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#my owl mask is at LEAST solid

stanlunter · 6 months

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Why Amity is a bad character

Not my post, Ive just translated it, but I can't agree more

This can be called not even a hate, but a perplexity, since Amity as a character is not integral with us. It's like a solid plot hole hastily glued into a ready-made idea of the series. Let's take it in order.

In the first episodes with Amity, she is shown as a bully (when she poured shit on Willow), always competing with everyone's nerd (remember the episode where she couldn't stand that at least someone was better than her in abominations?) and in general, something like a kind of Draco Malfoy from the world of the Owl House. Even the twins Edric and Emira Blite quietly disliked her, as they considered her an arrogant reptile, shitting other students out of boredom. And so it was, in fact.

But then they started showing us Amity from the other side, and then the first inconsistencies began. In the series with the library, where Amity read books to little witches and other fabulous creatures, it struck me for the first time - like, all this time, Amity had a soft nature hiding under a mask of arrogance, but her brother and sister didn't even know about it and considered her just a harmful bastard? Okay, okay, let's say. But then we learn from Amity's memories that she was always good and Willow left only at the request of overbearing parents who were against their friendship. I'm sorry, what? I remind you that at her first appearance, Amity mocks Willow when no one is around, clearly enjoying it herself. Who forced her to do nasty things then?? And anyway, if Amity had a kind nature from the very beginning, why would she mock and laugh at others? She would have walked around with an arrogant look and that was it. My parents told me not to be friends with witches of a different status, and not to bully everyone who doesn't like them.

And after Luz and Amity start dating, Amity transforms incredibly radically and quickly. And I'm not talking about the hairstyle (which was much better in the original version, imho). She completely changes her worldview, her behavior, her plans for life, after all. And everything would be fine, but... These events take place in one summer. One summer, Carl! In one summer, an arrogant witch who loves to bully others, trying to be the best at everything, dreaming of becoming part of the imperial coven, turns into her absolute opposite. And do you know what I can't understand about such transformations? Footing. What is it like here? Okay, Amity fell in love with Luz, but why did she suddenly change ALL her principles for her? After all, she had somehow justified her dreams, her goals for herself before? Before, she really wanted to be the best, to join the imperial coven. Or how did it happen according to the creators - the evil mom ordered Amity to wish for certain things and zombified her, and as soon as the good Luz came, Amity immediately realized everything in the world and was filled? The same Hunter is shown much more realistically, we see he has an incredibly strong motivation to change, and then he doesn't do it in two episodes.

Damn, how much Amity doesn't fit into the story can be seen by the end of the first season, when we have an awesome important event and the main characters have to risk their lives to rescue Ida from captivity. And Amity did it in this fucking important episode in the finale... absolutely nothing. A few episodes before that, we were shown how Amity falls in love with Luz, worries about Luz, is already crazy about Luz, but when Luz risks his life in the center of events, Amity just lies at home with his injured leg and watches everything on magic TV. Like, seriously, man?? They didn't even bother to put it in the plot. Logically, she should be one of the main characters, but in fact she looks like a typical cardboard "girlfriend of the main character", like helpless half-naked girls from films about some Indiana Jones (I have nothing against Indiana, but the girls of gg in those days were really mostly cardboard in the background). In the following seasons, there is a place for Amity, but it doesn't get any better - she continues to look cardboard, a girl who can only scream about her love for Luz. Who gave up all her goals for the sake of Loot, but she didn't come up with new ones, and now her whole life revolves around Luz, while Luz, like gg, quietly lives her life and solves her problems. In the last episode, she has a job, she succeeded her father and works with abominations, but kamon, did it ever mention before the third season that she wants to take over his profession?? No. Starting dating Luz, she loses her personality, and all that remains of her is the delight at the sight of Luz and perfectly correct conscientious decisions, which do not go well with the image of Amity from the first series.

And it's impossible to call it Amity hate, because if you hate, then who exactly? We have three completely unrelated witches: The arrogant bully Amity, the kind Amity, Who Suffered From Evil Parents/Friends'/"Substitute An Excuse" and finally A Madly In Love Amity Without Her Own Goals And Principles. Which one of them to focus on, speaking of the image of Amity, is not in my heart. And yes, it's kind of sad to realize that at the beginning of the first season, Amity had a normal image that had chances for good development, a gradual realization that she treats people incorrectly, a GRADUAL transformation from a spoiled pest into a good friend for Luz and company, into a good secondary character. Even with falling in love with Luz, it was possible to do something interesting - to show how Amity rushes between two fires, tries to date Luz without quarreling with her family, wants to combine an affair with Luz and joining the imperial coven, eventually realizes that this is a failed idea and suffers from having to quit either a family and a dream, or a loved one... And as a result, all the potential was poured into the toilet for the hyper-accelerated development of a "serious romance for life" between two 14-year-olds. And Amity just follows Luz like a goat on a string, completely changing her life and her personality for the sake of a man she has known for less than three months. Yeah, very plausible.

#the owl house #toh #unpopular opinion #toh criticism #toh critical #Anti amity blight #Wish she was written better #anti lumity #If ut counts bc it's one of the reasons I dislike it

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konigbabe · 1 year

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little storm (part ii; hit and run)

Author: @konigbabe

Pairing: Keegan Russ x fem!OC

Word count: 4.2k

Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort; canon-typical violence; medical inaccuracies; military inaccuracies; violence; injuries; gunshot wounds; explicit language; keegan calls OC 'kid'; canon compliant; pre-canon; eventual smut [in the final part]

Summary: Keegan thought saving her and getting both of them out of the enemy lines was nothing but an easy job; that was before her true character shows up—and before the plan goes crumbling down.

masterlist • faq • AO3

little storm: part i • part iii [final]

He’s rarely worked with anyone outside Ghosts, outside his team, his family, and seeing this woman, so adamant to finish the task—to him, it’s like watching two sides of the moon; day and night.

Keegan strides in front of her. Casual as ever, his head occasionally turning to the side—to look around, to survey the environment. To look at her. Make sure she’s keeping up; though she tries to hide it, he’s aware of her pain, the discomfort her back’s causing her (even if she herself seems not to be).

“I’d say my luck walked out the door.”

The skull mask now replaced by a simple white balaclava, she still feels a tinge of disappointment that Keegan managed to change his face protection in a moment when she wasn't looking.

It’s been at least another hour; sixty minutes since they left the safehouse, got rid of any evidence pointing at them, and headed north. There isn’t much guarantee that Keegan’s intel is solid but they don’t really have a choice.

The white camouflage uniform allows them to blend with their environment with ease. Calculated steps, well-thought moves as they silently creep up the hostile surroundings; the enemy line searing their skin with invisible scars. The two of them heavily armed with lethal combat expertise as they advance, their weapons and determination like a shield against the danger that awaits them.

The eerie silence feels oppressive, almost like a heavy weight pressing down on her; the only sounds that break the stillness are the occasional howls of an owl, a twig snapping under their boots, and the light crunch of snow beneath their feet. The silence was unnerving, yet strangely comforting, like a reminder that all is safe in the darkness of the night, at least for her it’s been like that for some time.

Keegan’s steps halt the moment a tower comes into her view. Its height shooting to the sky, two black dots visible even to the naked eye thanks to the light emitting from the inside of the building. Three more guards walk underneath, all dressed in the same camo clothes as she and Keegan. Two storage facilities are lightened up by improvisatory street lamps; more soldiers walk in and out of the facilities, relaxed and visibly unbothered by the chilly weather. A fence wall surrounds the temporary compound; it’s small, smaller than she was expecting—still the foreign soldiers outnumber the two of them by way too much.

“Two armed guards at the parking lot,” Keegan’s voice is slow, casual as he peers through the scope, studying the guards, who stand like sentinels, their uniforms as immaculate as their weapons.

It’s when she follows his lead, the rifle's scope an extension of her eyes, that she notices the problem, “The parking lot is too far from the entrance,” she says. The parking lot is too far from the entrance, a great expanse of asphalt, a desert of distance between them and their goal.

And Keegan nods. He’s noticed it too, years of practice and experience written all over his maneuverism, the way he holds his weapons; with precision, softness as if he’s cradling a delicate porcelain object. Careful and meticulous while handling his own.

“We’ll breach by the entrance and make our way towards the vehicles,” he speaks, commands even with how stoic his tone sounds, “casual and calm.”

“Let’s make it quick,” she announces, securing her rifle behind her shoulder. There’s an uncanny excitement within her, and Keegan can feel it too. He’s rarely worked with anyone outside Ghosts, outside his team, his family, and seeing this woman, so adamant to finish the task—to him, it’s like watching two sides of the moon; day and night.

Once in the field, everything changes for her and having Keegan, someone more experienced, more accustomed to this, she feels a sense of duty to impress him; she wants to impress him. Needs to impress him.

Two fingers up in the air, a victory sign of sorts, she looks at Keegan’s confused look, “this means I’ve got it, ‘kay?”

“Why are you showing it to me?”

“Dunno,” she reveals, “it’s something we used to do in my old squad. You’re not really allowed to talk much on the field, have to stay quiet, so we would always show each other this sign to let them know that we don’t need any help; that we got it.”

He follows her. Steps quick and elegant, she waltzes to the side of the fence hidden in the darkness of the night, of her time. Keegan keeps his eyes on her form. Mesmerized by the way she carries herself; softness in her eyes, calming and carrying, but her stance flexed, ready to attack, fingers dancing around the apex of her thighs, close to her weapons.

She stops by a set of Jersey barriers with Keegan making his way in front of her. Close to the open gate, two guards situated on each side—her heart burning inside her chest, the adrenaline pumping in her veins.

“Stay behind me, kid,” Keegan turns to her, eyes wandering upon her expressionless face. She’s ready; more than that, she’s actually excited. It’s the pump of her heart, strong and steady, drops of sweat sliding down her covered temple, the white balaclava only allowing the skin around her eyes to breathe. Eyes wide, taking in the scenery before her.

