#i love being a man because this world forces me to love myself beyond measure to understand I am capable of giving and receiving it

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary189

3/22-23/2024

friday - saturday

need to sleep soon.

so here's a picture of some horses...

i took these forever ago, from the old place, wish they weren't so blurry and stuff but i guess i didn't want anyone to get mad at me for taking pictures of the horses.

views from the old place. i really miss it, still. to be able to see that, i think it changes your life a little bit i guess. now it is gone. sad.

because of foucault i've been thinking abt the construction of teleologies, or the teleology of history, as constructed, reproduced, and the implements of its teaching and presentation, and then the way disciplines, and being disciplined, in say armies, schools, wherever, but armies offer immediate access to this, being accepted into the teleology of history. it is then not false, or a fantasy, but because of its use that we are subsumed into, so totally important, we are made to be functional for this vision to continue to elaborate itself. we are not the enablers, we are not forced to enable, but we are frequently coaxed into collaboration, it enables itself, it is in our surroundings. i have reached the part of docile bodies where he gets to signals, as in, messages which do not explain themselves, but instead, put us into reactive articulation, we respond, in tiny measures. we have these at work, draw attention, look here, go there, when you get there, you think, what do i need to do, when you look up, what am i looking up at, these things. why, is of course, not important. there are no satisfying whys for much, i find, since childhood i've found this, because of this nature i suppose, of much of the world, we are kept at a base point, kept in reaction/response to much of the world. my dad would often only be able to offer a because, or because it is useful, and to ask, why do i care about being useful, is a sin in america.

there's other thoughts, apparently some bad movie about like, i dunno, fetishists of trans women came out recently, either about them or trans women who can't pass or something. this coincides with a video i can only describe as 'the worst video ever made' and maybe a step beyond that poor elaboration, put it in terms of being 'nostalgia driven terf-lolcow-ist propaganda.' these two things appearing so near eachother, i think, is rather funny i guess. i don't need to watch the bad movie, it's only 20 minutes long and the people who made it are those reactionary new yorkers, and they just don't mean anything ultimately, i think. people right now are doomed to fade and are scrambling to not.

today i saw a man say that he's given up on treating women as equals because he's tried so hard in the past, and been burned, for sharing himself with them. now, he says, he is only there to fuck, he doesn't want to love anyone, and not even participate in their life as anything other than a machinic point which fucks. he does not understand our lives are sacrifices, and that to lose yourself and then collect it to lose it again is what is important. he is instead submitting himself to other pulsions, the need to accrue, that sort of thing i think. it is terrible how awful people are, is what i feel a lot.

much of my life, feels pointed towards self defense and opacity for these sacrificial parts of my life, to waste myself, spend it, exceed my bounds to fail and fall back in, and to try again. it is why i scream in songs partially, it feels important to hurt a little maybe. and to write a lot, to become quiet and expel and become mute again.

i simply also, hate his sexism. but it is so obvious, and he seems so ready to accept it. after a certain point, some people do not want to be reached. he is a contrarian not because he is so mentally active but because he is out to lunch, perpetually. it's easier to see something in front of you, and say the opposite, than say anything actually.

anyway, i am tired. maybe too much bad stuff, here, but idk. not a bad day ultimately, just an unpleasant world.

so,

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[free-speech-network]

Song & Movie Analysis

"Do you know what it is to be a lover? To be half of a whole?" - Inception

This is a perfect summary of what it is to be in a romantic relationship. You are half of a whole. And it stands to reason that losing your partner is losing half of who you are.

"When you walked out the door, a peace of me died." - Lana Del Rey, Blue Jeans

When someone leaves you, a part of you dies and you'll never be a full person again. When a part of you dies, you are a fundamentally different person for the remainder of your life.

"I am a lost boy from Neverland" - Ruth B, Lost Boy

When someone who you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with leaves you, you become lost. The person who you relied on emotionally and got you through the dark days is gone, and now you have no safety net the next time you inevitably fall. You have no one to save you. You are emotionally lost because the person you were supposed to navigate your journey with is no longer there. You are a ship in the night with no light. This is emotional death, and your body is still inviolate but that doesn't mean you're living.

"When you left I lost a part of me" - Mariah Carey, We Belong Together

It's incredibly hard to carry on when a piece of you is gone. Picking up the pieces of what's left of you is nearly impossible. You can't live with only one lung.

"It hurts to love you, but I still love you, it's just the way I feel. And i'd be lying if I kept hiding the fact that I can't deal." - Lana Del Rey, 13 Beaches

When you love someone that once loved you but no longer does, you can't help that you can't move on. You feel the way you feel and it causes you suffering and misery because you can never have what you once had. It's impossible to deal with a situation like this because your heart will pain, and it ruins your whole disposition. People can tell just by looking into your eyes or your body language that you are broken beyond repair.

"I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone. But though you're still with me, I've been alone, I'm alone." - Evanescence, My Immortal

Dealing with the reality of being alone when you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with someone is devastating beyond measure. The new reality that you're forced to live in is extremely painful. You know the life you wanted to live is no longer possible, and you've delved into a world you don't want to be a part of.

"Loving you forever can't be wrong. Even though you're not here, won't move on." - Lana Del Rey, Dark Paradise

The inability to move on is something that a lot of people don't understand. But for those who do, this is relatable. Some people can move on and be happy. But some can't. For some people all hope is gone, and happiness becomes nothing more than fantasy.

"Every time I close my eyes, it's like a dark paradise. No one compares to you, I'm scared that you won't be waiting on the other side." - Lana Del Rey, Dark Paradise

The fear of never seeing your loved one again is very real. Some of us like to think that we can spend the afterlife with our loved one if we can't spend the rest of our life with them. But of course there's no guarantee. We hope that maybe in another life we'll be together again, even if we couldn't spend our life together on earth. The fear of that not happening just makes the loss of that person so much worse while you're still alive.

"Don't ask if I'm happy, you know that I'm not." - Lana Del Rey, Hope

It's frustrating dealing with people asking stupid questions like whether or not you're happy when they very well know that you aren't. It's a pointless gesture because if you say yes it makes them feel better but if you say no then you're a burden and they make you feel even worse for being honest. If you know someone is not okay, you should not ask questions like this because it only makes things worse.

"So do you want to take a leap of faith, or become an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die alone?" - Inception

The idea of becoming an old man with no one and nothing to live for is a terrifying reality to live with. Knowing that loneliness, regret, and misery are all that you have in your future is nearly too much to bear. All you want is a chance to go back and make different decisions, but unfortunately no one gets that chance, so you're forced to live with your unhappiness.

[of-birds-and-men]

Kass gave Link a warm smile, the early morning sun dipping him in honey and making his smile glow even more. “Well, this is quite out of the blue. Not even a ‘hello?’ Much less a ‘please?’”

Link’s lips snapped into a flustered frown. “I’m sorry,” he frantically signed. “Please, could you teach me?”

After throwing his head back to bellow a laugh, Kass chuckled, “I am only messing with you, my friend. Do not worry.” He patted the spot next to him on the landing where he sat, signaling Link to sit by him. “I’m curious about what song you want to play. Which is it?”

Accepting the invitation to sit next to Kass, Link kept his head down as he shuffled over. His eyes flicked around and his cheeks started to redden the slightest bit. Why the answer embarrassed him so much, he wasn’t so sure, but it was hard to get his reply out.

“Ah,” Kass said with his smile still prominent on his beak as he set his accordion down next to him. “Do you mean to learn the other Champions’ songs as well?”

Link breathed in through his teeth and shrugged. “Maybe. But I want to learn Revali’s right now if I can...”

Kass looked down at him with raised eyebrows, as if gently urging him to elaborate. 

With that, Link rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged again. “Well...I don’t know. I had some memories come to me, but they’re foggy and I can barely understand them. But, something is telling me today is Revali’s…” His hand dropped and his brow furrowed in thought. He knew the sign for the Hylian term but didn’t know it for the Rito if there even was one for it. Opting to fingerspell, Link spelled it out with his fingers as Kass read it closely.

When he was finished, Kass’s beak hung open a little in interest. “Oh, so today is Champion Revali’s Hatchday? I had no idea.”

“Yeah, I…”

“...I think so.”

“You mean to play his song in his memory today?”

Link’s cheeks burned brighter. “Is that stupid?”

“Oh, no. Not in the slightest,” Kass assured, waving his hand. “In fact, I think it’s a lovely idea.”

“...Thanks. I don’t know what else I would do anyway. If there was something, I don’t remember it,” Link said, his hands moving slowly. His mind drifted; not that there was anywhere for it to go after his century-long sleep practically wiped it clean. 

He brought himself back to where he was with a sigh. “I don’t know. I would do something or leave him a gift, but I remember next to nothing about him. I don’t remember what he liked or even what he hated. Nothing...”

It was true. There were only a couple of clear memories of Revali that Link remembered now. Only a few moments where Link could see his face and hear his voice clearly. And then there were even more blurry, foggy images of him that were slowly trickling in and left Link with more questions than answers. Leaving him feeling like there was so much more that he was missing. Almost like he was missing an important part of himself; of what his life had been before Calamity Ganon struck.

Really, it was the same thing with everyone; with Zelda, Mipha, Urbosa, and Daruk. Brief memories, some clear and some so hazy they were beyond recognition.

But with Revali, it was somehow different. It hurt more. It was severely more painful. It made both his heart and head ache. And he had no idea why it was the case for Revali out of all of them. Why the one who seemed to like him the least, or even hated him, made Link feel this longing...No, this need...to remember and know him like he used to. However it had been.

Still, even though his mind was riddled by all sorts of questions he couldn’t answer after forgetting everything but his own name…

Something within him couldn’t quite let itself completely forget.

“But I know that I have to do something for him and this is all I can think of,” Link finished, taking his time with every hand motion as he stared down at the lake below them; the surface of the water was almost black with the light of the morning sun not having reached it yet.

Noticing the gloom that was beginning to dawn on Link again, Kass leaned over and spoke up in a chipper voice. “It is more than a generous gift. Do not sell yourself short. I’m sure that if he is still there to listen, he will be grateful.” 

Link forced a small smile to give to Kass. “Thank you. I hope you’re right.”

Kass let the corners of his beak curl all the way up to try and settle whatever troubles he thought Link had. “I must say though, I did not take you for the musical type,” he began. “What does a man like you play?”

Letting out a short hum, Link fumbled around in the small bag on his belt to show the instrument in question. Once he fished it out, he held it out for Kass to see.

It was an ocarina he had come across in his travels. His curiosity had driven him to buy it with the extra rupees he had on hand when he saw it amongst Beedle’s wares. Though, it wasn’t until he actually held it and felt the cool ceramic touch on his skin and the shape in his hands, did he realize it was not so much curiosity as it was familiarity. Or something close to it.

And again, it was proven to Link that while his head was clear of what made him himself in the past, there were many things that his body seemed to remember. Muscle memory helped him ride horses like a pro straight away, and instinct along with that allowed him to fight the way he had before without needing to relearn much of anything. It was the same sort of thing for the ocarina; as soon as he brought the mouthpiece to his lips, his fingers knew exactly where to go to play notes he didn’t remember and songs he couldn’t recall. It all came to him naturally as if playing it was once something that was ingrained in him. And he found himself occasionally fiddling with it until now. Too busy to really sit down and learn anything new, but playing what his lips and fingers remembered when he had a moment to himself.

If Link couldn’t leave Revali a proper gift on his Hatchday, then at least he could play his song, one of the last things the world had left to remember him by. Whether it was for Revali himself, if he was still there, or if it was in his memory on his day.

Or, even if it was just for Link; a way to remember Revali with what little he had left.

Hopefully, it would be enough. But it definitely didn’t feel like it, even if it was all he could really do.

“An ocarina certainly does suit you,” Kass said, looking at the instrument in Link’s hands before peering at him and pointing at it. “Ah, may I?”

Link nodded, allowing Kass to take the ocarina in his hands and examine it himself.

“Can you play it, too?” Link asked.

Tittering, Kass replied, “Well, Rito aren’t exactly equipped to play wind instruments, considering our anatomy.” He tapped his beak. “Though, I think once I found a way around it to make it work with this blasted thing on my face. Would you mind if I tried?”

Link’s lips tightly creased together to keep him from smirking as he shook his head and motioned toward the ocarina. He watched as Kass brought it to his beak, which clacked against the ceramic as he tried to find the best position.

Kass’ feathers ruffled; clearly, he was flustered, but he tried his best to get past it by laughing it off. “Well, this is certainly humbling. This proves that no matter how esteemed of a bard I may be, I simply cannot master everything...What with my pesky beak and less than graceful fingers.” He rubbed the mouthpiece of the ocarina on his scarf before handing it back to Link.

With how much spit he saw flying from Kass when he was trying the ocarina, Link decided to rub it again on his clothes for good measure. 

Kass let out another embarrassed chuckle and twisted around to grab his accordion. “I might not be able to give you direction, but I can teach you the notes.”

Link nodded. “That works,” he said, his last words before readying his hands to focus on his ocarina rather than on speaking.

Smiling while he slid his hands through his instrument’s straps, Kass said, “Well, let’s begin then.”

~

Link opened his mouth to say something, finding himself gaping at Vah Medoh, but clamped it shut again. He attached the ocarina to his belt for a moment to speak with his hands.

Whether he was really alone or if there was still someone there to see him, he was not sure at all. After the defeat of Ganon, he was never sure what happened to Revali or the others.

Even so...he had the feeling he wasn’t quite alone.

But maybe that was just him being hopeful. Hopeful that he wasn’t just making a fool of himself. Grasping at straws for nothing.

“Hi.” Instantly, he cringed at himself and hissed through his teeth. Now he really felt stupid. Nonetheless, he made himself go on. “I’m not sure if you’re even here right now or if I’m talking to myself. But, either way-“ Link took a second to swallow and fix his eyes back down to the ground beneath him. “I wish I could say I remember you. There are only little things I remember, but something is telling me there’s so much more to you...to us...that I’m still missing.”

Link licked his lips. He hoped that he was, in fact, alone, so Revali wouldn’t be seeing him rambling on to himself.

“But I know that we were close somehow. I feel that, once, you were the most important thing to me, but that’s all I know. I’m sorry.” He bit his lip that was still wet from when he licked them. “That’s why when I remembered it was your birthday-“ Link froze, then corrected, “Sorry, hatchday...I knew I had to do something for you, because, in a way, you still matter to me now as much as you did before. But you’re still a mystery to me; I know nothing about you further than you being a Champion and being the pride of your people.” He laughed a little to himself. “And that you didn’t like me at all. At first, at least. I’m not sure.”

Finally, he racked up the courage to look back up at Vah Medoh. “I do know your song though, which I’m sure you’d like to know is played by bards to keep your memory alive. I’m not one of those at all, but I can just barely remember how to play this thing and Kass taught me how to play your song. One of the things of yours that’s still here- Even if these are all the memories I can ever have of you, at least I can have this. And your bow, too.”

Nervously, he started to chuckle to himself. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe I never should’ve said anything. Anyway, the point is...I know it’s a crummy present and I don’t know if you’re even still here to listen, but I learned how to play your song for you.”

Done with his monologue, Link anxiously took the ocarina off of his belt. For a moment, he stared at it and focused on the cool touch of it in his hand before slowly bringing it up to his mouth. He took in a deep breath while his fingers went to their places and he played what he learned for Revali.

Dormant, Vah Medoh said nothing in reply, leaving Revali alone to revel in both Link’s appearance and song. That was fine. He honestly hadn’t expected her to reply anyway.

Even when he couldn’t even remember him, Link was still annoyingly sentimental. It brought bittersweet comfort that, even with everything that had happened, it was still the same Link before him. His Link.

He had the same golden hair he used to run his fingers through. The same lustrous, sapphire eyes he used to stare into. The same quiet laugh that warmed Revali’s heart. The same strength that Revali both envied and once fell in love with. The same kindness. The same courage. The same everything. Every little thing Revali loved and even hated about him was still there, down below, playing a song for someone he didn’t even know anymore.

Still, it hurt knowing Link didn’t know him. Seeing no recollection on his face when Link first came to Vah Medoh...Seeing Link looking at him as if he was a stranger…

Well, it nearly broke his heart. To be eventually forgotten by his people was worse enough, but then to have the one he loved come back to him only to forget him, too…

Revali sniffed, resting his hand under his chin to watch Link far down below. 

Link was right. This was a crummy present. His finger clumsily fumbled around and he kept blowing into the ocarina’s mouthpiece too hard or too soft. Even from here, he could see his spit flying. Funny how, even over a hundred years later, he never did get better with that thing.

