#the infinite potential of an impossible love passed through the ages until it falls upon our ears

[oswinsdolma]

something about how merlin and arthur both died the moment they became a story. how in becoming a legend, they sacrificed the versions of themselves that were real for the infinite potentiality of the versions that could have been. "the story that we have been a part of will live long in the minds of men" but at the cost of the lovers who wrote it, fragmented across space and time by a thousand new imaginations that keep them alive in all that they never were. when we read their story, they are broken and reborn anew, so does that make us murderers or gods? or maybe the whole point is that there never really was much of a difference between the two.

[guccidishtowel]

The Viscount’s Secret

NSFW UNDER CUT (Warnings under cut)

Fandom: Dragon Age

Words:  3859

Pairings: Varric/Reader

AO3: The Viscount’s Secret

Warnings: Thigh-Riding, Blowjobs, Light Dom/sub elements, Light Degredation (use of ‘whore’)

Walking into the Viscount’s Keep that afternoon, the tension had been palpable. Guards gave their usual greetings, nodding their heads and a few of the more friendly lot offering smiles, but their eyes carried that familiar glint that was just as telling as the muffled voices coming from the office.

The merchant bit back a quiet grin as the reason for their sudden summons became infinitely more clear.

The Viscount was having a bad day.

Halfway up the stairs they heard the telltale sound of something heavy thump against hardwood. Seneschal Bran had no doubt avoided a heavy tome to the head by mere millimeters yet again. They’d mounted the last step when he came stumbling out of the office, chased by a few quills and--if they saw correctly--a paperweight. The poor Seneschal met their eyes just as he closed the heavy doors and practically threw himself upon their mercy.

“He’s impossible!” Bran cried. Upon closer inspection they could see where a blotch of ink stained his forehead. Apparently Bran’s evasive maneuvers had been lacking. “I don’t know how you manage to do it, but please calm him down. We have a stack of correspondence growing larger by the moment and this is certainly not helping!”

They gave him a sympathetic smile, complete with a pat on his shoulder and a subtle gesture to his forehead and sent him on his way--hopefully to clean the ink off. No one else populated the upper floor; apparently no one wanted to encounter the Viscount’s wrath. ‘All the better for me,’ they thought, a wicked smile darting across their face.

They approached the heavy wooden door to the office and lingered outside for just a moment. Even through the thick wood they could hear the telltale sounds of frustrated pacing and smiled to themselves. Perhaps it was self-serving, but when the Viscount was this worked up it always ended up far more in their favor. The familiar thrill of anticipation slipped up their spine like a lover's caress, lighting every nerve on fire. Being such an open secret was interesting. Officially they were just a merchant of some means and one of the Viscount’s personal favorites, often requested to help with balancing numbers or bringing in specialized shipments. Unofficially…

They bit their lip in anticipation, soft lips quirking upwards as they knocked once on the heavy doors.

“The next person who walks through those blighted doors is meeting the business end of Bianca!”

His rough voice sent tingles up their spine, and the quiet fury beneath the words only added to the flame. His threats weren’t always unfounded, but even as agitated as he was he wouldn’t turn his trusty crossbow on one of his own. Still, when they cracked open the heavy door they made sure to let their voice reach him before presenting any potential targets.

“Even when it’s me?” Finally poking their head inside, they were greeted by the sight of Varric’s office in even more disarray than usual. A few of the heavy plush chairs had been overturned. The desk was littered with half-open correspondence, the stains of splashed wax and ink evident on more than one. Even the curtains had suffered a few minor wounds; apparently Bran had led Varric on a merry little chase around the office before making it out to safety.

And then there was the Viscount himself. Standing by the roaring fire with his shirt half open and a glass of what was surely poignant draught in his hand, he painted quite the image. Varric Tethras was a handsome man, of that there was no doubt. From the charming gleam in his eyes to the aged lines on his face, everything seemed to blend together into a visage so breathtaking most men and women would give their right arm for just a night with him. That’s how this merchant felt, at least. But now, with the dark cloud of anger shading his handsome features, he looked...somehow more enticing. A familiar heat began to rise in the pit of their stomach and as Varric threw back the glass to finish off the alcohol they licked their own lips, suddenly quite parched.