Keegan gets up, adjusting his clothes, and walks toward the unsuspecting guard with her in pursuit. Walking by the windows, she can see the cameras, showing each and every corner of the compound and its surroundings, a man at the desk, playing on his phone, not a single ounce of attention on her and the Ghost.

The others notice them immediately, emerging from the shadows, dressed in the united uniform, with their weapons on Keegan’s shoulders and her thighs. To the unsuspecting eye, they do belong. Even the guards throw them a side eye in the beginning, Keegan’s broad form covering her smaller one. She remains in his shadow, letting him lead the way, keeping an eye on the computers.

With a quick flick of his wrist, the Ghost sends her inside the gatehouse as he struts to the guards. She walks with a sense of calmness inside her, greets the soldier who only hums in response. Too easy, she sighs, too dumb.

Keegan talks to the other two as she looks at them, fingers dancing along the edge of her knife, tucked safely in the holster on her thigh. She knows there’s no other way—at least not for entrance. The plan itself is faulty, and she still remembers her old captain’s words: “Nothing ever goes according to plan.”

She has a plan of her own.

Her eyes lock with one of the guards outside as the three men talk amongst each other, Keegan’s gentle Spanish mingling with the winter air. He speaks with equanimity, composure. With precision to each word. As he does with everything, she noticed before.

The guard to Keegan’s right watches her, noticing the differences in her form, the way her hips swayed as she walked inside the gatehouse, the curves; and he knows—being deprived of the attention of a woman, he can tell one when he sees one; even if covered head-to-toe in his people’s uniform. Looking back at the man that came with her, every second starts to count.

It’s the way her fingers curl over the handle of her knife, gloved hand gripping the leather handle, heartbeat picking up and adrenaline running through her veins like liquid lava that sends her on autopilot. Watching Keegan widen his step, these micro-movements that would escape even a trained eye if they weren’t looking for it; for any signs of imminent danger.

One hand swinging toward the guard’s Adam’s apple, blunt force against his larynx, Keegan’s moves are swift, calculated. Premeditated. And so are hers—unsheathing the knife from its holster, the guard sitting with his back toward her doesn’t stand a chance. The knife plunges into the side of his neck, the blade wedged right between the muscle and the bone, she can feel it scrape the hard tissue before pulling the knife out. Senses on high alert, hand catching the surprised yelp of the dying guard, her eyes move to Keegan once again; knife in hand, blood dripping from its blade, copying her own, he stands over the two bodies, red pooling underneath as he turns to look at her.

Sharing a reassuring nod, she helps him drag the bodies into the gatehouse. An unwanted familiar ache spread through her side and back as she strains the muscle, feeling the aftermath of the events that happened earlier in the day.

“We need to get to the cars before they find the bodies,” Keegan says; commands her. Making her way to the computer screens, she watches the guards—walking the routine path around the parking lot, rifles in hands, faces hidden underneath the plain white balaclavas, the same ones covering her and Keegan’s faces. The man stands next to her; she feels the way his arm presses against her, the hard muscle meeting with the soft tissue of her biceps while she remains bent over the now empty chair, studying the route. Keegan waits patiently for her, eyes subconsciously following the way her shoulderblades tend to stick out as she arches her back, body looking for a comfortable way to escape the itchy material of the uniform; to find relief from the ache of her back, the same ache he helped soothe hours ago.

“Got anything, kid,” he asks, making her look at him. Eyes hidden underneath the black glasses, she sees her own reflection in him; face covered by the white material, it’s itchy, making it hard to breathe. Putting her very own glasses off, her eyes follow the curve of her face, seeing a velvet splash on the side of her cheek. The guard’s blood painted her mask as if to mark her victory, even if all this was just the beginning.

“A possible route,” she motions to the screens. Using the computer mouse, she swipes the cameras to get a clear view of the whole path toward the parking lot, Keegan’s hand resting right beside her on the table as he watches her movements.

With her finger on the screen, she points at two guards heading their way.

“We need to go through these two. After that, we circle around the HQ. There’s a road heading straight to the vehicles, and no guards except those stationed directly at the parking lot. We take care of those, get a car and get the fuck outta here.”

Nodding, Keegan heads to the door, bloodied knife firmly grasped in his hand; he waits for his companion, the woman following shortly behind. Glasses left on the table, she adjusts the holster on her thigh.

From now on, it’s now or never. A simple hit and run.

Heartbeat ringing in her ears, she feels her every breath—the way her lungs expand with each inhale, flooding her blood with oxygen, and shrink with each exhale. It’s calculated, deliberate, purposeful; just like her every step. Staying on the pavement, avoiding unnecessary noise, heels digging into Keegan’s steps.

The biting chill of the air seeps through the fabric of her uniform, causing goosebumps to rise on her soft skin. Eyes glossy, her nose is starting to run. Mouth slightly opened, she struggles to inhale air that is warm enough to not sting her throat. It stings, biting at the soft gummy tissue of her trachea.

One foot after another.

Passing the guards is simpler than they both expected; too engrossed in their foreign heated conversations, all they see are the uniforms. White camouflage. One of theirs. Had the guards looked up, they would have noticed the blood staining their white masks. The red smears on her right arm and Keegan's upper body. But luck is on her and Keegan’s side today…

…to an extent.

The droplets escaped her attention before; she was concentrating on not getting noticed. But now, with her eyes on the Ghost, she takes notice—the red, thick liquid dripping from the tip of his fingers. Gloves off, another thing she failed to take notice of.

Frustration seers through her. Catching up with the man, matching his long strides with her shorter, swifter ones, her fingertips curl around his wrist. The quiet gesture doesn’t go unnoticed as he shoots her a disapproving look—they’re outside, without cover and she’s well aware of the danger her gesture could cause if seen by the enemy forces. The palm of his hand feels dry, rough against the chilled flesh of her fingertips. Her palm barely covers the length of his fingers; still, he lets her. Gently tugging his arm toward her, his eyes follow their route. No time for stopping.

The cut itself, hidden underneath the white and grey sleeve, doesn’t seem too deep. The chilly air cooling Keegan’s heated wound, adding a sense of comfort to his adrenaline-pumped body. They don’t exchange any words—they don’t need to. She knows that he’s aware of her disapproval of his decision not to tell, but at the same time, she knows that nothing would’ve changed. It comes with the job after all.

“You’re not hurt any—”

“No, kid,” he meets her halfway, “I’m fine. We’re almost there.”

Her eyes, boring into his glasses, turn to the front as he drops his hand from her grasp. A few feet from them, the guards walk along the edge of the pavement, not truly noticing the two intruders about to close in on their perimeter.

She can feel relief slowly creeping into her heart, like a runner entering their finish line. Pulse picking its tempo, her eyes lock on the vehicles. Keegan remains by her side, slowly but steadily taking her six; feeling the guards’ eyes at the back of his head, he’s aware that nothing is truly over until they cross the enemy lines until he gets them to the extraction point. The distance between him and her widens, inch after inch, he feels dread crawling up his arms, the feeling unnerving.

Multiple jeeps line up before them. Turning to her side, she takes notice of Keegan’s position—his head lulling to the side; not able to see his eyes, she’s sure he keeps watching the guards. One watches the other one, their attention is now on Keegan as well. Like a battle of stares, she knows they can’t really see the blood dripping from the Ghost’s arm or her mask stained in burgundy.

“Keep movin’,” Keegan’s voice is steady; so is his stance.

A loud blare of a siren.

“Fuck.”

“Run, kid.” He doesn’t scream it, rather opting to remain calm, deliberate. Demanding her full attention.

The muscles in her legs strain, back stinging in uncomfortable pain as she takes off, Keegan’s words echoing in her head like a cloud of haze; “Run, kid.” “Run, kid.” “Run.” Screams of orders, Spanish flies around her. It’s the sound of the loud bang that makes her upper body twist. Like fireworks, earsplitting blasts, the familiarity of it all rings in her ears. Keegan’s moved while she’s been running—now stationed behind the closest jeep, rifle in hand, his finger keeps pressing the trigger as he bends over the hood.

An invisible force pushes her forward, palm hitting the passenger’s door of a jeep. Red circles decorate the abalone grey of the car. Steadying her stance, her eyes fly to her own arm; the material of the uniform ripped at her elbow, the ruby red seeps into the nylon and cotton fabric. A hiss followed by a fuck escapes from underneath her mask. Twisting the car handle, she scutters inside, frantically opening the compartment before reaching the sun visor, the keys falling right into her bloodied and gloved hand.

The sound of the shooting never stops—she turns to open the door again just enough to scream for Keegan to hurry up. It’s that moment, the sound of her distressed voice, the split second when he twists his head to the side, just a little bit, eyes still on the guards running toward him. He stands up, body on high alert as a bullet makes contact, sending him to the ground with a shocked grunt.

He doesn’t feel the pain but his hand, flying to his side, gets covered in the crimson paint the second it touches his exposed flesh.

She screams his name in a blood-curdling matter, feels her blood drain from her face, the rational side of her brain shutting down as she jumps out of the car. Legs screaming in pain, the wound on her arm throbbing, head thoughtless; she runs. Sprints toward the Ghost, now using his elbows as leverage as he remains active, rifle aimed and shooting as blood stains the asphalt underneath him.

“Dammit, Keegan,” she hisses, throwing his arm around her shoulder. His other arm remains extended, expertly handling the rifle, providing cover as he allows the woman to help him. Undoing the safety on her gun, she grits her teeth as pain shoots up her wounded arm, the same arm that’s gripping the weapon, and she aims it. Frantically trying to stay on her legs, with the Ghost on her side, she keeps pulling the trigger—and he sees her, sees the determination in her moves, the look of a cornered wild animal that chose fight over flight, the storm in her eyes.

They move in unison, shooting repeatedly, dropping the hostiles as they move backward.

She leads him to the passenger’s seat.

He fights her over the driver’s seat.

She wins in the end.