He really was still his Link. Just how he remembered him. Just how he loved him. How he would, unfortunately, always love him. Even if it meant being unrequited for the rest of time.

~~~

GASPS OUT OF BREATH,,,,,, WOW OKAY,, umm LOL here is le @revalinkexchange gift for @mars-janka ??? I. hm. certainly took some liberties and for some reason with my srs lack of expertise ..I was like “HEY I KNOW HOW TO MAKE THIS INFINITELY HARDER ON MYSELF!!! WRITE AND ALSO DRAW A BILLION PICTURES WHICH IS SOMETHING I BARELY KNOW HOW 2 DO.” 

//sobs// i was so drained of my life juices by the end that the quality DROPPED and im genuinely so sorry pls forgive me wwwwwwwwwwww- i even redrew the last link panels to try and make it better if u can believe it LOL i also was considering making a prose only version of this to make up for it but i honestly don’t know how to translate some bits to that...SO- ah

anyway...yaaaaaaaahhh happy valentine’s day!! hope u still like it despite my clear depletion of life juices dskjghkjag

also teehee ty @udog​ for helping me w vah medoh u smell

[smallblip]

You asked, I deliver! Part II of Accidental baby acquisition💖 I lost one of the asks 😩 but anon who asked about baby Udo, I named the baby in your honour! Saddle up cowboys! I’m not good with sequels but here we are-

Babygate:

the scandal that implies that a certain boy band member cheated on his partner (another band member) and had a kid even when the mom was never pregnant.

- urban dictionary

—

Reiner thinks things are alright. Life is definitely picking up. Pieck still sends him excerpts of her dirty fanfiction to proofread, Bertholdt is still doing all he can to “retire at 30”, Annie might have eloped with said boyfriend. But he’s seeing Porco on the regular now, he’s really cute, he’s got a nice ass. Reiner can’t complain.

He’s also recently donated his Levi Ackerman standee. Only because it’s getting increasingly hard to reconcile the fact that he has a life sized cutout of his colleague’s boyfriend in his room.

What he can complain about is said colleague (and friend) dropping bombs on him. He’s one of the moderators of one of the bigger No Name servers. Sometimes he wonders if that’s a conflict of interest because, well, he knows the guy on a first name basis. But today he has other concerns. He sees his notifications blowing up and decides to go on the No Name server. And lo and behold. There’s a paparazzi shot of Levi and Hanji with a stroller taking a walk in a new channel called “MYSTERY FAMILY?”.

He cancels his plans with Porco. “Don’t text me for the next few hours, got a fire to fight.” He clicks send, and feels kinda bad, so he sends Porco really dank meme to appease him. (That doesn’t stop Porco from doing exactly what Reiner told him not to do and demanding an explanation every five minutes).

He forces himself to take a deep breath before texting Hanji-

“Hanji… I don’t mean to be rude but…

WHAT THE FUCK?”

—

So here begins babygate. A conspiracy theory that took the Internet by storm.

“Levi Ackerman had a secret marriage! He was keeping this from us from the start!”

“It’s a publicity stunt to keep No Name relevant during their hiatus!”

“It’s an elaborate scheme by the company to punish Levi for announcing the hiatus without their knowledge!”

“Levi’s mystery partner was sent by the lizard people to take control of his mind and produce half-lizard, half-human hybrid babies to take over the world! What a bitch!” (This is Hanji’s favourite).

And the internet’s favourite- this is all an elaborate scheme to cover up the scandalous love affair between Levi and Eren- the band’s guitarist.

“What the fuck?” Levi had said during dinner once, to which Reiner had to swallow his food and pretend he never read or actively looked up ereri content. Yes. Reiner knows the name of their ship.

Levi hadn’t been too worried before, but when pictures of them shopping for baby stuff leaked online, something snaps. Something snaps and Erwin tells him he needs more time to figure out the biggest PR crisis in No Name history.

It’s Levi. Levi is the PR crisis.

So in the meantime, no shock reveals, no more social media, (if possible) no more leaving the house with pregnant girlfriend in tow. “Don’t do ANYTHING.” Erwin had said, “especially not you!” Erwin had directed that at Eren, who suggested he makes an announcement. Erwin shudders. He remembers all the past scandals they got themselves into just because Eren, bless him, didn’t know when to shut up.

“I’m sorry…” Levi says to Hanji when they’re cuddled up on the couch watching a documentary on whale migration.

“Huh?” Hanji says, voice muffled through her incessant sniffling because “whales are delivered tail first, Levi! They wear their mothers like hats!”

He apologises for putting her through the mess that is him and his job. And Hanji smiles at him. He wonders if their kid will look like her. He’s hoping they would.

“Levi…” Hanji sighs, taking his face in her hands, “that night at the bar I thought to myself ‘this man has a face I would risk it all for’… I think this counts within the realms of ‘all’”

Levi scoffs, but a smile is threatening the corners of his lips. Erwin’s nagging over the phone fades a little and he sinks a little lower into the couch. He sighs one more time for good measure before saying-

“So… you wanna know which my favourite babygate theory is?”

—

“And you’re really not bothered by all this?” Reiner asks, in an emergency meeting that he had scheduled into her calendar. He hates that he’s packing things into her already busy schedule when she’s about to pop but, he figures it’s better now than when the baby’s actually out. He had booked a meeting room and everything, figuring if he projected some of the crazy shit they’re saying on the fan boards up on screen, Hanji would start taking this seriously. Because if Reiner knows anything, it’s that the fans will do anything to keep their ship afloat.

He scrolls past another post on the lizard people and Hanji gets him to pause.

“I mean… A little?” Hanji pinches her fingers together.

“Hanji…” Reiner sighs, “you and Levi discuss and rate babygate conspiracy theories you find online I don’t think you’re taking this seriously at all…”

Hanji looks at Reiner- an absolute state of panic. And she considers panicking for a moment. She’s read articles dissecting babygate and although they’re absolutely batshit, Hanji appreciates how well-researched they are. Which is a little scary. To be fair to Levi, he’s been trying to get her to worry. “I can’t keep you safe all the time, you have to be careful” like he’s going off to war somewhere. But it’s not in Hanji nature to worry about things like this. She’s a researcher at a lab who lived an ordinary life up until the point the universe hit her with a-

Sike! Levi Ackerman is your baby daddy! What are you gonna do about it?

And now she knows what headcanons and lemons are, and she really doesn’t know what to do with that knowledge. So Hanji decides, she’ll do nothing. She’ll go on indulgently long walks Levi in tow, she’ll talk his ear off about work. And like a good girlfriend, she’ll listen to his demos (and enjoy them) and tell him “are you sure anger rhymes with danger?”.

“I don’t really know how to worry about anything beyond our samples getting contaminated…” Hanji says, sheepish. Reiner sighs. He doesn’t want to be a wet blanket on Hanji’s life. He wants to be fun Reiner. Cool as a cucumber. Reiner who manages to make it through dinner at Hanji’s without having to excuse himself to hyperventilate in her bathroom because Levi is right there. And he’s so afraid that he might just be able to read his mind and find out he had looked up Levi Ackerman x y/n fanfiction once in his foolish youth (youth being approximately four months back)

Reiner shudders.

“Yeah okay… That’s um… That’s cool… Right?” He says.

Hanji shrugs.

—

So Levi Ackerman is your baby daddy. Now what?

You go into labour of course, with a matter of fact- “oh. Look Levi. The water broke.” All while refusing to leave the house until you demolish that amazing sandwich he made for you. You go into labour and you yell and grunt like a beast as you squeeze the life out of your baby daddy because he kinda deserves it. You both kinda deserve this pain. Take it as heavenly punishment for being horny and stupid if you will.

And in the middle of it Hanji thinks huh, this feels like a mix of a reality TV show from MTV and a badly written fanfiction. Except Hanji isn’t a teen mom and she’s too old for self-insert fiction that involves a lead singer of a popular band.

But Levi is here, and he doesn’t complain one bit even though he looks like he’s about to pass out. So as far as drunken one night stands go- this is pretty damn aspirational.

The baby enters the world with a huge cry.

“Kid’s got a huge set of lungs…” Levi says, but his own voice is quivering.

“Just like her dad…” Hanji smiles.

As he watches Hanji fall asleep with their baby on her chest, Levi thinks fuck it. Fuck keeping this under wraps. Fuck the fans and them enjoying how Eren gets on his nerves. Fuck Erwin and his “Levi. You’re giving me a headache. You are the cause of this headache.” Because the baby has Hanji’s nose and his eyes and he loves them more than anything in the world.

He snaps a picture of them and tags bigdaddyzoë-

“Welcome to the world, my love.”

—

Reiner can’t help the tears that well in his eyes after seeing the picture Hanji had sent him of the baby-

“He says hi to his favourite uncle!” Was the caption, and Reiner could only reply with a crying cat meme and an incoherent text that Hanji favourites.

He’s on the bus on the way to the hospital when his phone buzzes incessantly. It’s Porco.

“REINER WHAT THE FUCK.”

“LEVI ACKERMAN IS HANJI ZOË’S BABY DADDY?”

“HANJI ZOË MY PHD SUPERVISOR?”

“LEVI ACKERMAN OF NO NAME?”

“REINER WHAT THE FUCK?”

He sends a reply at the entrance of the hospital-

“Welcome to my world”

—

Reiner thinks things are alright. He’s one of the moderator of one of the bigger No Name servers, so he can block and remove people at his discretion. Some days he lets it get to his head. It makes him feel like a king. But today, he’s putting out fires.

Erwin decided their PR strategy was absolutely no strategy, because “they’re zooming in on the pixels Levi. Once they doubt the pixels, they won’t believe anything we’re saying”. With that. Babygate has officially taken on a life of its own. Eren still sends Levi babygate articles to annoy him, and to Hanji because she asked very nicely. Hanji thinks Erwin’s strategy makes sense, Levi thinks it’s just lazy. But Erwin framed a certificate that says “survived a PR crisis (sort of)” that Hanji had insisted be hung up on their wall, so that closes one chapter. Besides, Eren has been spotted going out on dates with a mystery girl. Which has the double effect of diverting attention away from Levi and exacerbating babygate because “see? Told you the company’s doing all they can to prove they’re not together!”

“Can’t you keep it in your pants?” Levi had thrown at Eren, to which he had responded cleverly with a-

“Could’ve said the same for you!”

Touché…

“See? That can’t be Levi! Look at how he’s smiling!”

“That can’t be a baby! Looks like an animatronic to me!”

“Do they even make animatronics that realistic?”

Reiner pins his “no slander” rule- one day they’ll get it. Or at least he would’ve gotten rid of all the people that don’t.

“Who’s this bigdaddyzoë anyway?”

“Maybe she isn’t real? Company probably invented her…”

“Heard she’s a crazy groupie who got knocked up…”

“Heard she’s hot…”

… several people are typing

—

“So… I heard from Reiner you were defending my honour in the server?” Hanji quirks an eyebrow.

Levi shrugs. Whatever goes down in the server stays between Leviackerman173810 (leviackerman and all 173809 permutations of said username had already been taken) and the hundreds of people who haven’t quite figured out he’s the real deal. Besides, Erwin has issued him three warnings so it’s best to lay low for now.

“My hero…” Hanji chuckles, pressing a kiss on Levi’s head. Below them, baby Udo wriggles and yawns against the fabric of Levi’s shirt. Cute.

So Levi Ackerman is your baby daddy. Now what? You look at your son and know he’s going to break hearts like his father of course. And if you’re Levi, you pray to god he never asks about babygate because Hanji has read up enough about it to be considered a connoisseur.

One day the internet will break when they find out the identity of bigdaddyzöe. But for now baby Udo has his parents wrapped around his tiny fingers and he doesn’t quite understand the concept of him being the spawn of every typical band member x y/n fanfiction. Or the centre of a very popular, very absurd, yet strangely believable internet conspiracy theory. Or the canon plot that has sunk one of the biggest No Name ships. And that’s okay.

[blindtaleteller]

Marvel Comic moments and character points that deeply inspire my MCU-flavored Lokiverse, followed by some of the exerpts that result from that influence. Because someone in my discords asked, and said I should.

LISTEN (Vestibule HVRA-0616.04.03 - Door/Universe 3)

  " They all are; the last safe pieces of me left; that none of them, or the ones they left me in the hands of to torture.. to be made to give it up just to survive because they knew, and they saw; and.. " that sharp breath in and the slow breath out: audible. Reaching for control when that and his words had sped up with the edges of anger was forced to drop off. " They left me there. Watched through Heimdall's eyes and did nothing, nothing to stop it. That's how valuable a son I was as what I am. What they lied and told me I wasn't, for all my life. How loved a brother. A year of .. all, that. Left to be tortured and definitely killed without that deal, once he was done with me. "

           Oh.. god Thor. You big stupid idiot. That had better not be true. He had better be lying..

      " If you don't wanna talk about-- " Tony, badly wanting to backtrack. Natasha wanted him to too, just hearing the way, never mind the words coming out of his mouth.

                " I say the summary of it now or I won't get through saying any of it again any time soon. " was just as quick and .. a little defiant. " I refuse. And refuse to refuse this to you especially, if those words are real. " was almost clipped. And she got it.Nat almost wished she didn't. " Do you love this me. Aaron? "

 " I love you. "

       " You love the last pieces of me that still matter then. The man still left that took that deal with every, malicious, vindictive intent to kick it back in his face and steal everything that bastard wanted as repayment; and keep what was left of me, and all of you who had the memory whether you knew it or not, safe. Or as much as I could under the stone's influence, with Ultron still running around inside it. Or the Other constantly in my head as a reminder and near constant watch. A few hundred, for a few billion lives. The whole of everything left I loved here, to keep that alive? Stay me regardless of him? Or of Odin? Or of any of the rest? Worth it. Always, forever; worth it. No matter how much I missed coming here the way I used to. At least it's here still to keep growing. Even if it's a few people short, it's a few heroes greater too after I pushed you. It's all I could manage. "

     Cue Clint rushing the back door. Cue the bang of it being all but kicked open as that registered. She only looked up and after him stomping and kicking at the gravel on the side of the road when he stopped to snap a particularly hard kick of gravel across the grass in the ditch. Because what else was there to do, but rage, and squat down like that with your back to the road? How could you not, grip at the back of your head when you learned that the man you had been blaming for the blackest marks there were in your recent history; had been tortured and left to it and dying that way by his much more capable intergalactic family to force him into it, and doing what his torturer wanted?

     Who was there left in reach to blame now?

          What was there to ask? Why he hadn't chosen to just die? In a way they didn't understand, for people who had all but abandoned him to that, and from the sounds of it more?

GROUNDED (Vestibule HVRA-0616.01.08 - Door/Universe 8) Book 2: Chapter  11

When the clash came, Bucky barely caught it. The pressure grinding their blades against each other. He’d have to sharpen his again after this. “ There are times when the faces beyond that particular threshold are all we have, and all we can have. “ Loki was stronger, but Buck noticed the control too. It wasn’t that he was holding back; it was that he was measuring a limit to set himself to; when Buck was half pushed back by the shove. “ For some of me, I am better family to myself than any other in our own worlds. “

           “ Is that how it is for Gin? “ Not even a nod when they clashed again; Loki wrestling by half with his prosthetic arm; the even catch of their calves wrestling below for the imbalance turning into a stalemate. “ You’ll know it anyway on your own, but aside from one particular person; yes.  His world is  ..far  harsher. Things did not go as planned.  Many more died. He bears the brunt of it. The rest, you should find mostly on your own if you want it. “

              “ You think of him like a brother… a  real brother. “ surprised him a little bit as those tones registered and they conceded that draw, a step back for both of them. Adjusting grips, assessing movement; potential strikes.

                      “ Yes. You’ll  probably  understand why before long. It’s rare he takes to  anyone  not one of us. And he  never  claims as much outright, even in the  exceedingly rare  occasions when he does. “

Roll Call - Vestibule HVRA0616.01 (aka The Inbetween [platovember prompts FINAL BONUS ENTRY])

       " I think I heard enough.. " was the bile rising with that last one. Tony didn't think he could do that, even if Loge looked at Gin's door fondly. His eyes ended up on his mug.

              " Have you really? " in that tone, oddly sympathetic; tugged his browns up to silvery, too-blues quicker than he thought he should like. And put a pause on the thoughts he had there for the expression. " The point is.. all of us are different, but all of us are the same man, somewhere. "

    " Yeah, I know. Same Loki.. different choices. "

           " The same Anthony Edward Stark, before you choose differently; too. " was what cocked his head back a little. Knocked the breath out of most of the downward thoughts. More so when he slid the point of that finger fully around the room looking right at him. " Twenty one of you. And every single one a champion. Perhaps not always on our side. Perhaps not always finding themselves with the option to choose to step into this room or not. But still you, the same way every one of those who opens the door in the first place is still me. Every single one.. " pointed still, along the turn of the walls to land on him. " Could have been you, but wasn't. Just as easily as you could have been any single one of them; but you aren't. Very few of them, have the balls or desire to face this room and what it is and what it means; and what it represents. This is why we call our others Mirrors. And why the universes connected are also called shards. These are the stories of your life, and our lives too yes; that you were never able to tell. The pieces you missed catching; and the pieces you have caught. The care, and passion, and handsome defiance still remains. You are you and separate. But you are also much more than what anyone sees, that doesn't come into this room; peek into it's doors: and see or hear for themselves. "

    " ..so basically; Fate has the ball: so you may as well roll along with it? "

            " Or learn her habits so you can shift her direction. " came with a soft huff of a laugh before Loki finished off his coffee. " I'm saying; whatever brought you in here to take my usual stance and sit against the door frame to sulk, or distract yourself from eyes that know you better -- " made Tony look at this one differently, but then : he was pretty sure that was the point. " -- will still be there when you go back. But; if you must come in here to steal my internal drama time: at least make certain that while you do you take note that whatever it is that brought you here, it could as easily be worse rather than better. "

[kiyodu]

The Letters of Vincent van Gogh (Part II)

Quotes I Enjoy:

• When one lives with others and is bound by feelings of affection, then one realises that one has a reason for living, that one may not be utterly worthless and expendable, but it is perhaps good for something, since we need one another and are journeying together as compagnons de voyage.

• I find it hard to bear this thought and even harder to bear the thought that so much dissension, misery and sorrow between us, and in our home, may have been caused by me. Should that indeed be the case, then I might wish it were granted me not to have much longer to live.

