#i promise ive been picking at certain drafts

[songslight]

i’m sick af and have no voice with which to rehearse which is fun but my the prom souvenir program came so really that’s all that matters

[lilacandladybugs]

hi there!!! in your desc you say that your down to talk about your relationship w God, so could you please share some of your thoughts/experiences?? no need to answer if you don't feel like it, i'm just curious. have a nice day! <33

hey anon thanks so much i love asks like this and i just am very excited about it :D also sorry for the delayed response i was thinking about what to say because i think its important, saved my initial response to drafts, and then didn’t come back to it. I don’t know what i was thinking my drafts are not a safe place . they are where posts go to die. anyway—

i guess some people , think of god as a person. like he's some man who's gigantic in the sky somewhere who made humanity and then left us behind. and i think to me ive come to understand that God isn't like a person really. he is what was when there was nothing, and he is what will be after everything. in the Bible, the voice of God is so powerful that when he spoke, all of matter, light, momentum come into existence.

so when i talk about hearing God I don't feel like he's limited to vocally speaking to me. Since God is literally love, like the word love is used to describe things in relation to God. Like things are loving because they look like God. Things are beautiful, good, kind, wise, because they’re like God. 

until i realized this about him i didn’t think i had very many experiences with God. I remember saying that if God were just going to write us a letter (the Bible) and then cut off all contact, it didn’t matter how good of a father he claimed to be that’s a terrible thing to do to anyone. 

But he’s not like that. Eventually I figured that out, God is what was when there was nothing. If he spoke creation into existence, then the world around us is like the sound of his voice. So he isn’t limited to communicating by “speaking,” he can talk to us in so many ways.

I think the first time I noticed him was when three of my family members* died in a crash and a friend of mine was very depressed, and i went to a speech and debate tournament. and the lady who was working lunch was the first person to really look at me and i knew when she looked at me that she could /see/ me. she knew what was going on. her name was mrs. smith. I love Mrs. Smith so much, and she loved God so much. She loved people so much and so well, there wasn’t anyone else who could have done what she did she could pick out people who were struggling, and she could reach into their lives and draw the out and be the hands of God to them. Something bad happened while I was there and she like held me while I cried. I think that since then I’ve really been able to appreciate her, I see that as God’s placement of her in my life. There are not people like Mrs. Smith out there very often that I’ve been able to find. She had seen God too, and she knew what needed to be done and said to love people. She looked like God.

One thing Mrs. Smith told me was when I had a call with her because I was doing real bad and I told her I just wanted to be happy again. And she said, “why do you think kids are happy?” and I said, “They don’t know they dont have things to be sad about.” And she said, “yes but more specifically? What makes kids happy?”

And so I thought about it and I said, “Well like my little sister is happy about bubbles.”

And she said, “You still have bubbles, don’t you?” 

That’s not like a cure for depression or anything. But her point was that there are things everywhere that we can smile about. Like even when it feels like there’s nothing at all, there is always at least one thing that exists that you can find a second to just smile at.

That idea also helped me to see God. When I went to church my pastor talked about all the ways that God created Earth for us to enjoy, how the sunrise and sunset has been going on continuously around the world for it’s whole existence, how it has been an ongoing promise of God’s presence since the beginning.

I just started to notice him ig. Like in Mrs. Smith, in my friends who were the only people who could have talked to me about certain things, happy coincidences, and small promises and small hellos from God over and over in a thousand different ways.

K but. . That didn’t stop me from being really depressed right? I remember over the summer I realized that my just all surrounding pressing anger was at God, and that I felt like he had abandoned me. I was just like seething in anger like how he FUCk could he have left me alone to watch my friends die like that? Like I was in so much pain? @/God wtf? You know? I was telling a friend about this one night and I like intellectually I was so convinced God existed so I was really struggling with reconciling these two ideas, God is real and also he /feels/ like he isn’t. He feels so absent and he feels like he doesn’t care.

The next morning I went to Church, and the guy talking (he was a guest speaker) was talking about grief. The topic was so upsetting that I left the room to go and like cry and I texted my friend, “hey this is really upsetting, i genuinely dont know if i can do this.” (it was making me feel panicky) and my friend said, “you’re really going to tell me that last night you were saying that you aren’t sure if God cares about your grief, and then God SHOWS UP puts an answer in front of you on a fucking silver platter, and you aren’t even going to LISTEN?”

and i was like oh well when you put it like that lmao—

I just felt the presence of God when he was talking idek how to explain it. He used the lord of the rings as an analogy and I cried because I had been using lotr as a way of explaining my experiences to people as well. And he said that God loves us, and that we are promised that we will live together in heaven, and that he will say well done my good and faithful servant. because I guess okay, sin, death and suffering are all as a result of what Christians call “the Fall” which is basically humanity walking away from God. When that happened, death entered the world, because when we separate ourselves from the giver of life we die. But God refused for that to be the end of the story, sacrificing himself in our place, dying, and then three days later rising again. So the point is that we already have assurance that we’re going to be with God again one day as believers. And so even as we grieve we have this assurance that God has already conquered, and while we’re suffering we know what the end of the story is going to be already. When we allow God to be in the center of our life, we enter into that promise. We already know that we’re going to be like Sam and Frodo, when Aragorn comes down to them and says, “You bow to no one.” God will say, “Well done my good and faithful servant.”

And I know that I’m doing a bad job of explaining it but the sermon wasn’t for my mind. My mind was convinced. It was somehow for something way harder to do, it was for my heart, and it did that. I felt at peace.

I’ve said before (x) (x) that I felt like when I experienced God, it was like I was lying outside in a gutter beat up staring up at the stars. But it’s also like going on a walk through a meadow and looking at flowers, and laughing with your friends, and sitting in the summer night listening to cicadas. God is there, in the whisper. He loves you.

[appalachianwiine]

Swim - Chapter 5 - A Light In the Darkness

I need light in the dark as I search for the resolution   

-"The Resolution" by Jacks Mannequin

“Well we’re not going to be starting Chemo tonight after all.” Dr. Rhee says as she walks in shortly after lunch. 

“We’re not?” Daryl frowns.

“No her post op lab results show just a little bit of an increase in white blood cells.” Dr. Rhee explains. “I’m going to give her some antibiotics and retest tomorrow morning. But the good news is that means she can go down to the playroom for a bit.” 

“Can she have visitors?” Daryl asks. Lydia had been asking about seeing Carl since the child life specialist, Beth, had left. 

“Yeah she can, but visiting hours for non family end at 8pm” Dr. Rhee informs him. 

“Want me t’ call ‘em baby girl?” Daryl asks. 

“Can you?” Lydia pleads. 

“Yeah.” Daryl picks up his phone and dials Lori. 

“Daryl?!” Her voice is a little strained. “We’ve been calling all day. Is everything okay?” 

Its with a rush of guilt he realizes he’s hardly looked at his phone since she called him yesterday. “Shit sorry Lori.” He gives her the short version of it all, about the leukemia, the lumbar puncture, the results they were waiting on.

“I can’t believe you didn’t call earlier.” Lori scolds. “Daryl, we should’ve been there. I can’t believe you had to do all this alone.” 

Daryl grimaces. “Sorry, I uh - I actually had a meetin’ this mornin’. With a nice woman who runs the support group here fer parents. She was a single parent when she went through this with her daughter.” 

“Oh.” Lori says. “Is - is there a lot of that? Single parents I mean.” 

Daryl glances over at Lydia, who’s drawn back into the television. “I ain’ even the only adoptive parent righ’ now. There’s a guy across the hall, Ezekiel, an’ his kid.” 

“Shit.” Lori mutters. “Well um - do you - do you want us to come by? Can she have visitors?” 

“Yeah she can. She’s been askin’ t’ see Carl. Real disappointed in not getting t’ see him yesterday.” Daryl says. 

“I’ll give Rick a call and we’ll be by.” Lori says. “You need anything from home?” 

“No we’re alright.” Daryl says. “Thanks Lori.” 

“Of course.” Lori says. “We’ll see you around 3?” 

“See you then.” He hangs up, turning back to Lydia, who’s watching him with hopeful eyes. “They’ll be here around three.” 

“Yay!” Lydia grins, bouncing up and down. 

“Ya know,” Dr. Rhee says. “Maybe Miss Lydia would like to check out the playroom. She’ll have to wear a mask and stay connected to the infusion pump, but they’ve got a lot of good stuff in there.”

“Can we daddy?” Lydia asks. 

“Sure.” Daryl agrees, he’ll do anything to keep her in good spirits right now. She seems to be feeling good and he’d like to keep it that way. “You know there’s a little boy yer age across the hall?” 

“There is?” Lydia asks. “Can I see him?” 

“Sure, lets go over and see if he wants to come with us.” Daryl helps Lydia out of bed and sets her carefully on the floor. “Hang on let me get the pole.” He reaches for the infusion pole, fumbling with the latch that attaches it to the bed for a moment. It releases and he pulls it towards him, it’s surprisingly heavy. “Alright lets go kiddo.” 

They have to pause twice for Daryl to gather up the tubing that comes out of Lydia’s arm and up to the bag of antibiotics. As he loops them around his hand it strikes him that this isn’t unlike Dog’s long line, wrapped around his hands and unraveling as they move. Lydia looks back at Daryl as they reach the door of 323. 