Turning the ignition on, Keegan holds his side. The adrenaline covers the pain—for now but he knows what’s coming for him when it all wears out. Turning to look at her, he watches as her hand clutches the steering wheel, the other one gripping the gear shift, frenziedly changing the gear, basically drifting on the thin iced road with bullets digging into the car’s body, surely aiming at the wheels.

His blood stains her upper uniform, unaware that not all of the crimson red came from his body.

Hecticity engulfs her being as she hurtles through the compound, her foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor. Heart racing, adrenaline pumping through her veins; Keegan’s beside her, his hand pressed against the oozing wound on his abdomen. Her eyes keep flickering to his hunched form, attention torn between the awaiting enemy forces and the Ghost’s wellbeing. The air is thick with tension as her mind is filled with vivid images of what could be.

“Did the bullet go through?”

She can’t stop thinking about it; zig-zagging through the winding paths like a butterfly navigating a flowery meadow. Sweat dripping down her back, palms slick with perspiration, she knows that she has to stay vigilant and focused—her and Keegan's lives depend on it.

He sighs with a yes, ripping the foggy glasses from his face, the balaclava still tightly clung to his face while she, with a few swift tugs, rips the itchy material off her head, hair cascading around her face like a halo, the rubber band breaking with her jerky movements.

The gate in front of her starts closing as she drives onto the entry road, toward the same guardhouse they cleared on their way in—now swarming with at least a dozen men, weapons ready in their trained hands, aiming straight at the jeep. Dread fills her aching and bleeding body; if they manage to hit the wheels, it was all for nothing.

“Hold on.”

She isn't sure if the words were meant for her or Keegan, the sound of them slipping past her tight lips barely above a whisper. Fingers curling around the steering wheel, the force of the vehicle pushes her back into the seat like a comforting embrace. The way her heart thumps in her chest, strong and probably faster than the engine underneath them, a whirl of feelings course through her as her gaze remains fixed on the road ahead.

It’s when somehow, by a miracle or her driving skills (she doesn’t really know nor care), they drive past the flying bullets and the line of hostiles, that she releases a breath she’s been holding for a while now. Eyes shooting to Keegan’s quiet form, she watches him—eyes open, the skin around his eyes is rosy, glossy, signs of heat present as he navigates her to the exfil.

Hours pass by; that’s what it feels in her mind, even when it’s been less than an hour—she never took the foot from the gas, speeding through the road in the woods, only stopping when he tells her to. Hands pressing onto the bleeding wound, her fingers dip inside, nails scratching the open wound, resulting in a painful moan from the man and a shit, sorry from her.

When the chopper arrives and lands, doors to the car opening, she feels hands on her; gripping her, tearing her from Keegan. They’re trying to talk to her, demanding her name, unit, rank, anything to ID her. Except for those with red crosses over their arms, all eyes are on her but her eyes never leave Keegan.

The machine’s steady beeping wakes Keegan from his slumber. With a heaving groan, he tries to roll on his side, only to be stopped by a tug on his arm—in his arm; the IV securing him to the spot. Blinking away the blur once, twice, three times, his gaze follows the woman in white, facing him sideways as if not to look at him.

Feeling of familiarity falls over his worn-out form, recognition spreading through his numb system. The same hair that created a halo around her head back in the jeep, the same determined, wild look in her eyes; now narrowed, concentrating on the piece of paper in her hands, no longer frost-bitten. He watches as she takes the end of the pen between her teeth, biting on it slightly.

“You’re a medic, now?” his voice is rough, throat feeling like sandpaper as his mind forces the words out.

She looks up, a gentle smile forming on her face; she looks different than she did before, relaxed, mellowed. Content to be here, yet her eyes never turn to him, and somehow, a pang of disappointment aches in his heart, now beating steady and stronger than when he was still bleeding out onto his own hand.

“If you don’t blow my cover,” there’s an unusual softness in her voice, “then yes, Mr. Russ. I’m a doctor; your doctor.”

Mr. Russ…

“Since when,” he plays along, slightly entertained by her wit.

“Since,” she looks at the clock on the wall, “like twenty minutes ago. But don’t worry, I never looked at you. The guys that got us,” she motions to the door as if they’re standing there, “they demanded you get one of those screens. Apparently,” she puts the chart down, “you’re a big deal, sergeant Russ.”

“Also,” she continues, “you’re taller than I thought; and younger.”

It requires every ounce of her determination not to turn her head and look at him; the curiosity bubbling inside her is almost too much to bear. She’s aware that all she has to do is turn her head a few degrees to her right and she’ll finally be able to catch a glimpse of his face—but she never does it. Her self-control is a wall, a barrier she can't let herself cross.

No photo in his chart, nothing that she might be able to use against him if needed later on.

“Keegan,” he huffs out his name; a demand, correction for her.

His eyes follow the length of her body and to his slight delight, she seems to be in much better condition than he is; the healthy glow radiating from her posture.

As if she can intuitively sense his concern, she silences his worries, “don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m a tough cookie—unlike you; you’re more of a donut, y’know, ‘cus you have a hole in the middle—never mind.”

His beaten face creases into an amused smile, something she might never be able to witness, even at this moment with him by her side.

“You’re a terrible driver, kid, y’know that?” he keeps his eyes fixated on the side of her face, noticing the small scratches that she’s been carrying since the takedown.

“Did you notice that whenever you speak to me, and it’s not an order, you just tend to straight-up insult me? I just came to say goodbye and all I get is another insult and to my driving skills of all the things.”

The door swings open with a creak, making both soldiers turn to face the elder man who strides through the doorway; Keegan's doctor, his official doctor. She stands there like a deer caught in the beam of headlights.

“You’re leaving?” Keegan’s voice is laced with concern, unbothered by the doctor's attempts to usher her out.

“My team’s KIA,” it’s amusing to watch her fight the doctor while keeping up a conversation with the Ghost, “they’re transferring me to another unit somewhere southeast, near Florida. I’m leaving, ‘kay, no need to push me,” she hisses at the doctor.

It’s when his eyes lose sight of her after she closes the door that he finally looks at the doctor now examining his chart, eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he reads over the doodles written rather recently.

“You’re lucky you are alive, young man,” the man turns to Keegan, eyes surveying the soldier’s face with the chart resting on his hipbone.

“I’d say my luck walked out the door.”

[part iii; finale]

#keegan russ x reader #keegan russ x you #keegan russ #keegan russ x oc #cod #cod x reader #codghosts #keegan cod #cod keegan russ #call of duty ghosts #keegan call of duty #ghosts #moni writes #keegan x kali #kali

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edoro · 2 years

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Also when do they get teleported out of belos' mind cause I assumed that it was when babybel was summoning the palisman souls, when Luz grabbed him she just didn't let go so she and Hunter scream for Eda to take them out and luckily she could but Luz didn't let go of babybel when grabbing Hunter so now Hunter knows the truth (probably still going to have his panic attack sadly :( ), but Luz realizes that she also brought the 'kid' with her. Now to think about it wouldn't babybel kinda be out of it for a while, since the form came from the dream realm so his body is literally trying to exist.

this is one of the questions i am trying to answer for myself! because when they get taken out really changes some things - well, mostly it changes what i think Hunter's attitude towards Babybel and the whole situation is.

so i'm considering it in terms of those three memories - the staged 'wild witch' attack, the first attempt at coven sigils, and the Collector conversation post-Eclipse Lake.

they should definitely, i think, see at least the first one. i want Hunter's perception of Belos to be shaken for sure, and for him to be confused and uneasy about the previous Golden Guard(s). he knows he isn't the first, but they didn't just have the same rank - they sounded exactly like him! and he clearly noticed.

the more i think about it, the more i feel like my sweet spot here is after the coven sigil attempt memory?

it gives Luz enough info that Owl Team more or less knows what Belos is planning (genocide) although she doesn't have the context of why (witch hunter), and it's something that Hunter can't actually excuse - he was trying, but in the end the best he could do was 'well maybe i'm completely wrong about everything i know to be true', which is not solid grounds for long-term denial.

so Luz has her confirmation of Belos's plans that she can tell Eda and Lilith, while still leaving room for her to realize/find out that Babybel is a human and therefore Philip in the way i outlined in this post

and Hunter also has all of these doubts and fears - suddenly Belos isn't the harsh-but-fair benevolent Emperor who is leading the Boiling Isles into a utopia, but a liar and a manipulator who's been hurting and killing people for a very long time and is clearly trying to do it on a mass scale.