Yet when this thought sometimes depresses me beyond measure, far too deeply, then after a long time another occurs too: 'Perhaps it is only an awful, frightening dream and later we may learn to see and understand it more clearly.'

• It is sometimes so bitterly cold in the winter that one says, 'The cold is too awful for me to care whether summer is coming or not; the harm outdoes the good.' But with or without our approval, the severe weather does come to an end eventually and one fine morning the wind changes and there is a thaw. When I compare the state of weather to our state of mind and our circumstances, subject to change and fluctuation like the weather, then I still have some hope that things may get better.

• It is true that I have forfeited the trust of various people, it is true that my financial affairs are in a sorry state, it is true that my future looks rather bleak, it is true that I might have done better, it is true I have wasted time when it comes to earning a living, it is true that my studies are in a fairly lamentable and appalling state, and that my needs are greater, infinitely greater than my resources. But does that mean going downhill and doing nothing?

• If I do nothing, if I study nothing, if I cease searching, then, woe is me. I am lost. That is how I look at it - keep going, keep going come what may. But what is your final goal, you may ask. That goal will become clearer, will emerge slowly but surely, much as the draft turns into the sketch and the sketch into the painting through the serious work done on it, through the elaboration of the original vague idea and through the consolidation of the first fleeting and passing thought.

• You said, we used to agree about many things, but, you added, 'You have changed since then, you are no longer the same.' Well, that is not entirely true. What has changed is that my life then was less difficult and my future seemingly less gloomy, but as far as my inner self, my way of looking at things and of thinking is concerned, that has not changed.

But if there has indeed been a change, then it is that I think, believe and love more seriously now what I thought, believed and loved even then.

• Can you tell what goes on within by looking at what happens without? There may be a great fire in your soul, but no one ever comes to warm himself by it, all that passers-by can see is a little smoke coming out of the chimney and they walk on.

• You may never have thought what your country really is, he continued, placing his hand on my shoulder; it is everything around you, everything that has raised and nourished you, everything that you have loved. This countryside that you see, these houses, these trees, these young girls laughing as they pass, that is your country!

The laws that protect you, the bread that rewards your labour, the words you speak, the joy and sorrow that come from the people and things in whose midst you live, that is your country! The little room where you used in days gone by to see your mother, the memories she left you, the earth in which she rests, that is your country!

You see it, you breathe it, everywhere! Imagine your rights and your duties, your affections and your needs, your memories and your gratitude, gather all that together under a single name and that name will be your country.

• Sometimes he is a person whose right to exist has a justification that is not always immediately obvious to you, or more usually, you may absent-mindedly allow it to slip from your mind. Someone who has been wandering about for a long time, tossed to and fro on a stormy sea, will in the end reach his destination. Someone who has seemed to be good for nothing, unable to fill any job, any appointment, will find one in the end and, energetic and capable, will prove himself quite different from what he seemed at first.

• I should be very happy if you could see in me something more than a kind of ne'er-do-well. For there is a great difference between one ne'er-do-well and another ne'er-do-well. There is someone who is a ne'er-do-well out of laziness and lack of character, owing to the baseness of his nature. If you like, you may take me for one of those.

Then there is the other kind of ne'er-do-well, the ne'er-do-well despite himself, who is inwardly consumed by a great longing for action, who does nothing because his hands are tied, because he is, so to speak, imprisoned somewhere, because he lacks what he needs to be productive, because disastrous circumstances have brought him forcibly to this end.

Such a one does not always know what he can do, but he nevertheless instinctively feels, I am good for something! My existence is not without reason! I know that I could be a quite different person! How can I be of use, how can I be of service? There is something inside me, but what can it be? He is quite another ne'er-do-well. If you like you may take me for one of those.

• A caged bird in spring knows perfectly well that there is some way in which he should be able to serve. He is well aware that there is something to be done, but he is unable to do it. What is it? He cannot quite remember, but then he gets a vague inkling and he says to himself, "The others are building their nests and hatching their young and bringing them up," and then he bangs his head against the bars of the cage.

But the cage does not give way and the bird is maddened by pain. 'What a ne'er-do-well,' says another bird passing by - what an idler. Yet the prisoner lives and does not die. There are no outward signs of what is going on inside him, he is doing well, he is quite cheerful in the sunshine.

But then the season of the great migration arrives: an attack of melancholy. He has everything he needs, say the children who tend him in his cage - but he looks out, the heavy thundery sky, and in his heart of hearts he rebels against his fate. I am caged and you say I need nothing, you idiots! I have everything I need, indeed! Oh, please give me the freedom to be a bird like other birds.

• A justly or unjustly ruined reputation, poverty, disastrous circumstances, misfortune, they all turn you into a prisoner. You cannot always tell what keeps you confined, what immures you, what seems to bury you, and yet you can feel those elusive bars, railings, walls. Is all this illusion, imagination? I don't think so. And then one asks: my God, will it be for long, will it be forever, will it be for eternity?

Do you know what makes the prison disappear? Every deep, genuine affection. Being friends, being brothers, loving, that is what opens the prison, with supreme power, by some magic force. Without these one stays dead. But wherever affection is revived, there life revives. Moreover, the prison is sometimes called prejudice, misunderstanding, fatal ignorance of one thing or another, suspicion, fake modesty.

• If you ever fall in love, do so without reservation, or rather, if you should fall in love simply give no thought to any reservation. Moreover, when you do fall in love, you will not 'feel certain' of success beforehand. You will be a lost soul and yet you will smile.

• When he reads something profound, he doesn't immediately come out with: that man means this or that. For poetry is so deep and intangible that one cannot define it systematically. But Mauve has a keen sensibility and, you see, I find that sensibility worth a great deal more than definitions and criticisms.

• Books like that are filled with reality, but what is more real than reality itself and where is there more life than in life itself? And we who are doing our best to live, if only we lived a great deal more!

• Who is the master, logic or I, does logic exist for me or do I exist for logic, and is there no reason or sense in my unreasonableness or my lack of sense?

• I am anything but a man of learning, and I am so amazingly ignorant, oh, just like so many others and even more so than others, but I am unable to judge that myself and can judge others even less than myself and am often mistaken. But we pick up the scent as we wander about and there is some good in every movement.

• The world, however, does not reason like that and never sees or respects man's 'humanity' but only the greater or lesser value of the money or goods he carries with him so long as he is on this side of the grave. The world takes no account at all of what happens beyond the grave. That is why the world goes no further than its feet will take it.

[mahizli]

Bonds (Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, 22 BBY)

Art by Mokorney and Part 22 of ‘Sparks of Hope’

***

Dooku held nothing but contempt for the Skywalker boy – no finesse, no subtlety, and no mastering of emotions, without much room for improvement. The Force knew he had tried to curb similar faults in Qui-Gon, very long ago, but his former Padawan had found his balance into meditation, oddly enough, and Dooku had only needed a few seconds to assess that Skywalker was completely unable to achieve it, and never would be.

Dooku was no fool. He could sense how powerful the boy was, what an asset he would play once he would have fallen completely – he was also very much aware of the interest his Master had in him. An interest that Dooku needed to be watchful of – because he knew how easily a Sith Apprentice could be replaced.

Dooku was no fool – and that was why he was keeping Ventress just close enough to control her, and just far enough for her not to attract Sidious’ attention unnecessarily. Ventress was fierce, skilled and loyal to a fault – and since he could not have Kenobi yet, she was a tolerable substitute.

It did not mean Kenobi was entirely lost to him, though – and Dooku watched him wake with carefully hidden interest, sitting up and rubbing his brow silently, helping Skywalker to recover.

“How you could choose to walk out there and get yourselves caught despite my warning is truly beyond me”, Dooku quipped, taking delight in watching Kenobi’s eyes widen slightly.

His former Grandpadawan’s eyes wandered to the electric bound wrought around his waist, attaching him both to Dooku and Skywalker. And the Count was surprised to feel resolve and relief seep through his incredibly strong shields. Kenobi was quick to place himself in front of Skywalker, holding him back and shielding him with his body, as soon as Dooku began to provoke the boy – it was frankly too easy. One just had to mention his arm, and watch Skywalker go feral.

“You will pay”, Skywalker hissed. “For all the Jedi you murdered on Geonosis.”

“That, my dear fool of a Jedi, is entirely your Master’s doing. Remind me again whose rescue it was that needed two-hundred and twelve Jedi?”

“Don’t you dare…”

“Anakin.”

Kenobi’s voice was calm. Measured, and so very soft. His body language still spelt protectiveness, one hand lightly placed on Skywalker’s left forearm. His face looked pale, in the dim light of the cell – but there was nothing but steadiness in the Force around him, and the command on his shields was frankly impressive.

“The Republic is going to send envoys with the spice. We need to get out of here before. And since we appear to be bound together, for the time being, I suggest we refrain from murdering each other.”

“You want us to team up with him?!!”

The indignation in Skywalker’s voice was grating – and Kenobi sighed.

“Currently, having you running in different directions is no option for me.”

He gestured towards his waist, a small smile playing around his lips, and Skywalker huffed.

“Good point, Master.”

They spent the next hours trying to escape from Hondo Ohnaka’s cells, only to found themselves back there. Dooku just shrugged, mentally, not overly worried and secretly impressed when Kenobi pulled that mind-trick on the stupid Weequay sentinel.

“You don’t want to stand guard. You want to deactivate the cell bars and… go out drinking.”

They watched the guard turn to a mindless puppet and set them free, and Kenobi muttered:

“Almost too easy.”

They had been prisoners together long enough for Dooku to recognise the small frown between Kenobi’s eyebrows as a sign of worry. He was not projecting anything into the Force, his signature surprisingly mild and gentle, but Dooku had already learned that his former Grandpadawan’s mind never stopped running.

They left the cell for the second time, running towards the exit, and suddenly Kenobi was pushing him behind a crate, palm splayed on his shoulder, body shielding him in an unconscious, protective move mirroring his earlier one.

“Hurry along, Dooku.”

His sharp, focused grey eyes darted around, and Dooku realised just how strong and dangerous his Grandpadawan could be, even without a lightsaber. Obi-Wan’s sleeve was brushing his, and he had adopted a defensive Soresu stance, but his hand was trailing behind, feeling for Skywalker in the Force, attuned to his reactions – and this was Qui-Gon’s training.

Qui-Gon had perfected the dual Master-and-Padawan technique along with Feemor, and brought it to completion with Obi-Wan, who had mastered the skill himself along with his own Padawan.

Dooku could have invaded their bond through the Force – but such was a crude, dirty thing reserved for the ones like Maul, whom Dooku abhorred and despised. Instead, he focused on the quiet signs: Obi-Wan’s small tilt of the head, the way his shoulders relaxed once Skywalker shifted his own position, and the quiet smile in his eyes when they started to run in sync.

Their bond was not closed, clearly, and this was so very interesting – but it also tugged at something Dooku had though to be long purged from his very system.  

Something reminding him of a vibrant green blade, of Qui-Gon’s quiet, casual shrug whenever Dooku ordered him around – but his Padawan had been dutiful and strong, truly skilled in the Force and so very warm. Until Feemor had died. Until Dooku lost Qui-Gon’s friendship and goodwill for good – because his Padawan had always been too headstrong, and too tender-hearted.

“Jump!”

They were still bound by the waist – Obi-Wan linking them together, and Dooku heard his gasp when Anakin grabbed the fence, leaving them both hanging below him.

“You’re too heavy. I can’t do it.”

They were slipping, and suddenly the link between him and Obi-Wan snapped – and then Dooku felt warm, strong hands grab his.

“Are you crazy, Master?! Just drop him!”

But Obi-Wan’s hands just tightened around his, eyes narrowing in steely resolve even as the bound tugged at his waist, drawing another pained exhale from him.

Never.

The small word echoed in the Force with quiet determination, and Dooku almost winced in pain, because the dedication within sprang from something so old, so long forgotten it burned, around his chest and in his very mind.

Ohnaka’s men somehow managed to knock Skywalker out and drag them both up in one fluid motion, and they soon found themselves back in their cells, finally separated but still unable to flee.

Dooku’s wrists hurt and he was somewhat short of breath, and so was Obi-Wan, who was bent above Skywalker’s unconscious body and had yet to straighten fully, arm wrapped around his waist.

“You should have dropped me”, Dooku stated, but Obi-Wan just huffed, with a small, annoyed shake of the head.

He fumbled through his utility belt, and managed to unfold a small Bacta patch, placing it against the welt on Skywalker’s brow, then he splayed his fingers, pressing them gently against his head.

Skywalker let out a soft moan, then his limbs seemed to relax and Dooku watched Obi-Wan’s face soften, his features still focused but appeased as he guided the boy into a healing trance.

“Rash, and unbalanced.”

This got Obi-Wan’s attention, and Dooku soon faced those calm, grey eyes, watching his Grandpadawan straighten, Anakin’s head still cradled in his lap.

“He might be skilled with machines. Wires. Even lightsabers”, Dooku dropped. “But he has not mastered anything in the Force, and he will disappoint you, if he hasn’t already.”

“Anakin will never disappoint me.”

“Don’t be so sure…”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed, but then his Grandpadawan shook his head.

“I know what you are trying to do. And it will not work. You want to sow distrust and hatred between us. You want to belittle Anakin in my mind, and in my heart. But you cannot. Because those faults you point out are known to me, and known to him. Because I did not seek to raise a perfect machine, or a droid, when I took Anakin as a Padawan.”

“Did you? Take him as a Padawan? Or was it something more complicated? A promise to the one who had raised, and forsaken you?”

“Qui-Gon did not forsake me.”

Obi-Wan’s voice was very quiet. He was not a small man, but he was definitely smaller than them both. Thin. A small reed, Yoda had always called him. And Dooku knew just how very fragile he was, how insignificant the Dark side of the Force made him – their duel was only months old, and he had brought him down within seconds.

Yet, just now, there was a conviction and a power radiating through him that seemed to dwarf them all. Obi-Wan raised bright grey eyes towards him, and Dooku realised, then, that the boy had worked hard towards balance – and that his efforts had not been vain.

“Qui-Gon believed in him. And, when it came to choose between Anakin and myself, he chose him because he saw, and realised, that Anakin needed him more than I did.”

“You do not resent him? For calling you only stubborn, and capable, in front of the whole Jedi Council, when you gave him twelve years of your life?”

It still irked something in Dooku. It had made him want to shake Qui-Gon until his teeth rattled – but Qui-Gon had died before Dooku had even known the full extent of the mess he had made with Obi-Wan, and then… Then Dooku had realised that the Jedi Order was nothing like it should anymore – nothing like it could.  

“And what kind of a Padawan would that make me?”

Obi-Wan’s voice was just a whisper, and his face had turned very pale, but the resolve had not left his eyes. On the contrary, something warm and light had begun to seep through his shields, permeating the Force around him, and it was searing open that small, long forgotten spot deep into Dooku’s chest.

“What of the years Qui-Gon devoted to me? What of Qui-Gon choosing me? Of helping me understand the Force, and myself, and the world around us, every single day of my apprenticeship? What of the love and care he provided, for my mind, body and soul, giving me all he had and even more? What of the devotion he inspired in me – strong enough to help me come back to him when I almost fell? How could I resent him for caring for a boy who deserves the world, and who was unwanted by most, yet who holds such promises?”

His Grandpadawan was facing him, features pinched yet glowing so brightly in the Force – and there was no contempt in Obi-Wan’s words, just genuine truth and belief. And it was painful.

“Qui-Gon taught me to be gentle with the faults we can find in others, because he was not perfect and never sought to be. He simply sought to improve himself. And this is something Anakin does as well – which is why he will never disappoint me.”

“Such meekness…”

“Call it whatever you want. I do not care.”

“Have you no pride at all?”

The question was genuine – almost taking Dooku by surprise. Obi-Wan however just raised his eyebrows, hands finding Anakin’s shoulders.

“And who am I, to place myself above so many others? We are a whole, Dooku. And just because I have no interest to dominate or best others does not mean I do not seek to improve my skills, and my way of understanding the Force.”

“How can that be enough?”

Dooku was laughing now, but it sounded cold and foreign to him.

“Because it is.”

There was sadness, and compassion in Obi-Wan’s eyes – and Dooku realised then, that this conversation had to end. That he would not gain the boy to his side that day – that he would have to wait for the war to extinguish the light into Obi-Wan’s eyes, for the battles and losses to harden his heart, for the despair to invade more of his mind, until he would be ready to hear some of the truths Dooku had come to embrace.

“I wish you would see it. I wish it would not be you we had to fight, day after day and night after night. But if I must, I will – because it is worth it.”

“What is…?”

Skywalker’s quiet mumble brought them both back to the small, grey cell they were still stuck in, and Obi-Wan’s eyes instantly searched for his face.

“What’s worth it, Master? Why are we back here with him?”

“Because your Master would not take your advice to drop me”, Dooku quipped.

“’Course not.”

The childish surety in Skywalker’s voice was surprising, and the boy lifted a hand, gently patting Obi-Wan on the arm.

“I’m the evil one here.”

“Hush now, Anakin.”

Obi-Wan’s hand had not left his brow, and his eyes met Dooku’s again. Steely, with a hint of sadness and unshakable resolve. His Grandpadawan wrapped an arm around Skywalker’s chest, and gave a curt nod.

And despite of himself, Dooku nodded back – because Obi-Wan was definitely worth a conversation. His Grandpadawan also had the means to defend himself, and to get himself – and Skywalker – out of this mess. And so, when Ohnaka’s men went to fetch them, leaving him alone in his cell, Dooku wasted no time preparing his own escape.