“You knock daddy.” Lydia mutters, reaching out to grab his hand. The wariness returns to her as they stand in front of the door. 

“Okay.” He says, squeezing her hand and reaching out to knock. 

“A moment!” Ezekiel’s voice comes from beyond the door. There’s some scrambling and then the door pulls open. “Daryl!” 

The booming voice makes Lydia flinch and draw closer to Daryl. Daryl reassures her with a hand on her head, stroking her hair back. “Uh, Ezekiel. This is Lydia.” He smiles. “She was wondering if - if Henry might want to come to the playroom.” 

Ezekiel kneels in front of them, and it’s then that Daryl sees he’s wearing a paper crown colored in yellow and pink. “Hello Lydia.” His voice drops. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ezekiel.” He holds out a hand. 

Lydia’s brown eyes look back up at Daryl, and then, slowly, she reaches out to shake Ezekiel’s hand. “Hi.” 

“Would you like to come in and meet Henry?” Ezekiel asks. Lydia nods silently, and Ezekiel stands, offering a smile and stepping back from the door. “Come in, he’s over there with Carol.” 

Daryl pushes the IV pole into the room, it’s a mirror image of their own, except this one is decorated. Behind the bed is one of those banners you get from the party store spelling out ‘Henry’ in bold green letters, and a bunch of printer sheet sized papers with colorful backsplash and lettering taped around the room. As he walks past one Daryl sees it’s a bible verse, the others appear to be too. Over by the window the bald little boy is sitting on Carol’s lap and holding plastic dinosaurs. 

“Henry.” Ezekiel calls. “Someone is here to see you.” 

The boy’s head turns and Daryl is struck by how in the light of day his skin appears almost translucent but his eyes are bright and alert. “Hi.” He says, climbing off of Carol’s lap and trotting across the floor, his own infusion tube trailing after him. “I’m Henry.” 

“Lydia.” She mumbles, hiding her face against Daryl’s leg. 

“Go on.” Daryl mutters, nudging her forward. “Ask him.” 

“Do you um… want to go to the… to the playroom?” She mutters, half into Daryl’s leg. 

“Sure.” A smile stretches across Henry’s face. “Can we daddy?” 

“Sure Henry.” Ezekiel says, already fumbling with the latch on the infusion pole. 

“Hi Daryl.” Carol says. “She doing okay?” 

“Yeah I think so.” Daryl nods. “Better now that she ate, and uh her friend is coming to visit soon.” 

“Are you coming with us?” Henry asks Carol as he drops a few plastic dinosaurs into a tub. 

“If your daddy doesn’t mind.” Carol smiles. 

“Never do.” Ezekiel smiles, sliding Henry’s own infusion pole over to them. “Ready?” 

The playroom is at the other end of the floor, it’s empty and clean, even here everything smells sterile and controlled. There’s a sign telling the kids to wear masks before they go in, and two boxes, one with princesses and the other with trucks. A bit gendered but it’s an option. Henry reaches confidently for the princess one and puts it on, Lydia on the other hand looks warily at them. 

“I don’t want those.” Lydia murmurs. 

“I know.” Daryl sighs. “But those are the rules, if you don’t follow them you have to go back to the room.” 

“Fine.” Lydia scowls, grabbing one of the pink princess ones and putting it on. “Can we go play now?” 

“Go on.” Daryl says, pushing her infusion pole over to one of the small tables and watching her drag out the barbies.

“They seem to be hitting it off.” Carol comes to stand next to him, Ezekiel is helping the kids pull the toys out, still wearing the paper crown. 

“Yeah.” Daryl mutters. “What’s uh - what’s with the crown?” 

“Oh,” Carol chuckles. “Henry was making us play something he calls ‘’Kingdom” It changes but the theme is usually he’s a prince and Ezekiel is the King and they have to fight monsters.” 

“Ah.” Daryl chuckles. “A fun kid?” 

“Oh tons of fun.” Carol nods. “When he feels good anyway, he’ll probably take a hit after this round of Chemo.” Her smile fades a little bit. 

“Oh.” Dary mutters. 

“Sorry.” Carol apologizes. “It’s just - it’s always a little hard being here.” 

“I can’t even imagine.” Daryl sighs. “Losing her it’s -” 

“Don’t.” Carol cuts him off. “I’m sorry just - the words don’t… they don’t help and you don’t need to go there right now.” 

“Right.” He’s quiet for a while, an awkward silence stretching out in front of them. 

“What do you do?” Carol says after a moment. 

“Cop. Special Victims, domestic violence and child abuse mostly” He nods. “‘S how I met Lydia. You?” 

“High School English teacher.” Carol says. Daryl chuckles. “What?” 

“I don’ know I didn’t picture that.” He shrugs. 

“Oh really?” Carol raises her eyebrows. “What did you picture Mr. Cop?” 

“I don’t know. I just can’t picture you as a strict highschool English teacher.” He scratches his chin. “You uh make the kids write a million drafts?” 

“If I don't, no one will.” She chuckles. “I wanted to teach Elementary though, but after Sophia… highschool was easier.” 

“Ah.” Daryl nods. “And uh, you an’ Ezekiel, how long has that been a thing? Just since he moved down here? Or did you know him before?” 

“Me and Ezekiel?” She raises her eyebrows. “Oh we’re not - no, just friends. Trust me the last thing either of us has the time or energy for is dating. He got in contact with me a lot like you did actually, referral through Maggie.” 

“Oh.” Daryl says. “I uh, sorry I just assumed, I mean Henry seems to adore you and I just assumed.” 

“It’s fine.” Carol promises. “So what’s her plan?” 

“Lydias?” Daryl asks, Carol nods. “Oh um, well apparently the lab is closed on Sundays, but we should have results by Thursday, but I think she’s supposed to start Chemo tomorrow. What uh… what can I expect? I mean Dr. Rhee told me but it’s kind of overwhelming.”

“Daryl.” Carol sighs. “Are you sure you can handle this right now?” 

“I’m fine.” He insists. “The hallway was just -” 

“It’s okay.” Carol reaches over and squeezes his arm. “You don’t have to explain, I promise we’ve all had breakdowns in the hallway.” 

“Right.” Daryl rubs his hands on his jeans.

“So um,” Carol says. “So they’ll probably give about four hours of fluids first, chemo does a lot of damage to the kidneys so they’ll want her to flush it as quickly as possible. So expect a lot of potty breaks, then she’ll get her chemo, then another four hours of fluids. She’ll feel pretty tired, nauseous, she might get constipated, and her blood counts will plummet.” 

“What does that mean?” Daryl asks. “Like what do I - what will she look like.” 

“Um, pale, they’ll watch her for a certain kind of bruising, she’ll have a higher chance of infection. It’s not too bad when they’re checking her all the time, but it’s nerve wracking when you’re at home.” Carol sighs, chewing her lip. 

“Her hair.” He says quietly. “How long… um will that take to…” 

“To fall out?” Carol says slowly, he can still sense some reluctance on her part. “Sophia's took about 2 weeks to really start coming out and then we shaved it after the third week, it was starting to upset her. But Henry kept all of his until it was gone and that was about a month.” 

“A month.” He mutters. “That’s uh - that’s not very long.” 

“No.” Carol shakes her head. “But you’re gonna get through this Daryl. It’s like Ezekiel said, you’re not alone in this. You can call me any time, seriously.” 

“Yeah.” He nods. “I uh - I will.” 

“I know that look.” Carol says. “Which means I’m going to be calling you to check in.” 

“What d’ ya mean?” He gowns. 

“That look means you’re not going to reach out first and you’re going to be stubborn about it.” Carol nudges him. 

He blushes, that had been what he was thinking. “Fine. FIne. I’ll call.” 

“Before you’re discharged. You’ll need help with that. There’s a lot that needs to be done for her to come home.” Carol insists. 

“Yeah alright. Before she’s discharged.” Daryl promises. 

They linger in the playroom for another half an hour, after which Henry starts complaining that he’s tired. Ezekiel takes Henry back to their room and Daryl helps Lydia put away some of the toys. 

“Come on kiddo, Carl will be here soon.” Daryl says, putting a few barbies in the bin. 

“Alright.” Lydia pouts putting a couple more barbies away. “Is she coming with us?” 

Daryl looks over at Carol who’s putting away a few plastic animals. “Um, I don’t think so. Why?” 

“I thought she’s Henry’s mom.” Lydia shrugs. “But he says she’s not.” 

“Yeah.” Daryl nods.

“You two want some help getting back to the room?” Carol offers. 

“Nah.” Daryl shakes his head, sliding the bin of barbies back into the cupboard and starting to gather up Lydia’s infusion line. “I think we got it. Don’t we Lydia?” 

“We got it.” Lydia nods. 

“Alright.” Carol smiles. “I’ll get going then okay?” 

“Yeah.” Daryl nods. “And uh… thanks for everything.” 

“Of course.” Carol says, holding the door open so he can push the heavy infusion pole through it. “And I mean it, I’ll be calling you. I want to see you in our meeting on Tuesday okay?”

Daryl’s about to answer but he’s cut off by a sharp yelp, Lydia has rushed forward to the end of her line and tugged it. “Lydia!” He mutters, hurrying over to her and kneeling in front of her, it doesn’t appear to have come out. “What are you-” 

“Lydia!” And in a blur another eight year old has rushed up beside him, hugging her tightly. 

