and humour and personality, I don’t know how you missed it.

As for Sadie ... where do I even begin? Badly written? Femme fatale? Flawless killer? Sadie is one of the best written characters. She's not flawless, she's exceptionally flawed, temperamental, and traumatised. It's never expressly stated, but it's implied at several points throughout the game that she was repeatedly assaulted while the O'Driscolls kept her captive. At first, she's petrified and miserable, to the point that all she does is cry and express suicidal ideation. Then, she gets angry. Very angry. Having nothing left to live for, her home and husband torn from her grasp, she throws herself headfirst into danger, which almost gets her killed on a number of occasions.

She's not a "flawless killer", she's a messy killer. She's not an expert death-dealer, and that's made evident from the start -- but she was a hunter who shared the workload with her husband, so it's not as if her skills just magically appeared. You do see how much it weighs on her, however, near the end of chapter six. If you help her kill the rest of the O'Driscolls, she laments what she's become because she thinks her husband would be horrified. She’s extremely complex and struggles between mourning and moving on.

I also can't help but laugh at the "femme fatale" accusation, because Sadie actually defeminises herself, which is understandable considering the hell she’s suffered. She even wears men's clothing, which wasn't illegal [anymore] back then, but it was openly frowned upon. Femme fatales use their beauty and sexuality to their advantage, ensnaring men with their feminine wiles. Sadie never does that and fights side-by-side with the boys. Interestingly enough, that's partially why Calamity Jane, an actual historical figure, garnered so much attention, because of how she behaved/dressed. It’s pretty clear to me that Rockstar might’ve used her as inspiration for Sadie. This was a real woman who lived from 1852 to 1903.

In addition, Sadie plays one of the most important roles, yet she does so without falling into the category of a Mary-Sue. She saves the gang and moves them to a new location when the Pinkertons attack Shady Belle. She hatches the plan that frees John from prison. She helps Arthur rescue Abigail after she gets kidnapped. She tracks down Micah and puts an end to his reign of terror. But most of what she does she accomplishes with a partner--Arthur or John--both of whom she respects immensely. No one, not even Arthur, does everything alone, and when they do there’s usually negative consequences. It's the camaraderie and shared experiences that make these characters successful, and aside from Charles and Hosea, I’d even argue that the women are more well-rounded and fleshed out than the men.

I gather from for comments that you didn't finish the game, so I hate to spoil it, but I kind of have to if you walked away with this mindset. The women of RDR2 are a force to be reckoned with.

[versadies]

Hello!! Can I request a song fic of that Scaramouche concept you thought of(if that is allowed)?? Sorry if this seems messy, You can ignore this if you want. The song can be any of your choosing, but if it required to choose a song, then the song can be "Alec Benjamin - Let Me Down Slowly". Thanks in advance!!

down slowly (songfic)

penpal: omg i honestly didn’t expect someone to request this 😳😳😳 hope you like this!!

pairing/s: scaramouche x gn!reader (reader knows how to sing)

sypnosis: an au where the reader was the original 6th harbinger and the calm, intelligent scaramouche was their right hand man. a tale of how he becomes the scaramouche we know of after a tragic incident that happened to the reader.

warning/s: death, violence, ooc!scaramouche (he's not going to act like the canon one)

song: let me down slowly by alec benjamin

note: scaramouche's role for you is basically like sara to baal but there's romance between the two of you (your age in here is the same as scaramouche's). take note that anything related to scaramouche’s past here is not canon to the actual lore.

this night is cold in the kingdom i can feel you fade away

it was in inazuma when he met you, beating all the fatui agents thinking that they were going to beat you, a "helpless" person.

your cold eyes was the first thing he laid eyes on when he looks up at you.

"and who you may be?" you asked, staring at the man in disgust as you stand up from the ground and pat your outfit. "you must be bold enough to beat down ten fatui agents in front of a harbinger."

while others would've been peeing their pants at the sight of your presence alone, he stared at you as though you're the most divine thing.

you scoffed at his silence. "can't talk buddy?" you asked, causing him to blink a few times before standing up quickly and bow down. "apologies, i-i thought they were going to-"

"fight me? please, if anything they're going to be the ones getting beaten down by me." you cut him off, glancing at the unconscious agents with a sigh, not noticing how scaramouche felt his mouth twitch upward a bit from your comment.

"though i must say, the way you fought them is impressive- even without using your vision and all." you said blankly, adjusting your hat.

"....i beg your pardon?" he asks, causing you to roll your eyes. "do i have to repeat myself? it's not everyday that you have a harbinger praising your skills."

before scaramouche could say anything, you immediately interrupted again, looking at him as though you thought of an incredible idea.

"say.. why don't you join the fatui?"

from the kitchen to the bathroom sink and your steps keep me awake

the man then found himself being a part of the fatui. if there's one thing that makes the fatui less sufferable for scaramouche: it was you, the 6th harbinger of the fatui, the balladeer.

although he had to go through extreme measures to get to his position as the right-hand man, it was worth it being able to be by your side. even if he has to listen to you yelling and cursing at your subordinates all day, it was worth it.

your reputation among the fatui is truly something scaramouche looks up to, the cunning-intelligent individual who can turn the skies to purple and struck opponents down with lightning. not only were you one of the most intelligent but also one of the most powerful harbingers that teyvat has ever seen.

and no, he doesn't care about the fact that you're the most disliked harbinger. to him, you're his savior and the only person he could spend an eternity with.

besides, you brought him something worth living for.

it was the cold atmosphere he felt when you first praised him as a fatui member.

"how are the recruits while i was away?" you asked, walking around the hallways of the zapolyarny palace with scaramouche following behind, making pace with you. "they've been to their assigned positions and i assigned a few of the subordinates to supervise them."

"good." you then stood in front of the doors of where the tsaritsa resides, fixing yourself before taking a deep breath. "you may start preparing our next mission. i'll be back in my office shortly once i'm done talking to the tsaritsa."

he bows. "understood, my lord/lady."

"i'll see you then, scarmouche. keep up with the good work."

don't cut me down, throw me out, leave me here to waste i once was a man with dignity and grace

although he was living the dream of being your right-hand man, he often seen people talking about him behind his back. it doesn't bother him, really, but sometimes it gets irritating whenever one mentions your name for such a pathetic conversation.

however, he would never expect a fatui agent to push him off the cliff in the cold embrace of snezhnaya's winter with no sign of coming back. all of this because of how envy the agent is of you "favoring" scaramouche.

it was a miracle that he survived (with major injuries of course) - though, he was astounded that the fatui agent didn't think of taking him to a higher cliff to instantly kill him.

if only he had a pyro vision to keep him warm.

given the circumstances, scaramouche would most likely die from hypothermia if not blood loss. he didn't think this is how he'd died. he thought he'll die from protecting you, or even from old age. but no, he had to die in a pathetic cold way.

it felt like hours, days even. the pain was killing him slowly as he stares at the sky.

however, when he heard familiar footsteps coming nearby followed by a familiar voice calling out his name, he felt relieved, finally allowing himself to embrace the comfort of slumber.

he heard the sounds of your humming when he woke up.

you stopped humming, watching as he slowly wakes up from his slumber. "oh good, you're awake." you spoke up, a dull expression on your face was plastered. "and here i thought i was going to waste my time waiting for my right-hand man to wake up."

"how... how did i get here?" he asked, voice hoarse. you sigh in response, leaning against the chair more. "i was the one who found you. one of my cicin mages reported me that a stupid agent recklessly boasted about how he left you in the middle of nowhere while being injured and can become the next right-hand man." you answered.

his breath hitches at your response. you decided to go through snezhnaya just to look for him?

if scaramouche wasn't in love back then, he's head-over-heels for you now.

"don't think i actually had to drop my responsibilities for you. the fatui agent killed himself before we could get any information on him, so i let my most trustworthy agents to search for you but didn't find you at all. i had to find you myself instead." you said, as if you read his mind. "besides, you didn't die and you didn't deserve what you went through."

he watched as you stood up from your seat. "i'll be taking my leave given that you look okay." you then snap your fingers, gesturing the nurse behind you to treat him. "take your time in healing. just come back to my office when you're okay enough to work."

before scaramouche could say anything, you already left the room, leaving him alone with the nurse.

although he felt flattered that you went around the nation to look for him, all he could think about was how you must've been disappointed that he's weak enough to be killed by a fatui agent.

now I'm slippin' through the cracks of your cold embrace so please, please

the moment he was released from being hospitalized, he started to focus on being stronger - stronger enough to prevent himself from being pushed off on the cliff by a jealous agent, stronger enough to take down 20 agents in less than 5 minutes, stronger enough to protect you -

stronger enough to become a harbinger.

when you found out of scaramouche's new goal, he was surprised that you started helping him. teaching him how to defend himself without a vision.

"if there's one thing i can teach you about being a harbinger, it's better to have nothing to lose." you said to him one day as the both of you stroll around inazuma. "when being a harbinger, there has to be a lot of consequences that one must face. it's better to face them alone than to see someone you care for suffer because of the consequences you caused."

he felt your cold hand as he brushed his fingers against yours when passing documents to you.

"i see..." he said in understanding.

"kill my curiosity but do you not have someone who you consider as your loved one?" you asked, raising your eyebrow in confusion.

scaramouche pauses from your question. indeed he does not have one other than you- but he knows he couldn't say it's you. why would he? he's aware that you'll never look at him the same way he does to you.

you'll never love him.

"i don't, my lord/lady."

and it hurts to know.

could you find a way to let me down slowly? a little sympathy, I hope you can show me

he wonders what would happen to you and him when he becomes a harbinger.

"oh? you're planning on becoming an official harbinger once we get back?" you asked, looking at scaramouche as though he has two heads. you cackled in amusement and comment, "hah! good luck with that, i'd like to see you try."

you took note of how he's oddly silent. "you're being weird lately, what's gotten into you?" you ask.

"forgive me but may i ask.. what will happen to us when the day comes, my lord/lady?" he asks, hesitant laced in his tone.

you furrowed your eyebrows. "the day when you're a harbinger?" he nods in response, looking away from your gaze with a sigh. "i was wondering if... if we could still be together-"

suddenly he felt your cold fingers cupping his cheeks and turns him around to your direction.

he could taste the sweetness of your lips when you kissed him.

it was a short kiss, but he felt like he's on top of the world. is this a dream? please don't wake him up from this dream.

you then wipe your mouth, chuckling at his astounded reaction. "that," you breathed out. "is what will happen to you and i when you become a harbinger."

he felt his heart beating so fast, watching as you look at one of the most dangerous areas of inazuma. "this shall be your last mission, scaramouche."

if you wanna go then i'll be so lonely if you're leavin', baby, let me down slowly

he thought he finally has what he wanted.