Hunter can say he was 'just perfecting sigil magic' (he's not even wrong!) but they both heard Belos say those witches still being alive meant he had more work to do. and there was that Guard - same voice, slightly different clothes, but we don't know how much time passed between those memories, so it could still be the same guy under the mask.

but there's that seed of doubt there too, that little nagging sense of existential horror. who is that? is that his uncle's brother - his own father? a son he never knew Belos had? is that the same Guard who was Darius's mentor? how many of them have there been? what happened to them? who were they?

so i think cutting it off there, between that one and the scene with the Collector, puts Hunter in an interesting place. his faith in Belos has been badly bruised and his sense of self and purpose suddenly taken away. he can't deny that whatever Belos is planning, it's bad, or that he's been complicit in it. he can't deny that Belos has been lying to everyone, including him, for a very long time. and he doesn't know what's up with those other Golden Guards, but there isn't a non-horrifying answer, really.

however, his perception of Belos hasn't been completely shattered, nor has it been revealed to him that he's just the latest in a long line of murdered clones. he doesn't know that the 'Titan's plans' for him are just a lie Belos uses to make him easier to manipulate.

he knows he's seen things he wasn't supposed to see, but he's still loyal. he doesn't know that previous Golden Guards have been killed for 'betraying' Belos. he doesn't know that he's just a replaceable object to Belos. he's hurt and betrayed and scared and confused, he isn't sure what his place is anymore, he isn't sure if he can or wants to go back to the castle, he doesn't want to help Belos bring about the Day of Unity anymore, and the residents of the Owl House definitely aren't going to let him take Babybel back

but i think that because those crucial revelations have been withheld from him, it means that he might fall back on his position as his uncle's caretaker when he's faced with Babybel. with almost everything he thought he knew turned on its head, he might cling onto what feels familiar.

his relationship with his uncle has been forever changed, but by taking care of Babybel the way he used to take care of Emperor Belos, he can still have some vestige of a relationship - a simpler one, even, where he doesn't have to fear being hurt, where he can care for and love this man who he's spent his life serving without suffering for it.

which also sets him up for Babybel to be able to try to manipulate him into helping him back to the castle and into his adult body. normally he would get rid of Hunter after what Hunter saw and just make another one, but he really doesn't have time, and right now he can't give up such a powerful ally

(of course, he'll have to play his cards right - Hunter doesn't trust the real him anymore, and similarly to Luz, sees his child self as kind of a do-over. he can't just reveal it right away, but he's going to have to manage Hunter's wounded expectations and sense of betrayal from being strung along and lied to when he does, so he's going to need to have Hunter wrapped very firmly back around his nasty little fingers, or else find some way of convincing Hunter to take him back to the castle without actually revealing that he's For Real Belos)

it seems like Hunter really wants to find a way to be loyal, so who is Belos to deny him that? at the very least, he can try to play on Hunter's loyalty and love for him to get back to the castle so he can continue with his plan, and then figure out what to do with Hunter from there. maybe this one is salvageable. maybe this one will finally turn out right. maybe this one is the version of Caleb who loves him more than anything else.

#emperor belos #hunter toh #babybel au #babybel in the physical realm what crimes will he commit #asks #toh spoilers #the owl house

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ordinaryschmuck · 2 years

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What I Thought About "Follies at the Coven Day Parade" from The Owl House

Salutations, random people on the internet who most likely won't read this! I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

AND IT'S BACK! After six months, Disney's latest hit that they shunned, called The Owl House, has made its return! And the fandom lost their gosh dang minds while waiting for it! It's not like we could have watched other shows to fill the void in the next six months. No, no. People had to add more Hootys to the Owl House, adding more scars to Hunter's face, bald Annes, LEGO Edas, and this one dumb schmuck who thought he could write a drabble a day during his fourth year of college (Seriously, what was I thinking).

Not to mention the dozens of people who shipped Hunter with everything but the kitchen sink.

And there's the f**king sink. Gosh dangit. WHY COULDN'T HUNTER HAVE BEEN THE ONE CONFIRMED TO BE AROMANTIC?! And why did I have to draw that?

Whatever. The series is back, and now we don't have to rely on MoringMark to keep us sane in its absence. Now, with that said, let's see how "Follies At the Coven Day Parade" reintroduces us to the sadder side of Season 2!

...Yup. This half of the season's the sadder half. Might explain a lot about what happens in this episode, doesn’t it?

Spoilers below.

WHAT I LIKED

Luz Making Another Video for Camila: A solid way to start after how we left things off in "Yesterday's Lie" while also showing Luz's motivation for this episode...and maybe the rest of the season. The first time Luz made a video for Camila, I think there's a reason why she deliberately chose to stick around the Owl House and show off the people inside. And we see that reason here. Luz may not mind the day-to-day wackiness of the Boiling Isles, but she knows Camila will have a heart attack if she sees what happens to a student who gets detention. The fact that Luz probably getting detention a lot back in the human realm might not do much to ail Camila from said heart attack.

Also, Hooty shedding his skin to wash it or something will undoubtedly give anyone nightmares, let alone Camila.

Still, this was a nice way to begin the second half of a season. It continues from the events of "Yesterday's Lie" while showing Luz has to try harder to convince her mom to let her stay. Or at least visit the Boiling Isles.

The Kids Theorizing About Why Belos Wears a Mask: There are two things to love from this.

One, this shows just how much these kids are, well, kids. They're goofing off, coming up with crackpot theories about what Belos has under his mask, with only Amity being the closest because, of course, she is. She deals with what's more likely, not what's more fun.

And two, this actually comes into play later when Belos actually reveals his face. Don't worry, I'll get into that. For now, I just want to allow us all the time to appreciate how well-tight this series and its script are. Something as simple as kids shooting the s**t turns out to be an integral moment of foreshadowing, and I loved how easily it went over my head. Yeah, that's right. A kids' show managed to have a solid use of foreshadowing in a way that surprised this grown adult. Granted, I'm a person who ate a crayon when he was eight, but the point still stands: These writers know how to tell a good story.

Amity Learning Spanish: These writers also know EXACTLY WHAT THE FANS WANT! Seriously, I cannot begin to explain to you how precious it is that Amity is learning Spanish for Luz! It shows how committed Amity is to the relationship, where she wants to find out as much of Luz's culture as is available to her. And that's everything a ride or die Lumity shipper like myself could ever hope for!

Plus, she calls Luz a sweet potato! COME ON! COME ON!

Luz Kisses Amity on the Cheek: COME! ON!

I'm telling you, we're one Lumity episode away from a full-on kiss on the lips. And when that happens, prepare for all social media sites to snap like a twig!

Eda and King Know About the Promise: On the one hand, I would have loved to see Luz tell Eda and King rather than having that confrontation off-screen, especially when Luz directly lied to them the second she got back. BUT, on the other hand, I am so glad that Luz isn't keeping this big promise she made a secret from the people she loves. Lesser writers would milk that type of thing for unnecessary drama, and I'm glad that Dana Terrace and her talented team are above that. Granted, Luz still keeps the secret from her friends and Amity. But even that doesn't last long.

Besides, it shows how much Luz cares for Eda and King for them to be the first to know the truth. They're practically a second family to her. The least Luz could do is tell them something that could potentially jeopardize it. So, not only is telling Eda and King the truth a great moment of dodging a cliche, but it also shows a great deal about their relationship.

Luz’s Reaction to Raine: On the topic of relationships, can we admit that we're all Luz here? She's a die-hard shipper like the rest of us. So, of course, she'd be obsessed with the idea that Eda once had an ex. One that Eda had a spy keep tabs on...which is a tad bit creepy, but at least it paid off on knowing what happened to Raine after that fight with Darius and Ebberwolf.

And Luz is all there for the idea of bringing Eda and Raine together. Which, yeah, that's adorable. But it also shows a lot more about how much Luz cares about Eda. She wants a mentor to find happiness and would do anything to give her that. Especially if that means partaking in a kidnapping.

Why Luz Wants to Help Kikimora: But it's not just shipping that motivates Luz. When she sees Kikimora worried about not seeing her family again, you can see in Luz's expression how badly she connects with it. Luz wants a solution where everyone is happy, getting an ending where she can get everything that she wants. Luz might have trusted Kikimora too much, but you understand why. She's pretty much on panic mode 100% of the time, thanks to her promise with Camila, having only the briefest of pauses to worry about someone she loves. It's really heavy to think about, making you feel for Luz so hard.

Man, I wish there was a moment of levity, so I didn't have to think about how bad Luz is hurting...

Edric Selling Fireworks: ...This will do.

I consider this another moment of the writers knowing what the fans want. And Edric selling illegal fireworks that got his dumb ass in the hospital for testing out? Yeah, that's about a lot I could ask for from him.

Willow Working Out: Again, THESE WRITERS KNOW WHAT WE WANT! Ever since Dana confirmed that Willow works out on the weekends, fans clung onto that like a life preserver in a sinking ship! So, I'm betting that it's great to see visual confirmation rather than just taking Dana's word for it. It also adds an extra 'screw you' to any jerks left who thought that Willow was fat. She's not. She's buff as FU--

Amity and Willow’s Talk: --UDGE, do I adore this scene! This season needed another Willow and Amity one-on-one session, and the writers delivered. Amity, who is beyond worried for her girlfriend, goes to the one person she can vent these feelings to. Willow listens, offers advice, and even provides a distraction for Amity to focus on (while also explaining why Willow's hair is different in the promos. Cool). But I want to focus more on...a certain reaction from Willow.

When Amity admitted that she was glad they could do things like talk and braid hair again, I believed her. However, note how Willow doesn't say, "me too." She just hums and lets Amity continue the braiding. Heck, Willow doesn't even look as happy as Amity does. Willow just looks down with...not a frown, but a smile either. It's more like acceptance. Willow accepts Amity, willing to let her have this moment even if Willow herself isn't exactly comfortable. It speaks volumes about Willow as a character and her relationship with Amity. She's still not willing to forgive and forget just yet (yet being the key-word there), but she isn't going to let Amity suffer. That's not who Willow is. She's the type of person to act better than to let a grudge define her. And that's just wholesome.

Terra Snap-Dragon: But enough about wholesomeness. Let's talk about the latest villain added to this show's roster, whom the fandom will undoubtedly turn into a GILF. I'M CALLING IT NOW!

To be honest with you all, Terra Terra-fies me! Ha! Puns to hide the fear.

But, no, seriously, something is unsettling about this woman. She's one of those "nice" types of villains. She doesn't act malicious (for the most part) as she moves and speaks with a kind and caring smile. A smile that's fake as f**k, but at least she uses it to hide her heinous actions, making them seem not as bad as they would have been. Oh, Terra's still bad, don't get me wrong. But she could have done much worse. For instance, she could have killed Raine. But instead, she drugs them, making Raine still alive and well. Just...not without their core memories. It's sick and twisted, but at least it's drugging Raine instead of lobotomizing them, making Raine a shell of a person they once were.

Still, with how easily Terra could have crushed Luz without Amity's interference or how quickly Terra dealt with Kikimora and Princess, it is clear that Terra is NOT a person you want to mess with. She may try to act nice at first. But if you get on your bad side, pray that she'll show mercy to you.