“Carl!” Lydia grins, barely noticing the worry she’d caused Daryl. “Move Daddy!” 

“I - “ He looks over at Carol, she’s covered her mouth trying to suppress a giggle. 

“It’s cute.” She says apologetically. “Tuesday?” 

“Yeah.” His shoulders relax. “Tuesday.” Carol walks past him towards the elevator and Daryl pulls the infusion pump closer to them. “Carl where’s your mom?” 

“I don’t know.” Caryl shrugs, sticking his thumbs in his belt looks. “Somewhere.” 

“Carl Grimes!” Lori’s harsh voice says, coming up rapidly behind them, baby Judith on her hip. “Don’t you ever run off like that again you understand?”

“Sorry. I saw Lydia.” Carl shrugs. 

“I can see that.” Lori sighs. “Daryl, sorry about him he knows better.” 

“It’s fine Lori.” Daryl assures. “We’re just heading back to the room.” 

“Who was the woman?” Carl asks, holding Lydia’s hand as Daryl gathers up the cords again and loops them around his arm.

“Oh that’s Carol. She’s not Henry’s mom.” Lydia shrugs. 

“Then who is she?” Carl frowns. 

“I don’t know. Daddy's friend I guess.” Lydia doesn’t seem phased by it and the two start off down the hall, leaving Daryl and Lori to hurry after them. 

“Woman?” Lori raises her eyebrows. 

“Carol.” Daryl says. “She’s from the single parents support group. She uh - saw that whole fiasco.” 

“Ah.” Lori chuckles. “She's pretty?” 

“Yeah I guess. Why?” Daryl narrows his eyes.

“No reason.” Lori smirks. 

“Oh no no no.” Daryl says. “My kid has cancer, you're not playing matchmaker.” 

“You’re no fun.” Lori pouts. 

“Where’s Lori and Michonne?” He’s eager to change the subject. 

“Already in the room probably, they didn’t have a baby to hold them up.” Lori chuckles. “Or a little boy who likes to play the world tour of bathrooms every time we’re somewhere new. They brought some decorations for Lydia.” 

“Daddy look!” Lydia grins from the doorway. “Look what aunt Michonne and Uncle Rick brought!” 

Sure enough, when he gets to the door the entire room has been done up like a Little Mermaid party. Balloons, streamers, and a big ‘get well soon lydia’ sign hanging above the bed.’. He grins sheepishly at rick. “Y’all didn’t have t’ do this.” 

“Of course we did.” Michonne grins. “Now come on Lydia we brought you some presents.”

[chaoskatya]

unfinished brooke x katya hatefuck fic

hi yall :^) so ive had this sitting in my drafts for a WHILE and ive barely dented the actual planned plot but still i felt like it was kind of a waste of what i did write to not ?? idk do something with it? this was originally written for AQ’s rarepair event but irl stuff got in the way so it never got finished, and i kinda lost the inspo to finish it (for now? idk) so here it is, posted unedited in however it was when i last touched it

brooke x katya hatefuck, (well, planned, i obv hadnt written that far) inspired by pics of trixie and brooke together that one time they were weirdly hanging out a lot irl and that one outfit brooke has that looks like that one outfit katya has the polkadot one u know it

“Ugh, I swear, Vi! She really has something against me! I think she hates me!”

Katya punctuates her sentence with a flail of her arms for emphasis before flopping back onto her bed. Violet just rolls her eyes at her roommate’s dramatics, as per usual. This is the third time they’ve had this conversation this week.

“So she’s a little icy, what of it? It’s not like you’re not used to having a mega bitch around, you live with me,” Violet responds plainly, not even bothering to look up from her laptop, “and I don’t think anybody could hate you, Kat.”

Katya huffs at that. “No, I swear, she hates me.”

Katya Zamolodchikova is absolutely sure of three things in her university life: One, Trixie Mattel is her best friend. Two, nothing gets in between her and Trixie. Three, Brooke Lynn Hytes is absolutely making her best fucking attempt.

Katya and Trixie had met last year, Katya being a sophomore in visual arts and Trixie a freshman in musical theater, when Katya had accidentally crashed Ginger’s (kind of pathetic) attempt at being a tour guide for the freshmen of her course. They’ve only known each other for a year, but ever since then the two quickly became inseparable and a year had felt like a lifetime. All of their friends knew, and Katya held it close to her heart, that nothing could possibly stand in their way. That is, until the beginning of this semester.

Trixie had been elected as class representative at the start of their sophomore year, which did not surprise Katya one bit. But that meant that when Canadian exchange student Brooke Lynn Hytes had arrived for the semester, it was Trixie’s job to show her around and make her feel welcomed. And being that Brooke’s degree in classical dance meant her and Trixie had quite a few overlapping classes, the two hit it off and had gotten closer and closer since. It’s only half way through the semester, yet Katya feels as though she’s slowly becoming more and more of a background character in Trixie’s life. They still text each other when they can, but hangout times have slowly grown increasingly thin and so has Katya’s sanity. Not that it’s Trixie’s fault, of course…

“I can’t explain it. But I promise, it’s almost like she’s purposefully occupying Trixie from me! Every time it looks like we might get a chance to even just talk, she’s there coming round the corner asking Trixie for help in one of their classes or for show recs or whatever. And she always looks me dead in the eye, with her stupid fucking smirk, like she knows what she just did! I can’t explain the feeling I get when I see her!”

Katya’s hit full ranting steam now, half hanging off her bed still flailing as animated as ever.

Violet shuts her laptop and turns to face her. “Mama, sounds like you hate her. Sure it’s not just in your head because you’re jealous the amazon’s occupying your barbie?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Jealous? I guess?” Katya scrunches up her face and sits up. “I mean, how could I not be? With her stupid long legs and her flowing blonde hair, like god, Vi, she’s practically perfect! And have you seen her dance?”

Katya turns to pose her question, but Violet is just staring, giving her a look she can’t decipher. She continues,

“So then, fine, of course I’m jealous, but that’s because Trix is my best friend. I barely see her anymore, and when I do she’s always there and I just get so riled up! And I’m sure Trix has started to notice because god I just can’t stand it when she’s near, it just sets me alight in an awful way. I’ve never felt this way about anybody before!” And it’s true, Katya really does not think of herself as someone capable of fully hating someone else. But by god, is Brooke really testing that.

Violet scoffs, turning away to open her laptop once more. “Look Mary, all I gotta say is that that’s an awful lot of emotion for some best friend jealousy. Also, you have a lecture starting in ten minutes.”

Fuck! Katya checks her watch and immediately jumps up to scramble for her belongings, deeply thankful for her roommate’s type A tendencies yet internally chastising herself for allowing her ranting to consume her time like that. She quickly kisses Violet on the cheek and bids her farewell before putting on her boots and heading out of their dorm room to make her best effort to speed walk to class.

But as luck would have it, not that Katya has a lot of it, she quite literally walks right into the subject of their prior conversation. Well, speak of the devils…

“Oh! Trixie, hi!” Katya laughs, immediately reacting to steady Trixie from where Katya had almost knocked her over with the door. From the way she was standing, she figured she had opened the door just as Trixie was about knock.

“Katya! Thank god, I was worried you wouldn’t be in,” Trixie smiles back brightly, smoothing her fluffy golden hair back into place. (Not that it’s ever really out of place, Katya thinks to herself.) 

Katya smiles at her, a sight for sore eyes she thinks, but when she realizes Brooke is standing at the end of the hall waiting for Trixie, her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Whether Trixie noticed Katya’s tension or not, she didn’t let on. At least Brooke had the decency to wait at a reasonable distance.

“Uh, yeah, I was just heading out though,” Katya replies, trying her best to look sympathetic. She doesn’t mind that she’s running late anymore, just feels bad she even has to go. “But did you need something?”

Trixie looks equally as sympathetic. “Yeah, uh, listen, I’m really sorry. I know we haven’t been able to hang recently and I’m really sorry for that, midterms and all…”

“Hey, it’s alright, I knew you were busy. It’s no problem, really.” That’s a lie.

“But now that it’s over, let’s celebrate! Let me make it up to you? Be my date to the Edwards party tonight?”

Katya’s smile softens. As much as she was planning to trade in the party for a well-deserved movie night in with Violet and Pearl, she finds she really can’t say no to Trixie, especially not when she’s looking at her like an apologetic puppy. Whipped.

“Down for anything with you, Barbie. Meet you at the dorm hall at 8?”

Trixie squeals and picks Katya up by the middle, “AAAAAAAH yes!! See you bitch!!”

Katya squirms violently to be put down but laughs it off anyway. She really can’t be too mad at her best friend.

“Anyway, I gotta run, see you later Trix!” She rushes to hug Trixie quickly once more before escaping as briskly yet casually as she can out the door. This fails her when all semblance of casualty is lost as she passes the point where Brooke is, all tall and blonde and beautiful even just standing around. As she passes, her gaze quite obviously steels ahead to avoid looking Brooke in the eye, but she can’t fail to catch the quite obvious smug smirk the Canadian has posed on her painted lips.

----

Katya managed to make it to class with only 5 minutes late, thankfully just as her professor was entering the other door. She plops down into her usual seat with an audible groan and immediately drops her head in her hands.

Brooke. Stupid fucking Brooke Lynn Hytes. Lately, Katya’s wandering thoughts always go back to her. There hasn’t been a time where her idle time hasn’t been haunted by a certain ballerina chipping away at her precious concentration. She sees perfect long blonde hair, icy blue eyes, and tone legs that go all the way up. 