"why?" he breathed out, staring at you with wide eyes as though you did something bad. "why did you do it?"

you shakily look up at him, trying to ignore the overwhelming exhaustion from your body. you overestimated yourself in using your foul legacy but you didn't care, all that was in your thoughts was making sure scaramouche isn't in danger.

you will not let the only person who doesn't hate you die.

"i had to." you said weakly. "go, leave this nation. report to the tsaritsa of my passing and take my position."

he shook his head, kneeling beside you. "i refuse to leave you, my lord/lady."

you chuckle lightly. "idiot. the agents will take my body back to snezhnaya, of course you won't leave me." you then look down at your vision, watching its light flickering.

"take my vision with you too."

he felt a part of his soul disappear as the light of your eyes fades away, leaving nothing but your fatigued corpse on his arms.

from that day, he stopped shedding tears.

let me down, down, let me down, down, let me down let me down, down, let me down, down, let me down

he stares at your.. his vision.

as soon as he was announced as the new 6th harbinger of the fatui, your vision glowed under his palm, showing a familiar color of purple.

was this the electro archon's way of mocking him for what happened?

he grits his teeth. out of all the times he could've earned his vision, it had to be weeks after suffering the things he endured to have this position,

and it had to be in the vision you once used before you pass.

"i'll live on for your legacy, my lord/lady." scaramouche mumbled to himself, staring down at your hat on his desk. not only did the tsaritsa appointed him as the 6th harbinger but she also assigned everything you own as his. your title, your office, your unit, everything you once owned was now his.

it was clear to him that he's no longer the weak scaramouche that always follows the balladeer's footsteps. he's now the vengeful balladeer that yearns for the screams of his victims in inazuma, living in your name.

he’s now devoted to the tsaritsa, unknown to her majesty that it was all an act just because you taught him so.

he treats his subordinates the way you treat them, making everyone being weirded out by how he's so much like you. although he despises the gossip that runs through the organization, he really can’t deny that he does act like you,

he has nothing to lose after all.

if you wanna go then i'll be so lonely if you're leavin', baby, let me down slowly

[spencersmagic]

a knife twists at the thought - SR

Prompt: a knife twists at the thought that i should fall short of the mark - Arctic Monkeys

Summary: Spencer is new to this, and the poor boy is terrified

Couple: Fem! Reader x Spencer Reid (i picture season 2/3 Spencer but y’all do you)

Category: angst

Word count: 3086 words

Warnings: general criminal minds stuff, mentions and descriptions of torture, descriptions of loss, HAPPY ENDING!!, my 3am writing, tooth rotting love, uhmm spoilers for Orwell’s 1984 (if anybody hasn’t read it), humiliation, Spencer crying and breaking my heart (lmk if you need anything warned or trigger tagged).

A/N This is very loosely based on 2x15 (VERY LOOSELY). I’m quite proud of this one :)

masterlist // 505 series taglist

*****

They say you never see it coming.

When a tragedy occurs, and someone’s life is turned upside down forever, they never see it coming. It just... hits them. Like an oncoming car ramming into a bystander who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

No one has time to prepare. In our time-starved lives, there is no place for such a warning.

One day, you just wake up. And they’re not next to you. They’ve disappeared, leaving the stickiest, most unforgettable parts of themselves behind for others to grieve to: the smell of their shampoo in the pillows they used to share, the seconds just as you wake when you still feel like you have them - only to gain full consciousness and realise they left you behind - even the fucking jars, which never seem to be open because he’s just not there to do it.

And you feel your heart breaking all over again as your soul sticks to the parts that couldn’t be erased with the rest of him as he left. Because you needed him, you had him, and now he’s gone. No warning, no letter, no signs which could’ve helped you foresee such a tragedy, because how could he? He didn’t disappear on purpose.

She doesn’t understand why he's so absent. So unequivocally missing. And the person she would turn to to ask these riddled questions isn’t there to answer. Because he’s gone.

But they’re not there yet.

And she feels so close to that feeling - the helplessness, the pain, the empty cups next to her bed because he always carried them to the sink when she was finished with her tea the mornings of those rare days they got to sleep in. Those days when they had time. She can practically touch, with the tip of her fingertips, the waves of pain that would surge over her if he was gone for one more fucking minute.

She has to remind herself, over and over again, like a mantra. He’s not gone yet.

The “yet” at the end of her mantra just breaks her all over again.

She was always the one to tell Spencer “if you worry before something happens, in case it goes wrong, and then it does, you’ve managed to suffer twice through something painful for absolutely no reason”. It usually worked. Needless to say, she felt like a hypocrite right about now.

Because Spencer is gone. And she doesn’t know how to bring him back.

She knows only to watch the monitor, never once blinking, taking in everything that happened in that damned livestream - every word, every sound, every reference. She can only try to hear anything over the whimpers and sobs her love was letting out as he’s tortured by that man. She can only hear the cracks of his knuckles against Spencers soft skin, the same soft skin she had kissed mere hours ago before telling him to “be careful”. Her own way of saying the three little words the couple was too young to hear. She can only see his lips parting, sobs rumbling out of his body as the unsub abuses his frame over and over again - same lips which had kissed her forehead before telling her “i always am”.

Then again, she isn’t sure if its his voice which is filling her head with painful sounds or if her mind is playing tricks on her, memorising the horrifying vibrations coming from his chest for her to ever consider anything else. She hasn’t stopped hearing him since she turned on that damned computer.

She isn’t sure she’ll ever stop hearing it.

**

As a man of great intellect, Spencer always recurred to knowledge to understand difficult occurrences in his life. Burying himself in textbooks, novels, poems, and even music to understand pain, and himself having a life filled with it, he was an incredibly knowledgeable man.

He knew much. But right now, he only knew one thing.

In Orwells’ 1984, as Winston was being tortured (much like Spencer is right now), Orwell described the following:

“Never, for any reason on earth, could you wish for an increase of pain. Of pain you could only wish one thing: that it should stop. Nothing in the world was so bad as physical pain. In the face of pain there are no heroes, no heroes”.

And, as a man who had acquired most of his intellect by immersing himself in trivial content in the face of pain, he found himself doing the same thing as the unsub hurt him over and over again, each blow seemingly more painful than the last. As his skin bruised, a causality of his abusers torment, he analysed the seemingly logical quote.

It must depend on the person, he was sure. In fact, a number of factors must be taken into consideration at this statement. For starters, Winston lives in a society incapable of any human feelings. There is only dominance, and those who attempt, in vain, to challenge it. Surely, if he had felt happiness, like the one you feel when the first day of spring rolls around, or like the one that creeps up on you as you look into the eyes of your loved one, surely, he would understand that some things can outweigh pain.

Love.

If Spencer’s mind could make sense of what he was feeling right now, he would understand, something he would figure of were he to leave this damned place, that he was thankful to the Gods, were there any, for having the unsub kidnap him and not Y/N.

Winston hadn’t understood emotional pain because emotions weren’t dealt with regularly. They were discouraged. That’s why he believed that there are no heroes in the face of pain. Because he doesn’t understand emotional pain.

He knew he was suffering. He also knew that Y/N was at the other side of the blinking camera suffering more than he could ever imagine.

**

They say emotional pain lasts 12 minutes. Anything one feels after this would be the aftermath of the cause of the pain in question. Pure emotional pain, the one you practically feel in your chest, the one that says “i can’t think, feel or be. not until this feeling dissipates”.

She had learned this from Spencer.

And she wished it were true. As she watched that damned monitor, she wished that all the venom the unsub was spewing at Spencer, all the verbal abuse, was long forgotten. She wished he could only feel the physical pain. Because the mind is incredibly stronger than the body - it could keep him awake, alive, for just enough time for the team to rescue him.

The entire team had huddled around the monitor around her. She was painfully aware that other people were seeing this. Which meant it wasn’t her imagination. It wasn’t another one of those damned dreams she would have when she slept a little too far away from Spencer’s touch.

They had only been together for two months, but his touch was all that could get her to fall asleep.

She jolted as the unsub landed another slap on Spencer’s cheek, swiftly grabbing his hair for him to look into the camera. He had a cut above his right cheek, just where she would kiss him in the mornings, and bruises all over his neck, jaw and left eye.

“Say hi to your team!” he mocked Spencer, chuckling darkly as he moved his almost lifeless body around for the team to watch in horror. Spencer let out a heartbreaking sob, feeling so vulnerable.

“Why don’t we make this interesting?” he jumped, as if he had gotten an idea. The unsub reached behind himself to grab a pistol, clicking off the magazine safety to put one bullet in one of the eight slots, leaving the other seven free. He pointed it at Spencer’s temple.

Her entire body shook the thought of seeing Spencer’s lifeless body, held up only by the ropes and that sick man’s grip around his curls. The same curls she grabbed as she kissed his face when she wanted his attention.

“I’m going to ask you some questions...” he said, voice dripping with sickening sweetness as he turned the roulette, “and if i don’t like your answer i’ll pull the trigger! Let God decide what I do with you. Sounds good?”. He wanted to humiliate Spencer.

However, Spencer made the mistake of not answering him. He was quickly reminded as the barrel of the gun pointed right between his eyes, pulling the trigger, a loud bang! sound expanding through the barn.

“I asked you a question!” he suddenly yelled into Spencer’s face.

“Y-yes, Sir” he whimpered, shaking at the ease at which the man pulled the trigger.

“Good, you’re learning”.

**

She experienced it by bits. Hotch’s hoarse voice. “Talk to me Garcia”. “We’ve got coordinates”. Everybody rushing to the SUVs. Tripping over her own feet on the way to the car. Morgan’s voice. The iPad, which still carried Spencer’s whimpers and the man mocking tone.

“I’ve got your diary, Spence” his sing-song voice didn’t match the disgusting man she was looking at. Nothing made sense.

“And I wanna know why...” he drew out the ‘y’ as he looked for something between the worn pages between his hands.

Of course she knew Spencer owned a diary. But she was mature enough to keep her hands to herself and her eyes on her own pages as he wrote on his, eyebrows creasing as he recalled all which he had experienced during the day. His face would twitch slightly at the memories, both good and bad, as he basically described his day word by word.

“...why did you wait until you were 24 to lose your virginity?” he asked in a clear attempt to humiliate and ridicule Spencer in front of his team.

“I-I didn't-” he could barely finish a word before a sob wrecking through his body at the humiliation, chest rumbling and voice wavering. “I didn’t want to lose it before, i w-wasn’t in a hurry” he rushed out. The man brought the pistol to his own chin, tapping it as he thought. “Hmm... I’m satisfied with your answer. Let’s dig deeper, shall we?” he asked as he went back into the pages.

“ooh! This one is new” that sick bastard was having fun with this, completely unaware that the team was less than 5 minutes away from their location.

“Care to read what you wrote three days ago? Right here” he turned the pages so Spencer could read them, though he was painfully aware of that entry he was talking about. His body shook violently. “P-please. D-don’t ma-make me do t-this” he whimpered, body feeling defeated.