“Sorry for the mess, Mischief,” he began, and they didn’t bother to hide their smirk at the familiar nickname. “Today’s just...been a day.”

“I could tell. I think you’ve scarred poor Bran for life. Or at least the rest of the day if he can’t get that ink off his forehead.”

Despite his obvious frustration Varric chuckled, the soft grin breaking apart the dark clouds on his face. He stepped away from the fire and set his glass down to instead rummage around in the drawers of his desk. Soon enough he found another glass, filled both, and turned to pass one off to them with a familiar gleam in his eyes.

“Come on. You know I hate drinking alone. Besides,” he paused, letting his gaze roam over their form. They always felt a pleasant little shiver when under his scrutiny, and they didn’t miss the way his eyes darkened before he brought his own glass up, but he didn’t drink. Not yet. “You’ve got a long night ahead of you.”

The promise in his eyes made their knees weak and the burn of good Ferelden brandy only stoked the fire growing on their stomach. Still they drank it down, hoping to stave off some of the thirst long enough to at least try and find the root of their Viscount’s frustration.

“To what do I owe the pleasure this time?” They finally asked, setting their half-emptied glass aside. “I haven’t seen you this worked up in a while.” It almost felt a shame to bring up business, especially when it made that delicious look fall from his face, replaced instead with an aching weariness out of place on a man so lively.

“It’s the Maker damn day that won’t end. I’ve got nobles squabling like toddlers--which isn’t anything fucking new--along with a whole heap of new laws to look over. Then there’s tying up the loose ends from the Inquisition which is a headache in and of itself. Shipments to look over, palms to grease, and enough signatures to pen that I can already feel my damn hand falling off.” He punctuated his tirade by dropping heavily into the chair behind his desk, glass still clutched in one hand and the other coming up to thumb at the space between his brows.

They pursed their lips, sympathetic expression at odds with the hunger from earlier. Perching themselves on the edge of his desk they brought a hand up to his head, their fingertips massaging into his scalp. As they predicted he leaned into their hand, his sigh rumbling through his chest. It wasn’t the first time a long day had left him more than a little frustrated, and it certainly wasn’t the first time they’d been called up to help him deal with the stress. There was no doubt how the night would end, but sometimes the moments before were just as important. Watching Varric’s shoulders lose their tension as he melted under their fingertips, they knew this was one of those times.

“Definitely sounds like a shitty day,” they agreed, smiling softly at his snort. His eyes had long since closed as he relaxed into their ministrations. There was something empowering about this, about having the Viscount of Kirkwall turn to putty in their fingers. Emboldened by the thought they slid off his desk and instead found themselves comfortably nestled on his lap, prompting him to finally peel his eyes open to observe them. Grinning down at him, they trailed the hand in his hair down, brushing over his temple until they found his jaw. “But I bet I can help you forget all about it.”

Varric’s lips curled and he turned his head, catching the tips of their fingers between his teeth. The subtle sting prompted them to chuckle as Varric moved to settle his broad hands on their hips. “You know I love to gamble, darlin’, but I don’t make stupid bets. We both know you’re going to turn my mood around.” The certainty in his tone was a stroke to their ego. It was hard to think this had all started from a single trip he’d made to the merchants quarters in Lowtown all those months ago.

“I’m at my lord’s service,” they purred, grinning when his expression morphed to one of minor irritation. His hands tightened on their hips in warning and they chuckled, bending forward to brush their lips over his ear. “Oh, let me have my fun.”

“By all means,” Varric replied, his voice husky. “But know it’s gonna cost ya.”

They smiled against his skin. “Mm, promises, promises…”

Promises that would be paid in full, it would seem. Varric finally moved, his mouth finding the skin of their throat and painting it with bruises. They tilted their head to allow him access, helping themselves to the expanse of skin his shirt exposed. The damn dwarf never covered his chest and it was honestly unfair just how distracting it was. Their fingers smoothed under the halves of his tunic, carding through the hair and feeling the muscle beneath their palms. Varric chuckled against their throat, his tongue and lips soothing another love bite.