If she’s being completely honest with herself, she is just a bit jealous of Brooke but not for the reasons Violet insinuates. I mean, sure, she misses Trixie to bits. But that’s only one of the many straws on the camel that is Katya’s completely rational anger. 

It’s not that she’s perfect, either, but that sure adds another straw. Seemingly introverted, but able to capture the hearts of anyone in her path through quick and honest charm. Graceful and poised, where Katya is not, and tall and curvy, where Katya is not. Katya really doesn’t understand how someone can attend 7am dance classes with a flawless mug and still leave rehearsals with not an eyelash out of place, it’s inhuman.

No, it’s that no matter how much others testify on her behalf, Katya does not understand it. She doesn’t know what she did, but she has somehow done something to aggravate Brooke against her, and it bothers her endlessly that she doesn’t even know what she did to incur such spite. Katya doesn’t see any of the charm or kindness that others profess, only smug smirks and cocky passive-aggressive jabs and a seemingly passionate desire to find any way she can to poke Katya’s buttons and prompt some kind of response. She’s lucky Katya has a lot more self control than most, and she’s restrained herself from biting back thus far.

She thinks back to the first time she spotted Brooke, on the first day of the semester when Katya had gotten bored and decided to drop in on Trixie’s representative duties despite explicit instructions not to intrude. She had found her in one of the gardens of the student commons, and instinctively made her way to run up and tackle her before realizing Trixie wasn’t alone and stopping dead in her tracks.

Trixie was sitting next to someone Katya didn’t recognize, which was a surprise in itself because Katya knew next to everybody personally in their modestly sized arts college.  The girl was sitting next to Trixie on a bench, both hands holding one of Trixie’s own as Trixie appeared to animatedly be telling some story. Trixie then finally noticed Katya frozen standing awkwardly at some distance and paused in the middle of her speech to yell at Katya and becon her over. 

“Katya! This is Brooke Lynn, a Canadian exchange student for the semester. Brooke, this is Katya, my best friend!”

Brooke lazily shifted her gaze from Trixie to give Katya the once over, glancing her up and down. Whatever she saw, she suddenly stood up and crowded into Katya’s space, gazing down at her intensely directly from the advantage their clear height difference gave her.

“Well, it’s certainly nice to meet you… Katya.” 

And on her lips, the same painted red smirk. The same stupid smirk that would continuously haunt her until…

“Kat, you with us girl?” Hissed Pearl in her ear, jabbing her hard in the side.

[fourthwingingit]

Two

Edit: tumblr didnt post my edits from my original post (like you know when you save something as a draft and go oh wait there are some errors like no header and awkward phrasing lemme fix them) so im gonna repost this eventually but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Edit 2: tumblr sucks and never lets me put the thing so... This is for the anon who requested a fic of touch starved clark and conner with the prompts 'nobodys ever done that to me before' and 'i just want to be held' sorry it got angstier then i ment it to.... hope you like hurt comfort

Clark hovered awkwardly outside the door to conners room. He was nervous about seeing the teen with everything between them and what he wanted to ask him.

He took a breath. Conner almost certainly knew he was there already. But that didnt matter.

Ma always said that manners matter

He knocked.

From inside came a muffled, annoyed, and clipped

"What is it clark?"

Taking that as the best invitation he was going to get he opened the door and went in.

He looked at conner. The kid was on his bed, facedown on top of the covers like an angsty teen in a movie.

Clark thought he looked too small for the position he was in. Like he was waiting for some blow that was going to take a part of him with it to land... or like it already had and he was cradling a hole

Clark shook off the disturbing thought and steeled himself. He swiftly walked to Conner's bedside, and said, eloquently,

"Well. I... you see...... uh... lois- i mean to say..... uhh"

Lord this was already going to hell in a handbasket.

Conner turned his head enough to raise one eyebrow

"What the hell was that?"

He sat down a respectful distance away (as far away as he could) and tried again

"Hmm... you see i uhh- hmm you know how uhh.... things umm. Sometimes.... uhh"

Conner slowly turned his head the rest of the way to clark, confusion now written in every line in his body. great.

Clarks back bowed fast. Like his head gained 20 pounds in a half a second, his arms planted themselves on his knees and he gave up trying... he'd try again some other day. Maybe tomorrow. Or maybe lois should do it.... Kal-el you coward.

"I... i dont know, ive got nothing."

But now he was scrambling, he needed a reason for being here. And what came out was;

"Ma told me shes uhh, seen you acting in a... less than..... ideal...... kind of.... way.?"

"Wow."

"No yeah i heard it"

"That was some next level awkward," and there was some distinct venom in that voice shoot. "if its that hard to be around me then you can find the door. I certainly dont need your pity handouts anyway."

Well.... shit

"No thats not.... im.... i wanted to ask- uh... whats been bothering you..... sport."

He now had what bruces kids called The Awkward White Man Smile... great.

Suprisingly, Conner chuckled.

Maybe a small part of Clark's brain said its not hopeless?

"Right now? Your social skills."

Banter! He hung around batman! He could do banter.

"Aww man and here i was thinking i was handing out winning lines."

"Oh no, youve gone senile a little early, well... maybe not early... good thing you've got Kara."

There was a small smirk playing at conners lips and an actual opportunity. God was real and he loved Clark Kent.

"At least I know I have two good boys to pick me up after im down." He looked away fast.

Silence stretched on

.......

Awkwardly

Oh lord he messed up the moment

He presumed too much and their only friendly interaction in over a month is ruined

"Two?"

The voice Conner used was so painfully soft and small. Like it didnt dare to hope anymore and had stopped trying a long time ago.

Clark never was good at leaving voices like that alone. And he was always more comfortable when something needed doing anyways.

Superman courage steadied him enough to take a risk.

He reached out his hand, and ruffled Conner's hair, trailing his fingers down after to rest on the shoulder closest to him and said.

"I have two kids dont i?"

More silence

Conner was frozen beneath his fingertips

He panicked

Oh god

He had fucked it up

He had fucked up enough times that conner didn't want anything to do with him

Okay damage control

"That is...." Conner stiffened further "if i haven't been so horrible to my eldist that he doesnt want anything to do with me"

The silence was now so deep he could hear the dust motes brushing against everything

He heard a tiny sniffle

And then he telltale sound of tears hitting bedsheets.

His head whipped around, his glasses flew off somewhere into the room. He barely noticed.

Shocked, he started to speak but Conner cut him off before he could finish the first syllable.

"You know when i was in Hawaii i used to watch families. Specifically parents and children. I'd be so jealous of-"

Conner cut himself off.

"Nobody's ever- i mean...... parents do that to their kids.... the hair touching thing.... Nobody's ever-" his voice broke, he cleared it. "Nobody's ever even tried to touch my hair if we werent kissing."

He gave a pitiful, watery laugh and, after a breif, stunned, pause, started rambling about how "of course i get it cut, like, the barber touches it and stuff..."

And it all hit clark.

Somehow it had never occured to Clark, that even though Conner looked like he was so much older than Jon, he wasnt.

He wondered who raised him

Who fed him

Who hugged him through nightmares

Clarks heart broke

Because he was certain the answer to most of those kinds of questions was 'Conner' and none of them were "Kal-el" or "Clark Kent"

Clark turned a bit and ran his hand over Conner's back softly, cutting off his rambling and said in a voice that was somehoe warm but still felt guilty and mourning;

"What do you want? What can I do?"

Conner was stunned. Kal had never given him anything like this. So he kept talking to give his brain time to catch up.

"I don.... i- i used to watch families... in- in Hawaii, and I'd get jealous of the kids, that they got to have families. Got to have parents. I dont..."

Clark turned a little to properly face his son and grabbed his hand.

"What can i do Conner?"

One day ago Conner would have asked for a lot. To never see Kal again, the superman title, his spot in the JL, even some time with Jon. But now?

Conner shifted, he sat up as best he could. And guided Kals hand to the side of his face, through tear tracks, held it there for a second, and then slid it into his hair. All thr while leaning into it like it was the only support he needed.

"I just want to be held.... without expectations..... without titles or rules or anything in return."

Connor wouldnt meet his eyes, or look up from the bedspread during his request.

For the second time that day Clark's heart broke. But now he had something he could do.

He reached out with his other hand, guiding his son into his arms, and gently layed them down

He kept one hand on the back of Conner's head, stroking the strands there. And one hand on Conner's back slowly moving back and forth.

From the first point of contact, Conner's world narrowed to the hand Kal had put on him. And now, there was more. Now he was allowed to reach out. He wanted to get closer. To bury his face in Kals chest and curl up small. To let the world fall away around them. Until nothing existed but them. Holding each other forever.

Kal seemed to read his mind, and guided his head to tuck itself under his chin and pressed them closer together.

No promises, no strings, no obligations after.

He could leave whenever he wanted.

He wanted to stay forever.

Conner wondered breifly what was like to be held by a father. If it felt as nice as this. Like everything crashed in on him, but it was okay.

Maybe, he thought.

They had a maybe.

And this maybe was a lot of ground to stand on.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Hi! Will there be something new from HRH soon? I'm dying to know what Claire will do with Frank. Thank you 😘😘

Many thanks to @notevenjokingfic for walking through the bits of this that needed some help. She’s held my hand through some insecurity on this part and I appreciate her oh-so-much. xx.