“Wrong answer” the unsub said before pointing a gun at him and pulling the trigger.

A shriek was heard from the iPad. The SUV went silent.

“He’s alive” she whispered, unable to speak up. “He-” she swallowed. “He’s alive. We’re not there, yet” her mantra became a reminder that she hadn’t been quick enough to help him. She had the tools to save him. Every second she had the knowledge to save him and didn’t was another second she remained impotent at the risk of losing the love of her life.

Spencer’s voice spoke from the iPad.

“C-can you at-at leas-st turn off t-the ca-amera?” he said between sobs.

And it hit her.

What hurt him the most wasn’t the memories he had to relieve, but the fact that the rest of the team would have to hear his most intimate thoughts. His deepest secrets.

He could bare the pain. The humiliation? That broke him.

“Aww” the unsub chuckled mockingly, “are you embarrassed?” he said, slouching down to look into his eyes. “Well too fucking bad!” he screamed into his face, spitting with every word he spewed at him. Spencer’s sobs got louder.

“O-okay okay!” Spencer caved, accepting the journal that got shoved into his face.

“Read, pretty boy” the unsub sang. That son of a bitch was having fun.

“We’re two minutes away, Y/N” Hotch said. Maybe it was he sobs, which were barely audible to herself, having accepted them as second nature after all the heartbreak she was experiencing, but Hotch needed her to be okay.

His own heart thumped into his chest, feeling as helpless as he’d ever felt. Seeing a member of his team - someone he was supposed to take care of, someone he was supposed to keep safe - was sobbing as he was physically and emotionally tortured. But he was painfully aware of the feelings Y/N was experiencing. The sheer fear that was running down her veins at the idea of them running out of time.

After a few sobs, Spencer started reading, interrupting himself occasionally with his whimpers:

“It’s been three months. Today, three months, seven hours and forty-six minutes ago, she did what I didn’t have the courage to do. She asked me out. “I’ve been wanting to ask you pretty much since the day i met you” she had said. Those words keep ringing in my head like a beautifully written symphony, intrinsically designed to make me face my deepest fears. Opening my scars one by one, dissecting them and reaching the simple conclusion that i was a coward.

She didn’t say it, but what she meant was “i’ve been waiting for you to do it, but you never did, so i had to”. We wasted time - a time so precious and sacred - because i was a coward.

I’ve never felt like this before. I never understood a love so deep as to move something so stubborn as the human spirit. I’ve read textbook after textbook, and novel after novel, and still I’ve never learned more than with her. But I was a coward. And i wasted her time. I fear that I still am.

A knife twists at the thought that i should fall short of the mark. It’s impossible for me to ever be enough for her”.

Her heart broke at this confession. Even worse at the thought that he wouldn’t’ve told her, instead inhaling fear and exhaling rejection at every breath he took next to her.

“We’re here” she heard Hotch, looking at her. She grabbed a bottle of water and dropped the iPad, not hearing the teams objections at the lack of vest and preparation and ran into the barn.

She isn’t sure if she’ll ever stop hearing his whimpers. As she runs closer, she hears them louder and louder, decorated with sobs and cries, and small, meaningless replies to his abusers’ mocking words.

She kicked the door down, the loud bang booming across the room, only helping in raising Spencer’s sobs as he feared the sound had been the result of a certain trigger being pulled. As she looks at him, she realises just how much pain he’s been put through.

She remembers Orwells words, much like how Spencer had remembered them mere hours ago. And disagrees, wishing over and over, praying to the Gods that she would be the victim of such atrocious abuse. She wished she could take his pain. Morgan joined her at her side mere seconds later, yelling. “FBI! Put the gun down!”.

Spencer used the last bit of energy to lunge forward, hitting the unsubs stomach with his head, successfully getting him on the floor for Morgan to apprehend. Y/N rushed to Spencer’s side, untying him, as his now nonexistent sobs grew louder and louder, not only at the prospect of getting out of that horrible place alive, but also at the knowledge that Y/N had heard what he had so dreadfully recited.

Spencer collapsed into her arms, crying into her in the same way she was crying into him, and she wondered just how to take away all his pain. So they cried into each other, desperately grasping each others hair, skin, clothes, anything that would make them feel like they wouldn’t have to spend another damned second without the company of each other.

Spencer was the first to break the silence.

“I need-” he stopped, coughing. She reached for the bottle of water she had brought with her because she knew he would need it. She always knew what he needed.

He chugged it desperately, stray drops falling down his chin at his eagerness. He took a deep breath trying to steady his lungs.

“I need to get out of here” he choked out.

She grabbed him under the shoulders, careful not to hurt him - not being successful, realising that there wasn’t much of him the man hadn’t hurt. Y/N pulled him out, sitting down on the grass with him. Their legs intertwined, pulling each other impossibly closer. They kissed, over and over again. Not as an act of any sexual relevance, but as a reminder that they had each other in any way, shape or form. That they weren’t out of time.

The team was certain they would stay there, never letting each other go for another minute.

After what felt like seconds in their time-starved little world, she broke the silence, which had only been filled with their own cries and occasional sobs.

“Spence” she grabbed his chin to look into his eyes. They were dull, red and hooded. He was exhausted. “Mhmm?” he let out, looking into hers. She was his solace.

“How could you ever think you were anything but completely and unequivocally enough?” she whispered the words he dreaded.

But as Spencer looked into her eyes he knew, better than he had ever known anything, that he was enough. And she was enough. He realised that which she had known for the past three months (possibly longer). They fit like two marvellous puzzle pieces.

Her hands grabbed his cheeks slowly, as to not hurt or startle him, pulling his forehead into hers. “Baby, I can’t imagine anybody else waking up to me every morning. You’re so much more than enough”, she planted a small kiss on his forehead before resuming her position. “I’ll remind you every day of the rest of my life if that’s what it takes for you to believe it”.

And with their eyes closed, foreheads and noses pressed together and legs tangled between each other, pulling each other close, closer - around grass and voices and his abuser pressed into the hood of a police car, they only felt each other. With their shaky breaths, even shakier voices, fearing any words that would leave them in case they triggered a cascade of tears down their oh so vulnerable cheeks, they were more than enough.

***

I hope y’all liked it!! Feel free to let me know by liking, reblogging, or sending me a message :) 

super cool kid taglist: @lady-anon-x​ @spencerreid-mgg​​ @eoupe​ @inlovewithbabygirl​ @galaxydefenderjulia​ @username2002​

[sketching-shark]

I think it's the ironic fact that JTTW fans already know how DBK and Sun Wukong's friendship broke apart but are more curious on LMK versions of Sun Wukong and the Six Eared Macaque were friends alongside falling out.

HA! Well, while it often does seem that way, I'm going to go ahead and be a complete snob in a Journey to the West purist kind of way by wondering how many Six Eared Macaque fans would consider themselves more JTTW fans or more Monkie Kid fans, or if they feel they're a mix of both...

I've seen a lot of people argue that these two works of fiction are their own thing and that as such Monkie Kid (and associated fanworks) shouldn't be expected to follow the canon of JTTW, and fair enough for some parts. I've also, however, seen people who argue for this complete separation seeming to use it as an excuse to not acknowledge or learn about ANY original aspects of characters such as Sun Wukong and the Demon Bull King, or even very important deities such as Guanyin and the Jade Emperor, and who as such end up making some pretty gross generalizations/assumptions about them even though they are of great religious and cultural importance.

For example (and while I know a lot of the fun people get from fan works is in exaggerating certain traits), Sun Wukong seems to often be presented with an "inherently" evil/thoughtless/chaotic character, while his intelligence, deep love of his family, genuine efforts to become a better person, & many acts of saving lives, as presented in JTTW, aren't even mentioned. I feel like a lot of this is due to the way he acts in Monkie Kid (while I maintain that this version of Sun Wukong seems to be Bad End Monkey King, he does do a lot of deflecting his issues with a show of humor/a carefree attitude & does seem really bad at communicating due to a fear of making things worse). Even so, the popularity of Thoughtless/Evil/Selfish Sun Wukong that doesn’t really allow for any of the nuance or a display of his beneficial traits as shown in JTTW does make me wonder how many people have been exposed to a good translation of og classic Sun Wukong...As I've said before, I've noted that a number of Chinese people on this site have expressed frustration with the fact that a good chunk of the monkey king’s Western audience seems to be getting their impressions about Sun Wukong, the Demon Bull King, the Six Eared Macaque, etc. from some mix of Overly Sarcastic Productions, Monkie Kid, and social media instead of from at least a translation of the original text, and it is true that a LOT of the nuance of these work and these characters can be very easily lost, especially if your drawing your information of them primarily from a cartoony version of the original source. 

That would be an interesting poll though...out of curiosity, how many of you fine folk have read the break-up & fight between Sun Wukong and the Demon Bull King either in the original text or in a translation, or is your exposure to them primarily through Monkie Kid? 

Again, I need to make it clear that I'm not Chinese & didn't grow up with the story, but I will admit for my own part that reading the DBK/SWK break-up in the Yu translation actually made me more curious about how their dynamic is going to play out in Monkie Kid than I am curious about what's going to happen with Mr. Macaque. 

This is primarily because besides SWK’s fight with Princess Iron Fan and DBK being given a LOT of page space in JTTW, there seems to have been some serious stuff that went down between the three of them in the events post-JTTW and pre-the main plot of Monkie Kid...the last we see of DBK in JTTW (if memory serves correctly) was him being hauled off by a host of heavenly warriors to be judged for his crimes of not giving SWK the palm leaf fan & also eating humans. When Monkie Kid starts, however, we are told that DBK had emerged “from the Netherworld” & immediately starts wrecking everything around him. What this suggests--if Monkie Kid is something of a fan continuation of JTTW--is that DBK ended up being executed by the heavenly forces, but managed to fight his way out of the underworld in a manner somewhat similar to SWK, who we are told he is equal in strength to in JTTW. In that beginning fight of Monkie Kid DBK is also shown as so enraged that he won’t stop his path of destruction until SWK buries him under a mountain for 500 years. It’s never said in the show, but--and this is important--this is basically exactly what Buddha did to SWK to start him on the path of atonement. So there seems to be some very intentional parallels between SWK’s havoc in heaven & DBK’s havoc on earth, which may suggest that one of the things Monkie Kid SWK really wants is for his former dear friend, his sworn brother, to find a way like him to be less violent and thus ultimately less vulnerable to destructive and self-destructive behavior, and that the way he tried to start this was by giving DBK the same treatment he got when he was a raging warlord. 