“No one can resist,” he teased, earning a pinch when their fingers found his nipple. He grunted, the sound tapering into a low growl at the back of his throat. “Brat.”

“Only for you, your grace,” they replied. He glowered up at them, earning himself another wry smirk. “Going to bend me over your knee?”

There was a sudden gleam in Varric’s eyes that made them wonder if, perhaps, they’d made an error in judgement. They knew that look well. Just the sight of it had them tensing, a shot of arousal rushing through them. Varric tilted his head back, leaving their neck for now and instead settling his hands a little lower, spreading their thighs on either side of his own. Realization struck just as he dragged his hands back to their hips, rocking them forward gently. The friction drew a soft, shaky breath out of them that had Varric smirking.

“Well, we can certainly use my knee, but I think I’ve got better ideas than what you had in mind.”

His hands tugged, bringing them forward again, until he settled into a slow and steady rhythm. It was too slow and too light, but they had a feeling it was by design. They brought their hands to his shoulders, marveling quietly at the strength as he guided their motions. The slow build of pleasure promised to be worth it, but they weren’t a patient sort.

“I thought this was about you,” they huffed, their cheeks already blossoming with heat. “I don’t see how this is giving you what you want.”

“You’re right,” Varric shot back. “ This is about me and what I want. And what I want is to see you coming apart on my knee like a good little whore.”

The acidic words brought a small whimper out, the surprise on their face turning to pleasure when he roughly jerked them forward, picking up his pace. Varric chuckled as their fingers dug into his shoulders. “You like that, sweetheart? Like being the Viscount’s whore?”

They groaned aloud, dropping their head against his shoulder, hips rolling again as they ground against his thigh. “Now we’re using titles? I think you’re just being petty--fuck, Varric!” In the middle of their complaints the grinning dwarf had brought one hand up and then down just as swiftly, slapping against their ass with enough force to have them jolt.

“Hey now, you were the one that wanted to be bent over my knee, weren’t you?” he teased. “I think this is much better. Especially when I can see all those cute little faces you make. And speaking of that…”

With their face buried against him they couldn’t see what he had planned, but when strong fingers threaded into their hair it became abundantly clear. He tugged, pulling their head away from his shoulder and forcing them to arch back, throat exposed for his waiting teeth. He bit down roughly and they cried out, the sound ending on a gasp as he sucked at the abused skin. Satisfied, he broke away to look up into their face.

“Don’t hide from me. I wanna see all those little looks. I wanna see how good I make you feel, Mischief.” His hooded eyes sought their own, dark and wanting. They shuddered under the look, their hips moving of their own accord now, chasing their release desperately. Varric noticed and hummed, his fingers threading gently in their hair now. “That’s it. Take what you need from me, sweetheart.”

They didn’t last much longer after that. Rutting against his thigh like an animal and clinging to him, they broke apart just how Varric wanted, muffling their cry of pleasure by sinking their own teeth into his neck. Varric groaned at the sensation and would no doubt sport the bite proudly for the next few days. He took a ridiculous amount of pleasure from seeing all the nobles blush and look away, tittering and hiding their comments behind hands and ornamental fans.

It took a few moments for them to calm, the rush of pleasure leaving them momentarily light-headed. Varric carded his rough fingers through their hair gently, his voice soft and soothing in their ear.

“There’s my Mischief,” he murmured, the tone of his voice making them blush anew. “Good. Always so good for me.” It carried on that way for a few minutes until finally they straightened, standing from his lap only to drop to their knees. Varric blinked in surprise and they relished the thought; it took a lot to shock the blighted dwarf, after all.

“You know I’m not selfish, Varric,” they purred, all traces of the gasping and blushing from earlier gone. “Besides, I have to perform my civic duty, don’t I?” They were here on a mission, after all, and as nice as it was letting Varric have his way, they knew the best way to ease his stress was with a more hands on approach.

He’d appreciate the pun, they were sure.