Previously:

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.)Part IX: A Queen’s Speech

It was tradition. Upon arriving in Scotland, there was to be a cocktail hour followed by adinner where Claire (as Queen) wouldspeak before the first course was served. The room would be filled withimportant people, naturally –– politicians and their wives, familiesperipherally related to her own on branches far up the family tree, somereporters, and the citizens. Among those she considered most important were thelast –– the people of her country.

Typically, her speech was a short thing, crafted by acommunications person in her staff –– how beautiful the country was, how herheart yearned for Scotland when she was not there, how prosperity would come tothe United Kingdom and that Scotland was there alongside its sister countriesas part of the deal.

Not this time, not this night.  This time, she insisted on the speech beingher own in content and form. The communications person protested, but wasproperly chagrined as she raised a single eyebrow. “Am I not Queen?” she hadasked blandly, setting the fountain pen she was using down on top of the stackof correspondence she was signing, leaning back into the belly of her chair,and crossing her legs. “Is there something wrong with the message delivered byme likewise being crafted by me?”

“Of course not, but if you would like some assistance,ma’am, I––”

Frank’s words were ringing in her head.  Dalliance.  Those bloody calendars.  The show that would make her his more thanwould make him hers. His presence in Scotland through necessity, not affection.

Raising a hand, she nodded as graciously as possible. “Asalways, I thank you, of course, but this is one thing that I cannot delegate.Not this speech.”

She thought of histouch –– the way she had allowed it, just to see if she could feelanything with him. It hollowed her out and made her see herself (really seeherself) for the first time in ages. Floating above her body, she realizedthere was no tenderness there.

Offering only the most cursory of bows, the speech writerhad ducked out of the room and shut the door a bit too forcefully behindhimself.

Stillness. She couldnot live with this stillness, the fact that did not care if Frank was withother women, just as he did not care about her being with other men.

She did not need to write the speech. She felt it singing inher veins. The usual speech would not do –– a few minutes followed by asmattering of slight applause.  It wassimply a formality –– a box to check before a meal was served.

This time it would be different. This much she knew.

And now here they were.

Scotland.

Dressed what felt like a million layers of draped, fizzyfabric, Claire ran a hand over the three rows of jewels and tiaras that had beenchosen for her. There was an admitted beauty in the pieces, despite the excessthat she found fundamentally distasteful.

“The topaz would bring out your eyes,” Frank said mildlyfrom beside her. He was straightening the lapels of his jacket and fastening hisshirtsleeves with onyx cufflinks. Ones that she had purchased.  She looked in the mirror and caught his eye,reaching for the sapphire earrings, not the topaz.

“Contrast does a better job of bringing out my eyes.”  Frank made a small sound that was at once ofdisagreement and resignation.

“Let me help?” he asked as she picked up the bracelet thatmatched the earrings, taking a single step towards her.  The click of the clasp beneath her fingertipsstopped him. “Are you feeling well tonight, Claire? You are acting very… strange.”

“Am I?” The distance in her voice surprised even her.  She had no interest in him understanding her, of letting him in.

The night before had proven that to her –– the test she gavehim (failed), the way he had touchedher (without chemistry, cold and empty),the plan he had put into action to make her his trophy (one that she had yet to dispatch).

Early in their relationship,things had been easy. Stolen touches as he opened a door.  Tea in bed from the kettle he secreted intoher suite. Smuggled moments of hushed laughter, splashing Earl Grey onbedsheets before the entire world descended upon her. Late nights when shesnuck down halls to join him in the visitors’ wing. Surreptitiously draftednotes lining the pockets of her robe when she made her way back (affections, coded promises, scribbledrecitations of his dreams or timeless poetry). In the mornings she had beenperpetually less concerned about who saw her, fingers curling around the paper.

And when Lamb died, Frank hadbeen the one to hold her and whisper comfort. He had joined her in thebathroom, smoothed away the creases left in her face by the tile floor. He wipedaway the salty tombs that her tears constructed around each of hereyelashes.  When she had admitted, vodkadrunk, that she had no family, he had hushed and kissed her full on the mouth.“No, that is not true,” he whisperedwhen they parted, breathless, her tears on his cheeks. “You have me. We have each other.”

So she had unraveled herself tohim over the years.  Purposefully, shehad shown him the parts of herself usually kept under lock and key. And he tookthem with what had appeared, at least then, to be great care.

But something shifted after hercoronation and their engagement.

At first, it was little things.

The way he said “hello” without looking up from hismorning newspaper.  

The way he shaved with the doorclosed, where before he had stood with a towel at his waist, hip cocked andwatching her watch him.

The way she was left wanting,seeking and never finding. Her fingers reaching for him in the night and findingonly stone as he shrugged her away.

The way her fingers met only theseam of the pocket of her robe, the scraps of paper becoming few and farbetween.

The way his words to her becameflowers wilting after a first frost.

The way “not tonight” was his rote response on a series of nights over anumber of months.

She had asked him if he loved herthree times.  

The first time had been early. Hisresponse had been enthusiastic, fingers drawing her close by the back of theneck and his mouth consuming hers before she could catch a breath.  When he had pulled back, eyebrow quirked, hesaid, “Madly, my dear.” Her heart hadpounded, spiraled, and plunged as he kissed her again.

The second time, he had seemedmildly offended before saying, “Ofcourse, Claire.” Her heart had skipped only a beat before resuming itsusual rhythm. His lips had been dry on her cheek; her eyes had flutteredclosed.

The third time, he had quirked aneyebrow and muttered something about how she needed not to be so silly.  Of all things the Queen was, silly was boundto be near the bottom of the list. She had felt nothing then –– neithersurprise nor disappointment, shock nor betrayal. It just was. And she wasprepared to live with it.

Weeks later, knowing her nightwould be sleepless, she had gone for her first ride in god knew how long.

And she met him.

Met Fraser.

Oh Christ, that man.

He was at once a challenge andeasier than anything she had ever known. He was the only one who had seen through the veneer and found herbeneath it. He was the moon on a clear night and the ground in a storm.  He was unreserved in a way she longed notjust to emulate, but to be.  

He was worth risking it all.

She had never asked Fraser if heloved her, but she suspected at a cellular level that he was not the type ofman she would have to ask. He would leave no doubt. He was nothing if notthorough and there would be no question about of his intention. She was certainthat she was headed into something with him from which she could never hope toreturn.

She had wondered whether she wasstrong enough to take the risk.  But shehad realized, quite acutely, that there was no risk. She wanted more–– the movement that disrupts a calm existence, excitement and danger, themere chance to sacrifice herself for love. An outlet for the superabundance ofher energy.

Love.

She wanted it.

They had a sound, he’d said. The vibrations.

She wanted Fraser’s love –– to love and in return, be loved.

The promise of that love (being a part of it) was like a horseunbridled, exploding from behind an open gate. Its muscles taut with energy, itwould find freedom in the wind that it created.

No, there was nothing that shehad to give up for it.

‘But, but, but,’ her brain had stuttered on repeat as she preparedto close the book on Frank.

The burden loving her would puton Fraser made her ache and feel wild at once. His quiet life would bedisrupted so he could be along for the ride. And for what? His wings would be clipped,as hers had been.  The mere act of lovingher would strip him bare of the things that blistered her belly and made herdizzy with wanting.  She had been deniedthe opportunity to be the architect in her own life.  She knew the same would be true for him if hewere to be with her –– really bewith her, body and soul, not as a fling or a dalliance (as Frank had put it).

Could she do that to him? Knowing what it was like. Living under glass(leaving fingerprints that someone else would wipe away) or confined to a cage(seated upon a perch and seeing the world through wire). Constantly slappingconcrete walls with bloodied knuckles, screaming until raw just to be heard. Knowingwhat she knew, could she let Fraser unwittingly join her in that?

For a time, she had herselfconvinced that she was doing him a service by holding back, keeping herfeelings in check. But the very thought of him was inside of her.  He was in her lungs, mingling with herbreath.  He was in her belly, drawing hertight and making her quiver for a release. A scream, a sigh, a moment with eyes closed to anything else in theuniverse.  Just to be –– to be Claire, to know Jamie, to find the seam where livesknit themselves together.

“Are you about ready? That hairis about as well coiffed as it’s going to get.”

Frank gently placed the tiarainto the nest of curls pinned on top of her head. It a glittering, intricateweb of diamonds and sapphires and gilding. It was heavy and she sighed, herfingers adjusting it only slightly.

“I am ready,” she said,swallowing.

This speech.

The one she wrote herself.

This speech.

This was how she would claim whatwas hers.

She had no plan for what shewould do when her words ran out, when her conclusion was made plain to theentire room full of people.  And Frank inparticular –– she would not be made to suffer as anyone’s fool, let alone his.

Standing at the door to thebanquet hall, she watched him straighten his sleeves again, clear histhroat.  The production he was putting onjust to have some golf and notoriety was about to come to an end.  Of that much she was certain.

“Ready?” he asked, giving her alook from the corners of his eyes.

“Oh, of course.”  She hooked a single gloved hand through thearm he stretched out to her. “I am ready.”