We are furthermore told that it was right after DBK was sealed that SWK disappeared for all those centuries, and while the impulse may be to write it off as him just wanting to enjoy himself (given a lot of his behavior in the show’s timeline), given the indications that this SWK may be deeply depressed, I feel like the answer could be something a lot more tragic...there seem to be a number of clues in Monkie Kid that while the journey of JTTW happened, something made it end disastrously, with SWK either assuming or knowing that Zhu Bajie, Sha Wujing, Tang Sanzang, and Bai Longma are dead. And per JTTW, this wouldn’t be the first time that he’s experienced a horrific loss, given the war with heaven and the burning of Flower-Fruit Mountain. And then right after THAT, it seems DBK emerged from the underworld, and so Sun Wukong was put into a horrific position: either murder his sworn brother, or let him continue to rampage & harm and/or kill who knows how many humans. SWK ultimately gives up his staff to do the repeat of “500 years under a mountain in solitary confinement route,” which as per JTTW he considers better than the alternative, but he immediately follows that by exiling himself. In JTTW SWK is a really sociable person who makes friends wherever he goes, but man, for this SWK...his life must at that point just feel like one failure after another, that in spite of all his best efforts he wasn’t able to save anyone he really cared about, and now he just trapped someone who was so important to him under a mountain & fated him to suffer the same things he had when he was in that position. How much more does he have to hurt his fellow yaoguai? How many more times does he have to choose between yaoguai and humans, feeling like no matter what he decides it’s just going to result in pain for him and/or his loved ones? I can easily imagine super sociable & easily upset (he cries a LOT in JTTW) SWK feeling like after sealing DBK, he just can’t do this any more. He just...can’t. 

This is all just speculation, but knowing the JTTW backstory between SWK and DBK does, at least for me, make their Monkie Kid relationship a lot more intriguing than it might be otherwise. Especially now that DBK seems to actually be making some small steps to quell his constant rage & lust for power. He even saves SWK and Qi Xiaotian from an explosion/nasty fall in the season 2 special! The Bull family weren’t really present in season 2, but I really hope they make a comeback in season 3 (if/when we get it) precisely because Red Son, Princess Iron Fan, and especially DBK have such an involved history with SWK. Plus it would be really fun to see two old warlords trying to awkwardly make amends with each other & struggle to be good teachers & positive role models to their student & son. 

In any case I feel this potential is more interesting than whatever fanfic The Six Eared “I’mma Plagiarize The Demon Bull King’s Backstory Of Being Best Friends with Sun Wukong” Macaque is creating lol. 

[robininthelabyrinth]

LXC is the legal guardian and adopter for LSZ or LJY, and NMJ has questions.

part 2 of the LJY-adopted-by-LQR fic (now also on ao3)

-

“So, did I knock you up before I went to war or something?” Nie Mingjue asked. “Because I feel like you should’ve mentioned it if that was the case. Possibly in a letter.”

Lan Xichen was so tired that it took him a solid minute to parse what was wrong with that sentence and how to respond, and it was not by following his first instinct to apologize that he should’ve written better letters.

“Stop making fun of me,” he said instead, groping towards some measure of dignity.

Sadly, dignity was in very short supply when you were taking care of babies. Multiple babies. Well, one baby and one toddler, which was somehow worse?

Lan Xichen was pretty sure they’d figured out how to time their crying off each other.

“I would never,” Nie Mingjue said, like a liar, and then he picked up little Jingyi and – Lan Xichen simply cannot find another way to put it – shook him, in a manner not unlike testing a melon for freshness.

For some reason, this made Lan Jingyi stop crying and start making snuffling little giggles instead.

“How did you do that?” Lan Xichen asked, eyes wide.

“Do what?” Nie Mingjue tucked the baby into the crook of his arm and scooped up some food off the table, offering it to him, and Lan Jingy actually ate it. “Xichen, are you feeling all right?”

“Shhh!” Lan Xichen hissed, eyes fixed on the baby, which was neither spitting up everything nor wailing as if his heart was broken. “No unnecessary noise during meals.”

Nie Mingjue snorted in amusement. “Sure,” he said amiably, in the tone Lan Xichen had long ago learned meant ‘nice rules you’ve got there, it’d be an awful shame if someone found a loophole in them’. “This isn’t a meal, though; it’s just a snack.”

Lan Xichen eyed the still-not-crying Lan Jingyi and decided that now was not the time for a spirited debate on the virtues of discipline and fulfilling the merits rather than the word of a rule.

“Where’s monster number one gone?” Nie Mingjue asked abruptly. “He must be very good at hiding, because I looked away for a blink of an eye and he was gone.”

Lan Xichen’s eyes slowly dropped down to where a cloth-covered lump was not-so-sneakily edging towards Nie Mingjue’s foot.

Nie Mingjue was one of the foremost front line fighters of their generation, and possibly the previous one as well. His physical ability was matched only by his incredibly keen senses.

There was no way he was not aware of the lump.

“It’s a real shame, too,” Nie Mingjue continued. “I was planning on doing a test of how far you can throw children, but I think monster two here’s a bit too small to make the test worthwhile. But I guess it just wasn’t meant to be –”

You can’t throw children, Lan Xichen was about to say, except Lan Sizhui was tearing off the tablecloth and jumping up in excitement, shouting, “Here! Here! I’m here! I’m big enough! You can throw me!”

“Why does he want to be thrown,” Lan Xichen murmured, bewildered. He’d never wanted to be thrown around as a child. Had he?

In fairness, he wasn’t sure. No one had ever offered.

Apparently, though, Lan Sizhui did very much want to be thrown around, and Lan Jingyi even condescended to allow Lan Xichen to hold him while he watched.

“Higher! Higher!” Lan Sizhui shouted.

“Really? Is this high enough?” Nie Mingjue held him up at eye level.

“Higher!”

“Like this?” Above his head.

“Higher!”

“You sure?”

“Yes!”

“All right. How about –” Baxia slithered out from her place by the door, zipping over until she was right in front of Nie Mingjue, allowing him to step onto her like a stair, and then zipping upwards to about hip-height, lifting Nie Mingjue and Lan Sizhui with her. They very nearly hit a tree branch with their heads. “– this?”

Lan Sizhui shrieked with laughter.  

“It’s too early to introduce them to flying,” Lan Xichen objected, because it was. “Mingjue-xiong…”

Nie Mingjue hopped down with a laugh. “All right, one last toss,” he told Lan Sizhui. “Then you nap. Okay?”

“Okay!” Lan Sizhui, who had never once willingly succumbed to naptime in the entirety of the time that Lan Xichen had known him, promised earnestly.

Back into the pile of soft grass he went, giggling the entire time, and amazingly enough he really did fall asleep afterwards. Lan Jingyi, too, had fallen asleep at some point.

“I’ve decided that your brother needs more experience running a sect,” Lan Xichen told Nie Mingjue, who raised his eyebrows. “Starting immediately. I promise to allow you to leave when Jingyi is, oh, shall we say five years old..?”

You could reason with a five year old. 

Nie Mingjue laughed.

It was a type of laugh that suggested that he thought Lan Xichen was making a joke. This was incorrect.

“You’d be amazed at how serious I am,” Lan Xichen told him threateningly, “I’m sect leader here, this is my territory, I can have you arrested any time –” but by that point Nie Mingjue was already bundling him off to bed, too, combing out his hair and plying him with snacks and –

This was not helping his argument that Lan Xichen should be allowing him to leave rather than keep him trapped in the Cloud Recesses as a babysitter-slash-love-slave. 

Well, he wouldn’t really do that, of course. He’d let him go. Eventually.

It’d probably be good for Nie Mingjue’s stress levels, honestly.

“Seriously, though, how did you do that?” he asked, his head on Nie Mingjue’s lap. “They didn’t cry once.”

“I’m good with kids,” Nie Mingjue said, his fingers digging into Lan Xichen’s scalp in just the right way. “Now can you explain to me how exactly you ended up with them? Two, no less?”

Lan Xichen groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. “Sizhui’s Wangji’s,” he explained. “Not biologically, but he’s put his name down in the family register under his own. But, you know…”

“I know.”

Lan Xichen appreciated that he didn’t need to go into it. The doctors had estimated that Lan Wangji would regain full mobility within three years, so that was the period the elders had mandated for his so-called ‘seclusion’, but with Lan Wangji being locked away like that – even with visitors, even though he was trying his hardest to care for the child from where he was – meant that someone had to care for the child’s day-to-day life until his brother was ready to resume the role.

“Jingyi is a cousin, I think,” he continued. “His parents are dead, and uncle accepted guardianship for him…I think he’s going to adopt him, actually.”

“Then why is he with you?”

“I volunteered.”

“Xichen, I say this with a full heart of affection and tremendous respect for your capabilities,” Nie Mingjue said. “But why in the world would you go and do a stupid thing like that?”

Lan Xichen sighed. The worst part was, he couldn’t even argue that it wasn’t stupid – he was, quite obviously, terrible with children.

“Uncle’s still injured from the war,” he admitted. In fact, his injury was probably even older than the war, dating as far back as the burning of the Cloud Recesses – his uncle had never been much of a fighter, his impressive cultivation strength stemming almost entirely from gentler arts like music and learning and meditation, but when his home and his family and his students were at risk, he’d fought, while Lan Xichen ran. Not just fought; he’d kept fighting long past the point that his body allowed. It only made sense for the bill to need to be paid. “He had a recurrence of an old complaint, not long ago; he started coughing up blood. The doctors insisted that he try to avoid anything that might cause him  stress.”

“Stress. Like, say, a rowdy infant?”

“Exactly like a rowdy infant,” Lan Xichen agreed, glad that Nie Mingjue did not mention that what had happened with Lan Wangji was also likely a source of stress. At least the two of them had slowly started to repair their relationship recently – the heartbreak would kill their uncle sooner than anything else, and Lan Xichen might be weak, but he really couldn’t tolerate the idea of suffering any more loss.

And also, if Lan Wangji could see his way to forgiving their uncle, he might one day agree to forgive Lan Xichen, too.

“I see. So you ended up with the little one, too.”

“Yes. And they hate me.” Nie Mingjue coughed a little. “No, don’t deny it. They clearly hate me. They always cry and spit and yell -”

“They’re children, Xichen,” Nie Mingjue said. “Traumatized children. They do that.”

Lan Xichen didn’t need to open his eyes to know that Nie Mingjue was frowning in memory of pain long past. Lan Xichen remembered, with painful clarity, how young Nie Huaisang had been when Lao Nie had died, how badly he had taken it.

There’d been a lot of crying and vomiting and yelling there as well.

“You’re good with kids,” Lan Xichen said instead of commenting, trading delicacy for delicacy; he would not touch Nie Mingjue’s still-bleeding wounds just as Nie Mingjue avoided his own. “Very good.”

“Well, I like to think so, anyway.”

They remained in blissful, comfortable silence for a while.

“How would it have even worked?” Lan Xichen finally asked. His eyes were still closed, Nie Mingjue’s fingers running through his hair; he never wanted to move again.

“Hmm?”

“If you knocked me up before you went to war. I mean, they’re not even the same age.”

“Well, one of them’s from the affair, obviously.”