Surprise turned to amusement and Varric answered by spreading his thighs invitingly. They settled between and smirked at the sight of the bulge straining against his breeches. A few deft tugs of the laces and he fell free, heavy and throbbing in their hand. Varric hissed above them, the light touch already wreaking havoc on his self-control. Humming in delight, they lifted their eyes to his, fingers closing as they began to slowly stroke his shaft.

“Don’t you have some correspondence to attend to?” they asked, a little too sweetly. “I promised Bran I would help you see reason, after all.”

Varric groaned, in pleasure or at the thought of more work they couldn’t tell, and dropped his head back. “The damn nobility can wait,” he insisted. “It’s a waste of time anyway.”

They clicked their tongue disapprovingly. That wouldn’t do.

Varric all but jerked when their hand left him suddenly cold and aching. Eyes wide with disbelief, he looked down at them. Oh, they’d treasure that sight for a long time to come. “Sweetheart, you can’t be serious--”

“I don’t hear a quill moving up there,” they cut him off, lips curling wickedly. “Better get to work, Master Tethras.”

For a long moment he stared at them, disbelieving. They saw the moment he began to appraise them, likely considering if it would be worth waiting out their stubborn streak. He could, and perhaps they would, break, but when the mood took hold they could be quite firm. He seemed to be weighing the odds. And they could see the moment he gave up, sighing heavily as he scooted his chair closer to his desk, casting his shadow over them.

They heard him pick up his quill, begin to write, and leaf through the documents above.

And they heard the moment he sucked in a breath as they took his cock in their hand once more, warm breath ghosting over the tip as they brought it to their lips. His hand stilled for a moment, and so did they. Then he cursed and began to write again, and they finally closed their mouth over him, jaw already burning at the stretch.

What Varric lacked in length was more than made up for in girth, and already they could feel their jaw settle into that familiar ache as they began to slowly work their way down him. The discomfort was worth every moment they could feel him twitch in their mouth, hear every curse and sucked in breath above them. Settling their hands against his calves they began to work in earnest, their head rocking back and forth. The familiar feeling of his hand in their hair had them pause just long enough to make sure they still heard the scratch of quill on parchment before resuming.

Above them, Varric cursed, his shaky signature being scrawled across shipment orders and premade letters alike. “Andraste’s fuckin’ ass, you’re an absolute menace. I’m--fuck, you feel so good.”

The praise only fueled their movements. Just when they thought Varric was beginning to catch his breath they paused, dragged their mouth all the way back to the head of his cock, and hollowed their cheeks to suck against the skin. Varric bucked, his knees slamming into the underside of the desk. It was only by a miracle that he didn’t snap the quill in his hand.

“Shit!” His frustrated grunt had them smiling against him and his hand tightened in their hair. Their scalp tingled from the force. Satisfied, they set to work again, eyes closing as they felt him begin to guide them. His hand tugged them back and forth, the pace increasing as he slowly began to fall apart. They could feel the way he throbbed in their mouth and paused just long enough to trace a vein on the underside of his cock.

“Maker,” he breathed above them, his hips bucking into their throat. By now his hand was faster and jerking them along his length in a way that made their eyes water. “Sweetheart, you feel like you were made for this. I’ve never felt anything--fuck--anything better in my damn life.”

They would answer if they could, but by now the grip on his shins was just as much to steady themself as much as him. He jerked them forward once more and they gagged around him, eyes nearly rolling into the back of their head. The noise set Varric groaning, and his cock throbbed once more in their mouth. They heard his brief warning then, right before he emptied into their throat, his grip on their hair holding them tight against him. Even as they coughed when he turned his grip loose they felt more than satisfied, with the taste of him lingering on their tongue.

Varric pushed his chair back the moment he caught his breath, quickly looking down to meet their gaze. They heard his hands shuffling on the desk before he finally produced what looked to be an embroidered handkerchief. Likely a gift from some Hightown aristocrat. They wondered how they would feel knowing just what it was being used for.

“You all right, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice softer than before. He reached to gently wipe their mouth. “Not too rough?”

They shook their head, still hazy from the pleasure. They thought their smile was answer enough, but Varric always insisted they use words. “Mm, perfect.”