Raine: And trust me, it's weird to consider what happened to Raine as merciful. Because, as I said, they're still the same Raine. They act caring enough to talk to Kikimora about her nerves, crack a few jokes, and still have stage fright when the center of attention. It's just their memories are changed, and that's almost worse than being held prisoner in...whatever the hell that coven brand wrapped them in. But, at the same time, it's a preferable position. Eda just needs to reach out and grab that part of Raine that still remembers who they are. We already see evidence that the effects of Terra's drug are possible to fight off and that their feelings for Eda are almost enough to do it. They still let Eda go after the fight, not wanting her to get caught and shedding a tear when she leaves. It shows a sign that the real Raine is still there. But, as is, they're a shadow of their former selves. And that idea is enough to break anyone's heart, including Eda's, who only leaves because she has no choice.

Yeesh, things got heavy again. Can we have another moment of levity?

Hooty and King’s Escape: Thank you.

Yeah, this was funny. Seeing these coven guards run away in fear of a float of Belos is just comedy that writes itself.

Amity Helping Luz: You love to see an awesome girlfriend in action.

Personally, I love that, despite her issues, Amity is still there for Luz and doesn't bring up the video until after the crisis is over. It shows that she understands a little something known as priorities, trusting that they'll talk about it when the time is right.

Luz and Amity vs Kikimora: But as cool as it is to see one awesome girlfriend in action, two is even better!

Seeing Luz and Amity work together in a fight is, ONCE AGAIN, everything a fan like me could want! The way they move in unison, come up with power-moves and hold each other's hands when things get too intense is...PERFECT! It's a perfect moment that goes on just long enough to make their fight against a well-trained witch and her dragon believable while still giving us that epic goodness.

Luz and Amity Talk: Unfortunately, the epicness has to come down sometime.

First, can we all appreciate that Amity never watched the video? Because I sure do. Amity all but crucified Luz for thinking she read Amity's diary. It makes sense how much Amity prioritizes privacy, so she wouldn't cross that line, no matter how badly she might want to. But that doesn't mean she won't confront Luz about it.

When Amity asks Luz about the video, she makes it clear she won't pry but still states that she can't help if Luz won't let her. It's a genuine moment of communication that not a lot of shows take advantage of. Most would let Luz keep the secret indefinitely, hurting Amity more by telling the truth after months of indirectly lying. And it makes me so happy that Luz came clean. Well, sort of. She does admit to Amity what happened with the portal but still hides how upsetting the whole ordeal is. When Amity confronts Luz, she looks away, almost about ready to cry. But when she turns back, Luz is smiling, almost as if to say, "Yeah, my life is beyond confusing at the moment, but I'm fine!" Except that she's not fine. She looks about ready to throw up from her anxieties at any second, with one bad day being all she needs to crack and crumble. But she doesn't tell Amity that. Instead, Luz tells Amity what she wanted to know, keeping a brave face for everything else. Amity could through it. We know she can. But ut for the moment, she'll let it pass. For now.

Belos’ Announcement: And from the wholesomeness, we go to the downright malice.

Now, this scene shows what makes Emperor Belos an effective main antagonist. Listen to how he announces the Day of Unity. We know it's bad, and our main cast knows it's bad, but the rest of the Boiling Isles doesn't. And it's all because Belos doesn't present the Day of Unity as something to be feared. He states it as a solution, saying that it will bring them all to a form of utopia. And, to provide a bit of trust to his community, he finally reveals what his face looks like, letting everyone know how badly wild magic may have scarred him and that he's willing to share that with his subjects. His speech and his face reveal are something that proves he's more than just a dictator. He's also a diplomat. One that knows how to work a crowd, hiding his malicious intentions behind nice words and grand gestures to distract them from who he really is. Something that real-life dictators do, and that's what makes Belos an effective threat. He seems plausible to happen.

“We’ll take it one day at a time”: This is a great way to end the episode. Everything is in a state where no one knows what to do or how to fix things. Raine is brainwashed, the Day of Unity is in a month, and Luz still doesn't know what to do with her mom. And yet, they end on this statement, "We'll take it one day at a time." There's a sense of hope to those words. Despite how bad things are now, our characters will get through it. They just need to take it slow and work through each problem as best as they can.

It's not a happy ending, but it's a hopeful one. And I couldn't have asked for a better way to end such a perfect episode...That is, if the episode was perfect.

WHAT I DISLIKED

Kikimora: Yeah...I didn't buy Kikimora wanting to leave the Emperor's Coven for a second. I honestly thought that with how heavy-handed Kikimora was acting, she was actually planning to pull a double-cross. But, no, she really was considering leaving. Which makes no sense. She nearly killed children just to get in Belos' good graces. I sincerely doubt her own family would have been enough to make her reconsider things, considering how quickly she chose against them the second Kikimora realized a promotion was possible. I guess there's no one better to use for an inevitable betrayal against Luz, meaning the real problem isn't how they wrote Kikimora in this episode. It's how they wrote her in the series. If the writers wanted her second thoughts to be believable, show Kikimora being somewhat objecting to ideas made by Belos instead of showing blind loyalty for him. Also, you know, DON'T HAVE HER ALMOST KILL CHILDREN! There is a spark of character development in how she now looks scared to be working for Belos, but her role in this episode still falls short...Even shorter than her.

A-OH! Got her! Haha...but seriously, the writers kind of fumbled this time around.

IN CONCLUSION

I'd say that "Follies at the Coven Day Parade" is an A-. Kikimora might not have been best utilized, but everything else works so well. The episode delivers on everything fans could ever want, presents new character and story developments, and shows why these characters and their relationships are so endearing. It's the best possible way to return to the new season, making me excited and terrified for what's to come next. And given how that's pretty much the theme of Season 2, I'd say "Follies at the Coven Day Parade" did its job right.

(Oh, and I also saw the new episode of Amphibia. It’s a solid mix of being wholesome, awesome, and hilarious. Anne’s parents are still the best, and Mr. X is as entertaining of a villain as he is a competent one. And the ending felt very ominous while leaving me curious to see what happens next. A definite A+ for sure…and, yes, this is how I’m reviewing both shows from now on. Because Disney just HAD to play them both back to back)

(Them sons of witches…)

#the owl house #the owl house spoilers #luz noceda #amity blight #willow park #toh kikimora #raine whispers #terra snap-dragon #raeda #lumity #what i thought about #the owl house review #and a quick review of amphibia #go to the bottom to see it #emperor belos

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teletraan-meets-jarvis · 3 years

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What I Want - Part 2

AO3 Link

Chapter Title: What I Need

Pairing: Crosshair x fem!Jedi Reader

Summary: Following the awkwardness of the night before, you go to an old friend to try and process your feelings for Crosshair.

Click here for Part 1

Warnings: 18+, a bit more frisky business but not full on so rated 18 just to be safe. Swearing.

Word Count: 2.6k

Author’s Notes: You ask, you get!! Thanks so much for all the support and love for part 1 ❤️. As a thank you, I bring you part 2, I hope you enjoy! If this one takes off a bit as well, I do have an idea for a little bonus chapter around the Bad Batches' reaction. As always, feedback/comments are massively appreciated along with reblogs. Fic is below the cut off, thanks for reading!!

Taglist: @aerynwrites @shannon-lynn-21 @saltywintersoldat @tired-night-owl @wille-zarr

A comm alarm beeped softly, slowly pulling you out your slumber. Giving the device a sleepy glare, you shut it off and huffed back onto your bunk. Wrecker’s snores were echoing off the small ship barracks, you rolled your eyes at his sleeping form across the room as you swung your legs over the side of your top bunk. Below you, Tech slept soundly, he managed to fall asleep with his goggles on which were now sitting wonky on his relaxed face. He also had a datapad clutched to his chest, almost like a teddy bear, which made you chuckle to yourself.

You’d barely slept after getting back from the mission but being a General stopping over on Coruscant meant rest would be a pipe dream. Your alarm was set to get you out of bed and ready for the first of what you were sure would be a hundred and ten briefings today. You were always happy to shoulder the politics for the team, removing that burden from Hunter so they could keep to themselves. But today, you could really do without it.

You looked over at Hunter and Crosshair’s bunks, the former sleeping up top with an arm over his eyes. Probably to block out the few small coloured lights on the ship that shone from critical systems, preventing the room from being truly pitch black. You didn’t envy Hunter’s enhanced senses, they seemed to cause him quite a bit of discomfort when they weren’t on missions. You should probably pick him up an eye mask one of these days.

Below him, Crosshair slept with his back to the open room. One of the few times you ever saw his body relaxed was when he slept. You cringed as you remembered yesterday’s awkwardness with the sniper and mentally cursed at yourself for causing, what was, an easily avoidable situation.

Shaking your head you jumped silently off of your bunk, mindful to not wake any of the batch. You gently removed Tech’s goggles, placing them in their usual spot before moving over to grab some fresh robes and head for the fresher. Today was going to be a real drag.

—————————————————

“Hey! Look what the Lothcat dragged in” someone called after you as you trudged up the steps to the GAR Headquarters. You turned around to see none other than Anakin Skywalker jogging up behind you.

“Nice to see you too Skyguy” he chuckled at the nickname as he threw an arm around your shoulders.

You fell into companionable chatter as you made your way to your first meeting, the dark halls of the military headquarters looking indistinguishable as you attempted to find the correct room. Members of the Coruscant Guard patrolled the halls, nodding politely to you both as you strolled past.

Eventually you found the room where Mace, Plo and Luminara were waiting, along with some clone and human high command. You stood outside the door for a moment, readying yourself to seal your fate of being talked at for a solid eight standard hours.

Eventually you caved, mostly as you were on the verge of being late if you debated standing outside any longer. Begrudgingly, you sat through briefing after briefing. All the voices and different rooms blending into one grey blur as you tried to take in what information you could, but your tired and stressed mind was having none of it.

While it was nice to catch up with some of the other Jedi, you always felt a bit out of place among the perfect members of the council. More so now than ever.

You ended up wandering back to the temple with Anakin where you both retired to his room and you flopped down onto his simple bed with a whine.