When the power died down, he killed the guards and the men facing him without any remorse. And he did not look over his shoulder, not once – determined to leave Florrum as soon as possible, and return with enough forces to burn it to the ground.

Just like he would burn the small part of himself Obi-Wan had brought back to life, because it was not part of Dooku’s plans and schemes.

Some bounds were better severed, and Dooku was honing his blades.

But not just yet.

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[deepdarkdelights]

Stay (Jimin x Reader)

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: None really, this isn’t yandere babes. Uh, I guess the topic of death and dying? Yeah, we’ll go with that.

This is NOT a part of my current series I am writing, this is separate much like “The Darkness of The Night.”

A/N: This is just a little something I made a while ago when I was not feeling the best, tbh I was really depressed. So, this is something to give everyone while I work on the next part of my series. I hope you enjoy it, even though it’s short and nothing like my other fics. It’s pretty corny tbh and most definitely been done before lmao.

There was nothing, that much I knew. And by nothing, I mean nothing. The sky was an absent stretch of swirling dark grey clouds, no light able to permeate through their thick cover. The world was one that had been plunged into darkness, devoid of the sky, devoid of the ground, and devoid of life. It was just the dark mist overhead and me. 

It was quiet, not that soothing deep quiet kind, but the kind that made your ears ring, the kind that reminded you that you were completely, utterly alone. But, it wasn’t scary. Just dark, and quiet, and familiar.

I felt numb, my limbs buzzing like they had fallen asleep and my lips were left tingling. It felt like I had been asleep for a very long time or maybe awake for far too long. It was this strange limbo in between the two, almost indiscernible. Was I even alive, had I ever been born? What is this strange but familiar place? This place that held no name, no life, and no meaning was now harboring me. But, I was left without an explanation. 

“Hello?” I called, “Is anyone there?”

My voice echoed out into the void, bouncing against an invisible force before returning to me once again.

“Hello?!” I tried once more, only to be met with the same response. An echo and a void, my own voice being tossed back to me in a way that sounded foreign. Like it wasn’t fully mine. 

What is this place? My mind felt as if a thick fog had curled around it, squeezing and tightening as if it were trying to subdue me back into that calm and apathetic way I had felt upon awakening. It was as if this place was aware of me and that I didn’t belong there, like it was alive. Was I not supposed to be awake, or whatever it is that you call this? 

“Can anyone hear me?!” I cried out, grunting as the pressure in my head doubled. The mist hovering in the empty seemed to thicken, darkening the veil around me as I stumbled about like a newborn deer. The pressure in my head was pounding now, harder and heavier than before as the mist began to swallow me whole, pressing me down closer into myself as I struggled to stand and force the invisible foe away. This place was awake and I was not supposed to be. In the span of only a few moments the calm had raged and turned into a storm.

“Please!” I gasped, “Please, let me go, I need to go! I can’t stay, I don’t want to stay!”

The mist only grew thicker, heavier, and angrier, pressing down into me and forcing me into submission. It did not care about what I wanted, that I had this feeling that something was horribly wrong and if I chose to stay then something bad would happen. My mind was foggier, it felt like an invisible force was pressing down into the curve of my spine and folding me into the deep mist surrounding me. I felt like I was drowning in the depths of the ocean where no one could hear me, where no one could save me. 

“I want to live,” I whimpered. “I want to live.”

And suddenly, there was a shift. What had felt like hundreds of hands holding me down became weightless and gentle. And there was light, beautiful, beaming, golden light that was so bright it burned my eyes just looking at it. I raised my forearm to shield my eyes and settled my weight onto my knees. Before, it had felt like I was dying. Now, it was like air was rushing into me and lifting me up, cradling me and comforting me. But it was far too bright and far too beautiful. It was painful all the same.

“Come to me.” A voice whispered so quietly it was like it was barely there. I held myself still, eyes closed and waiting, anticipating the sweet lull of the voice to call me again. And sure enough, it was there.

“Come to me.” It cooed, its sweet trill beckoning me to come forward and into its arms. 

I stumbled to my feet, spinning around wildly in an attempt to see the user of such a melodic voice. The person I could only assume was my savior. 

“Where are you?” I whispered, turning on my heels once more in search of the voice so rapidly I couldn’t see once more. Not only blinded by the stunning light, but the desperate spirals I was making in search for the voice. 

“Come find me.” It called back, this time sounding even softer and farther than before.

First I took one step, then another, and another, and finally I was running. I ran straight into the golden mist, stumbling through the blinding light in search of the siren that called to me. I still did not know where I was, what this place was, and who called to me but I did know one thing, I needed to find them. I needed to know who called to me and who wanted me to find them.

The light stretched onward, touching the entirety of the misty emptiness but seemingly extended with no end in sight. 

“Won’t you come find me?” It spoke again, this time a little clearer and a little stronger. 

“I’m coming! Please, don’t leave me alone, please!” I gasped, urging my legs to move faster through the veil of mist that curled around my calves, still begging me to stay in the depths of the void.  

“Please come find me, I need you.” The voice continued, it was like I could feel it reaching out towards me even though there was only the blinding light in front of me and all around me. I wanted them so badly, I needed to feel their touch, their embrace, and to see their face again.

“I miss you so much baby, please come home to me.” It urged, the voice becoming even clearer than before. I could tell now, this was a man and his voice was so familiar it made my heart ache in my chest, pounding as I ran even faster towards him. I could make it through, I would make it through for him. 

“Live for me, God I’m begging you to live for me because I can’t take one more day without you.” He said, his voice cracking as he continued. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, and I know this is so selfish but please come back sweetheart, I can’t live without you.” 

“You’re not selfish!” I yelled into the light, my legs working even harder than before. “I want to come home, I want to come home to you! This was my fault, I was the one who left but I don’t want to leave anymore!” 

Tears were running down my face, blinding me even more than the light had. So many memories of him were there, hidden in my mind. Soft blonde hair, a sweet smile, and deep brown eyes that begged for me to stay. But I hadn’t and I ended up hurting the both of us in the end. 

“I was scared! I thought we were moving too fast and I was the one who left, I was the one who was selfish!” That was right, he wanted to marry me and I had left. It was dark that night, the fog was so thick that I couldn’t see anything. 

“You look so small.” He whispered, the skin of my hand bursting to life with tingles. “So small compared to all of this stuff you’re hooked up to.”

His voice was closer, the closest its been this entire time. But with the clarity of his sweet voice, there also came the pain. It was terrible, excruciating, pain. It stung throughout my jaw and head, sliced at my legs, punctured my arm, and punched me straight in the sternum. It hurt so bad to be this close to him, this close to the sun but it was worth it beyond measure. The pain was terrible but his voice was beautiful. I would take all the pain in the world if it meant I could be with him again, if I could start all over again. 

“When they found you, I was so scared.” He cried. “They thought you were dead and I felt like I was dying too. But you held on, baby, you did so well. If you want to go, I’ll let you but I’m begging you to try for me because I don’t want to live in a world where I won’t see you everyday. Where you won’t make fun of me, or kiss me, or wake me up with that beautiful smile.”

“I don’t want to go!” I screamed, falling to my knees as the pain worsened. I reached forward, fingers curling into the mist and pulling me forward, the pain splintering off down my fingers and up my arm.

“I want to see you every morning, I want to stay with you, and I want to marry you! I don’t care how much it hurts because I love you!” I panted, dragging myself forward with what strength I had left. The light burned brighter and ignited the pain, bringing me down to the absent ground. A loud ringing sounded through the air, becoming louder and louder as my eyes began to flutter tiredly. 

“Please, I need him.” I insisted as my body became heavier, the darkness rushing up behind me and attempting to latch its tendrils to my weak limbs. “I don’t want to go back to sleep, please let me go.”

“I’ll wait as long as you need me to,” he sobbed, “just please don’t go.”

“Don’t take me away from him, not yet.” I mumbled as the light dimmed and the darkness began to swirl around me again, pulling me deeper into its welcoming embrace. “I love him.”

The ringing only became louder and constant, jarring me as I felt the darkness wrap itself around me even tighter. His voice was gone, and the light was gone. Now, it was just me, the ringing, and the thick coat of darkness that swaddled me. 

“Go.” It whispered. 

The ringing became solid, melding into constant and consistent beeps. The air was light and smelled sharp and the lighting was dim and soothing. My hand was warm and my body was stiff, immovable from the immense pain that wracked through me. With all the effort I could manage to muster, I slowly opened my eyes again. They were heavy and puffy from sleep, struggling to fully open and take in the world around me. The walls were white, the floor was white, and the sheets on the bed were the same shocking shade. But he was there, with soft blonde hair and big sweet brown eyes staring at me in shock. 

“I’ll stay, Jimin.”

[novantinuum]

Tides of Renewal (SU one-shot)

Fandom: Steven Universe

Rating: T (Mild TW for vague allusions to past suicidal thoughts.)

Words: 2500~

Summary: Now twenty years old and living on the other side of the country, Steven spends his morning relaxing on the beach, musing about his past, and having a chat with his dad.

Hi folks! This is actually my two-months-late “Happy Birthday, Steven” fic, ahah- amusingly, posted two months late to the day. I’m quite happy with how this short turned out.

If you read this and enjoy, I’d greatly appreciate your support through reblogs here, or kudos/comments on AO3 as well. AO3 link will be provided in the reblogs. Thank you! <3

____

Tides of Renewal

Steven rises alongside the sun, but not by choice.

As he abruptly stirs, jerking onto his side under his tangled blanket, he soon realizes that he has little lingering memory of the nightmare that shook him from his slumber. Nevertheless, his heart pounds so hard it feels like it’s hanging in his throat. There’s feelings, faint impressions— someone’s blood (his, or hers?), Connie’s screams, a bubble of terror boiling from within— but that’s all he’s left with. The young man clutches at his sheets, struggling to catch his breath as is the norm most mornings. Dim light sneaks in between the edges of the curtains, offering a rough estimate of the time.

Once it’s clear his chances of sleeping in have become null and void, he entices himself out of bed with the promise of buying himself a muffin at the local coffee shop later today, a birthday treat. His routine is sluggish, but precise. He uses the bathroom, throws on his swim trunks and a thin cotton shirt, downs the pills he forgot to take last night with a quick swig of water, carefully runs his fingers through his long curls to work out the tangles, and slips his feet into the flip flops he always leaves lying right at the foot of his bed.

The young adult only takes his guitar, phone, and keys with him as he walks the mile distance from his humble studio apartment to the public beach. Around him, the world is at peace. The only sound intermingling with the gentle ebb and flow of the Pacific at this hour of the morning is the chattering of puffins that nest on the large rock outcroppings in the tide pools nearby. The edge of his lip quirks up when he finally crosses that sacred boundary— the sidewalk meeting the shore— and removes his sandals, reveling in the satisfying, grainy texture of sand squishing between his toes. Hah... the beach. Funny, that. All his traveling these past years, from mountains, to prairies, to sprawling suburbs to wooded forest towns, and it only succeeded in deepening his childhood love for the familiarity of saltwater air and tourist-filled boardwalks. Still, the secluded, rustic charm of Haystack Cove is a far cry from the Beach City he grew up in. Different people, different sights, different types of seafood sold at the markets. This place feels like a home all his own, appropriately distant from the Gem influenced settlement he’d left behind.

He crosses the fine grained sands towards his favorite sitting spot, a hefty stone jutting out from the ground, its surface buffed to a glossy finish over the years by the high tides. The water’s still distant this early in the morning, glimmers of sunlight sparkling off of the foam and spray. Yawning, he plops himself down on the stone and lifts his guitar into his lap. He strums a few random chords as a warm-up before settling into an experimental melodic sequence.

As he plays, the early morning breeze teases at the ends of his shoulder-length hair, untied and let free in all its curly splendor. It’s still quite chilly, but with the sun peaking over the horizon behind him and not a cloud in sight, the air’s bound to heat up in no time. Steven inhales deeply, soaking in the salt and light and pushing away the shadows lurking at the periphery of his mind, that twitching, exhausting anxiety that never quite seems to leave him alone these days. Unfortunately, functional does not mean carefree. While far fewer in number then when he was a teen, he still runs into plenty of moments where he’s struck blind by particularly painful reminders of his past, his gem snapping into overdrive in an instant. He’s a bit better at coping in these moments now, and walking himself down from panic attacks, but deep-rooted traumas don’t simply melt away. With that in mind, at this point he suspects he’ll likely have to deal with a mixture of therapy and meds for the rest of his life. That’s fine, though. If that’s what it takes to be at peace. He’s thankfully reached a point in his recovery where he’s more than willing to work for it.

Startling him out of his roaming thoughts, his phone chimes to life, touting the same cheery ring tone he had as a kid. He gently sets his guitar down in the sand and fishes his cell phone out of his pocket, a silent bet as to who’s calling rising within his mind. Sure enough, his dad’s contact photo proudly greets him. Hah— he called it. Steven stifles a giggle as he hits accept and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Dad!”

“Hey, Schtu-ball!” his father chimes from the other side of the country, three hours ahead. He hears a faint shuffle over the line, and then the beginnings of guitar accompaniment as the man begins to sing:

“Happy birthday to you~!”

Dad ends the line with a resounding vibrato, and a few extra jazzy chords for good measure.

“Heh heh, thanks,” he says, bashfully blushing at the attention, and gazing across the loose sands as if ensuring the secret of his birth hasn’t swelled into a nauseatingly public affair like half of his birthdays had since the start of Era 3. “Gotta say, the impromptu guitar solo pushed that to a whole new level. You just get up?”

“Yep! Bright and early. Garnet said you’d probably be awake by now, so I figured I’d call and give ya’ a good greeting to start the day. Lemme guess, you’re down there at the beach already? I think I heard waves.”

Steven’s glance lifts to admire the slowly rising tides, and the promise of each tomorrow that lies beyond. “Hah, you know me,” he says softly, taking a deep lungful of that precious salt-touched air he’s always adored. “I live for the water. Might force myself to go for a swim later before all of you come. Not sure yet,” he says, shrugging as he turns and squints in the wake of the steadily rising sun. “But my therapist said I should probably keep as active as po—“

“It’s your birthday. You do whatever makes you happy, bud,” his dad promptly reminds him, slight concern sticking to his voice. And yes, it’s practically a father’s job to worry, but his chest tightens with lingering guilt for pressing that upon him anyways. Ugh, this is because he said ‘force myself,’ isn’t it?

“Doing my best to,” he lamely offers, hoping it’ll at least end that segment of conversation. He twirls a stray strand of hair around his finger as he scours his memory for something new to offer. Thankfully, his mind quickly lands on the exciting email he received last night. He grins, knowing for sure his dad’ll love this. “Oh, uh- topic change, but I got that last job I applied for, by the way.”

“Oh? The taffy shop one?”

“Yeah! I start on Tuesday.”

“Wow, that’s- that’s awesome! They responded fast, then.”

“Yup,” Steven nods, popping the ‘p.’ “Honestly, it’s nothing much, just stocking and working the register, but it’ll give me some cash to work with.”

Some cash to finally pay for his own food instead of continuously bumming money off his dad. There’s no way he can handle full month’s rent on his own with this minimum wage job, (who on Earth could in this economy), but it might be enough to cover the smaller things. Groceries, electricity, internet. That sorta stuff. Fidgeting on the edge of the stone outcropping, his bare toes dig narrow lines in the sand. He hasn’t really had this discussion with Dad yet, but the mere concept of being wholly reliant on other people steers his mind uncomfortably close to the I’m a Burden Zone. He’d far prefer to feel like he has a stake in the game.

“I know you said you don’t mind supporting me,” he continues in a hesitant tone, twirling his finger through one of his curls, “but I still feel kinda bad—“

“Don’t. I’d rather you not have to stress yourself to the bone about money like I did when I was your age.”

The line shakes for a second. He’s pretty sure he hears the faint clink of a bowl meeting the counter from his dad’s side.

“Dad...?”

“Sorry, bud. Just putting ya’ on speaker. Figured I’d make myself some instant oatmeal,” he says, his voice sounding a bit further away from the microphone. “Goodness, though. Twenty years. That still boggles the mind.”

He gives a soft laugh. “You’re telling me. Could’ve sworn I was twelve just yesterday. And to be honest, it’s... it’s kinda weird sometimes, you know?”

“What is?”

“Being another year older. ‘Cause... well, uh...”

Steven grits his teeth, searching for the most delicate manner in which he can discuss these emotions. The feelings of his past are a really hard topic to dwell on sometimes, even in therapy, and even though he and his dad have long since had scattered discussions about what a poor mental state he was in then, he doesn’t wanna upset him too much.

“There were definitely days I assumed I wouldn’t have a future, or didn’t want one to begin with,” he continues, throat thick. “Back during all the conflict, before Homeworld reformed. And even after that, when I was... you know. And things are better, now, they’re definitely a lot better. But the idea of a ‘future’... even if I’ve got a job, a home, a girlfriend... it’s still weird to think about, I guess.“

There’s a brief silence on the line as this vulnerable admission sinks in.

“Yeah,” Dad replies eventually, clear sorrow in his voice despite how careful he thought he was in phrasing these matters. “I hear ya’.”

With a quick nervous laugh, he scratches at the nape of his neck, fingertips brushing against the thin, wispy strands of hair growing back there. “Geeze, sorry for bringing the mood down so quick. Didn’t even know I had all that on my mind until it spilled right out.”

“No, no! No need for apologies, I’m always here to listen. And in any case, I’m glad you’re in a better place now.”