“I’m sorry, am I cheating on you now?” Lan Xichen opened an eye and pinned Nie Mingjue with a fierce look that instructed his lover to reconsider.

“Of course not,” Nie Mingjue said, mock-solemnly. His eyes were dancing. “You were so distraught after receiving incorrect news of my untimely demise that you conducted a ghost marriage with my spirit, and then went and had a child to continue my name.”

“…they’re both surnamed Lan.”

“So what? Are you saying I’m not good enough to marry into your sect, is that it?”

Lan Xichen’s cheeks were hurting from trying not to laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of implying such a thing.”

“There you go, then.”

“Can I ask why I felt the need to have a child to continue your name if I had one already?”

“…well, fuck,” Nie Mingjue said. “I’ve got nothing.”

Lan Xichen burst out laughing.

[unalivejournal]

u mentioned only reading kripke era fic do you have a reclist 👀👀👀and if not could you link some of ur faves cuz the stuff that gets circulated the most right now is all like late late seasons fic and kripke era is my favorite too but im having trouble finding that many fics for it or even seasons 6-10 era which im fine with also. its just that like. the last five seasons were so bad that it makes fic generally worse too because people have to jump off of just Thee stupidest plot choices no matter how good their prose skills might be. but anyway yea if u have recs that would be awesome :)

hi anon i was thinking abt making a reclist and u just gave me the perfect excuse thank u

jess adamilligan’s kripke era fic recs

from making this ive learned that i never bookmark ANYTHING. sorry all of these r like….. 10k and under. i DO read longer fic but i don’t have any kripke era longfics bookmarked & tbh i prefer short oneshots

season one gen

disclaimer because it’s unfortunately needed: NONE of these are w*ncest! they’re all completely tagged as gen and i did not read them with the intent of consuming ship content.

Coaster Park by fogsrollingin, 10.4k, G, gen

Coaster Park had been experiencing an unusually high frequency of technical difficulties. Dean wouldn't have pulled a shift treating nauseated, heat-stroked, or dehydrated park-goers for that if he could've helped it, but when 'technical difficulties' were accompanied by rumors of things moving and stopping on their own in front of the operators' eyes, Dean had to throw down.

No historical tragedies or disasters in the area, ectoplasm, or EMF. Dean's only lead was a battered-looking kid that'd been coming to the park every day since it'd all started.

really interesting au fic! slightly ‘it’s a terrible life’. dean winchester is a hunter/EMT and sam wesson is a college kid destined to die on a roller coaster ride.

two basic motivating forces by sahwen, 7.8k, T, gen

He can’t cry, it’s not allowed; even as a child he was hushed into silence, whether his tears were from a long car ride or a late night or a raging fever. It’s never been an option, it’s never been an available outlet, and it’s not about to start being one just because he’s having an emotional breakdown on the bathroom floor.

Sam isn't only afraid of clowns.

BIG emetophobia tw (both for graphic depictions of nausea/vomiting and for the fact that this fic is about sam suffering from emetophobia) for this one but it’s my favorite sickfic. portrays anxiety over getting sick really well and is a fascinating examination of the different ways that sam’s fear of loss of control can manifest itself. also has lovely brothers content <3

Let’s Start at the Very Beginning (Remix of Just as Easy as 123) by nwspaprtaxis, 4k, T, gen

Dean’s functionally illiterate and Sam’s determined to remedy it...

PLEASE READ THIS ONE god it’s so sweet. dean never learned how to read properly due to his nomadic childhood and sam teaches him how.

dean/cas

Broadway Musical by Griftings, 9k, M, m/m

This is the day that marked the Holy and Blessed Union of Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle.

The merging of prominent bloodlines is always a grand occurrence, but breeding pedigree hunter families like Winchester and Harvelle is something to be rejoiced. It is also something to be meticulously planned, which thankfully the Host is very good at.

Or, the romantic comedy where Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle are destined to get married, Castiel is given the task of playing matchmaker and fails terribly, the entire Heavenly Host becomes a sitcom audience, God warns against male pregnancy, and Jimmy Novak is incredibly unimpressed with angels in general.

somewhat of a fandom classic and the humor holds up wonderfully. a very silly fic completed with commentary from angel radio throughout the entire thing.

Sappiest Season by dollsome, 2.7k, G, m/m

In which Dean and Cas have to stop an evil Christmas tree (like you do), and it requires a little fake couple action.

hilarious little s5ish fic. one of the first i read when getting back into spn. i don’t want to spoil anything but this is my favorite pick me up and i still giggle randomly whenever i think about it

The (Mostly Accidental) Courtship of Dean Winchester by tuesday

Angelic marriage rites were never intended to go quite like this.

another fandom classic. ik this one is recced a lot but how could i NOT include it. dean and cas get married (mostly by accident) and they’re huge cunts about it

the one thing in the galaxy god didn't have his eyes on by prufrock, 2.4k, T, gen + m/m

“Wait,” Dean says. “Let me get this right. You can fly, right—you can teleport—but you can’t drive a car?”

or, after the events of S5E03 "Free to Be You and Me," Dean teaches Cas to drive. Cas finds it stressful

im always a sucker for a good ftbyam fic. also i can’t drive so. resonation

So Says The Sword by komodobits, 85k, E, m/m

The briefing was simple: ‘Stand guard over the Michael Sword until the battle is ready to commence. Await further instructions.’

Castiel doesn’t mind working security duty; he was briefed shortly after the initial salvation of the Sword from the pit, and again before taking up his position. He knows what to do. However, it’s easy to forget that the green room isn’t real. Time moves differently there, the space ever-changing to make a prison of mountains, cathedrals, salt flats, orchards, and whatever Castiel was led to believe about Heaven’s greatest weapon—Dean Winchester is something entirely unexpected.

NO introduction neede. i think everyone on spntumblr has read this already but still. if you haven’t then i am demanding that you read it NOW. tbh i’m just adding this one so that i have at least one long fic here 😭

the weight by @myaimistrue, 3.5k, T, gen + m/m

“Do you…” Bobby sighs. “Listen, Dean, do you have something you wanna tell me?”

It’s the conversational equivalent of being punched in the stomach.

Or, Dean works through some things with Bobby's help.

WHEN I SAW THE USERNAME I GASPED I HAD NO IDEA THIS WAS U. anyway i Love coming out fics idk why i just do. the world is ending and dean comes out to bobby

canticles by 2street2car, 10.3k, T, m/m

“But you know something? If I couldn’t get you laid, at least I gave you a good first date.”

feat: footsies at a Ruby Tuesday, stargazing, the recreation of an iconic "Dirty Dancing" scene (no, not that one—the other one), and practicing for When You're With A Girl.

another ftbyam fic that skepticalfrog (i believe?) recommended a while back. made me feel at least 28 new emotions

Epilogue by JayneL, 28k, E, m/m

Bobby is here, swearing somewhere above and behind him; and Dean is here, talking about 2014 like it's a foreign country; and Sam is here, and is not Lucifer. Which means-- Bobby is here, swearing somewhere above and behind him; and Dean is here, talking about 2014 like it's a foreign country; and Sam is here, and is not Lucifer. Which means--

Cas is no longer when he was. Lucifer sent him back.

Coda to 'The End'.

2014 cas gets sent back to 2009, feelings ensue etc. i don’t remember all the details of this one bc it’s been a while but it’s really good

bonus

currently reading

Fragile As We Lie by perilously, 11k, E, f/f

Dragging Bela Talbot out of perdition isn't so much a decision as it is a frantic choice based on gut instinct. Her soul is bright, if fractured, and Anna yearns to do good again after the perversion of free will that immediately preceded her death.

Bela's no ordinary human, though; she's prickly and damaged and beautiful, and Anna doesn't want to leave her side. So maybe they can figure out how to navigate post-resurrection, post-Apocalypse-that-wasn't Earth together.

[albertasunrise]

Just Another Conquest - Part 2

Masterlist

Warnings: You were sweet, innocent and completely infatuated with Javier Peña. After an incident at the Christmas party, you become the talk of the secretary's at the embassy and everything starts falling around you.

Pairings: Javier Peña x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Mentions of abortions, Mentions of Miscarriage.

Notes: Still a few touchy subjects in this chapter.

Part 1

You lay there waiting for the procedure to start, heart in your throat as you desperately tried to avoid his gaze. You weren’t sure why Javier wanted to be there for it, why he’d refused to leave your side since he’d found out you were in the hospital. You guessed he felt guilty, after all, he was the one that had gotten you into this mess so you had tolerated him. Had been civil. He had saved you from possible jail time, after all, flashing his badge and convincing the doctors not to report what you’d tried to do to your unborn child.

‘Right you ready?” The doctor asked in Spanish and you nodded, mixed feelings engulfing you at what was about to happen.

You nodded and she placed the probe on your exposed stomach, so you shut your eyes and waited, praying for it to be over. Javier watched you, his heart twisting as he watched the conflict you were suffering saturate your features. You had said you wanted this baby. That you were going to raise it alone and that he had an out. So why did it look like you didn’t?

Then he heard it and all thoughts disappeared like a puff of smoke.

The rhythmic thump of his child’s heartbeat filled the air and his own heart seemed to expand in his chest. He turned to look at the screen, the doctor pointing out the baby he’d helped create and he sobbed. He cried openly and you opened your eyes to see him staring at that small shape, hand over his mouth as he let his emotions flow freely. So you allowed yourself to look.

It was instant.

The feeling of love you had for this tiny being that you were growing inside of you. This tiny life that the doctor informed you were currently around the size of an olive. She then left the imaging on screen as she started to clean the jelly from your stomach and as soon as she was done, Javier placed a soft kiss there.

“Hello, little one.” He whispered and you swooned “I’m your Papi and I look forward to meeting you.” He finished before he looked up at you “If you’ll let me?”

You were at a loss for words. You’d not expected him to be so welcoming of this baby and a pang of guilt struck you. What if you had succeeded? You would have taken this away from him. You’d never stopped to consider that he might actually want this. Want to be a father.

You’d been too scared to consider it.

You were discharged later that day and Javier took you home, helped you get comfortable before putting away the medications and vitamins you’d been given. You weren’t sure when you dozed off but you’d been surprised to find that he was still there when you woke up later that day, carrying a tray of food with him as he set himself down on the bed beside you.

“Made you some soup.” He said softly as he placed the spoon in the bowl and handed it to you “Wasn’t sure whether you’d be up for anything bigger.”

“Why are you doing this Javier?” You asked, your brows furrowed as you gave him a questioning look.

“Doctor said you were going to be weak for a few more days and that you’d probably need a little extra help.” He replied, placing the bowl down when you didn’t take it.

“I know all of that I was there.” You grumbled, “I mean why are you helping me?”

“Because I care about you.”

“If you cared about me we wouldn’t be in this mess.” You spat and he flinched at the statement.