[ramajmedia]

Star Wars: The Best Scene In Every Movie, Ranked | ScreenRant

Scenes are important in any movie, but as a “space opera” (an opera that takes place in sci-fi settings with fantastical characters and plot devices), the scene is a particularly important unit in each Star Wars movie. Although it was a six-part saga for years, Disney has added several movies to the Star Wars canon in recent years as the Mouse House has purchased Lucasfilm, started up a sequel trilogy to pick up where the original trilogy left off, and also given us a couple of spin-offs under the “Anthology” banner to top it off. Here is The Best Scene In Every Star Wars Movie, Ranked.

RELATED: Every Star Wars Movie In Chronological Order

10 Solo: The great train robbery

The main criticism of Solo: A Star Wars Story – the only box office bomb in the history of the saga – was that it didn’t feel necessary. Did Han Solo really need an origin story? The answer, obviously, is no. Still, it was a fun trip to everyone’s favorite galaxy far, far away with some riveting set pieces, the greatest of which was the train heist scene. Most Star Wars films are classed as “space operas,” but Solo was more commonly called a “space western,” and no scene places it in this category more than when Han joins Beckett’s crew in robbing a train.

9 Attack of the Clones: Obi-Wan’s fight with Jango Fett on Kamino

This one was a toss-up between the Battle of Geonosis, Yoda’s lightsaber duel with Count Dooku, and Obi-Wan fighting Jango Fett on Kamino. But it’s the latter that takes the crown of the greatest scene in Attack of the Clones, because it brings out the best in both characters. Obi-Wan uses his lightsaber-wielding skills and Force abilities to outgun Fett, while Fett uses his futuristic gadgets and quick wits to hold his own in a combat situation with a Jedi Knight. Plus, the fact that it’s raining (Kamino is a perpetually rainy planet) only adds to the cinematic feel of the scene.

8 The Force Awakens: Rey and Finn escape Jakku in the Millennium Falcon

Although Han’s reunion with Leia and the mysterious final-act appearance of Luke are great scenes, arguably the greatest set piece in The Force Awakens is the one that sees Rey and Finn escape from the First Order in “a piece of junk.” The camera pans over to reveal that this junky ship is, in fact, the Millennium Falcon.

RELATED: Star Wars: The Millennium Falcon's 10 Finest Moments

Pursued by a couple of TIE fighters, they escape Jakku through the wreckage of an Imperial Star Destroyer that fell from space during the Battle of Endor. The scene has the perfect blend of intergalactic action, dynamic plot progression, and character moments.

7 The Last Jedi: Luke Skywalker becomes one with the Force

Rian Johnson’s bitter, grizzled characterization of Luke Skywalker was criticized by Star Wars fans, because it didn’t line up with the Luke we know and love. We all remember Luke as the brightest, most optimistic person in the galaxy; the guy who saw the light in the evil tyrant who destroyed planets and dominated civilizations. However, in his final scene in The Last Jedi, he returns to his old heroic self. He projects himself onto Crait to distract Kylo Ren long enough for the Resistance to escape. It turned out to be his last heroic act, because it took all the energy out of him and killed him. Even fans who hated The Last Jedi can’t deny tearing up when Luke became on with the Force.

6 The Phantom Menace: Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon’s lightsaber duel with Darth Maul

This might be the greatest lightsaber duel in Star Wars history. Fans were disappointed with a lot about The Phantom Menace, because they’d waited 16 years to see George Lucas follow up the Star Wars saga with a prequel, and despite the dark origin story of Darth Vader they were promised, what they got was an adorable little kid talking about angels, Jar Jar Binks, and the line “This is podracing!” However, they did get a terrifying, softly spoken villain with a tattooed face and a double-bladed lightsaber, an effective portrayal of young Obi-Wan Kenobi by Ewan McGregor, and an emotionally affecting new character who acted as his mentor – and all three of these converged in the awesome climactic lightsaber battle, punctuated with John Williams’ breathtaking track “Duel of the Fates.”

5 Rogue One: Darth Vader slaughters a corridor full of Rebel troops

Some could argue that the ending of Rogue One would be even more impactful if Darth Vader’s ominous appearance linked to the main characters’ storyline. They were all going to die anyway, so why not have them slaughtered by Vader instead of the Death Star’s trial run? However, as it stands, the scene is plenty effective. A group of nervous Rebel troops stand guard while Tantive IV collects the Death Star plans and gets ready to depart. Suddenly, amid the corridor’s cloud of fog, Vader ignites his lightsaber, illuminating himself in a frightening red glow. This might be the greatest moment in a Disney-produced Star Wars film to date.

4 Return of the Jedi: Darth Vader is unmasked

Star Wars fans spent the whole original trilogy wondering what was under Darth Vader’s mask. At the end of Return of the Jedi, they had that question answered. Vader redeemed himself by tossing the Emperor into a reactor core to save Luke, but in doing so, he exposed himself to a lethal dose of Force lightning.

RELATED: Star Wars: 10 Early-Draft Return Of The Jedi Ideas That The Rise Of Skywalker Might Use

Before he died, he wanted to look upon his son with his own eyes, so he removed his mask and shared a tender moment with Luke. For all of the action and spectacle and space battles, sometimes the best Star Wars moments are the quieter ones.

3 Revenge of the Sith: Obi-Wan and Anakin’s battle on Mustafar

The conflict between Obi-Wan and Anakin comes to a head in their lightsaber duel on Mustafar. Anakin has fallen into the arms of the Dark Side, joined Palpatine, murdered all the Jedi’s younglings, and sent Mace Windu flying out of a window, all because he felt underappreciated by Obi-Wan. He thought Obi-Wan looked down on him and didn’t see them as equals. When Obi-Wan beats him in combat and leaves him limbless in a pool of lava, the final nail in the coffin is proving Anakin’s fears to be unfounded: “You were my brother, Anakin!” This is an example of the prequel trilogy adding to the original trilogy where the sequel trilogy detracts from it. It tells us that Darth Vader got his condition from Obi-Wan, and that he’s a tragic hero.

2 The Empire Strikes Back: “No, I am your father!”

At the end of The Empire Strikes Back, when Luke senses that his friends are in danger on Cloud City and abandons his training with Yoda to go and save them, Star Wars fans get to see what they’ve been waiting two movies to see: Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader engaging in a lightsaber duel. Luke finds himself hopelessly outmatched by Vader, getting his hand chopped off and being backed out onto a ledge. There, Vader reveals to Luke that he is, in fact, his father. Faced with the decision to join his father in leading the Empire or jump to certain doom, the gallant Luke chooses the latter.

1 A New Hope: Luke blows up the Death Star

The single greatest moment in Star Wars history is also the most obvious one. The characters of the original trilogy each have a three-movie arc, but they each reach a kind of resolution in this moment (except for Leia, who isn’t present). Obi-Wan proves what it means to be “more powerful than you could possibly imagine” when he speaks to Luke from beyond the grave, Han learns the virtues of heroism and boldly returns to blow the TIE fighters off Luke’s tail, and Luke himself focuses his mind and uses the Force to blow up the Death Star. The Rebels haven’t yet won the war, but they’ve won the battle.

NEXT: 10 Possibilities For Disney's New Star Wars Trilogy

source https://screenrant.com/star-wars-best-scene-every-movie-ranked/

[legobiwan]

AAAAAAA please show me some of that Good Dooku And Kenobi Content ive been having an awful day

I hope you’re feeling better! This snippet is still very much in draft form (so be prepared for changes in the final product), but I’ve been writing my fingers off the past few days as I’ve actually a) had some free time, which has been in very short supply recently and b) found my muse again, which has been a somewhat fickle creature as of late. 

(And as an FYI to anyone in my askbox now or in the near future - I will get back to you when I can! But I’m super-busy in my real life right now and my weekdays have been…challenging, as of late. If there’s a delay, it means I fell asleep on the couch with my laptop on my chest multiple nights in a row ;)

——————————————————————————————-

The Count took his napkin and dabbed at his mouth, placing it on the table and leaning back in his chair. “So tell me, Mr. Hardeen. How did you manage to kill the Jedi Obi-wan Kenobi?”

Obi-wan blanched. How did…

But it didn’t matter how Dooku had gotten that information. Information which was not supposed to have left Coruscant…

Eval.

He clenched a fist. I should have finished it when -

Obi-wan immediately banished the thought.

“Sniper rifle. Same as you saw in the Box.” The answer was curt, and he prayed that would be the end of the conversation.

Dooku picked up his wine glass, holding it up to the last rays of sun that passed through the large windows that overlooked the Serenno mountains. He inspected the contents, peering through the bottom of the glass. The liquid, already crimson, somehow turned a blood-red in the light. “Hmmm.” Dooku glanced over, meeting the bounty hunter’s gaze, and smiled. “It’s a rare thing for a Jedi, especially one of the caliber of Obi-wan Kenobi, to be brought down by a mere sniper.”

Hardeen grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Must’ve gotten lucky then.”

Dooku narrowed his eyes, the base of his glass striking the marble table with a hollow, pitched clang that resonated throughout the mostly-empty room. “I have found, Mr. Hardeen, that there is no such thing as luck.” The words were cold and precise in their enunciation, and for the first time since arriving on Serenno Obi-wan felt the true dark presence of the Sith next to him through the Force.