Steven nods his head to himself in full agreement (momentarily forgetting that his dad isn’t actually here in the flesh to see this response). Sixteen and seventeen really, really weren’t good years for him. And even though he’s put lot of work into himself since then, he can’t help but constantly fear the possibility of relapse. His therapist told him a few sessions ago when he expressed this worry that... relapses into old thinking patterns can be common for people living with C-PSTD, and that it’s important for him to be cognizant of any unusual changes in his patterns and routines so he can quickly intervene with his box of healthy coping tactics, but... geeze. The dark, traumatic destinations his wandering thoughts end up stagnating in when the concept of relapse brushes his mind aren’t fun to acknowledge. It makes him yearn with deafening hunger for a simple switch he could flip, some magic cure-all for his brain that would stop him from having to deal with any of this awful shit in the first place— but of course, cruel universe this can be at times, those don’t exist.

“Speaking of that,” Dad speaks up again after clearing his throat, “how are those new meds treating you? You said last call your doctor was gonna change them, yes?”

“Nah, not change. There’s no need to change types,” he shrugs. “It’s just a dosage shift. And it’s fine, I think. I’ve been on ‘em for a few days, and there’s no problems so far. Brain's been treating me a little better.”

Nightmares aren’t quite as bad.

His energy isn’t totally zapped by noon.

The whirling, panicked trajectory of his thought patterns is a little easier to wrest control of.

All in all, nothing’s perfect, but he certainly feels a good deal more stable than before. Now, if only he can remember to consistently take his meds before he goes to bed like he’s supposed to instead of totally forgetting like he did last night and having to scarf it down when he sees that forsaken capsule in his pill box the next morning. Tsk, tsk.

“That’s real good to hear,” his dad responds to his news.

He flexes his knuckles against his lap, gaze reflexively drifting back towards the welcomed distraction of the tides. “Yeah.”

“Anyways, I, uh...”

“So, party logistics,” he cuts in with an overly cheery tone, changing the topic from his boring mental health crap entirely. “We should probably hash this out now. I know Connie’s planning on dropping around about noon. What’s your guys’ plan? She can probably send Lion to you after she gets here, if you want.”

“Yeah, that’d be best. Pearl said there weren’t any convenient warps nearby. Well, there’s one- but apparently it empties out into an active lava tube. And that’s not exactly Dad-friendly.”

“Aww, you mean you’re not filled with the intense desire to dip your hand into molten lava and shlorp it up like it’s soup?” Steven retorts, only barely holding back his laughter as he thinks of this absurd text thread he had going with Connie a few weeks back, wherein she sent him a video of some volcanic flows and told him, verbatim, that 'despite all logic and reason sometimes I can’t help but look at super viscous lava and think... forbidden s o u p, mmmm.’

“Not particularly, no,” his dad says, sounding thoroughly confused. “I’m- why are you laughing? Is this some sort of weird internet thing I’m not familiar with again?”

He wipes tears from his eyes as he tries to catch his breath. “You, ah- you kinda had to be there, sorry. Anyways, yeah. I’ll have Connie send Lion. I’ll text you right before, how’s that?”

“Sounds great! Can’t wait to see ya’, bud. I’m gonna let you go, now, okay? I can talk your ears off later. Go enjoy your morning. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad,” he says, grinning. “Bye.”

“Buh-bye.”

Once his dad hangs up he sets his phone beside him on the rock and takes a deep, steady breath, trying to capture the full nuance of each diverse scent in the air. He may just be imagining it, but he swears he’s able to pick out the faint scent of taffy intermingling with the ocean saltiness and the hint of cedar from the nearby state forest. In the end though, whether it’s real or not it’s a welcomed reminder of all the possibility the future holds for him.

He’s twenty now. It’s a brand new decade of life. He’s got a new job lined up, a stable and loving relationship, a supportive family, and plenty of courage in facing the shadows of his past. Sure, so maybe he’ll never know with certainty what will happen— maybe he’ll relapse a little, maybe he’ll still have some bad days sprinkled amongst the good ones— but as he watches the tides flow in to greet him, he smiles... and resolves to just take this year as a renewal of his vow to care for himself as best he can.

[purplerose244]

I don’t care

Hi!! This is my fic for the @ninjago-valentine-exchange!! Thank you so much for organizing this, I really had fun writing this! 🥰

Special thank also to @nightlybirdie for the lovely fanart I got to respond to! It’s such an adorable little comic! 😍  I thought making a songfic about the same song you choose would have been fitting, since it really is very Lava like ❤🖤❤🖤

Here we go! Enjoy!! 😊

Summary: It's just another celebration party after all, Cole should be used to feeling left out.

Turns out, someone is very not okay with that.

Also on the AO3

We’re at a party we don’t wanna be at

Trying to talk but we can’t hear ourselves

Red your lips I’d rather kiss ‘em right back

With all these people all around I’m crippled with anxiety

 It wasn’t that Cole hated parties.

Although it wasn’t that he loved them either.

“… so thank you again, ninja!” Tipping his hat, the police commissioner finally finished his speech, one that after such a long time spent with them fighting crime and evil beings – like ten years or something? – was starting to sound vaguely repetitive. “Now, without further ado, let us begin this celebration party! To honor our saviors!” The crowd cheered, all the police members bowed at them, and it was finally time to forget about the danger and relax.

… right.

Alright, the black ninja wasn’t a party-pooper – he wasn’t never going to give Jay that satisfaction. There were of course great pros about being here after all, starting from the fact that the very reason there was such a big event in the first place was because they had saved the city once again – he needed to remind Lloyd to bring the sign ‘days Ninjago City wasn’t attacked’ back to zero. This was a celebration in their honor, a thank you for their determination and commitment and for keeping their world safe every time. He could see familiar faces into the crowd, having fun, enjoying the peace that once again so difficulty they had managed to regain.

The music was nice. Nowhere near his usual choice, and he knew he was going to grab his headphones and blast soft rock at full volume as soon as they were back at the monastery, but nice nonetheless – relaxing too… oh… oh, no, no dozing off. His friends were all there, dancing, talking, perfectly in tune with the festive atmosphere.

Oh, there was also a buffet, that was nice. It was also an extremely generous one, with tarts, sandwiches, shrimps and so on, one that could make even Zane’s nindroid mouth water. The black ninja himself had finished his recognition at the table, even though he had ended up with a glass of whatever while standing on the side of the ballroom. All he knew was that it was sparkling and slightly bitter. Not really his taste.

Nothing felt like his taste right now… but that went beyond his beverage choice.

He tried to widen his collar, for the fifth time in the last hour. He should’ve known better than borrowing a suit from his father, besides their obvious different sizes. Even beyond the blatant reality that being the master of earth pulled out muscles that a dancer just didn’t have, it was the most irritating reminder of the time he had spent trying to meet his pa’s expectations by joining a quartet. It had been a while since that matter had been solved, there was no point into sulking over it. There were more important matters ahead.

His finger went to his collar. Sixth time. Great.

Was he the only one holding on instead of having fun? Again?

One impressively loud laugh shook his from his thoughts, and he didn’t have to look to recognize Jay, near their latest used-to-be-enemy-but-now-they’re-our-pal. Great, someone must have asked what happened during their adventure, there was no way Motor Mouth would have missed the opportunity to vent – as long as his obnoxiously talkative nature didn’t bring their new friend back to the evil path. Right next Zane was showing off his dancing skills, that familiar endearing view that probably involved his famous funny switch. Or not, that nindroid was lovable no matter what after all. From the resigned but fond smirk of Pixal, leaning against the wall not far while watching the robot making a spectacle of himself, he wasn’t the only one thinking that.

Lloyd had been kidnapped by a few reporters of the NGTV, although despite the awkward atmosphere he looked like he could handle himself – which wasn’t new, man that kid was indestructible. And even though he was confident that Nya was not the biggest fan of formal clothes just like himself, like the pro she was she knew exactly how to deal both with her dress and the people crowding around her. Besides, she deserved a bit of spotlight.

His friends were having fun, that made the master of earth happy unconditionally. Although he would have liked to share that light-heartedness, or simply being willing to let himself go for once. Well, they were doing fine, he could end this and finally go home by himse-

Wait. No. Something wasn’t right.

Where was that? Where was the crowd of people getting consistently louder and more insistent the closest they got to their red hero? Where was the never-ending flirty attitude that was almost a main characteristic of the master of fire? Where was the improvised meeting of the Kai fan club happening every single time they ended an adventure, like these screaming admirers had been silently waiting for the end to end just to see their diva?

A shiver caught him. Surprise? Confusion? Relief? Cole wasn’t quite sure, he just knew that there was no massive amount of chocolate hair nowhere in the ballroom. A pinch in his chest made his back straighten up. He took the slightest sip of his drink, grimacing at the taste.

Then, someone shouldered him. Wow, silent as a ninja. Then again, it wasn’t hard at this point recognizing his teammates without looking.

Especially someone as warm as him.

“Apologies my good sir, but it looks like we’re in quite the predicament over here.” Yep, he could see Kai’s smirk in the corner of his vision, moving up his mouth with that little dimple on the corner. “This is very clearly a party-fever, non-sulking area. You better correct your behavior, or I will be forced to take drastic measures.” Kai stuck out his tongue as he cracked his knuckles, despite himself Cole couldn’t help half a laugh.

Only half, because this guy could be very irritating when trying to push his reasons on others – the cow yak predicament between him and Jay was never going to be forgotten and was actually brought up again every once in a while. Only half… because there was something mesmerizing at seeing the reckless master of fire getting cleaned up in a classy and refined suit. White immaculate shirt. Perfectly stirred jacket. That little red bow over his neck, because if this guy didn’t like to show off that red was his color on every occasion then the Overlord was a good guy.

You could say a lot about the red ninja, really a lot.

Not having style? Not between that – of course his ego didn’t need to know this.

The black ninja huffed, catching himself before he let his eyes lingering on him for too long – thank you master Wu, poor unaware sensei probably didn’t know his meditation lesson were being used to hide a crush.

“Drastic measures as kick me out? Because first, I would like to see you try.” Kai was strong, but not earth strong, thank you very much. “And second, I can leave on my own, thank you.”

Another shoulder. Much quicker than the other.

“Nah huh, this is also a very restricted non-ditching area.” Now he was cornered. Which wasn’t much because it was only Kai and his mischievous look. Also it was Kai and his mischievous look. “You either have fun and enjoy yourself, or security will escort you to prison in a conga line.”

“Really?” The hothead dared to shrug, like this made-up nonsense was a fact and these ‘laws’ were beyond him. “You don’t have to be a bringer of justice here too, just leave me be a solitary public figure for five more minutes before leaving.” A little frown moved his scarred eyebrows, which looked a little too knowing for some reason. “Besides, don’t you have a fan club to return to? I’m not seeing brown wigs twice your head moving around, that’s worrying.” A third shove, this time the black ninja let out a proper laugh. The red ninja’s hair only got crazier and crazier since they met, and it was always funny.

Endearing, too… dang it feelings!

The master of fire crossed his arms over his chest, pouting yet smiling.

“I can have a party without getting assaulted by my fans, you know? Besides, it’s been a while since we had a proper celebration, I wanna be with my team for once.” It was surprising and also very not. Kai was that much of an egomaniac, he loved the attention; but he loved his family even more, and it was true that they didn’t get much time to enjoy simply be united – trying to survive a villain while experiencing discoveries and development didn’t count as a relaxing bonding experience.

Cole gave a look at the crowd. The others were all still there.

“I’ll give you that, should we call up the others then?”

“No no no, you don’t get out of the radar that easily!” Again with the grin, what was that dangerously pretty head of his plotting? He looked focused too, it was scary. “Cut loose, will ya? You always end up in the corner at these things, you could at least pretend like you wanna be here.”

The black ninja winced.

“Gosh, you sound like my dad.” He definitely didn’t want to think about his dad in front of his crush. “We’re not all social butterflies, okay? I’m fine being myself.”

“Oh that’s not it, you’re okay. You being you is amazing.” Was that flirtatious? Was that a random compliment? Dang it, Cole had known him for too long, he couldn’t tell the difference anymore! “But whenever we get to an event like this one you always look like you would rather go back fighting and it sucks. Not being much of a party person is fine, I just want you to have some fun that’s all.” Ah. There it was. Underneath the mocking, the arrogance and the flirts, was a guy that could fire up a group of ninja with the power alone of his blatantly sincere words. Being against the next reason Ninjago City needed to be rebuilt, or while trying to give a random party some meaning. “Besides, speaking of fans, I know you have some. You could improvise a convention too.” He gestured towards him with both hands, like he was presenting him for a talk show.

The master of earth grinned. His chest felt warm, as always. Curse this guy for being cute. Curse him for being here instead of somewhere else wowing some random guest, blessing him with his company. He was right about not being together enough. Cole did miss having peaceful times with his teammate… he had missed spending time with Kai.

 But I’m told it’s where I’m supposed to be

You know what?

It’s kinda crazy coz I really don’t mind

When you make it better like that

 He took another sip. Grimacing. He shook his head.

“My fan club is nowhere near as wide as yours.”

“It’s not a challenge you know… although if it was, we all know who would win…” The red ninja flexed his arm. The jacket moved accordingly, showing off results of a training that even without involving massive rocks looked still impressive.

Cole swallowed over a sudden dry throat, only to frown.

“Huh… Lloyd?”

Kai blinked and sulked down altogether.

“Lloyd indeed.” They looked at each other and laughed.

The previous song slowly faded, a new rhythm took over. To Cole’s relief, it was something less ballet-like and more vivacious, capturing a few couple and individuals into the ballroom to enjoy the music. Jay was showing off impressive dancing skills, although him coming out of nowhere with a new ability wasn’t unheard of – roller skating, skiing, how did he even have free time to learn where he would always invent and eat junk food? Nya wasn’t too far behind, crossing path with Zane and improvising something together, laughing all the way. Lloyd was about to shake his head with a snicker and step away, only to have Pixal push him in with a little grin.

It was so peaceful. Them having fun, enjoying themselves, doing something other than risking their own lives and protect the land. They were the moments the black ninja loved the most.

Kai was humming himself, smiling just as widely. Cole chuckled warmly.

“You look like a very proud father.”

The red ninja arched an eyebrow and smirked.

“Wouldn’t you like that, honey.” Oh dang it, was he for real?! Was that a flirt?! Was that a little blush or for the master of fire having red over him was as natural as igniting flames?? Was he going somewhere with this, help, abort, something, anything! “We should chime in and join Zane and Jay, make a reprise of the Blade Cup Tournament! I remember the choreography still, bet we could show it to Nya, Lloyd and Pixal too.” Alright, never mind, false alarm… possibly, again, it was confusing.

Cole took another sip. It possibly tasted worse at every try, he didn’t even know why he was holding the glass still. At least he looked refined… or something.

“No way, I’m not going through that again.”

“Oh come on, I thought you got over your dancing complex with the Triple Tiger Sashay.” Kai shrugged, looking at him right into the eyes. “You dance good too, it’s a waste.” Was he in vain of compliments today or he was silently mocking him through an elaborated plan?

… nah, he wasn’t one to make complicated plans. He was a pretty face, and an airhead.

Cole shrugged.

“I don’t mind dancing, not as much as I used to at least. I even like it nowadays.” Having a hobby besides saving Ninjago was kind of important to not completely lose it – and playing videogames became a little too competitive once Jay or Lloyd got in the zone. “But it’s a little too connected to what my dad used to expect me to be and sometimes I don’t wanna even brush that thought.” They were good now, of course they were. But they spent time apart because of it. It was still hard to think about it. “… I don’t like to think that it would’ve been easier to just bear and go on. It makes me wonder what I would have become in that case, through tedious dancing lessons and failures.” Wow, his insecurities were put under a test, and there was no menace in sight for once.

Urgh, nope, not tonight, not after the mess they had been forced to fix for their city. Tonight it was about feeling light, thoughtless and happy. He needed a joke, a mockery, something, and while their official jokester wasn’t available Kai was the next best thing.

Any moment now… any moment now…

… okay now he was deliberately teasing him with those pretty eyes of his. He looked even sappy now, their shoulders were touching. He was so warm.

“It’s… kind of a scary thought, you know. Thinking of a you in a reality in which we haven’t met.” He smiled, one enigmatic, slightly worried smile that Cole couldn’t remember to have seen before. “But master Wu would’ve found you anyway, right? I don’t want to think of a world where we don’t know each other.” Because he was a precious teammate of his. “That’s not right in my head, I kinda hate it really.” Because they were too close as friends to even conceive it. “I’m just happy to have the strong, kind, incredible Cole by my side for this life.” Because he… cared. Because Kai cared about all the people in his life, all the precious members of his family.

That included him. As a… as…

The master of fire was staring at him, lips pressed tight together, burning cheeks and glimmering eyes. His face radiated heat, beyond the temperature itself; it was like an image so hot it got blurry, yet the beauty of it was nitid and flawless.

Cole was mesmerized. Then he slowly took a step back from his condition, finding the energic music fading away around them, and the red ninja still froze with his eyes on him.

It made him smile.

Having his attention always made him smile.

��Oh my gosh, it’s Kai!!” Because it wasn’t for granted and it wasn’t as easy as it was, back when they had started their legend as the ninja team. Now they were celebrities, and having a group of fans jumping excitedly in front of the brunette was ordinary administration. “Kai! You’re so cool, thank you for saving us again! You are our favorite ninja, can we get a picture? And a photo? Possibly both, if you can!” There were a couple of girls, one guy and a kid jumping from one foot to the other. All looking at ease and confident with their dresses and manners, addressing one of the heroes of this island.

Huh. The party had started to get nicer a few minutes ago, now it was back at being dull. Awkward. Uneasy. Solitary. Once again the too tight suit became very vivid, especially around his arms and chest. Once again the music, that had gone back at being slow and classic, got at his nerves. Once again he was being a spectator, looking at the scene like it was airing on television.