“You’re right I’m sorry.” He fumbled as he pushed the tray closer to you and stood “You don’t want me here... Fucking idiot.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Not you… I’m a fucking idiot. Thinking that you’d accept help from me.” He elaborated “Or that you’d be willing to let me be a part of this baby’s life. I have no right.” He finished as he shook his head and made his way towards the door “I’ll get Connie to come and help you. She's more qualified anyway.’ He threw over his shoulder as stepped through the doorway, only to be stopped when you called his name.

“You have every right to be a part of this baby’s life.” You started, expression softening a little “I just… I just don’t want you to feel like you are obligated to take care of me just because I’m carrying your child.”

“But that’s exactly what I am.” He turned to face you, tears pooling in those chocolate depths “It is my duty to care for the woman who’s to give me the greatest gift I’ve ever received. So I will do that however you’ll let me. Not because I need to.” He paused, locking eyes with yours “But because I want to.”

You nodded at him, giving him a weak smile before picking up the bowl of soup he left beside you and hummed in delight at the savoury flavours.

“Did you make this yourself?” You asked and he nodded shyly “This is really good. How did you learn to cook like this?”

“I nursed my mum through cancer.” He replied honestly and you looked up at him in shock “Kinda taught myself to cook so that I could take care of her and pops. He uh… Well, he didn’t cope well with her illness. Even worse when she passed.”

“Javier I-”

“I’m glad you like it Hermosa.” He interrupted with a smile, changing the subject “I’ll be just out here if you need anything.” He finished and you nodded, watching him leave whilst your heart ached for him.

~

3 months along…

“So the baby is around the size of a plumb now according to the baby book I got.” Exclaimed Javier excitedly and you smiled sweetly at him.

“You read a baby book?” Snorted Steve as he laughed at Javier’s statement, earning a smack on the arm from his wife.

“I think it’s sweet.” Announced Connie as she gave Javi’s arm a friendly squeeze.

“Have you told work yet?” Steve asked you, taking a swig of his beer.

“No.” You replied, shrugging as you spoke “We wanted to wait another month. Just to be sure everything’s… well you know.”

“Makes sense.” Connie replied as she placed a steaming mug of herbal tea in front of you “So there’s been no complications from…” She trailed off and you caught the hurt that flashed in Javier’s eyes.

“No.’ You replied simply, giving him a regretful look “We’re both very lucky.” You finished as you placed a hand on your slight bump.

“Still can’t believe you tried to get rid of it yourself.” Said Steve, not seeing the glares he then received from you and Connie.

Javier felt his stomach twist at the memory of it. Standing abruptly from his seat and making a b-line for the bathroom, Steve watched his partner leave with confusion etched into his features before finally turning his head to see the angry stares of you and his wife.

“You really do need to work on your mental filter Steve.” Connie growled as she turned to look at you “I’m sorry. You okay?”

“I am but Javi…”

“He’ll be okay,” Steve waved off but you shook your head.

“No… You don’t...” You paused a moment, remembering the conversation you and he had shared a few weeks back ‘It still hurts him to know I tried.”

…

2 weeks prior…

‘So I got this baby book.” Said Javier as he placed a large paper bag down on the table “And don’t be mad, but I got a few other things.”

“Javier I’m not even 3 months along.” You chuckled “There’s still a risk that-”

“That what?” Javier asked, his tone taking you by surprise.

“That I could lose it.” You said, voice cracking a little when you saw the expression that spread across his face “I just don’t want to jinx it.”

“You tried to get rid of it and it came through that. I’m sure-”

“Why are you still holding that over me?” You snapped “I made a mistake Javier. You need to move on.”

“Move on?” He growled, tears forming in his eyes “Move on from the fact you tried to kill our baby?”

“I was scared, Javier!” You yelled “I let you in, gave myself to you and you rejected me. Quite publicly I might add.” You paused as you tried to calm your breathing “I’m then forced to take two months off because I became the talk of the embassy and in that time I find out I’m pregnant. How was I supposed to feel about it all Javier?”

“You should have come and talked to me.” He said, tears streaming down his cheeks “I would have-”

“You would have what?” You pried “Welcomed me with open arms? Told me that we could be a happy family and that you’d made a mistake telling me I was nothing more than a stress relief exercise?”

“I never said that.”

“Oh no… we were just two friends comforting each other right.” You scoffed “Except I was in love with you...” You stopped yourself there, unable to believe that you’d just blurted that out. “I’m glad you want to be a part of this baby's life, Javier. It’s not exactly the sort of situation I’d ever expected to have a child but we have to play with the cards we’re dealt. So why don’t we just agree not to discuss the horrific thing I tried to do and just celebrate and enjoy this experience.” You paused as you took his hands in yours “I’m sorry I nearly took them from you. I know it hurts you and it pains me that I inflicted that on you but they’re here.” You placed his hand on your stomach “Growing inside me, safe and sound. We’re going to be okay.”

He'd simply nodded, unable to say anything else on the matter but he knew that he needed to try and move on as you said. It had all turned out for the best.

Right?

…

Steve sat there in shock, reeling from what you’d just told him. His partner hadn’t talked much about what had happened, it had been Connie in the end that had told him, after gaining your permission of course.

“I should go talk to him.” You said as you pushed yourself to your feet, only to be stopped by Steve.

“Let me.” He said as he stood from his seat “My fault he’s upset.” He finished as he made his way to where Javier had gone.

He found his partner staring down at a sleeping Olivia, shoulders shaking as he desperately tried to keep his internal struggle from slipping to the surface. He didn’t notice his partner step up behind him and tensed when the man's hand landed on his shoulder.

“What you doing in here partner?” He asked softly, glancing at his sleeping daughter before returning his attention to Javier.

“What if I’m no good?” He asked, taking Steve off guard.

“What do you mean brother?”

“What if I don’t make a good father?” He asked, letting out a shuddering breath “She tried to terminate the pregnancy because she didn’t think I’d want this.”

“Well, you did publicly humiliate her.”

“Fuck I know that Steve.” Javier growled as he fell back into the soft armchair beside Olivia’s cot “I made a mistake but something really wonderful has come out of that. I just… I dunno how this is going to work.”

“Do you love her?” He asked, perching on the changing table opposite his companion.

“No.” He replied, shaking his head “I mean she's attractive and we had a great time but no… I don’t love her. I’m not looking for anything more with her.”

“Well, I dunno how to advise you then man.” Steve sighed, scraping a hand over his mouth “All I can say is that you’re an idiot. She's an incredible woman and you’d be lucky to be with someone like her.”

“Trust me I know but… I don’t know I guess I just don’t know her well enough.”

“Well then make an effort to. See where that takes you and if you still don’t feel anything for her then fine but you owe it to her and your baby to at least try and see if there’s something there.” His partner finished as he got to his feet and placed a comforting hand over his shoulder “Just think about it Javi.”

…

“I should see what’s taking them so long.” You said, your nervousness getting the better of you “I’ll be right back.” You said over your shoulder to Connie before getting to your feet and making your way to where you knew Steve and Javier were, stopping when you heard their voices.

“Well, you did publicly humiliate her.”

“Fuck I know that Steve.” You let out a stuttered breath as you continued to listen “I made a mistake but something really wonderful has come out of that. I just… I dunno how this is going to work.”

“Do you love her?” Your breath caught in your throat as you awaited his answer.

“No.”

Your heart shattered.

“I mean she's attractive and we had a great time but no… I don’t love her. I’m not looking for anything more with her.”

You couldn’t listen a moment longer. You made your way back to the kitchen where Connie was finishing up with the dishes, grabbing your cardigan and purse.

“You off?” She asked, noting the change in your demeanour as you headed towards the front door.

“Yeah, I uh…” You paused, trying to keep yourself together but failing miserably “I’m tired. Say good night to Steve from me.” You choked before heading out the door, finally allowing yourself to fall apart the moment you were out of sight.

…

“She gone?” Asked Steve as he and Javier made their way back into the lounge.

“Yeah just a moment ago.” Connie stated as she looked at them both “She seemed pretty upset.” Her concern was evident in her features.

Javier’s stomach dropped. He said nothing, just sprinted out the door where he found you curled up on the ground as your tears fell freely. He was at your side in the blink of an eye, crouching down in front of you as he tried, desperately, to get you to look at him.

“Hermosa.” He pleaded and you finally look at him “What's wrong? Is it the baby?”

“Leave me alone Javier.” You growled, your sadness dissolving into anger.

“What is it?” He asked again and you scoffed at him.

“I think it would be best if we go our separate ways, Javier.” You said as you pushed him away and got to your feet “This isn’t going to work. I’m going to go and you can go back to screwing whoever takes your fancy. You aren’t cut out for this.” You finished as you cradled your small bump.

He recoiled at that, his own insecurities finally breaking free.

“I won’t stop you from seeing them. I’ll send you my address when I’m settled and if you want to come and see them then that's fine.”

“You’re leaving?”

“We both know I can’t stay here.” You growled.

“But the baby.” He sobs “I’ll miss everything.”

“You were going to miss that anyway.” You spat as you made your way over to the stairs “You’re a fool if you think you were actually going to see this through. We both know you can’t commit.”

With that, you left, stalking down the stairs and leaving a broken man in your wake. You were right. Of course, you were. He wasn’t cut out to be a father, he was deceiving himself and yet he'd wanted so desperately to try. Steve’s words floated around in his head. He should try to get to know you, to try and make a go of it but how could he when you wanted nothing to do with him. He wasn't against the idea of a relationship with one woman, he'd tried once before with Lorraine but that had crumbled to the ground.

Could things be different with you?

Sinking to the floor he allowed himself to weep. To mourn the loss of his child for he knew that you’d keep them from him, you were right to. The floor is where Connie found him a short time later and it was where she held him as he cried. When his tears dried up she pulled him inside, comforted him as he slowly turned into a shell of the man he once was and Steve knew this was his fault. He had to fix it. He just wasn’t sure how.

~

2 weeks later…

Steve had worked hard to try and bring the two of you together. You’d not mentioned leaving again but you’d also not spoken to his partner since that night. He had pleaded with you to try, told you how broken Javier had been since then but you struggled to believe the agent. You’d heard what Javier had said, he didn’t want to be with you and that he wasn’t sure how this was going to work. You knew what that meant. So you knew you had to take matters into your own hands.

You had to do right by your unborn child.

Steve continued to plead Javier’s case, however, telling you that the man was terrified to approach you for fear you would slam the door in his face you gave the blonde an opening. If Javier could come to you and make you believe that he was serious you would stay. If he couldn’t you would leave. Little did you know that the two DEA agents would be shipped off to Medellin for two weeks before he even got the chance.

Javier knocked on your door, flowers in hand and he nervously shifted from one foot to the other but when no answer came his brows furrowed in confusion and he knocked again. He'd had time in Medellin to think about things. To think about how he did want to try and make a go of things. Just because he wasn't in love with you now... Didn't mean that wouldn't come with time. He'd started to picture the family he could have with you and his heart had swelled at the idea. Knocking a third and final time he let out a frustrated sigh.