Chuckling, Varric finished wiping their face. He then tugged them back to their feet to carefully guide them back into his lap. It was always this way. After they’d finished their business Varric would always insist on keeping them close by for a little while. They found it endearing, really; not many of their past partners had any sense of aftercare. When they’d told Varric, he’d scoffed.

‘Probably didn’t know how to actually satisfy a partner either, did they?’

They hadn’t disagreed.

“I think Bran owes me this time,” they finally said after a few moments of companionable silence. “I actually got you to do some work this time. Normally I’m distracting you.”

Varric laughed, the sound warm and vibrating through his bulky chest against them. They settled further into his lap.

“Just don’t tell him how you did it. I think he might die of embarrassment. But then again, without him around…” His conspiratorial look was met with a swat against his bared chest.

“Behave. You put the poor bastard through enough as it is,” they insisted. “If anything, I think he needs the vacation from you.”

Varric grinned and didn’t even have the audacity to look offended. With one arm still wrapped around them, he reached the free hand to straighten the letters he’d managed to sign into a neat pile, sighing at the sight of the rest. He’d made a dent, at least, but there was still a mountain to go. That, and the thought of them leaving threatened to kill what little optimism he had remaining. Of course that’s when a brilliant idea struck.

“Y’know, Mischief, I was thinking…”

“Dangerous thing, really.”

Varric smirked and shook his head fondly. “Always so rude to me, sweetness. Anyway, I was thinking. Instead of trotting out of here all rumpled like usual, how about...well. How about you stay the night? Make use of the bed this time instead of just my desk.”

They snorted. “You’re the one who always suggests the desk, Varric. I’m surprised my ass doesn’t have splinters at this point.”

“I mean, I could always check if you’re worried--”

“Don’t you have papers to sign?” they cut him off, their mockingly stern expression melting to laughter when he all but pouted at them. It wasn’t a bad idea, really. The thought had crossed their mind more than once. A night in Varric’s bed, of course, would likely have little to do with sleeping, but the idea was still...intimate. They’d always assumed the situation between them to be born of mutual attraction and necessity, but were they really opposed to something more?

Not in the least. But that didn’t mean they had to make it easy for him.

“Mmm, how about you make it through, say, half of this mountain on your desk,” they finally said, ignoring his sputtered indignation. “Do that, and I’m all yours for the whole night, serah.”

Varric paused, his eyes darting from the foreboding pile of correspondence back to the grinning mischief maker in his lap. It wasn’t even a contest, really. Varric had always been a weak man for a nice smile, and when they shot him one that promised nothing but trouble, he could never say no.

So instead he sighed, pressed a kiss to their forehead, and settled them properly in his lap as he picked up his quill.

“Only for you, Mischief. Only for you.”

[rosiewaddell]

Mr. Nobody: The Universe in Flux

The essential philosophical claim in the film Mr. Nobody is paradox of choice.  There are an infinite amount of possibilities that could arise from that one choice; the entire plotline of our lives and the potentially endless different paths are reliant on one moment.  This prospective endless course of action in turn creates an inability to function, a sort of inability to make decisions.  Nemo Nobody’s entire retelling of his many different outcomes over the course of his life show not only this quest for making the right decision, but also the nature of time and the imagination.  In this twisted yarn of Nemo’s mind, a sort of lyrical fantasia, it isn’t the truth that keeps him alive, but his lies.

To summarize, The 2009 film Mr. Nobody stars Jared Leto as the 35-year-old incarnation of the title character, Nemo Nobody (“nemo” means “nobody” in Latin), whom we also meet at other life stages: age 9, age 15, and on Nemo’s 118th birthday.  As his 118-year-old self, he is the last mortal on Earth.  With the advent of what the movie calls telemerization, the world population now consists of quasi-immortals, each of whom has a personal lifeline to his or her own “stem-cell-compatible pig.”  Somehow, Nemo has the seeming ability to rewind time and correct past mistakes, and he also apparently splits, like an amoeba, into multiple versions of himself. Once he reaches adulthood, at least three different versions of Nemos exist simultaneously, with different houses, different kids and three different wives.  The story hops around chronologically as well as from one location to the next, with Nemo consciously inhabiting each role and version of himself all at the same time.