Kai was smiling naturally, he was more than used at that kind of attention. But his eyes were quick at focusing on him, and another little frown moved his forehead.

“Thanks for the support guys, but I’m a little busy right now…”

Cole rolled his eyes. He hated pity, so much. It felt like a slap right now.

“No you’re not idiot, come on, show your fans some respect. They get to see you without the city falling apart for a change!” The group nodded eagerly, eyes brightening the room. The red ninja wasn’t looking at them, his eyes were fixed on his teammate and it was even more irritating. “I’ll be at the buffet if you need me, have fun.” He looked hurt. What right did he have to get hurt? From what even? The master of earth was the one casted aside, for a change!

He walked away from the scene, losing Kai’s voice between excited shouts and squeaks from the group. Like that was new, it was always the serious, uncharismatic, downer of the team the one getting less recognition. He had known that when he had met this band of crazy people that he had started to call family. He had known that when Lloyd had taken charge and lead them towards one victory after the other. He had known that when Nya had been called into action, showing off once and for all that she was the real deal. There was always someone before him, brighter, to capture the attention. Being a robot, being an inventor, being the most handsome guy in existence…

… and it was fine.

Cole wasn’t stupid not unrealistic. He knew who he was, he knew his skills and his pros. He knew there were many people cheering for him too, he knew that Ninjago City loved him. Having less focus didn’t mean he wasn’t going to do his best to give back that support. But moments like these made him feel like it was unfairly easy to be pushed away in favor of something better. This really wasn’t what he was used to. The party, the attention… him.

It wasn’t about the attention after all. It was about feeling inadequate. Unlike others, he wasn’t born for the attention. Others were ready to burn to catch everyone’s eyes through their beauty. Cole only wished the difference wasn’t always this upsetting.

The guests were walking around him as he passed through. He didn’t actually want to go back to the table, he had simply said the first thing that had come to his mind – with that one girl so close to Kai thinking had been very difficult. Then the police commissioner had called the attention upon the impressive cake that was being brought in by a carrier. Shaped like the monastery, with their faces on the base. Wasn’t he the absolute dessert lover that he was, he might have found the cake too cute to even attempt a bite. Then again he really was, which was no secret at all. The chief of the police department was more than happy to give him the first slice.

White chocolate and blueberries. He hated himself for being so irritated, he would have wanted to enjoy his cake without bothering images into his head. He knew it wasn’t that big of a deal. Whenever there was a party, his mind just liked to remind him how uncomfortable he felt. It was only a matter of waiting for it to be over. Then he could share a bag of candies with Lloyd, or pull some weights with Nya, or meditate with Zane, or train with Pixal, or destroy Jay at videogame. Or do anything, absolutely everything, that involved spending time with Kai.

Just for the sake of having him near… ah, dang it, feelings again!

He swallowed a bit harshly, all of the sudden he couldn’t have more. The slice was half eaten – yeah he liked to have that big of a first bite –, and even after spending the night munching over those little snacks that couldn’t contain more than one or two calories each. He felt full. He couldn’t even enjoy his dessert now, might as well leave before anyone noticed him. He had planned on leaving much earlier so it wasn’t a problem.

Cole looked down at that forsaken drink, arching an eyebrow. Maybe it was good with sweets? Maybe that was what made it good? He drank, grimaced and grunted. He moved to put the drink on the table once and for all.

A quick ninja hand snatched the glass. A second later it was emptied.

“Finally, you were driving me crazy with this thing!” Kai, smiley and innocent, almost knocked down another glass as he let the empty one fall over the table. “All night sipping and hating!”

The black ninja’s mind was empty. From nothingness, only one doubt emerged.

“… you’ve been watching me?”

 Don’t think we fit in at this party

Everyone’s got so much to say

When we walked in I said “I’m sorry”

But now I think that we should stay

 That wasn’t probably the question to ask, no matter how much the master of earth was stubborn over the idea that nothing was a big deal at the moment. Something like ‘what are you doing here’ would have sounded out of place though, and teasing directly about what happened to his fan club didn’t sound better. Besides, the handsome master of fire finished his drink putting those perfect lips right where Cole’s had been just a second ago, and the black ninja’s strategic leader brain that had many times got him out of a bad situation wasn’t working.

Or maybe it was? There were very few things that could really, actively melt his heart like this. The red ninja’s blush was one of them. It had to have something to do with his element, the reddening was absolute and total. Like watching a thermometer reaching the maximum.

“J-Just a little! One or two times!” Liar, Cole had been doing this sip and regret thing all evening. The thought alone was an injection of giddiness. “Not up for cake? That’s new.”

Oh. He felt a little more in vain for cake. Two bites later it was done.

“I was taking a breath.” It was easier with him around. Did he know that? “You’re done with the fans? That was quick.” Kai huffed with superiority, but the black ninja was no fool: he could see the girl from before sighing a little, like she didn’t get nearly as much red ninja as she had been expecting. “You didn’t have to leave them behind for me.” That came out exactly as badly as he thought it. Why did he say it anyway? Why was the master of fire this shocked and fearful? “Kai I’m not some special case that you have to take care of, you know that. You don’t have to hang around me just because.” Huh. It came out like that.

Huh. Kai looked one with his element, burning from his forehead to his neck, looking almost sunburned. Adorable. So adorable, even while Cole was waiting for whatever was going to come from this situation. Which was, beyond his expectations, the red ninja’s rough and long hand slowly reaching for his, holding it tight.

Warm, so warm, so unfairly warm.

“I… I hang out with you because I want to. I want you to have fun because I…” He swallowed, hardly, and it felt like a light was switched on in the black ninja’s mind. “… I like when you have fun. When you s-smile, too.” It was so different from the usual flirty attitude that this guy used. It would have sounded like a mockery to any other. “I like being where you are too, that’s all I need… I-I mean it!” But Cole knew this guy, he knew him too well not to know that flirting was a show.

This awkward, embarrassed, red gorgeous person was the real deal. One that came out only when the time was right, and the person was right.

Cole was right. He was… right?

“I… I don’t know what to say.” He really didn’t and it was the worst possible answer. But it was true. What did you say to someone you harbored feelings for that showed interest back towards you? Thanks? Same here? I love you?? It was true but it was out and everything felt unnecessary and uneasy again.

The hold tightened. Kai was still blushing, but he was smiling with that special energy into his eyes. The one that usually meant a very bad plan coming, or one heck of an idea.

“No need. Just come with me.” Not like he could resist him right now.

Right on cue the music had changed, slowing down. The master of earth had a suspicion the one holding his hand was behind this – not like bribing Dareth currently at the console was particularly hard, especially with a couple of Puffy Potstickers in hand. Then again, the one holding his hand was this handsome fella that was leading him towards the center of the ballroom, between fanciful people and a couple of eyes in awe at seeing their heroes there. It was easier to ignore the comparison, the feeling of inferiority, while feeling Kai’s fingers clenching around his palm, shaking firmly. It was cute. So very cute. Cole could barely see in front of himself between all these people, yet it felt like nothing was really shouldering him as he passed through.

There were lights above them. Were they always there? Cole didn’t notice before, which was silly since it was all dark outside. His head was lighter, he didn’t have control over his strength even if he had wanted to break free from that hold. He didn’t. Not when the red ninja had that familiar determination making his entire body tense. Not while he turned around, smirking.

Still blushing. Still holding his hand. The master of earth looked down. Two pairs of feet staring at each other. Memories of the dance lessons came flooding back.

He looked up. Those glimmering embers made it much better.

“You brought me here to dance?”

“Impeccable deduction, Rocky.”

“Do you even know how? Dancing in couple is not the same as in a group, and we both know you have awful balance.” It was the only thing that made him regret throwing the battle against Jay back at the tournament of elements: losing the possibility of seeing this klutz making a fool of himself on roller skates. Confident Kai? Goofy and charming. Energic Kai? Attractive and brave. Angry Kai? Literally hot. But man, clumsy, adorably unsteady Kai? A wholesome force strong enough to break every single mountain he had ever climbed in his life.

The master of fire huffed with superiority, which was already promising. Around them a few couples were getting together, slowly moving with the rhythm.

“Please, I defeat evil lurking behind our backs on regular basis. I can handle a dance.” His eyes went down on his feet, while he unsurely grabbed his other hand. “You just gotta work with me, first you move the left… right… no left, left!” Left went right over his partner’s foot, and it was gone right away ironically almost as it got burned. “D-Don’t laugh, I got this!” Screw everything, the master of earth was very glad Ninjago had been in peril just to arrive at this specific moment.

Ah, but he was the responsible one, wasn’t he? Snickering right in front of the brunette’s face while he was doing his dang best at not stomping onto his feet would have not been very mature.

… continuously at least, he could take one giggle.

No one could call one giggle immature. Or two.

“I can hear my father’s pleas from here.”

“Shut up, I’m getting there! Right foot, sorry, then left…” Wow, it was almost impressive considering Cole had managed to see him before almost gracefully practicing spinjitzu with them. Then again, it was so like him it hurt. “There there’s the… huh… casket?” Oh dear, he meant the casque? Yep, definitely good pa wasn’t here. The black ninja almost blacked out he was laughing so much – pun not intended –, wiping away a single tear. Then he looked up, embers were staring. So focused and bright they were too much to look at. Kai grinned. “At least your smile is back.” The softest curve ever.

It was impossible not to look at it. It was baffling how many people were attracted to the master of fire solely for appearance and superficial charm. Yet this part, this tender side of him was the most lovely part. The most hidden too, reserved only to those who got close enough to the fire to get burned, without regretting a single moment.

Cole giggled again, stepping forward. Automatically he took charge, assuming the position that had been sculptured into his mind by years of dance lessons. Kai’s hand was still shaking as he took it, his eyes were trembling too. It made the black ninja smile more.

“It’s easy to smile when I’m with you.” Another incredible thing about this guy, it made all the people around him more confident. Stronger. Him included.

Kai gaped. He stuttered, looking down, up, at him and not.

Then he sighed, whining weakly.

“I was trying to properly confess, Boulder Brain.” It would have been such a shameless, anticlimactic moment for anyone. Gosh if it hadn’t dissolved all the anxious anticipation the black ninja had. “Why did you have to one up me right now?” Maybe it wasn’t only Kai that made him feel this at ease, maybe it wasn’t only them knowing each other so well. Maybe there really was one and only, for life, and the master of earth knew it by instinct.

A pretty good instinct too.

Cole grinned, stepping closer because dang if this didn’t feel immensely good.

“Force of habit, you’re just that slow.” Dang if this easiness between them wasn’t the most comfortable feeling he had ever felt. “You should really put your mind into training a little more, prove that you can keep up with me, Fireball.”

Music was changing, people were moving, the party was continuing and neither of them was looking anymore. Who cared anyway? What was important right now?

Warmth was.

Kai’s hand on his cheek was. Kai’s softened eyes on him were.

“I can do that. You know I never quit in front of a challenge.” One blink of an eye later, their noses were brushing. Another blink, their breaths were caressing each other’s lips. One last, the master of fire turned that kind of serious. The one that put everything on the table, because he considered a moment that important. “… I hate when you ditch a party.” Cole held together a little gulp. “And it’s not about you not being a party person, or wanting you to have fun, or even for you to get the credit you deserve. It is in part, but it’s not all.” He smiled, his thumb tracing gently his cheek, so very careful with him. Him, the lifter of their team. Him, the mighty master of earth. Him, the one that could manifest an earthquake with a punch. “It’s just that I miss you every time. You make everything better for me… I want to be with you as much as I can.”

It was never about that after all. It was never about who he was or what he represented, for either of them. It was just about two guys, two friends that had been lucky enough to get closer to each other reciprocally. In comparison to this, everything felt so meaningless.

The room was empty, the music was gone. It was just them.

Cole closed his eyes.

“You could convince me that parties are cool, you know. Then I won’t ditch anymore.” His closeness, his heat, his presence. The black ninja wanted to take in everything about this moment and never letting go. “I feel like I’m on the right path right now…” Wow, they weren’t even together yet and his flirty tendencies were already rubbing on him. Was he really that gone already for not minding it one bit?

Ah, who cared, Kai was so close he could hear him swallow. His thumb was still shivering, and it made his heart flutter. Then he laughed, low and sincere.

“Let’s see if I can be convincing.” He whispered.

Kissing the red ninja was exactly how he had imagined. It was warm, a little clumsy, so very sincere and vigorous. It reflected how he moved, how he acted, how he fought, how he protected. Yet it was nothing like he thought. It was so sweet it made his eyes pinch, it was delicate and even a little uncertain. It was him on the inside, the him that didn’t always want to make an impression, the him that had so much love to give to his most precious ones. It was him. In every possible way, it was him.

Cole smiled, kissing back, holding onto him as he was held back.

He liked parties. And he loved Kai.

 ‘Cause I don’t care when I’m with my baby, yeah

All the bad things disappear

And you’re making me feel like maybe I am somebody

I can deal with the bad nights

When I’m with my baby

[mooneyedandglowing]

Z

It’s late, everything is jumbled and cast in a sick green light and it’s late. I hear things outside, but the neighbors are gone -- kicked out at the first chance the landlord was given. Normally, I’d feel awful and anyone would and should unless they knew those people. It’s sadly a relief for the small street. Quiets it down. No one pulling up in the middle of the night screaming racial slurs (all of them white). I’d prefer not to hear some white girl yelling out slurs for other races at another white boy as she and a group of others zoom past my house from the false safety of their vehicle. All of this over a teen egging a car. Ahhh, this place. Violent, violent, violent. Steeped in that blood. Some progressives often like to pretend (rarely being from that deep poverty in the hills where the church traumatizes you and a fight breaking out on the school bus is just a normal Tuesday. They never know how you stop flinching eventually. You think it’s all regular) that this place is a place where that sort of behavior is rare and that people are unified in class struggle. It’s not. They’re not. I always grow weary of the lies that are made to revitalize the rotten. And I say that while still loving the wild place despite the reasons not to. 

Anyway, I’m avoiding the point like usual. I wrote a poem once with some line like “I don’t want to write of my life.” There was some mention of a long hallway, the I, I, I. Some dark thing of the mind is something I’d like to keep to myself. All of it, I’d like to keep for myself. Y’all remember how my dad passed suddenly this year? I was working 7 days a week, saving lives and trying to make my minor impact. And I went on like that alone. In a relationship but alone because the person I was with began an affair only a month or so after my dad’s death. Exchanged little I love you sentiments to one another on my birthday even. I only know because someone else told me after it had all imploded. And I didn’t notice a thing because of who I am -- taking care of myself, not looking to others to meet my needs, expecting them not to, thinking it “the way the world is”. I still think that. I’m grown. I supply myself with what I need. I do it again and again. I’d been forced to do it since I was a child. Take care of yourself. Mind yourself. Take care of your brothers. Take care of the father. Take care of the mother. Take care of yourself. And I’ve always been fine enough in that. It’s a straightforward role to be the elected patriach of things - to be provider for the self and for others. Authoritarian yet magnanimous.

I’m still not getting to the point and my eyes are a bit blurred.

In this world, relationships center themselves around practical matters and little else. I’m lenient with certain disloyalties (I care little about the body as possession), but to allow another to believe they are a threat to me/my relationship is a line not to be crossed and yet it was. My ego, my pride. I have both in good measure. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I do. And I’m already burning at the throat just writing this disgusting diatribe. It seems so pity me when I’d prefer to barely be perceived by anyone much less pitied by them. And I feel no pity for man’s proclaimed loneliness (or really their desire to be complimented by a woman who does not know them, who cannot yet or may never be able to perceive the truth of them and there I am loving the truth of them and it’s I suppose as horrific as where I come from), when here I am islanded and drifting and not causing damage, for my own gain, to strangers who skip my way.

I want to live my life with another who is living their own life, another who is like me and able to get on with it - to not be so weak and small and repellent in their lack. No strength of character is found hardly anywhere these days in another. No courage of one’s own convictions. Rather, a separation happens between the self and the self’s actions - a chaotic dissonance. I hate being lied to. I hate being tricked: taken for a ride. I don’t cry -- and I haven’t cried over love in many years -- but what I think I feel is pain. A tired out sort of pain. A light, fatigued heartbreak. I think of Wallace Steven’s “Re-Statement of Romance” - how it is so ideal to me as a perfect intimacy and yet is perhaps so unattainable: “So much alone, so deeply by ourselves, / So far beyond the casual solitudes, / That night is only the background of our selves, / Supremely true each to its separate self, / In the pale light that each upon the other throws.”

“In the pale light that each upon the other throws.”

[laceymorganwrites]

The damn jacket

Word count: 2,210

Pairing: none rlly

Warnings: swearing, mentions of drugs, like a sentence of Mötley Crüe slander xD, um bad structure??

A/N: this is a mess. modern AU, kinda character analysis, idek but it was fun. Inspired by @pirate-shrimp  (if any of u catch the MSI reference I will marry u on the fucking spot)

Kid had bar vibes. He was the kind of guy you found sitting in the corner of your local pub, just far away from the others not to be forced into a conversation but also not far away enough to seem lonely.