Still nothing.

Resigned to the fact you weren’t home, he sprinted upstairs and knocked on his partner's door, knowing his wife would be home with, hopefully, a little update on how you were. He’d read in the baby book that morning that now, at 14 weeks, the baby was around the size of a nectarine and that had excited him to no end. He had wondered if your bump had gotten any bigger and how you’d been coping with the morning sickness, something that had been a struggle when he’d last spoken to you.

“Javi.” Said Connie as she opened the door, Olivia in her arms “What are you doing here?” She asked as she bounced her fussy baby in her arms.

“Is she here?” He asked, saying your name when Connie gave him a bemused expression.

“You don’t know?” She questioned, her face crumpling at the realisation that he couldn't have.

“Know what?” He asked, his pulse racing as he watched Connie’s expression change to one he struggled to read “Connie where is she?”

“She left.”

Part 3

[kakerutori]

So. Saturday and Sunday just happened, and there’s a lot to extrapolate from both of those days, but I’m going to focus on Karlnapity because I love them too much. With that being said, here are all the reasons why I still have hope and why I believe that all of this is just step one for them getting back together /srs <3. Also /rp.

First, let me address the negatives here, which, trust me, will be less than the positives. I think the only thing that truly is saddening about c!Karlnapity is the heavy, heavy dramatic irony surrounding them right now. c!Karl has memory problems that c!Sapnap and c!Quackity know nothing about, c!Quackity has been torturing Dream and doing a lot of attempted growth on his own (not to mention the tension between him and Revivebur, which I’m not going to touch on right now), and c!Sapnap has pretty much been silently suffering between it all, trying to help others where he can. The fact that we can see all of this and they can’t, unless they talk, is frustrating, I will admit. It’s all piling up and it’s a lot to address, hence c!Quackity and c!Karl got into that deep misunderstanding in Q’s last lore stream. But again, I think that this all comes down to dramatic irony, and taking a bit of a meta step back from it all, you’ll see three cc’s who are trying to work this out - or at the very least - us trying to work this out and getting overwhelmed with too many what if’s. Let’s keep in mind that nothing has truly happened to c!Karlnapity besides, well, for a while there, nothing. And so the fact that they’re addressing it again? I’m happy. And! I think that this leaves many open doors to their future.

So yes, there are many positive potentials to this relationship!

First, let’s talk c!Karl. c!Karl has written down his signs and symptoms of memory loss before, but never has it been so clearly enacted than it was in Q’s Nov. 27 lore stream. It appears that c!Karl forgot the “history” he and c!Quackity had, and he deemed c!Quackity a murderer and nothing more. Overall thus far, c!Karl’s memory seems to be negatively selective toward c!Quackity, and I can only guess that this is because of their separation. After all, c!Karl trusts c!Sapnap, c!George, and c!Tina since he’s seen them recently and can piece together their history. As distressing as this sounds for c!Karl to be so apprehensive toward c!Quackity, it’s all of the time traveling’s doing, and so unless c!Karl talks about it or The Other Side perhaps heals his memory gaps, or cc!Karl brings it up in the next Tales, etc., things are up in the air. Which means, hey, things can be fixed! He’s just wary of c!Quackity because his memory is not serving him, but it very well could! I think if they spend more time together, his memory can come back to him. Plus, c!Sapnap is an absolute dear, so I have total confidence that he’ll be by c!Karl’s side and help him through the memory loss.

Which, on that note, c!Sapnap. c!Sapnap deserves the world and is a sweetheart, end of story. Even though he can’t exactly see both sides of the story yet, namely not c!Karl’s, he still has so much passion for his loves :(((. Although c!Quackity and c!Karl are frustrated with each other right now, c!Sapnap is the perfect middle man, a voice of reason. He was very respectful during the argument, for one, trying to help c!Karl explain what he was talking about and even backed up and stopped following c!Quackity when the latter wanted space. I have full confidence that c!Sapnap can sort through their argument - both because he’s stubbornly caring and because he loves them. c!Sapnap is also welcomed in both Kinoko Kingdom and Las Nevadas, so even if c!Karl and c!Quackity refuse to talk, c!Sapnap can easily telephone information for them. It’s not an ideal situation, obviously, but I think that c!Sapnap is truly capable of handling it.

And then there’s c!Quackity. The thing about c!Quackity is hypocrisy. He suffers from a very, very large dose of it. He so obviously hides the intense need to love and, even though he advises against it, trust. He says to trust no one, but he trusts. It’s obvious all throughout the lore. He trusted c!Slimecicle, practically swore his life to him. He also trusted c!Sapnap pretty quickly, only refusing a few times before getting convinced to go to Kinoko Kingdom. He clearly still has a lot of love in his heart, it’s just masked by fear of rejection. Seriously, my heart was breaking when the three first met again. I could tell c!Karl’s mind was gone, but c!Quackity has never been more present for something. He wanted to know how c!Sapnap was doing. He wanted to know how c!Karl was doing. He wanted to know them again. He wanted. He trusted. Basically, c!Quackity is a softie underneath all that manipulation, and we saw it here, firsthand. The very reason why the fight began was because he followed c!Karl and c!Sapnap up that ladder; he wanted to be with them, to know them. I believe that that side of him can be unveiled the more he’s with them, painful as it has to start. Again, there is a lot of uncover between the three of them, and so this stream is just the start of it.

Finally, a few more positive observations:

The first meeting was not a total, immediate blowout and they all obviously had great chemistry/camaraderie! Again, c!Sapnap is an absolute dear, he joked so happily with c!Quackity like in that ‘getting a real dragon’ line. I don’t care if their getting along at first only for it to blow up was planned, they are cute together, your honor.

They didn’t kill or even hurt each other (I think no one even dropped a left click/punch?) in the face of high accusations and outbursts :,)

No, I did not forget about c!Dream telling c!Sapnap about c!Quackity torturing him. Yes, this could be a point of strain between c!Sapnap and c!Quackity, but c!Sapnap has shown his distrust in c!Dream and refused to give him back his armor, literally the most valuable things c!Dream owns. Thus, c!Sapnap doesn’t trust c!Dream anymore. I think some explanation is enough for the both of c!Quackity and c!Sapnap to be on similar terms.

Ya’ll are gonna call me crazy but c!Karlnapity did not break up! On all fields technical and literal! Doors are still open, again, namely to c!Sapnap, and they never once stated that they were over explicitly. Yes, c!Quackity said he never wanted to see c!Karl again, but I think he was speaking out of the heat of the moment and was being hyperbolic. There’s love hidden underneath everything, I just know it >:(((

This concludes my unexpected essay, which, whoops, lol. But I rest my case!!! 😭💕

[jeannereames]

Director’s Cut: Hephaistion, Alexandros, Fear, Philosophy, and the Power of Bottoms

@eosphoroz​:

Am I too late for the celebration? :( Asking for the Director's Cut of the scene in 'Rise' after the Single Combat, when Alexandros and Hephaistion go back to their rooms and they have a heart-to-heart.

I selected this set of scenes from those requested because it’s one of my favorites in the series. There is SO MUCH going on here. Most of my favorite scenes are in the second novel because it delivers the payoffs—no surprise as it was all originally one book. If you’ve read just Becoming, you’ve read only half the novel.

The end of chapter 14, the penultimate chapter of Rise, concludes Hephaistion’s character arc. Chapter 15 concludes Alexandros’s, although some of his is in here, too.

It’s a CRUCIAL scene to the whole duology.

Before I begin, be aware what follows contains lots of spoilers. I won’t even try to avoid them because it’s impossible. So if you’ve NOT read the second book and dislike spoilers, you’ll want to skip this. If you don’t mind spoilers, read away.

Despite the face on the cover, the chief protagonist of book 1, Becoming, is Hephaistion. It opens in his head and ends there, tracing his grief over the deaths of his older brothers, especially Agathon. By the end of Becoming, Alexandros has come to fill the void Agathon left.

Alexandros is the chief protagonist of Rise, but Hephaistion’s plot arc here involves coming to terms with his differences. That includes what we’d call his sexual orientation (not a concept they had), but also how his ambitions differ from the ideal Greek (and Macedonian) male. He’s also tackling grief again: for his horse, Brephas, then his father Amyntor. In fact, his character arc throughout both books is defined by loss and how his strength of character permits him to weather what would fell a weaker person. (Even the little novelette “For the Love of Geometry,” available on my website [“Extra Scenes”] and set in the time between the two books, involves a deferred dream.)

In Becoming, without telling Alexandros, a not-quite-17-year-old Hephaistion entered Personal Combat—the most prestigious contest of the Hetairideia Festival (Festival of the Companions), an ancient religious celebration. He wound up paired against Philotas, who beat him. Although he suffered a serious concussion, he showed himself a better hand-to-hand fighter than Alexandros (or anybody) had expected.

Now, at not-quite-23, Hephaistion has become a formidable competitor and places 7th in the kingdom. (That’s 7th among the Hetairoi; commoners don’t get to compete.) It’s nonetheless quite respectable. But he didn’t win…and his pride leaves him sore about it. This is where the scenes begin.

We open in Kleopatra’s head, where we see the actual fight. I love writing her. Also, we get to observe the three half-sisters interact after becoming much closer since their father’s marriage to his last wife. But the newly married Kynannē is pregnant and Kleopatra worries their fragile alliance won’t survive if Kynannē bears a male heir. Those familiar with the politics of the early Successor years know what’s coming down the road; so this is all a bit bittersweet. Nonetheless it was fun to show these three because they’re quite different personalities and temperaments, not to mention Kleopatra still nurses a reluctant but powerful crush on Hephaistion.

What follows, a short bit written in Alexandros’s point of view, shows Pausanias. Those in the know can anticipate what’s coming; those who aren’t should still feel unease. After a drop-down, the scene continues from Hephaistion’s point of view, and we get into the meat of the scene.

First comes Alexandros’s assertion that Hephaistion IS ambitious—just not in the way most expect. Hephaistion isn’t afraid to name what he does well either: horsemanship, sword work, and mathematics—even claiming superiority to Alexandros. Alexandros lets it slide: tact on his part. We’re not in his head right there, but he understands Hephaistion needs some ego stroking.

What follows is a little Easter egg: in Alexandros’s frank assessment of Hephaistion’s skill with a sword, he mentions Krateros. Those familiar with the history know Krateros will eventually become Hephaistion’s bête noir. Alexandros also tells him that he finds his ambition “appealing.” Today, we’d say “sexy,” but that was too modern.

This leads to some hot-and-heavy kissing, where it’s revealed they haven’t had sex since the big blow-up in Illyria—eight months earlier. Hephaistion was too angry, then too sad. Alexandros respected that. Now, Hephaistion is ready, but “…neither seemed sure anymore who was leading.”