“Okay, what’s going on? You’ve been off all day” Anakin was the closest thing you had to a brother, you trained as Padawans together and due to your similar age you became fast friends. You knew about his marriage to Padme and decided that if you could offload your dilemma on anyone, it’d be him.

“I fucked up” you groaned out from behind your hands.

“What’d you do?” Anakin replied in a playful tone.

“I might’ve got a bit hot and heavy with one of the clones in my squad, led him on and then cut it off” Anakin raised an eyebrow at your confession. “And now he’s pissed at me”

“Why?” You weren’t entirely sure which part of that entire thing he was questioning.

“Because I started the whole thing, I wanted it. Then all of a sudden I did that whole guilty Jedi, must follow every word of the order thing, gave him some pathetic look which said really sorry I can’t have attachments mate, hope you understand. He called me out on it before I could even utter the banthashit excuse and then he stomped off and hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“In his defence, seems like he was probably wound a little tight” Anakin replied with a chuckle which you just groaned at.

“He has every right to be pissed. Hells, I would be if the roles were reversed. Whats with this whole self-righteous act us Jedi have going on?”

“Look, it’s hard being a Jedi at the best of times. It takes an inhumane amount of self-control, which is why its not a path for the weak. But being a Jedi while at war… it’s a lot. You’re emotions are running high, you’re forming bonds with soldiers on the battlefield that you shouldn’t be, but none of us can help it because it’s uncharted territory. Maker knows I’d hunt down anyone who hurt Obi-Wan or my Captain. Yes, It’s not the Jedi way, but neither is fighting a grand-scale war.” Anakin’s eyes were alive with emotion as he spoke, be he quickly caught himself and then it was gone.

“My point is, don’t beat yourself up so much. No one is getting kicked out the order or in his case reconditioned if that’s what you’re worried about. Figure out what it is you want, and then just be discreet about it” you looked at Anakin like he’d grown two heads, he just winked at your confused stare.

“Okay let’s keep it simple. Are you attracted to him?” You thought back to the night before and firmly nodded in response.

“Do you like him as a person?” You pondered his question.

“Well, it’s Cross. I wasn’t sure if he even liked me for a long time. He’s closed off, anti-social, but he’s also a good guy, cares about his brothers, has saved my ass multiple times, and he is kinda funny in his own, snide way” you rattled off with fondness in your words.

“Well then I suggest you go and talk to him.” Anakin replied, giving you a knowing look when he spotted the small smile on your lips as you spoke about the sniper.

You took a deep breath, glad to have finally gotten that off your chest and feeling content that you now knew what to do next. “Thanks, Ani”

“Ugh please don’t call me that” he moaned back, apparently only Padme was allowed to get away with that one.

————————————————

Your walk back to the Marauder felt like it dragged on and on. Your brain ran over a thousand scenarios of what to say, how he’d react and you were about to short circuit. There was so much risk, so much possibility, that you did your best to shut your mind off and let yourself handle it in the moment. These things never went as planned anyway, it was best not to guess.

The large door to the ship hissed open, your boots clanking on the metal surface as you cautiously walked into your home. It didn’t take you long to find Crosshair, he was sat in the main hull methodically cleaning his hand blaster. Everyone else must’ve been asleep. He was just in his blacks, the material hugging him in the most wonderful way, it’s like whoever designed those things was trying to trip you up. The contours of his arm muscles flexing as he worked, his strong chest looked practically chiselled at the heart of his lean frame. You had to force yourself to calm down a little bit.

“Uh, hey” you greeted awkwardly. “Mind if I join you?”

You took his silence as a well he’s not saying no. He didn’t spare you a glance as you walked in and took a seat opposite him. As a General in the GAR, you rarely got nervous. War, as a concept, was simple. You knew your purpose, your objective, you had a job to get done and you’d do it. The risks never stopped you, rather they fuelled you. Probably why you’re such a good fit for the bad batch.

But this right now, personal feelings, not knowing where you stand with someone you care about. Because if you were honest, you really did care about Crosshair, the same as you did the rest of the team. You’d only been with the squad just under a year but you’d gladly lay down your life for any of them in a heartbeat. If you could at least get back to where you were before the other night, you’d be over the moon.

You weren’t used to being so nervous, you let your hands fiddle with you dark Jedi robes as you readied yourself to speak again.

“Look, I’m not here to throw some crap about being a Jedi at you, I promise. And I’m sorry for trying it before” he still didn’t look at you, finding his blaster much more interesting. But you could tell he was listening, you had his attention. Might as well keep babbling.

“In terms of an explanation for what happened yesterday, well I guess I panicked.” You sighed as you tried to find the next words “The way you made me feel that night, I… I’ve never felt like that before and everything i’d been taught over the years screamed at me that what I was doing was dangerous and wrong. I now realise that I’m just an idiot. I make my own decisions and I… uh -well, I stick by that one, starting something that is.” Still nothing.

“I know this is probably a long shot. But in the interest of being transparent” you rambled “uh… if you want to go down that road again, I’m up for seeing what happens, can be as casual as we like. I promise I won’t freak out on you again.” You chuckled and thought you almost spotted a slight pull in the corner of Crosshair’s lips “But if you want to go back to how we were before, I’d also really like that.” You watched him for a while as he gave no acknowledgement of your words, his cleaning finished as he now gave the weapon a once over in his hands. Having said everything you needed, you got up from your seat, looking away from him.

“Well, if I can do anything else, let me know” you turned on your heel to leave, feeling slightly defeated but glad you’d at least made the first step.

“I could think of a few things” he finally spoke as he leaned back into his seat and continued to stare at his blaster, still not meeting your gaze.

Well that caught your attention, you turned back around to face him as he carried on ignoring you. While his tone was unbothered as he spoke, you knew him just enough to know his words held a meaning. He was playing with you, back to his usual teasing and you could’ve laughed at the relief that washed over you. This you could work with. A cheeky idea popped into your head and you’d decided to run with it.

“Oh really?” Throwing caution to the wind, you strode over to the sniper slowly. His gaze finally meeting yours after all this time, watching you as you got closer and closer. Practically drawing you in with his amber eyes. You pushed him back by his chest, creating enough room so you could straddle his lap. “Care to elaborate?”

He huffed out a short laugh at your words, his face overall unbothered but his eyes, they were burning into you. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you’ll figure it out”.

You hummed in response, deciding to kick things up a notch you wrapped your arms around his neck, bringing your faces just breaths apart. “Something like this?” You asked, pausing for another second before bringing your lips to his in a surprisingly soft and gentle kiss. You felt his hands come up to rest on your back, pulling you closer as you continued your slow dance. This was so different from the other night, where before there was desperation and lust, now there was something more… tender, passionate. You were quite glad you weren’t standing as the way he moved against you would’ve definitely made your knees weak.

Dragging yourself away from his lips, you searched his face. His mouth pulled into a barely there smirk “That’s a start.”

“Who said I was finished?” And just like that, the last few strands of tension between you both snapped and you relaxed in his arms. You fisted your hands into the front of his blacks and pulled him back to you, his tongue slipped between your lips, curious and demanding. He was everywhere again, filling your nose with the scent of the standard cheap GAR soap but mixed with something earthy, something so distinctly Crosshair and you couldn’t get enough.

You could tell why the Jedi order frowned upon such activities, kissing Crosshair was intoxicating. You couldn’t think of anything else other than the handsome clone in front of you and just how much you wanted him in that moment.

His hands wandered lower and lower down you back until they rested comfortably on your backside, pulling you further up his lap. Feeling mischievous, you started trailing kisses along his jaw. Setting a teasing, languid pace as you mapped out the spots that made him squirm. Crosshair was never a man of many words, so you made it your mission to see just how vocal you could make him.

As your lips met his pulse point, he gave a loud exhale and you smirked in victory against his skin as you continued the onslaught on his senses. You definitely seemed to be doing something right as his hands found themselves in your hair, clutching slightly and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped you. Even while trying to gain the upper hand in the situation, he always had some control over you. It was maddening in the best way, setting your veins alight with desire.

Determined to get another victory you traced your tongue against the base of the side of his neck and trailed it all the way up to the bottom of his ear, which you teasingly took into your mouth, teeth grazing the soft skin. A strangled moan escaped the clone and that was the moment where you knew you were hopelessly and utterly gone. Your mind filled with nothing other than wanting to be closer to Crosshair.

“Not very Jedi of you” he commented, slightly breathless when you finally stopped teasing him and came back up to meet his eyes. Looking down at where your bodies were pressed against one another, you chuckled.

“What exactly about this situation led you to believe I was ever a model Jedi?” You smirked, though it was only visible for a second before his mouth was back on yours, devouring you as his hands greedily roamed your body.

You continued making out like teenagers for most of the evening, taking the time to explore each other, enjoying the closeness. Contentment settled over your body, almost as if this was were you were meant to be. If Crosshair’s arms were where you belonged, well, you could think of worse places to be.

Back to Part 1

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0-racle-0-f-hylia · 3 years

Text

Who did the Hero of Time end up with?

In every Zelda game I could always find some reason, convenient or otherwise, for Zelink to be present- every game except one.

The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time, 1998. Unlike games previous to it, it had several female love interests for Link. Saria, Ruto, Nabooru, Malon, and of course Zelda herself.

I never really considered the first three mentioned to be a good match for Link though.

Saria is a perpetual 10 year old

Ruto forced a 10 year old Link into an engagement with her (he didn’t even know what that was) and had him carry her around in her shoulders like he was her servant. (Not to mention if they did have any kids they’d be Zora, not Hylian)

Nabooru is at LEAST 7 years older than Link. I mean, she was an adult when they met and he was a little kid. (Also it is hinted at in game that she is Malon’s MOTHER)(think about that)

And then there was Malon. Initially, I didn’t think much of Malon to begin with. I mean, to me she was just the npc that gave you a horse, but whatever. I didn’t like her as a love interest for Link because I didn’t think she was good enough for him. I really HATE shallow-female-love-interest-characters that do nothing to support plot/Link and are only there to look pretty.