He was the local phenomena of the man you didn´t want to get close to but whose story you wanted to know at the same time. The guy who pushed people away because he was more scared of hurting them than being hurt.

Hell, he doubted he could get hurt anymore at this point, over the years he´s lost so many friendships, been betrayed so much by the people he considered the closest to him, it was laughable.

Maybe that was why he didn´t let anyone get close anymore, why he always seemed so distant, his thoughts stuck in a past long gone or perhaps a future he knew he´d never have.

A good for nothing college drop out, those were the hard facts he had to face every day.

It wasn´t because he was dumb that he quit, far from it. Kid wasn´t thrown out, he quit himself because college was too restricting for him. There were some classes that were nice enough, but working towards exams really wasn´t his style, he wanted to do something, anything really.

People like him didn´t have it easy, society measured your worth in degrees and results. But what if the way was so much more fun than the end result?

Kid had a lot of jobs to make a living, never staying in one though, he got bored so easily. How could anyone expect anyone to keep doing the same routinized thing for over 40 years? It was insanity. To him anyways.

Being punk, never fitting in, living the life of sex, drugs and rock n roll…. It all seemed so much more fun than it really was.

Kid´s band was a bad ripoff of Mötley Crüe, though some might argue that the band itself was.

Yes, he fit into some stereotypes that he was so sick of hearing: playing in a band, being that eccentric lead singer that caused too much trouble for his own good, though the second part wasn´t true anymore. Lately he just wanted people to leave him alone.

It was nice being a small town band, the bonds with your audience were so much stronger, it felt like hanging out with friends rather than playing a show for money. Kid never wanted that feeling to end, he never wanted to end up like those big bands who lost their spark, who lost that glimmer in their eyes, their racing heart when Killer counted and initiated their first song, the immense feeling of belonging whenever the crowd would sing his words back to him.

This.

This was what he was made for. Passion. That was what was missing when he was studying, he needed to do things, be that sketching or tinkering with his car or writing everything down that was going on in his head.

In truth Kid started writing because it all got too much, too many fake people around him, too many people acting like his best friend and leaving him cold the next day, too many people telling him they loved him and then spitting at him, gossiping behind his back.

A part of him missed the times when he cared, when he was shocked and hurt by this. By now it´s become so common, like the energy drink before work.

Kid didn´t have the dream rockstar life, not the one where people looked so cool shooting up in those movies, that shit was fucked up and society was sick for portraying it like that.

He only had bad experiences with drugs, living in a small town like this he saw the addicts everywhere, sad creatures who couldn´t support themselves anymore, who got dependent on things that destroyed them because nobody would help, because nobody gave a shit about them. Why would they? They were good for nothings who couldn´t work ten hours in some shitty job that didn´t pay them enough to pay rent.

The system wasn´t corrupt? Yeah, bullshit.

The problem he faced was that of a fleeting society, a society that sped up so much, never once slowing down and looking around to see what was out there. They never thought about expanding their horizons.

Schoolings were looked down upon, but at the same time cheered for. It was so strange… the craft was dying but also needed.

Nothing held value anymore, nothing lasted, nothing strove to.

Kid was happy with his life as it was now. He hated being selfish and arrogant but learned that a certain amount was needed to survive, you needed to look out for yourself before you could look out for anyone else. A local rockstar, frequent bar visitor, the best mechanic in town. All those fit him so well but at the same time he looked the part, oh how he hated it sometimes. The acquaintances he made because of his looks, because people spread rumors about him, making him more myth than man, it was pretty tiring.

Especially when they all were disappointed by the rather bland truth.

Not that Kid was bland in any way, it was just that people expected so much more from him, they wanted him to be this rebel, this punk, this heartbreaker.

Expected him to have tattoos and piercings but the truth was that he had such a low pain tolerance it was embarrassing. Yes, he bore every punch and kick he ever got without any complaints because there were parts of him that told him he deserved it, parts that hated him more than anything else.

Just try it…. there´s nothing you can do that I haven´t already done myself, you can´t hate me more than I hate myself.

Ah yes, the typical phenomenon of this generation: being way too soft and overly sensitive.

That was it, they weren´t more considerate and aware of their mental health and other people´s wellness, of identity and morals, of things that got swiped under the rug because ´it was always this way´. Why the fuck would people so desperately try to keep something misogynistic, racist and homophobic up? Just because it existed the majority of time doesn´t mean it was a good system.

Fuck, it never was.

And Kid was sick of everyone playing down those things. So what if he was a fucking crybaby and didn´t get humor? He wouldn´t take this shit anymore, yeah it mostly didn´t affect him but he got angry beyond belief for the people it did affect.

It wasn´t fair.

He couldn´t do anything? It wouldn´t matter anyway? It wouldn´t make a difference? So fucking what. He´d never know if he didn´t try.

Just now Kid finished up his work at the garage, closing up shop for the day. It was a busy day, many people who were driving through came to him to do a check up, others came by for their regular reparation. He loved that busy meant fun in his world. He was so fucking happy that he could do the things that brought him joy, that burned like a fire in his heart. And no, he didn´t care how cheesy that sounded.

Washing his hands and closing the door behind him he called Killer to let him know he was done. Killer was also just now finishing up his shift at the record shop. Now was their time to rehearse, band practice was always the best part of the day, though quite honestly most of the time it was just the guys hanging out and having a good time. And they wouldn´t have it any other way.

Kid grabbed his jacket and locked the doors before making his way to his car.

The jacket. That damn jacket.

It was where it all started. He bought that old thing from his first ever pay at the garage, his boss told him to spend it on something nice for himself, something that´d make him a man. He didn´t ever ask what he meant by that, his boss said weird things at times. But this was true, at least in a sense.

It was the first time Kid ever stepped foot inside of a second hand store and it was like heaven revealed himself to him, it was pure paradise. Just going through the aisles, finding treasures like no other, it became one of his favorite things to do.

The jacket was the first thing that ever caught his eye, the firs thing he purchased. The black leather with the yellow and dark red details, the skull on the back… it was calling to him. Those were his favorite colors, he didn´t even have to think about it before he bought it.

But what about it made him a man? It was just a jacket after all. But that´s where you´d be wrong.

It was so much more than that.

The very next day he started wearing it religiously, he noticed people staring at him at the streets but this time it wasn´t because he was a loser, it was because he looked fucking cool. The jacket boosted his confidence immensely. And it showed.

His boss complimented him and said that from this day on his journey was only beginning, and how right he was with that.

It was the day he reconnected with his high school friend Killer, he didn´t even know he was back in town, let alone working at his favorite record shop and searching for a band to play drums for. So Kid got his first guitar and played it to death, jamming with Killer and searching for others, thus meeting Heat and Wire, the coolest guys on earth.

He grew so much, finding more and more passion in his life, only his jacket stayed the same. He decided that it was time to change that.

Kid went to the crafts store and bought red leather protectors with a quilting pattern, sewing it to the shoulders of the jacket. He also decided to pimp the skull, making it his own personal jacket in painting on the goggles he wore at work, two knives as a cross because it was edgy and of course: his hair. His untamable hair that would never hold up so he got used to wearing any sort of silly glasses, sometimes even the goggles from work. Hair gel was a lie to him, so was hairspray.

He painted bright red flames in homage to his dyed hair, yeah, it wasn´t just a phase.

Everything was coming together.

He grabbed his stupidly large square blue sunglasses that made him look like a dad. Yes, Kid had a dad style. He loved second hand shirts more than anything, not the boring ones, the ones with the stupidest prints, he wore dad shoes like no one´s business and he was proud of it. He was the cool dad, the cool dad with the big car and puns that were so bad they somehow got good again. But damn, did he have talent with words. Screw not being able to formulate shit in speech, that man could write like a god, or rather the devil. Because, let´s be real, the devil sounds so much better on the mic.

Starting the engine, he drove home to at least make some room to sit for his friends, on the way he shopped for groceries too. Now that he was home he got the snacks, drinks and notebooks ready as well as the tons of pens where he never knew which one worked but never threw any away because somehow he thought he´d exchange the mines. Yeah, as if.

He threw on a black shirt and some black joggers before tying his hair up into a tiny ponytail, still his bangs fell in his face as always. It was annoying so he clipped them back with some black hair clips. He didn´t care if he looked stupid with that, at least he could see clearly now.

But getting a hair cut? No way, he looked too cool for that.

Kid opened the door when the others came and sat down on the couch with his acoustic guitar, lately they decided to play around with reimagining their songs after supporting and motivating Kid to sing rather than growl. He had such a nice guttural and gruff voice, these imperfections when singing, the edges just made the song that much more genuine.

Listening to Kid you just couldn´t help but get mesmerized, the way his biceps flexed when he held the guitar, the emotions in his eyes, the way he frowned and squinted whenever the lyrics got emotional and close to home, it made you want to protect him, to keep him happy, to keep this alive, this wonderful world he created for himself.

The others also scribbled down ideas and practiced new melodies, tried out new lyrics and solos. After a while work mixed in with private chats and the night faded into distant, nostalgic laughter and the crinkles around Kid´s eyes that showed how much it all meant to him.

[crystalgirl259]

The Flame and the Dragon Chapter 21

Chapter 21: Don’t Fall In Love

Bansha's teeth chattered loudly as she followed Morro down the alleyways, starting to regret her life choices. Now Banshaa would never question Morro, but he could tell he had completely lost his senses. Morro kept telling her that he needed Kai for his plan to work. He may be strange, but he was the best. But the man they were going to see was a child-broker, and he absolutely terrified her. A tremor of fear, not cold, rushed through her very being.

Her heart skipped beats radically each time she gazed at the all too familiar alleyway.

Morro kept insisting that he will have Kai as his husband and if he must take drastic measures to make him see sense, he shall. Bansha tried to speak up, but she flinched when Morro turned around and glared at her. Harsh green eyes burned with determination and desire. Bansha bit her lip to keep from speaking and kept her head down. She refused to look up when an all too familiar building came into view. The building where the Child Broker did his business, safe from the law, safe from anyone who would dare tell him otherwise.

She struggled to keep up with Morro's pace.

The Duke stormed up the steps and bounded on the door harshly, screaming demands to be let in from the heavy snow. A call that the door was unlocked was all he needed. Hastily, Morro turned the lock and grabbed Bansha, dragging the reluctant woman inside, out of the cold. The two of them stripped their soaked cloaks and took their seats in the two plush armchairs. Morro shook his dark hair, scattering the water from the melted snow everywhere.

Bansha took her seat and meekly kept her hands folded in her lap.

After an abnormally short wait, a tall man stormed into the room. He shed his own coat and hat and hung them on a nearby coat hanger, revealing a short mop of silvery-gray hair. His brownish amber orbs shone with annoyance, but with the pale laughter of a child. Banshaa shivered and kept her eyes focused on her lap. Morro sat up straight as the man took a seat behind the desk and sat with his hands folded in front of him.

"Good evening, Master Noble; thank you so much for coming out at such an hour to see us." He flashed a bright smile and spoke in a voice of fake appreciation. Master Noble's face remained neutral.

"Please don't try playing me, Morro; I don't appreciate being forced to leave my orphanage in the middle of the night." He groaned with annoyance. Expecting this, Morro removed a small sack from his pocket and dropped it in front of the man. Gold coins and jewels spilled from the opening. His eyes scrutinized the contents then returned to the duchess. "Alright, I'm listening."

"I can tell you're a man of simplicity, so I'll just get straight to the point, you're familiar with the Smith family correct? I believe your services were required after the unfortunate death of Ray and Maya?"

"My services were not required at all, both Kai and Nya were beyond legal age and were able to take care of Lloyd," He groaned, at the statement of the obvious.

"Well you see, Kai is far too selfless, God Bless him, he refuses to see that his siblings are holding him back from his potential, his future, and when I offer him his heart's desire, he refuses me."

"Oh really?" He cut the duke off and drew out the word in a mocking manner. "I heard of your arranged ordeal, are you sure it wasn't your decision to arrange an entire wedding on his front yard mere moments before you all but demanded he marries you?"

"It's his fault! If he wasn't so naïve, I wouldn't be forced to take such drastic measures!" Morro screeched as he jumped to his feet; enraged that he would speak so frivolously of his humiliation. Quickly, he composed himself and returned to his seat, clearing his throat.

"Not that this isn't humorous, Morro, but I fail to see what your failed courtship with Kai has to do with me," He joked playfully. Morro's fist clenched but he reigned in his composure.

"I want Kai as my husband, but so long as he believes his siblings are in need of his help, he won't leave them." He smirked. "You're aware of young Lloyd's health condition, correct? His chest problem? I heard his last attack caused his heart to nearly stop, such a sick child needs proper care, not to be a burden to his siblings who have no knowledge of medicine, don't you agree?"

"Lloyd is far from a child, under-aged, perhaps, but he's what thirteen? He'll reach manhood in less than three, four years, and both Nya and Kai know the remedy to soothe him, from what I've been told." Noble explained. "It would be a waste to put Lloyd in child care."

"Perhaps, but everyone knows Kai would do anything to protect his little family." He growled. "Even perhaps, make a deal to keep his younger brother from being taken away from Nya, if Nya was rendered unfit to care for him?" He asked as a sinister smirk crossed the duke's face. Banshaa's face contorted with horror as her eyes flew to her master. A shiver racked her entire body she gazed at the menacing smirk of victory on Morro's smug face.

"Perhaps, but then again there is also the problem," Noble replied, twirling a gold coin beneath his fingers. "From what I've been told, Nya and Kai have done a stand-up job raising Lloyd and makes more than enough to support each other; I doubt there is anything I could say or do that would convince the town taking Lloyd away from them would be in their best interests, and I do care for my reputation."

"Nya is unfit!" Morro shouted as he rose to his feet again. "Kai has been missing for almost two and a half months with no word of him, and not a week after they supposedly left for a trip, did she and Lloyd come screaming and pounding on my door in the middle of the night, ranting and raving about how their brother had been kidnapped by a dragon? A dragon, of all the ludicrous things!"

"What?" Noble frowned.

"It's been well over two months and all they have done is go back and forth in those woods and repeat this tale to anyone who would listen to them! Ask anyone! I thought they were only joking at first, which is why I waited so long to come to you, but now I'm convinced Nya has lost her sanity and she's spreading it to her brother!" He bellowed. Noble rose a brow at this new information.

"Really now? A dragon? Are you sure about this? I have heard rumors of people becoming lost in those woods, perhaps what they found was the old monarch's castle." He replied curiosity. "Of course, the monarch hasn't ruled nor had a regent in almost a hundred years so it must be abandoned by now."

"It matters not, the point is, if Nya is insane, she can't raise Lloyd correct?!" Morro snapped, slamming his fist against the table while Noble's face remained neutral.

"I suppose, but before I make any final judgments, I'd have to see for myself; are Nya and Lloyd at home this evening?"

"No," Banshaa said softly. Her body shaking and her eyes focused on the ground, knowing if she looked at him her voice would break. "We stopped by this evening to see, but their shop was closed, it looked liked it hadn't been opened in weeks, and there was only a sign on the door saying they would be going into another town to seek help, it did not say when they would be back."

"You see? Now she's taking Lloyd on a wild goose chase when she should be searching the woods for my fiancé!" Morro continued. Realizing that he was still standing, Morro cleared his throat and sat back down as a king on a throne. "Now do you understand my proposal?" He asked as a wicked satisfaction shined in his dark green eyes and his lips curled into a smirk.

"So Morro, if I understand you correctly, you wish for me to declare that Nya is an unfit guardian and threaten to have her arrested and Lloyd confined to foster care until he is deemed fit to live on his own unless Kai agrees to marry you?" Noble asked, then pinched the bridge between his nose.

"That is precisely what I mean," Morro smirked evilly. Noble threaded his fingers through his silver strands, his elbows braced on the table, and his face a mask of discomfort.

"Oh Lord in heaven, that's despicable, truly repulsive," He replied as his face vanished behind a curtain of hair until a low, maniacal chuckle escaped him. His face emerged shocking both Morro and Banshaa. It was the face of a mad man. "I love it!"...

****************

The next few weeks passed by in a blur of bliss for Kai. Winter had settled in nicely over the whole valley. Snow filled the world, deeper and deeper. The trees and gutters of the castle towers glittered with icicles. Windows glistened with frost, and the ponds and streams had frozen in sheets of ice. With the approaching frost, the house was busier than ever. Shade kept the staff busy gathering enough food for the winter months and enough coal and wood to keep the castle warm and alive.

Things had been going so great between Kai and Cole that the brunette thought he should get him a present.

The only problem was that Cole hadn't really shared his own interest with the teen, and that made Kai feel horrible. Cole knew what Kai loved most in the world were his books and all those stories. That was why the Dragon Lord had given him the library. That was what Kai chose in the end. He was going to give Cole a story. But not just any story, one written and illustrated by Kai. Kai hoped this would open more doors for him and he hoped that if he got to know Cole, they would find more things to say.

Kai vowed that one day he would reach him, there has to be some way.