The film deals with these topics through the notion of reality through simulacra.  There are layers upon layers of reality in which Nemo exists simultaneously.  This can be seen throughout the film, starting with the moment at a dance, where 15-year-old Nemo either falls in love with Elise, who really loves someone else, or settles for Jean.  Alternatively, he also fell for his one true love, Anna, his step-sister and daughter of his mother’s new boyfriend.  But when his mother and her boyfriend split up, Nemo loses Anna until he’s 34.  When he’s 34, Nemo has a myriad of lives, including being happily married to Elise who dies in an accident, not being happily married to Elise, who is suffering from relentless depression, being married to Jean in a loveless marriage, finding Anna by chance in a packed train station, finding her with a husband and two kids, finding her and rekindling their love, then losing her phone number when the ink runs after getting wet in the rain.  The three women also all represent different things.  The union with Jean, though loveless, has brought him the most material success.   In his life with Elise, Nemo experiences the consequences of depression and despair.  Anna is the one true love of his life and the only one with which he experienced a passionate meaningful relationship.

We as an audience are aware of the concept of artificiality, that Nemo’s reality is one with a skewed sense of time and a lack of continuity that creates a dizzying disequilibrium.  We know there is an original somewhere, but the distinction between the two has broken down.  These different outcomes, such as who he ends up being with (Anna, Elise or Jean) and the endless possibilities that then arise with each woman all ultimately come from one moment in Nemo’s life.  That one moment for Nemo is at age 9, at a railway station, he is forced to choose as his mother leaves on a train while his father stays on the platform.  In one case, he manages to board the train while in another he stays with his father.  

So what does this all mean?  For one, it’s about that universal sense that life has passed you by, a sort of buyer’s remorse, and the longing for the nonexistent reset button that will allow you a second chance.  This is where causality, and the notion that many — perhaps infinite — different paths might coexist at the same time and the subsequent inability to function comes into play.  As 5-year-old Nemo describes, “The smoke comes out of Daddy's cigarette, but it never goes back in.  We cannot go back.  That's why it's hard to choose.  You have to make the right choice. As long as you don't choose, everything remains possible.”  Actions have universal consequences, how the past inevitably shapes the future in a very impacting way – every single choice, no matter its simplicity or complexity can make, alter or change a lifetime.

This brings up the question of whether paradox of choice may not be choice after all, but rather determinism.  Does Nemo actually have the possibility to choose?  Or are his ‘choices’ predetermined by whatever it is that occurs in his environment?  An instance of environmental factors can be found in Nemo losing Anna’s number because the paper he wrote her number on becomes wet from a single raindrop and therefore unreadable.  In other words, these conditions seem to force, or at least nudge, Nemo in the direction of a life without Anna; a circumstance that ultimately results from an unemployed Brazilian boiling an egg.  This, in conjunction with chaos theory, string theory and the butterfly effect all highlight the lack of control that humanity as individuals possesses.   

Finally, the concept that ties everything together is that of the nature of time: the fact that we cannot alter the past but can influence the future.  It is this particular characteristic of time, the fact that it moves only in one direction, that makes the free will versus determinism issue so difficult, if not impossible, to resolve.  If we could simply go back in time and see whether we would have behaved in the same way, regardless of the absence of any circumstances, we might have a much better understanding of the nature of free will and would appear to experience the ability to choose between different possible courses of action.  

In the end, Mr. Nobody poses the question does it even matter in the end what choice or direction we choose?  Is any of this even real?  “I don’t get it,” the reporter tells Nemo in frustration, after his narrative has, once again, contradicted itself.  “Did Elise die or didn’t she?  You can’t have had children and not had them.”  This film explains that absolutely nothing is certain – everything is pure imagination. It is like daydreaming: a single thought pops into your head and before you know it, you find yourself falling down the rabbit wondering what it would be like to be married to that guy you exchanged glances with in the crosswalk, growing old together and having grandchildren.  As Nemo came to understand at the end of his life, “Each of these lives is the right one!  Every path is the right path.  Everything could have been anything else and it would have just as much meaning.”