And a never gave Malon a second thought because it seemed to me that during the game, Link had a stronger connection to Zelda than he did Malon.

Zelda gave him the Ocarina of Time, an essential tool for his quest

Guided him after his seven year sleep as Sheik and taught him the teleportation songs

Helped him in the final battle against Ganon

Had a heartfelt goodbye as she sent him back to relive his childhood

To me, there are two legitimate reasons why people ship Malink. One being that, in the manga, Malon had a crush on Link and dreamed he was the “Prince” she was waiting for. Two, in Twilight Princess, Link, a descendant of the Hero of Time, lives in a ranch. So people naturally assume that since Malon herself is also a rancher, the Hero of aTime married Malon and hence all his descendants are ranchers.

Now, since the Manga isn’t canon, the first reason is void, but the second? It does seem pretty solid doesn’t it?

And for the longest time, I couldn’t find any reason to deny that, even if it made me want to pull my hair out because I couldn’t find anything to prove it was wrong.

Every Zelda theorist I knew, claimed that Malink was canon and I COULDN’T DISPUTE IT.

But after looking through both OOT, TP, and every trusted Zelda resource that I know-

I’ve come to the conclusion- that it is far more likely the Hero of time married Zelda not Malon.

I do find it believable that Malon or Talon founded Ordon village as it is the closest thing TP has to LonLon ranch, sharing many similarities in culture. And it is logical to think that Malon’s descendants would live in Ordon village.

So, in conclusion, the Hero of Twilight, descendant of the Hero of Time, is related to Malon because he lives in the ranch-centered village of Ordon!

Yes, it’s the perfect theory! No flaws in it whatsoever.

. . . except for one thing- TP Link- is not an Ordonian.

It’s a tiny detail most people seem to miss. In Twilight Princess, alongside all the other races of Hyrule, there are two kinds of humanoids:

Hyruleans: the non-magic people of Hyrule with round ears.

Hylians: with long ears, gifted with the ability to “hear the gods” and possess magical ability, as said in the Hyrule Historia.

Link is from the latter category, as he has long, pointed ears. And while it is possible one of his parents or grandparents was Ordonian, there is no way to prove this as he looks the same as any other Hylian. Meaning, it is likely that Link had no relation to the Ordonians by blood.

There are no other Hylians in Ordon besides Link, which leads me to conclude that Link’s parents were from castle town, the only other place in TP where Hylians reside.

In the beginning of the game, Rusl does say that Link has never been to Hyrule. But that merely implies that Link has ever been outside the village in his memory or since Rusl has known him.

Meaning his parents may have lived there when he was a baby. Or he was found/given to the Ordonians after his parents death or disappearance. Similar to how the Hero of Time was raised as Kokiri because his Hylian mother brought him to Kokiri forest and died soon after.

Epona is another factor that needs to be accounted for. It could be argued that as TP Link has a horse named Epona, this ties him to Malon, as the original Epona came from LonLon ranch. But it is a null point as the Hero of Time owned Epona even if he didn’t marry Malon and therefore his descendants, wether or not they are related to Malon, could have a horse that is related to, or named after Epona.

Now I’ve stated a couple reasons why I think Link didn’t marry Malon, but I haven’t given any reasons why the Hero of Time would marry Zelda. But I’m getting to that :)

One of the reasons why I believe the Hero of Time married Zelda is due to his appearance on TP, specifically, the Hero’s Shade.

Besides his ghostly, skeletal figure, the most intriguing thing about him is his armor. Comparing his elaborate armor to the much simpler armor of the guards or soldiers (not knights, as some people think) in Ocarina of Time, makes me believe he is much higher ranked , probably an esteemed Knight or something similar.

Which makes sense, considering he was the one who warned the king of Ganondorf’s treachery and possesses amazing swordsmanship skills. It is also hinted at in Hyrule Historia, that Link’s father was a knight as well, making Knighthood, Link’s inheritance.

Another detail I find interesting is, though faded, you can tell that the Hero’s Shade’s armor was once gold with red detailing. The armor’s color scheme, red and gold, is typically used by kings of Hyrule.

As seen in Wind Waker and the Minish cap. King Gustaf, King Daltus, and King Daphnes Nohansen Hyrule all wear red and gold.

Another peculiar detail about the Hero’s Shade’s armor is the shape of the breastplate resembling that of an owl’s head. Owls are associated with wisdom. In OOT, Zelda holds the triforce of WISDOM.

In TP, you can buy an item called magic armor in castletown. It’s design is reminiscent of Zelda’s appearance in the game. Including the design of the crown pauldrons and tassel. This makes me assume it once belonged to a prince of Hyrule. This is further backed up by its red and gold color scheme, colors associated with the king of Hyrule.

The most obvious connection between Hylian royalty and the Hero of time is concerning the magic armor. Specifically, the long, red cap included in the outfit. Compared to the rest of the armor Link gets in the game, the magic armor just doesn’t seem to fit.

The hero’s clothes have a green cap because it’s what the previous hero wore, Kokiri styled.

The Zora armor has a blue cap because it is made to resemble the Zora’s long head fin.

But the magic armor? Something made for royalty? In all the other games, no other Hylian royalty is depicted with a long cap, so where could this style have come from?

Well, if the Hero of Time married into the royal family, perhaps his unique style would have carried over into the traditional Hylian royalty get-up, as he become a prince. Creating an outfit that includes the royal colors, crown, tassel and the Hero of Time’s long cap.

On a side note, may I remind everyone that in Majorca’s Mask, when the Skull Kid was attempting to bring down the moon the first time, Link flashed back to his last moment with Zelda?

Sure he could have just been remembering the song of time and yes, the fact that he has Epona means he did go back to LonLon ranch to see Malon.

But one, he probably just went to LonLon to get his horse to travel with

And two, he didn’t flash back to his last moment with Malon, did he?

And three, the fact that he rembered how Zelda reminisced about their time together and he didn’t just recall the song of time just go’s to show how strongly he felt about their relationship.

#zelda #twilight princess #ocarina of time #zelda theory #zelink

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the-slasher-files · 3 years

Note

Hii, i saw your requests are open so I guess I could try asking,

Can I ask how would Michael and Jason (and the other slashers if you'd like) react finding out that it's their S/O's birthday. Like they noticed how much food they prepared but s/o didn't mention the occasion because it's not that big of a deal to them but still celebrates it in a way.

Hey, thanks for the request! I love this idea and it was really fun to write.. also added more slashers so I hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

SLASHERS REACT TO THEIR S/O BIRTHDAY

INCLUDES JASON, MICHAEL, BO, VINCENT, BILLY and STU

JASON VOORHEES

How he finds out: when you left your wallet face open with your drivers license out.. boy was curious

Ever since living out at the camp you just kind of forgot about your birthday, it never really mattered, you were happy just as is with what you had

but he plans it for weeks, Jason can’t give you much in the day to day and he just wants to spoil you and give you the best day after years of looking after him

Waking up in the morning you smelt fresh coffee and sweets, which was more than unusual in the cabin

Rolling over to look at the nightstand you found your favorite mug steaming with hot coffee and Jason had put in your preferred creamer, just the way you liked it. Beside the mug was a small little note sloppily marked with drawn hearts and the words “I love you”

Jason melted your heart on a daily biases but this... it made your heart feel like it oozed right out of your ribcage

Propping yourself up to sip the coffee there was a sudden crash in the kitchen making you jump out of bed... was there an intruder?? was Jason in danger??... grabbing the heavy machete that was resting against the nightstand you faltered to the kitchen, hair dishevelled, barefoot, only wearing one of Jason’s ripped oversized shirts

oh... OH.. it’s just Jason cooking??? flour was everywhere, about 10 different bowls were scattered along the counter, the bacon was smoking and the pancakes? were burnt

Turning around owl-eyed, with flour on his mask and tattered clothes, Jason gives his biggest grin and signs “happy birthday!!”

Once you help him with breakfast he will be glued to your side all day.. more than usual.. Jason wants to give you back rubs, hugs and kisses as much as he can

His gift to you is a bracelet his mom had worn, it is the most meaningful gift Jason could ever give, and it’s beautiful

In the evening he will take you to a new trail you had never been on, old camp lanterns to light your way through the woods and into a large meadow. A large blanket covers the damp grass and there is a small basket with all your fav snacks

A picnic to watch the sunset and stargaze... perfect

MICHAEL MYERS

How he finds out: Michael knows everything about you, he had watched you for a solid year before you even knew, but it will take him a long time to get comfortable and trusting with you so it will probably be like the 5th year together before he really does something for you

Now Michael is not affectionate and caring is just not in his nature so your birthday is going to be interesting... to the average human it will seem like it is a shit birthday but knowing Michael the way you do it is the best birthday he can give you

All these years together he had done nothing on your birthday so you expected it to just be another day, but nope

Waking up to the smell of fresh tea or coffee (which ever you prefer) a steaming cup was on the nightstand

Michael was still in bed with you which was unusual but it was even stranger when he was running his large hands all over you.. gently

There will most likely be some morning sex but he is oddly gentle, making your pleasure a priority over his own

Michael will allow you to touch him for however long you want and where you want without protest, but ONLY today so take advantage

Going to the living room you will see a present you had been eyeing for yourself for a while now. It could either be a really nice blanket to clothes to cookware to a laptop. Michael is observant about everything so he will notice the tabs in your phone or that time you walked by a clothing store and almost screamed at how nice the shirt was in the window

of course he stole it and there might be a tiny amount of blood on it but who cares lol

That is honestly about the extent Michael will go with you and that’s more than enough for you

BO SINCLAIR

How he finds out: Bo isn’t exactly a gentleman with a lot of things so he really doesn’t mind just asking how old you are or when your birthday is

Most likely Bo will forget when it is the first 2 years but the 3rd year.. oh baby he’s got it now... with the help of Vincent reminding him