The Count’s stare bored into him. It took every ounce of control Obi-wan possessed to not crack under the gaze. To not give up this horrible, complicated game right now and confess to Dooku that no, Obi-wan Kenobi was not dead. That Obi-wan Kenobi did possess more skill than that - enough skill, in fact, to fool the entire Jedi Council into thinking that he hadn’t -

A raised eyebrow. A lowered voice. “Kenobi’s death is a disappointment, to be certain.”

Obi-wan felt his eyebrows go skyward. Forgive me Count, but haven’t you been trying very hard to kill me the past few years?

“I thought you Separatists and Jedi were on opposite sides of the war,” offered the disguised Jedi, hoping to mask his own confusion over Dooku’s statement.

“Oh yes, we are.” The Count rose from his seat, turning his back to Obi-wan, hands clasped behind his back. He walked towards a large, and undoubtably expensive Kriin-wood cabinet, coming to pause in front of its closed doors. Dooku made no immediate move to open the large compartment. “But Master Kenobi showed great promise, and I had hoped one day to enter into…more civilized discussions with him about the direction of the Jedi Order. To share some information that I believe he would have found quite compelling.”

[hearsaykrp]

                 Presenting — yoon haejoon as the tern.

— info.

name / yoon haejoon birthday / 930501 pronouns / he/him occupation / freelance video editor

— traits.

( critical, sly, independent, dynamic )

critical – haejoon tends to view things in a negative light, easily finding fault in everything and everyone, himself included (at least internally). and he’s not afraid to share his findings in blunt words, whether his opinion was asked for or not, which can render him off-putting.

sly – though he can be blunt when he wants to, he can just as easily be dishonest and cunning if it’s in his best interest, whether that means cheating systems or tricking people into trusting him or otherwise. in the end, his goal is always selfish as he believes he’s all he’s got.

independent – to a fault, haejoon often relies only on himself. on his thoughts, on his knowledge, on his instincts, on his own beliefs and opinions, and so forth. which, while sometimes preferred and commendable, can also leave him with a blind spot or have him stuck in his own echo chamber.

dynamic – haejoon’s dynamic in that he is energized in a way that’s non-stop and obnoxious. he is always driving towards his goal, and will stop at nothing to get there by any means necessary.

— about.

i.

haejoon’s birth, much like the rest of his life, was inconsequential.

this is what his father’s always led him to believe, anyway, and so it came with no surprise that he’s spent his life trying to disprove it.

an accidental second born to a family already struggling to feed three wasn’t exactly a welcome one, but haejoon has always made his presence hard to ignore. from loud cries to incessant whines of, “mom, look,” to constant calls from his teachers complaining of disruptive behavior and everything in between. he’s never hidden his desperate need for attention, and his mom was happy to give it to him for the first five years of his life. with an old clunky video camera in hand always documenting his growth and a warm smile on her face, haejoon grew attached. perhaps not any more so than most children would, but importantly so. because when his overworked father never viewed him as anything more than an inconvenience, and his older brother was a constant comparison propped up on a pedestal, where else would he get the affection he so needed in that household?

nowhere, he soon found out.

even now he remembers that night so clearly. the loud patter of rain against the window, the knock on the door of their tiny one-bedroom apartment, the way his legs turned to jelly as the police officer told his father the news. a suspected drunk driver hit-and-run accident, and they were trying their best to catch the culprit.

they never did.

and just like that, a five year old haejoon learned of loss and lived with unresolved closure.

ii.

they say there are five stages of grief. but for most of haejoon’s life, there were only two.

denial, which consisted of him begging the police officer to tell him he was joking and to bring his mom back. then anger, which motivated most of his childhood and teenage years.

he started talking back when his dad would yell, instead of begrudgingly accepting and apologizing for things he shouldn’t have had to like his mom always told him. he started picking fights with his brother out of frustration and jealousy and resentment. and soon enough, as he entered high school, phone calls from teachers turned from harmless disruptive behavior calls to something more bloody. bloody knuckles, bloody noses, bruised eyes, cut lips. a scrawny boy with a big mouth and an equally big fake ego unknowingly built out of self-preservation, taking on things twice his size.

his only solace in such a stifling environment was that clunky old video camera, the same one his mom loved dearly and used to capture haejoon through her eyes.

he continued what she started soon after she was gone, recording himself through the years as she might have, even occasionally talking to her through the camera, giving updates on his life. he slowly grew out of it by the time he got to high school, but by then his love for the art of video and film blossomed. he retired his mom’s well-worn camcorder to the safe depths of his drawers, and scraped together money from odd jobs and slipped from his dad’s wallet to buy a more modern camera. it was with that, his first prized possession, that he shot and edited a multitude of stupid skits he thought were masterpieces at the time. all uploaded to video sharing sites and only ever garnering a few hundred hits.

but that didn’t matter then, because in the beginning haejoon just enjoyed the process. enjoyed the fact that it gave him reason to leave the apartment and sneak back in at one in the morning. enjoyed the zone it put him in when he could sit for hours just editing on his second most prized possession, a refurbished laptop, and tune everything else out.

so, when a routine argument with his father came to a boil and ended with his laptop broken into pieces strewn all over the street below their apartment window, it was no surprise that he moved out the moment he could.

iii.

it wasn’t easy, of course. haejoon was a recent high school grad with little money to his name and grades too poor to get into any good universities, after all. but still, he tried. sending applications to many small colleges in cities far from daegu, and impulsively taking the very first to accept him in a town as inconsequential as his birth.

with needing two part-time jobs just to pay for rent and tuition, and his general lack of discipline in school, he took an extra year longer than most to finish. but even after he did, not much changed. the name of his school held zero weight in the industry and his diploma in film was useless for most non-entertainment entry jobs. in the end, he had no choice but to carry along with his part-time jobs busing and delivering food to feed himself.

no setback stopped him, though. the always stubborn, yoon haejoon. he drafted screenplay after screenplay, and shot non-stop to bring them to life, sending them off to film festivals both big and small and getting uniformly rejected year after year. all of which he blamed more on his lack of prestigious background than his lack of talent. his body of work gradually became a graveyard of failed short films and a few commercials shot for small local businesses that pitied him after weeks of constant convincing.

it was only in the past two years that he found small success, if one could call it that. after all, being a freelance video editor for small youtubers and streamers wasn’t the most glamorous of jobs, but it allowed him to quit his soul-sucking customer service jobs. and, more importantly, bought him more time and energy to focus on making his own films once again.

iv.

back at the drawing board and with the rise in the popularity of documentaries, haejoon found himself back at his roots.

of course, six year old haejoon wasn’t shooting any ground-breaking documentaries when filming himself learning how to play the piano like his mom always wanted him to – but, the idea was the same. documenting reality.

or, well, framing reality in a certain way.

it was with this in mind he found ilmyo. after weeks of trawling through news article after news article in all the small towns he could think of, it was the deaths of kim donghyun and choi goeun that reeled him into the rabbit hole that was ilmyo’s mysterious history.

there was little information to be found online and no one seemed to be talking about it outside of town, but that had been a selling point too. no one knew of ilmyo and he would be the first on the scene. the first to shed light on a dark past and help unravel a questionable mystery – and, really, wasn’t that what audiences wanted these days? intrigue and justice?

that had been enough for haejoon, who quickly packed his things and took the first bus to town the following day.

v.

now, haejoon lives in a dinky old motel situated a few blocks away from the supposedly scenic stretch of birch trees. it’s a boring town, a far cry from downtown daegu, but then so was the previous town he called home for several years. and so he’s settled in easily – as easily as a nosy, obnoxious outsider can in these suspicious times.

haejoon hasn’t bothered making his presence a secret. by now, he’s sure almost everyone knows that the outsider is making a documentary on the tragic missing persons cases, whether they like it or not. he’s made sure of it, announcing himself and his purpose to anyone who will listen, and would they care to be interviewed? it’ll be shown in the busan international film festival next year, he’s falsely promised time and again.

he knows none of them believe him, knows that most of them despise him if the glares and groans he gets when he enters a room are anything to go by. but, unsurprisingly, that hasn’t weathered him down any more than the cryptic death threats thrown his way. haejoon’s more than used to being disliked, and it was never part of his plan to stay in ilmyo for long, so who cares if he makes any friends when he’ll burn his bridges soon enough?

hawk and heron are all he cares about being friends with anyway, and it’s only with them he bothers to tone himself down. first by offering a positive light to hawk in his documentary in exchange for insider information. then by attempting to bond with heron, offering to watch each other’s backs in a kind of strange truce to investigate together and share information (albeit selectively from haejoon’s side).

but trust has been slow to build and haejoon’s been growing impatient.

with most reluctant to share anything with him, he’s resorted to taking matters into his own hands. after his own investigation in the matters and his belief in occam’s razor, he’s concluded that magpie and starling are the likely suspects. there’s no smoke without a fire, after all, and magpie and starling have too much smoke surrounding them. as far as he’s concerned, they’re guilty and the police are just too close to everyone in this small town to do anything about it when the proof is all circumstantial.

so, it wouldn’t hurt if he falsified concrete evidence, would it?

if the culprits never paid, what’s the point in all of it?

he would just be giving the closure he never received to the families of the lost ones.

vi.

but there is one thing. if this is going to be his breakout piece, he wants it done without getting his hands too dirty.

for now, haejoon’s biding his time, false evidence lying in wait in a locked safe. only time will tell if he’ll have to use it.

[shepgeek]

The Problems with Prequels

Minor spoilers for Star Wars Saga and the MCU

The business of modern cinema rests on cracked foundations.