He might have been a loner back in the town, but even Kai knew that everyone needed someone there for them, so Cole must need someone as well. If Kai got to know him better, he knew exactly what he would do He would read him stories from picture books, all filled with wonder. Magic worlds where the impossible becomes the everyday. They would find a mountaintop and some moonbeams to sit under, and Kai would lead because he knew the way there.

There was so much to discover, but Kai did it all the time. He could live inside bright pages, where the words all rhyme.

They would slay the dragons that still followed Cole around, and the prince would almost certainly smile as his dreams left the ground. He would read him stories about mermaids, kings, and sunken treasures. Kai knew a place, just a dot, too small to measure, and Kai will take him there because he knew the road. He would tell him stories about heroes who overcame their deepest despair, and hope that they put hope into his heart again and that Cole will cherish it every day.

Cole could find a better world and the strength to face tomorrow.

Kai was sure that if Cole knew the road, he would want to stay. Kai really hoped Cole liked his little gift. After he had sneaked into Cole's room and placed the nicely wrapped present on his bedside table, he left to go and find something to do. As amazing as this castle was, there wasn't that much to do when you're confined inside for the rest of your life. That was why he jumped at the invite Jay, Echo, Nelson, and Ronin gave him. They were all going to this frozen lake somewhere in the forest to do some skating.

Since they had all been working so hard, they thought everyone would enjoy some time outside.

Kai was a little worried about leaving the castle grounds, especially when he gave Cole his word, but they promised him it would be fine. They would only be gone for two hours at the top and Cole spent most of his time looking up in the towers or his room so he wouldn't even know they had gone. That managed to convince Kai, so he grabbed his winter clothes, some spear skates and followed the group to the lake. They rode their on Flame to get there faster. Eventually, they reached the falls, and Kai had to admit that the view was worth the hike.

Three separate streams of water were frozen in incredible, twisting pillars up the side of a cliff that was taller than the castle.

The basin at their bases was equally impressive, the water frozen in curling waves. All of the ice was a beautiful, glittering white that shone even with the sun hiding behind clouds. As soon as they reached the lake, they all got their skates on and started having fun.

"Eat my snow, Ronin," Jay laughed skating backward past him.

"Is that a challenge!" The competitive man grunted and kicked across the ice to gain extra speed. Echo flopped onto his stomach while Nelson did a large figure eight then did a few spins in the air. Kai leaped over Echo and swirled in a half-circle, then bent over to help him up. Across the lake, Ronin and Jay continued their race and from the childish teasing and roars of frustration, Jay was winning.

"Hey you two, are you going to do that all day?" Kai asked, using his hands to amplify his voice. The two boys turned to face him then crashed into the snow. The three remaining skaters burst out laughing; their fallen companions crawled out of the snow and shook their heads. Ronin removed his earmuffs and shook the snow-free from his hair. Jay just laughed like a kid in a candy store. None of them noticed the smirking eyes watching them through the darkness of the woods...

****************

Cole sighed in frustration as he listened to the clock ticking loudly. He had wanted to do something nice for Kai, so he got all dressed up and ordered Shade to make them the nicest, most spicy, romantic dinner he could. He knew Kai loved spicy foods and books. Hopefully, with this and the library, he and Kai could grow closer and closer together. Sure, they seemed pretty solid now, but it was better to be safe than sorry and strengthen their bond while he could.

After he was dressed and the food was ready, Cole sent Zane to look for the brunette, but that was almost an hour ago.

The castle and the surrounding grounds might be very big, but it shouldn't be hard to find the only human in the entire castle. He sighed again as the clock kept ticking, growing more and more impatient as the seconds ticked by. He didn't know why he was being kept waiting.

"ZANE!" He bellowed so loud it shook the entire castle. Within seconds, the white yeti burst into the room with a silver trolly with a whole tea set on it

"Alright, sir, hold on." Zane smiled as naturally as he could. "Such a brisk day, you look positively chilled to the bone!"

"Where's Kai?" Cole demanded, keeping his gaze out the window, not seeing Zane gulp nervously.

"How about a nice pot of tea, sir?" He suggested as he began to pour the warm liquid into a nice China cup. Cole said nothing as he took the tea and drink it all in one big gulp, shocking his servant for a second.

"A bit more tea, sir? Good for the heart, you know."

"No, thank you." Cole declined politely.

"Just a spot?" Zane pushed.

"No more."

"But there's always room for tea."

"I said no more!" Cole shouted as he whipped around to glare at Zane, now seeing how uncomfortable and nervous he looked. "Zane, are you trying to distract me?"

"No, sir." Zane denied and an awkward silence filled the room as Cole seemed to stare directly into his soul. "Are you sure you don't want more tea?"

"Enough! Where's Kai!?" He shouted and Zane sighed in defeat, knowing that he could never hide anything from the dragon hybrid.

"We can't find him, sir."

"What?!" Cole exclaimed, not wanting to believe it, but he knew Zane would almost never lie to him. "Leave me!" He ordered and Zane quickly fled the room. As soon as the yeti was gone, Cole grabbed the magic mirror. The mirror appeared as an ordinary mirror, silver in color, with intricate rose and vine decorations. An ornate lion-like creature encapsulated the handle of the mirror with its mouth. On the back of the mirror, there was a symbol that somewhat resembled a fleur-de-lis.

This magical mirror allowed its users to see anything he or she wished to see on its glass and in its current situation.

Ashamed of his monstrous form, Cole concealed himself inside his castle, with this magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.

"Show me, Kai!" He ordered and the reflective surface of the mirror was enveloped in a golden glow as an image began to form. It showed Kai with Jay, Ronin, Nelson, and Echo out in the snow with Flame. Cole's eyes widened in a mixture of sorrow and confusion, believing that he was running off. His sadness quickly evaporated into anger at the thought of Kai breaking their agreement. He vowed to bring that spoiled, ungrateful brat back, but there was a voice in the back of his head.

It was a voice telling him that Kai had abandoned him.

He should listen to his instincts as they have never steered him wrong or lead him astray. He should have listened when he first believed Kai would break his heart. The quickest way to break a heart, to make someone depressed and ill, was to get them all tangled up inside. The side effects could kill. If Cole must love someone, he may as well just love himself. He would never leave and he would find he got more rest and he would always feel as good as new.

His freedom was the most important thing.

He couldn't talk for hours, send flowers, write poems, or sing songs and dance beneath the stars that shine above. As soon as someone's heart rules their head their life was not their own. It's hell when someone was always there and it's bliss to be alone, and love of any kind is bad. Whether it be a dog, a child, or a cat, they always took up so much precious time, and to Cole, there was no sense in that. Love took the wildest heart and made it tame and emotions were a thing all great men overcame.

Cole knew he couldn't get attached to anyone or anything because there was nothing worse than things that cling.

He might turn to drink and he would never rest. He might end up mad, and looking like some poor demented dove. He could never fall in love. Cole suddenly let out a feral growl and left the room in a rage. He was going to drag Kai back to the castle and make him wish he had never broken their deal. As the dragon prince left the castle, he failed to hear the faint, hollow laughter of supposed victory as a shadow melted into the halls of the castle...

[rexcaliburechoes]

Berkut Is A Reflection Of Rigel’s Ideals (Or, What’s Wrong With It) // Literally, No One Asked

Rinea honestly deserved better than being a morality measuring stick to Berkut (I’ll probably cover how she could have been used better in a different post). Like, I absolutely love Rinea. Her and Berkut’s recollection/memory prism is the sweetest thing, if tinged with sadness because we all know how well everything went for those two. Also, I absolutely live In A Silver Garden With You and Berkut’s death/final redemption moment made me ugly cry because GUESS WHAT THE MUSIC WAS. I really would have liked to simply see more of her, in general. I would have loved to see more of her dynamic with Berkut. I am of the opinion that Berkut really did love her, even if he sacrificed her out of desperation (which I’ll cover later).

What was I saying? Oh yeah, Berkut and Rigelian ideals. Thoughts under the cut for length and me uncontrollably sobbing because it get me EVERY DAMN TIME.

Berkut was groomed by Rudolf to become the next Rigelian Emperor, and then was shot down every time he tried to make his wrong right. That broke him. And honestly, I can’t blame him for that. I don’t remember his exact words, but he really wanted to redeem himself in Rudolf’s eyes, not just to redeem his personal honor (hm, where have I heard that before) but to also prove himself in the eyes of the Emperor. Rigel is a country that believes strength above all else. If he couldn’t beat Alm in a fight, he was no longer strong, no longer worthy for the throne.

He’s very prideful and arrogant and aggressive. He lashes out at others when frustrated. He’s not a good person. However, I think this was also in part with how he was raised and the culture of Rigel. It was mentioned somewhere that he was a meek child, but his parents forced him into that mold of strength above all. Rigel is a country where physical strength rules above all (or, more accurately, "Men are weak. Our duty as gods is to make them strong. Our hands must be firm”, as Duma says in his and Mila’s Memory Prism). So he ends up desperate to prove himself to his uncle so that he can take the throne in his stead.

It doesn’t quite work out that way, because Alm is Rudolf’s son, therefore, he has higher priority in ascending the throne.

And because he wasn’t in on this knowledge loop (I think he wouldn’t have as a severe reaction as he did in game if he knew, but Rudolf had his reasons, which I’ll probably cover in a different post), he completely shattered. Everything was for naught, he was useless to the crown, he failed.

So, he goes to the logical extreme and sacrifices Rinea for more power to kill Alm.

And I think this is a reflection of what is wrong with the Rigelian ideal, or what little we see of it, anyways. In the opening cutscene, the narrator explicitly says “but in their quest for power, the Rigelians had let their hearts grow cold and numb to all kindness”. And we really get to see this with Berkut’s actions towards Alm, his lines (calling Alm “farm boy”, though that might be his arrogance leaking through) and how he was desperate enough for power, that he called on Nuibaba’s power (only to be disgusted with it later).

His logical extreme of sacrificing Rinea to Duma is much like the enemy witches we see in game. to paraphrase Lukas, “Witches are women whose souls have been offered to Duma, either willingly or by force. While the Witch gains unrivaled magical prowess, their souls are ripped from their bodies, becoming nothing more than hollow husks with the sole purpose of serving Duma” (thanks, FE Wiki). It’s not exact, but he’s willingly (unwillingly, in Rinea’s case) sacrificing a soul to Duma for more power. He sought more and more power, primarily out of desperation because of the ideals and need to prove himself to Rudolf from his parents. He says, in his final battle, “Power won’t betray me. Power won’t deceive me... the only thing in the world a man can rely on is his own strength”. Strength is comforting to him because it is his “truth”, despite Rinea being the only person he trusts. He let his heart grew cold and callous to the kindness and warmth Rinea brought him. 

Again, to reiterate, he’s not the greatest human specimen on the planet. He is an antagonist.

To argue for Berkut’s love for Rinea, a) listen to their goddamn dialogue and the inflection in Berkut’s voice (Ian Sinclair fuckin SELLS Berkut. He was an excellent casting choice) and b) he says “the moment I turned to a power beyond myself, the man you loved was dead”. This implies that despite his growing desperation, he was more than that. Also, despite his flaws, despite his great downfall, despite losing everything- his pride, his strength, his honor, his life, he never lost Rinea, and he finally realizes this just as he was dying.

No, strength wasn’t everything in the end. He lost sight of what truly mattered to him. Rinea mattered to him.

And in his Memory Prism:

He comes and finds her and tells her “those people in there are bastards have have no right to talk down to you, regardless of your house status”

And he even teases her a little and asks her to a dance. There’s a missing tone in Berkut’s voice that’s sweet and kind and not UNCLEEEEEEEEEE and LIES LIES LIES LIES because he fins himself charmed by her.

We don’t see much of their relationship outside of this, but I believe that he truly loves her.

Unfortunately, Berkut is a product of his environment. We don’t see much of him before shit hits the fan, and I would love to see more interactions between the two because there’s so much more to explore. I just really love Berkut as a character. And Rinea’s a sweetie. Both of them need to be included in a happy AU where no one dies and everything is okay.

[breakingbadfics]

Christopher Robin: Review and Analysis

This is another review I wrote. This one was wrote two years ago, and a coupld days after I'd seen the movie, Christopher Robin emotionally resonated with me very heavily so you can see the emotions in the writing here.

Christopher Robin.

A review(With some spoilers).

Winnie the pooh being talked down to by Christopher Robin, is a scene that created a profound sense of wrongness that was instantly understandable, and yet utterly difficult to put into words. The visual of an adult, speaking to the very sentient embodiment of his childhood with the exasperation of a parent who has forgotten the limited understanding and unlimited imagination of the person they are talking to sparked a sense of sadness and unhappiness that resonated so deeply within me. I say it’s hard to put into words, because only one word can describe everything about the scene from the movie, and everything about Christopher Robins life up to that very moment.

Unfair.

Christopher Robin as played by Ewan McGregor in the 2018 movie of the same name, is the grown up adult that was once the boy who played with Winnie the Pooh in the Hundred Acre Wood. Winnie the pooh was a book written by A.A Milne and if you’re old enough you’ve likely read the book, or had it read to you, or read it to a child. But for me, for my sister, for who knows the number, Winnie the Pooh was made iconic through a series of old vhs tapes as well as compilaitons of those tapes, and a number of tv series spin-offs and straight to dvd movies that were part of my growth and development. My mothers favorite was eeyore, my dads was Tigger. It is with no sense of shame that I will tell you that Winnie the Pooh is my earliest memory of any sort of cartoon.

Maturity is something I have a very hard time connecting with as someone with autism, I still watch cartoons and feel connections to fictional stories that can be even more outlandish than something so simple as “The adventures of a boy and his stuffed animals come to life.” and somehow I lost track. I paraphrase a good friend of mine when I say “I don’t know when it happened. But somepoint in my growing up I left the hundred acre wood” and knowing that I left it behind, fills me with an emptiness that I feel even now as I write upon this page. In growing into an adult I left the hundred acre wood, like Christopher Robin did.

It is Unfair.

The film details via montage Christopher Robins catapulting into adulthood. A boarding school that worked to hone his skills with math and history and other such things, his fathers untimely passing making him as an unnamed woman attending the funeral would say “The man of the house now.” Meeting the woman who would become his wife, enlisting in World War Two and leaving his pregnant wife while serving, the slow and gradual disconnect from his family as he buries himself in the rigors of being a manager for a luggage company.

The movie starts proper in the summer, Christopher Robin and his family have made plans to go to his childhood home for a vacation. Christopher is a man so deeply rooted into ‘work’ that his wife doesn’t remember the last time he laughed, his daughter is explained as only being such a good student in an attempt to make her dad happy and to forge some sort of connection, but even she has realised by this point that her dad isn’t going to be the dad she wans.

The Christopher Robin we are shown in the movie of the same name is a man so deeply rooted in the rigors of adult life that he picks working over his family. “Because Nothing comes from Nothing.”

It is Unfair.

I won’t tell you every bit of the movie. But I believe it is likely that you can imagine a rough outline of it based on the trailers, and other movies such as this have transpired. Jim Cummings Reprises his roles as Eeyore, Tigger, and Winnie the Pooh. The man himself has performed these roles for the entirety of my being alive, and it can only be imagined the roles are so deeply engrained that the actor could have been adlibing, and I would likely have never known with out reading the script myself.

What I can tell you about the movie is to have tissues nearby. Because with a measured certainty if you have any sentimentality for the name, the characters and what they represent, be it personally or overall, you will cry. For in my understanding the movie weaponises childhood nostalgia, and with the practiced aim that only The Walt Disney Company can possess fires and lands directly into the deepest most inner part of your emotions to rend tears from your eyes.

I’ve thrown the word “unfair” through out this essay, because in my eyes the movie visualises what had been something I’ve noticed about growing up, becoming an adult. That as you grow older the world becomes unflinchingly, uncaringly, unfair. Get a job so you can earn money so you can pay in to all manor of bills, rent, insurance and what have you. If you publicly declare an admiration or liking of things society has deemed to be something not for adults you’ll likely face all measure of passive agression to guilt you into quitting, public ridicule or become the subject of who knows what rumors. Adult life is unfair to the point it wishes to dictate the means by which you cope with it.

The scene as described in the opening paragraph is the penultimate example of this harsh unfairness. Christopher speaking down to Pooh in a manner of that as a scolding parent, tired, angry, frustrated and no longer enteraining such notions of “Heffalumps and woozles.” Dredges up old memories of my childhood and being told in no such uncertain terms that there are no such things as monsters, simultaneously devaluing my imagination while building up my understanding of reality at a young age. There are no monsters under my bed, nor in my closet. The tooth fairy isn’t real, santa claus doesn’t exist.

But the Woozels do exist. The Heffalumps are reals. They are the teachers who do what is with in their ability to smother out creativity, supervisors at work demanding your full and unflinching loyalty to the job and force you to pick the job over family. They are the people with hammers continuing to drive the spike that pushes the gap between childhood and adulthood all the further apart and write it all off as unimportant. And adult life rewards them nothing

And it is unfair.

The movie confirmed the simple to understand idea in my head that adulthood in it’s own way is a slow to creep up on you, yet fast to strike, it will not let you go, and you will be stuck with it for eternity.

But, it isn’t all unfair.

If you have family who love you, and friends that care about you, heffalumps and woozles can be defeated. Because Heffalumps and woozles in the end, don’t matter. The people they represent, hold no power, beyond what you must deal with from them.

You can still go to the hundred acre wood.

I reccomend the movie. Obviously.