I don’t write sex scenes unless they serve a point (as any scene in a novel should do). The earlier scene in Agriana (Rise) was so graphic because of the crucial nature of WHAT they did. The lover became the beloved (e.g., the penetrated partner). That’s a huge no-no—as they discuss at the river afterwards. Even more crucial, Hephaistion admitted he liked it, which makes him “like a woman”: very bad in misogynistic Greece and Macedonia. Hephaistion’s internal conflict is displaced shortly by rage at Alexandros for hiding his father’s terminal condition, then by grief.

Now Hephaistion is finally ready for sex. But Alexandros has a melt-down. The ostensible fly in the ointment is worry over Hephaistion’s safety, triggered by his participation in Single Combat…reminding Alexandros of Hephaistion’s years-earlier serious injury.

This scene tucks in threads left dangling at the end of Becoming: namely the challenge Aristotles raised to Alexandros about his and Hephaistion’s relationship. Modern readers might assume homophobia at the root, but it’s about Alexandros’s potential compromise as commander. The same concern underlies modern anti-fraternization rules in our military and many businesses. Yes, power imbalances can result in the inability of a “junior” partner to refuse, but even if it’s entirely mutual, as Aristoteles asks: could Alexandros sacrifice Hephaistion if the situation called for it?

And NOW we drill down into the heart of Alexandros’s fears. He says, “I try to control wanting, needing—anything, not just you. It’s weakness, and akratía. Aristoteles was right about that.”

BOOM.

In Becoming, there was no little discussion of this akratía, which is viewed as moral weakness, the opposite of sophronsunē—or self-mastery: the Greek philosophic ideal. A “bad” man is bad because of akratía, or the inability to control his passions…which makes him “like a woman,” by the way.

See how all these threads are rolling up into a little ball?

Then we get to what is, for me, Hephaistion’s master-class in common sense. I love this boy. He can be a complete drama llama when feeling insecure, but oh, when he’s on, he’s ON. This is a glimpse of the mature Hephaistion who will be Alexandros’s bedrock.

May I also point to Hephaistion’s snarky query, “Am I your wine jug?” Those of you who know the history know wine was arguably Alexandros’s big weaknesses. Naming him an alcoholic in the modern sense is questionable, but psychologically dependent? Sure. So, irony is heavy. Just like the irony in the novel’s very last line: “I choose excellence”—in contrast to what he considers his father’s compromises. He’ll learn it’s not that easy.

Alexandros also confesses here: “You’re [Hephaistion] the only one who can make me feel everything. Good, bad, everything. Only you completely rip me up inside.” Then he adds, “How can I be king when you make me so bedamned weak?”

Ah, love or kingship? Hephaistion is (rightly) insulted. But we see him CONTROL his own insecurity to address the illogic in Alexandros’s argument. Earlier in the novel, he’d have flown off the handle. Now, he’s grown up. (They’ll fight in the future, but over more serious things, not the sprawling exaggerations of teenaged angst.)

Hephaistion proceeds to lay out where Alexandros has misunderstood akratía:

“Aristoteles was right about excess, but it matters whether the thing we desire is good for us or not. Like he said, too much wine is bad for anybody. Too much anger makes enemies. Too much ambition makes a man ruthless. Too much bravery makes a man reckless.” Hephaistion watched Alexandros watch him, could see that brilliant mind working. Stay with me, he thought.

“But too much love? Too much kindness? I suppose it makes us weak if we’re foolish about who we give it to, so they manipulate us. But I don’t agree with him that there’s such a thing as too much love. Have I ever asked you to compromise your timē?” His honor. “I swore I wouldn’t. I’d rather die than shame you. So to answer Aristoteles’s question—yes, you’d have to sacrifice me. But you’d do it for me, to help me keep my vow. If you gave up your sacred duty as king for me? You’d have betrayed everything we swore on our blood at Thebai.”

“Oimoi! I can’t lose you.”

“Then you don’t love me too much; you don’t love me enough. You’d take away my timē.”

Alexandros appeared gobsmacked. “I wouldn’t!”

“Then you’d let me die so I could keep it.”

“Hephaistion!”

“Stop.” He knew when to be ruthless. “You’re making this hysteric. It’s not. Everybody dies. You worry about me, but you’re the one who leads battles from the front.”

“I have to.”

“Of course you do. It still scares the shite out of me. Is my fear for you worth less than yours for me? But I don’t try to stop you. It’s who you are. I knew, when I fell in love with a prince, that I’d probably bury you before you buried me.” Rising, he crossed to look right in Alexandros’s eyes. Naked in both body and soul. They still didn’t touch. “But if it’s my fate to die before you, to protect you or for some other reason, love me enough to let me die well, with honor. Give me a good funeral. See that my lands go to my baby brother, not my greedy cousins. Cry for me, then get on with living. That’s all I ask. Aleko, there’s no such thing as too much love; that’s not akratía. An abundance of selfishness is. If you truly love me, you won’t protect me to dishonor—yours or mine.”

And yes, all that talk of dying first…it should give those-in-the-know some shivers.

Also, his words work. Hephaistion may disagree with Aristoteles, but he’s more of a philosopher than Alexandros.

Then, the capstone. Alexandros admits to his real fear…of being weak, and that sometimes he WANTS to be:

“I think part of what scares me, besides losing you, is that, every now and then, I want you to carry me.”

“Now you’re being honest.” All that about losing him, if certainly true, had also been a screen covering the real pit. They were peeling emotional onions here.

Hephaistion returns the favor and gets down to brass tacks, flipping ALL the Greek assumptions (and modern ones too) about being a bottom. I don’t use that term—it’s anachronistic—but that’s what Hephaistion is and feels shame for…and has to redefine.

Here’s the conclusion of Hephaistion’s arc for the duology. He’ll return to wrestle with parts of this in material to come, but for now, he’s figured out who he is. And it’s not weak:

“Back in Agriana, when I let you go inside me—I held you. That’s why I liked it. And yes, you did need it. You said it wasn’t about your pride, just a chance to be gentle with me, but it was about your pride. It was also a chance for me to be stronger than you because you needed me to carry you that night.”

The scene goes on for a couple more paragraphs with banter, but that observation upends ancient (and modern) stereotypes of what it means to be penetrated versus doing the penetrating—and where power actually lies.

To contain versus to penetrate? Hephaistion says the former is the position of power.

Indeed it is.

[tallmantall]

#JamesDonaldson On #MentalHealth - Not Harmless: #SuicidalIdeation

Not everyone thinks of killing themselves, but a distressing number of people do. #Suicidalideation, sometimes referred to as #suicidalthoughts, is exactly what it sounds like: it’s thinking about, perhaps making a plan, playing out in your mind what death by your own hand might be like. Just because the term suggests that the action is not taken to its ultimate conclusion does not mean it is not to be taken seriously or that the person suffering is looking for attention. What they may be looking for is someone to help them. And if you pay attention to the symptoms, you could be the one to help. Those symptoms can range widely. Visible end-of-life preparations – giving away your property or possessions, saying farewell to friends and family, acquiring the means to the end such as a gun or lethal chemicals: these are perhaps the most obvious symptoms. Or you may observe an increase in risky #behaviors like #drug or #alcohol use, even reckless driving. #Suicidalideation (or #suicideideation) can be part of a bigger-picture #mentalhealthissue, like a depressive or #bipolardisorder, which means that familiar symptoms and effects of those conditions can also be a factor: feelings of worthlessness, loss of interest in pleasurable activities, or #isolation from others. It is also possible that there may be no symptoms at all. Some people keep their feelings hidden, their #behavior controlled, and show no particular signs of any distress. You think they’re ok and have no reason to doubt this. In some instances, you might be concerned about someone’s mental state simply from observing what life has thrown at them. #Suicidalideation can stem from a great many causes, but what those causes mostly have in common is a sense of having lost control of – or purpose in – life. Legal or financial troubles; loss of job, property, health, or a loved one: traumatic changes in life can often have traumatic consequences for our #mentalhealth. And if your #mentalhealth is already fragile, then #suicidalideation can sometimes be an effect of your condition or occasionally the medication you are taking for relief. #Depression, #anxiety, #bipolardisorder, #schizophrenia, #PTSD are just some of the #mentalhealthissues that can bring with them thoughts of #suicide. When it comes to paying attention and trying to help, the literature on #suicidalideation mostly agrees that in many cases paying attention is, in and of itself, the needed help. There is a persistent but mistaken belief that you or I can push someone in the direction of #suicide simply by mentioning it. There is no evidence that asking someone if they are feeling suicidal causes suicidal feelings. It’s not a case of: “Funny you asked, I was thinking I should spend more time working on a suicide plan.” In fact, asking someone if they are feeling suicidal can show that you care about how they are feeling and offer an opportunity to talk about what may be a very difficult subject. Feeling suicidal – however that may be expressed – is a pretty clear sign that someone is in need of help. Showing someone you care about their distress and being open to listening to whatever it is they may have to say about it can be an important first step toward getting that person the support they need. #Mentalhealthprofessionals may draw a distinction between passive and active #suicidalideation. The former – passive #suicidalideation – describes someone who might express or experience #suicidalthoughts but isn’t actually making any preparations for #suicide. The latter describes someone who both wishes they were dead and is planning to make that wish come true. For most of us, the difference between the two may not be much more than semantic. The line between passive and active #suicidalideation isn’t particularly difficult to cross anyway: wishing you were dead escalates to trying to be dead with as little effort as buying a box of pills. #James Donaldson notes:Welcome to the “next chapter” of my life… being a voice and an advocate for #mentalhealthawarenessandsuicideprevention, especially pertaining to our younger generation of students and student-athletes.Getting men to speak up and reach out for help and assistance is one of my passions. Us men need to not suffer in silence or drown our sorrows in alcohol, hang out at bars and strip joints, or get involved with drug use.Having gone through a recent bout of #depression and #suicidalthoughts myself, I realize now, that I can make a huge difference in the lives of so many by sharing my story, and by sharing various resources I come across as I work in this space.  #http://bit.ly/JamesMentalHealthArticleOrder your copy of James Donaldson's latest book,#CelebratingYourGiftofLife:From The Verge of Suicide to a Life of Purpose and Joy http://www.celebratingyourgiftoflife.com Whether their thoughts are visible or invisible, active or passive, someone who is having #suicidalthoughts is in distress. They need protection from those thoughts and the harm they might do to themselves. They need help. That help might come in the form of a consultation with a medical professional, or a call to an official source of assistance (TT’s Lifeline – a 24-hour hotline – is available at 800 5588). But that help can start with a simple question: “Are you feeling suicidal?” It’s ok to ask – and essential to listen. Remember to talk to your #doctor or #therapist if you want to know more about what you read here. In many cases, there’s no single solution or diagnosis to a #mentalhealthconcern. Many people suffer from more than one condition. Read the full article