All studios scour the horizon for their next franchise, a golden ticket to bring audiences back over years, even decades to come, but how can they find a new saga without creating something original first? Current trends imply that only mega budgeted blockbusters can make it to the one-billion-dollar threshold, and since no studio is keen to take a huge risk on an unproven story, remakes are the current default.  That well, however, is already starting to run dry and, even when a new story catches on, another paradox soon follows: in any sequel, how can the second most interesting day for these characters be as compelling? Change the DNA of your property too much and you risk losing what made it special to everyone, but keep too closely to the progenitor and the repetition diminishes the original and erodes the sequels until you are left with a stale caricature and an exhausted resource. In recent years the MCU has changed this picture by never telling any particular overarching story, but instead creating vivid characters with verisimilitude to build momentum towards the moment when they can all parade across the screen together. Hollywood has tried to ape this model but the circumstances of the MCU’s birth have proven to be singular and, as Marvel starts to reach towards television, there is a sense that change is needed there too over the coming years. There is one option which many studios and artists therefore become drawn to and it is interesting that the MCU is exploring this in its next film, Black Widow. Prequels are neither a new idea nor are they unique to this format: C.S Lewis built his saga of Narnia books around The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe, retroactively tying decisions and characters into the continuity he had already established: a process now known as “retconning”.  For modern auteurs, this urge to extend the universes which they have already built complements a studio’s yearning for more and has led to many recent film series, of which one left an enormous legacy.

George Lucas had made one prequel in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, although little was made to distinguish Indy as an earlier version of what audiences had already loved in Raiders of the Lost Ark and, indeed, one key joke depended on events which were yet to transpire for him. Given that Indiana Jones had been Lucas & Spielberg’s American answer to James Bond, a franchise blithely indifferent to continuity, this was a prequel in name only and, when Lucas felt that the tech could deliver his vision of the Old Galactic Republic, his Star Wars prequel trilogy was conceived. The Phantom Menace casts a long shadow for many reasons, not least because it was and will surely remain the single most anticipated film in history. Given the internet’s infancy, global audiences were sparingly teased and, when combined with a 15-year gap since new Star Wars had been in the cinema, it led to a campaign that no film can hope to match. This was an audience who had been accustomed to showing patience for their stories, when it would be almost a year from when any film moved between cinema and home video and more years before television premieres- the idea of the emergence of a complete saga was sensationally exciting. That The Phantom Menace proved to be such a disappointment to many may well explain why the word prequel tends still to evoke negative impressions, but the reasons for this disappointment are interesting, complex and resonant 20 years later.

Where it was character (and Joseph Campbell’s storytelling archetypes) that drove Lucas’ original trilogy, the prequel trilogy finds its author in love with his universe, where the detail is almost overwhelming. Without the strength of those narrative pillars, however, but with the need to sow the seeds of Anakin’s ultimate downfall, Lucas is left playing with thinner characters. As before he cast well, with Liam Neeson’s unflappable maverick building a twinkling chemistry with Jake Lloyd. Ewan MacGregor is hugely charismatic, although his Obi-Wan Kenobi is very different across the saga, shifting from loyal student to frazzled parent to avuncular mentor. Padme begins as an ethereal child queen and only later evolves to become a glassy logician, flummoxed by having fallen deeply in love. Padme is honest to a fault, never reconciling her meticulous nature and passion for diplomacy with her doomed romance, making a pointed comparison with the sassy dynamo her daughter will become. Her blind belief in the Republic mirrors her faith in her husband and as both are steadily stripped away she is always interesting but rarely compelling: a feature common to all three films. The characters are who Lucas needs them to be, not who we want them to be, not least because he is perhaps loath to mirror and diminish what worked so well in the original trilogy.

After two decades The Phantom Menace remains visually stunning and shows off Lucas’ storytelling flair, with Ian Macdiarmid’s Palpatine steadily building into one of cinema’s great villains: look for the scenes on Coruscant for how he minutely licks his lips or how he is positioned to block the Queen from the camera. There is also the most thrilling and visceral lightsaber fight in the entire saga, the triumphant pod race and John Williams at his peak, complementing the astonishing Duel of the Fates with casual moments of genius such as his major inversion of Palpatine’s Theme at the final celebration. None of this, however, can detract from the storytelling decisions which run counter to the original trilogy to provoke the ire of purists, setting a pattern that would be abundant across the industry in the following years. The focus on politics remains stodgy but the choice to lean into the comedy is the most divisive element. JarJar Binks remains a character who is enjoyed by those who began their journey here but often despised by those who felt that their most precious story was being infantilised. This was compounded by the prominent role that Lucas gives to chance in Episode I, especially in the final act, whilst Anakin’s bristling petulance builds a wall between him and the audience in all three films. This is a trilogy where the villains always win and features possibly the single oddest romantic interlude in cinema: Anakin speaks of agony and torment when addressing Padme and he is permanently emotionally tortured to some degree. The films are deeply interesting and made with arguably greater storytelling flair, but, in seeking to avoid repetition with the original trilogy, they are not stories that compel us to care as deeply for those upon whom they centre.

The second problem faced by any prequel is in the retconning stemming from the knowledge that everyone knows where the film must finish, and so excitement is fundamentally reduced. Knowing the destination robs a story of its potency and, in prequels, this is a requirement. Ridley Scott’s recent Prometheus films illustrate this as well as the studio pressures placed on major releases. Throughout interviews, it became increasingly clear that Scott was deeply invested in returning to the universe which he had helped to create and was artistically motivated to tell more stories centred both in theme and content around the nature of creation, but his Fox bosses were simply after some films containing the Alien. In Alien: Covenant the xenomorph itself felt almost superfluous whilst both that film and Prometheus tied themselves in knots to hint towards the established Alien films without explaining very much of anything. The effect for some was a new disappointment: the feeling that something had been promised but not delivered. Taken alone, Covenant is a thrillingly nasty sci-fi take on The Island of Dr Moreau, but few were expecting this when they paid for a ticket. When the storytelling cranks into gear to get the plot mechanism to begin to align with that of Alien, the dramatic effect is perplexing.

The final problem prequels now face, however, furthers this issue into the very nature of authorship. Back when Scott and Lucas began, the process by which a storyteller settled on their final draft was private, and they had wiggle room for later should they need it. Looking back at Episode IV there is a clear sense that Lucas had decided that Darth Vader was Luke’s father but the rest feels like it was up for grabs: Luke and Leia’s kiss in The Empire Strikes Back is the clearest example that he had not fully decided to have them as siblings, but when later films came out any concerns over discrepancies would vanish into corners of 80s fandom. In the modern era, however, everything needs its own website, and everything must immediately make sense. In The Phantom Menace Qui-Gon’s early line about “the living force” has since been assigned colossal significance and the extended Star Wars universe spills over with such speculation, much of it considered canon. In “A Certain Point of View”, a recent anthology of short stories built around background characters, there are many wonderful illustrations of this, including Yoda’s incredulous reaction to Obi-Wan choosing to bring him the dreamy and unfocused Luke to train instead of his super confident badass sister. This is to say nothing of the role that fan fiction takes in any of the world’s great franchises and it brings into focus any prequel’s final curse: anyone who loves these worlds, when presented with a definitive ending point that the story must land upon, will have either thought up many routes there themselves or read about possible versions of that story and so whatever the storyteller picks will be tinged with disappointment.

In consuming more of our favourite stories, we unravel the mystique of the storyteller, reacting with fury if ever it appears that they are just making this up, which, of course, is exactly what they always are doing and always were. Most in the audience do not want to see what is behind the curtain and, for those that do, they demand a surprise be waiting. Filmmakers, however, think of an idea first and then spiral outwards from it, inventing details to fit the direction in which they wish to head. That is not, however, how they ultimately will tell the story, but this process is dangerous once the universe is already grounded and inevitable in a prequel. The freedom they once had is greatly diminished even though, from their perspective, this is always how they have worked. J.K. Rowling ‘s “Magical Universe” (a clunky title for an author so gifted in nomenclature) is the one remaining major cinematic prequel franchise still in play and it is currently struggling with many of these issues. Where the first Potter book is exemplary in setting up almost implausible levels of detail for the six that followed, the Newt Scamander films have a more meandering tone which has been accused by some of the familiar flaw of being more interested in the world than the people. From this criticism and reduction of our storytellers, further problems emerge: Rian Johnson’s superb The Last Jedi had the courage to make bold new choices but was targeted by trolling campaigns, whilst the final season of Game of Thrones (a show based years of expert teasing and the joy of speculation) was inevitably cast as a failure when the infinity of possible directions it could take was finally reduced to one. Modern audiences demand that details are foreshadowed but grumpy if specific payoffs are not met. We seem increasingly desperate for more of our stories but are yet increasingly less satisfied with what we receive, and one wonders where the next turn in our storytelling will take us. Our narrators have seen their power reduced in this medium and are exploring new ways of keeping us sat in the dark, waiting to be told a good tale.

The Star Wars prequels have defined how we consume modern blockbusters and, for any franchise that follows, these three problems of repetition, retconning and the abundance of scrutiny have left franchise entertainment facing an uncertain future. Black Widow, then, becomes hugely interesting as it faces these problems, not least because, as with Solo, we have just seen and made our peace with the title character’s final destination. Given that emotional resonance, does anyone care what happened in Budapest?