Birthdays have never been big for the Sinclair brothers, especially for Bo, he literally has no idea what to do

One of the only ways Bo knows love is through fast pleasure... aka waking up to him eating you out. Like Michael, he will put your pleasure first today and is going to be gentle with you, so enjoy it

Be careful because he might want to spend your whole birthday in bed if you don’t stop him

Your presents will probably be some lingerie he bought you (which is basically his present) and a night out on the town, going to your favorite restaurant and taking you where ever you want

Even in the truck he will let you pick the music which is honestly a miracle

Bo will try to bite his tongue as much as possible and try to be the best gentlemen he can be until you get home ;)

Going home to Ambrose he takes a different road, up a hill that’s long and twisted, Bo just smiles when you ask where you’re going, man is saying nothing for once and it might freak you out

Getting to the destination, it’s a small walk in the woods until there is a large clearing and a small lake to your right, this is where he used to go swimming as a kid and this is sometimes where Bo will disappear to on bad days

He will lead you to the dock and will lay you down, watching the stars and hearing the splashing of the water mix in with the Louisiana nature... It is pure bliss

Bo cannot help himself and will initiate a heavy make-out session

This is the way of showing you he loves you

VINCENT SINCLAIR

How he finds out: Baby boy is far more observant than his brother thank god, so he will probably check your drivers license if you left your wallet out

Vincent will honestly plan something for weeks if he can

Usually he is a night owl but today Vincent will get up nice and early cooking your favorite breakfast, well at least trying, honestly he can make fantastic omelets

Waking up you will see a small tray of food at the edge of the bed, an omelet, bacon, a glass of juice and some small bouquet of native Louisiana flowers he had picked

Along with a little note card saying “happy birthday” probably with some little doodles on the sides making it fancy

Waking into the room Vincent will have either your coffee or tea, handing it to you with a gentle kiss

It will probably be just a slow, gentle, quiet morning with wandering hands, little kisses and soft words

Today he will let you do whatever the hell you want and will try desperately to get Bo to leave you alone for the day

If you want to go for a walk he’ll go with, if you want to stay inside all day in your sweats watching movies that’s perfect.. whatever you want

Towards the evening Bo will come home with your favorite foods, since Vincent hates leaving town. Dinner will be candle lit with soft music in the background. Vince will try to dress nice and in something that isn’t covered in wax

After dinner he will take you to the theater, watching the old movies you grew up on, even though half of the time you are only paying attention to the tongue down your throat

For some reason my head kept saying slow dancing in the rain, so I guess when you are coming home it starts to rain and you guys slow dance in the streetlight

Once home he has 2 boxes for you, lovely wrapped. In one box it is your very own knife with a carved handle of your favorite animal to match his blades. In the next box is something you had been looking at getting for a long time, a new pair of boots he watched you look for online

BILLY AND STU

How they find out: Honestly they’re probably just going to ask you

Stu is probably going to be the more outgoing one and screaming happy birthday to you when you first wake up, Billy would just let you sleep in and drink his coffee beside you, running his hands on you and gently whispering happy birthday to you instead

Stu would make you a big breakfast and even try to make you a cake but something would be so off lol.. he tried

Billy just takes a store bought one from the fridge that he had saved just in case this happened

yes, they want cake for breakfast

Whatever you want to do that day they will make it happen, honestly it’s going to be fun regardless with them

An arcade or bowling or crashing some little kids laser tag party is probably going to be it for your afternoon. Winning silly arcade prizes, stu will get you a stupid whoopie cushion and Billy will probably win a little stuffed bear for you

Driving home Billy will let you play your music and he will just drive around the city, just signing your hearts out and laughing and just making memories, watching the nightlife and city lights

Ending up at the City viewpoint, seeing all the lights in the dark never looked so pretty with your boys, it might even leave Stu speechless

Whenever you are ready to come home a horror movie is defiantly on the list, whatever one you want and they will order pizza

Honestly Stu will probably pass out on the couch from the long hilarious day and Billy will quietly drag you to the bedroom.. really getting to show how much he loves you ;)

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delimeful · 4 years

Text

the end of being alone (2)

donation drive commission for @bumblebeekitten for the next chapter of TEOBA, with the prompt: patton & virgil fluff! hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it!

chapter 1

warnings: miscommunication, false impression of a very bad situation for like .5 seconds, recklessness, sometimes you just gotta have a good cry

The next sunrise, they set out again, this time with considerably less weaponry and considerably more snacks. Roman held point again, since he was the one with the most practical experience in tracking.

There had been a somewhat tedious argument on whether or not Patton should come, one that Roman had thoroughly lost, since it was Patton’s quick thinking and emotional attunement that kept the previous cycle’s encounter from descending into disaster.

He had acquiesced in the end under the combined force of Logan’s reasoning and Patton’s disappointed look, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it. After catching barely a wink of sleep between restless nightmares, he was feeling more grumpy than generous.

Still, his own irritation faded as they grew closer to the rocky cliffs where he suspected the Human was, shifting into an intense concentration on the task ahead. It was a miracle that their initial encounter hadn’t gone sour, a miracle that this Human seemed young enough to be somewhat nonaggressive, and while he hoped that whatever they had said to scare the young kit off hadn’t irreparably damaged their budding acquaintanceship, he wasn’t counting on it.

He had his underarmor on for a reason.

The other two didn’t quite share his concerns. Logan’s arms had been in an excited, information-gathering flurry practically non-stop since they set out, and he and Patton had been discussing the plants and insects in the nearby forest that were relatively non toxic to them (and so would probably be no issue for a Human), and how many nutrients they would provide. None of them knew how much or what a Human needed to eat, but Patton seemed firmly of the opinion that whatever the kid was eating, it wasn’t enough.

“Fledgelings need plenty of food and the proper nutrients to grow up healthy! A lone child in the middle of one forest can’t possibly have all the variety they need in their diet,” the Ampen insisted, feathers fluffing up at the mere idea of a kid going hungry.

“Another important factor to note is the planet itself is not the child’s home, and so may not have the necessary nutrients available at all, let alone in one localized area,” Logan added.

“You two have enough variety in those packs to weigh down a mountain,” Roman interjected, “so how about we focus on not scaring the kid off before we even reach them. Human senses are ludicrously strong, enough so that they’ll hear you two yakking a parsec away.”

They agreed to be stealthier, and just in time, because Roman was pretty sure he’d found a more solid trail than the ghost-like faded prints that seemed all to trek over the place. He gestured in Crav’n sign for the two of them to stay put and stay quiet, and then followed the fresh tracks until they came to the mouth of a small cave amongst the crevices and steep drops of the pale cliffs.

He slowly stalked into the cave, keeping his movements light and quiet even as the light grew dimmer and his vision more restricted. Before it could grow too dim, however, his gaze caught on round, un-rock-like silhouettes.

It took a moment to identify the shapes as small, limp Humlilts, all piled up around the larger Human. He nearly physically recoiled at the sight. So, this was why the small creatures had gone missing: slaughtered en masse at the hand of a Deathworlder. Not for food nor shelter, not in defense of itself or others, just for the sake of the callous cruelty and disregard for life that Humans were apparently born with.

Humlilts were small, but Patton was scarcely bigger. Once the Human got tired of playing at mimicry, would it try to add the Ampen to the hoard of bodies?

He wasn’t going to lose another family.

Almost against his will, a low, near-subsonic growl rumbled out of his throat. He took one advancing step forward, and then…

And then, a tiny head poked up from the pile, small dark eyes staring at him over a long snout.

Roman nearly tripped over his own feet, astonished. There was still a living Humlilt in there?

Before he could even finish his thought, another head appeared, and then another, until there was a sea of fluffy faces and huge ears all pointed in his direction. The undersized ungulates were fine, each and every one of them. They had simply been sleeping, all cozied up with one of the most dangerous species in the universe.

Roman felt a strange and overwhelming mixture of relief and shame, his scales flattening down guiltily. It was too late, though, the movement had already rippled through the group until it reached the Human. Their creepy mask was absent in rest, and they pawed at their eyes sleepily as they sat up to see what all the commotion was about. There was a red mark on one of their cheeks from where it had pressed against the cave floor.

The moment they saw who stood at the entrance of their little nook, all the color drained from their face. The Humlilts shifted uneasily, and Roman found himself bracing to have thirty miniscule sets of horns charging at him. They couldn’t really hurt him, but they were persistent little things, and Patton and Logan would not be happy if a bunch of Humlillts tried to drive them away from the Human before they’d even properly spoken.

Instead of siccing the plethora of tiny mammals on him, though, the kid whistled a few notes in a perfect echo of the Humlilts all-clear call, settling them down. They carefully detangled themself from the pile, trailing a few stray twigs and leaves behind them in the process. Roman wondered absently how long they’d been building the collection of plant matter that covered them.

A few parting trills later, the kid was in front of him, holding their bony shoulders firm but unable to conceal the tremor in their legs. They raised their chin up in what looked like a friendly Crav’n greeting, but attitude-wise seemed more along the lines of a challenging stance.

“No hurt,” they said firmly before Roman could say a word. “No hurt small--,” a few words in their own language here, “--small good. No hurt. No hurt. Yes?”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Roman tried to reassure them, “I swore, remember?”

The kid stomped their foot once in… some kind of emphasis. “No hurt,” they started again with deliberate slowness, and then ended with the Humlilt whistle-greeting. Many of the Humlilts whistled back from where they were still observing the two of them. The small cavern echoed with the sound eerily.

“You don’t want me to hurt the Humlilts? The small creatures?” Roman asked, gesturing to the pile of fluff and hooves, and was rewarded with the kid seeming satisfied.

“Yes. Small good. Good good small. No hurt.”

Roman extended his hand palm up for another oath. “I vow not to harm your small good friends,” he intoned solemnly. The kid patted his hand twice, bobbing their own head in a curious motion. Roman could only imagine the sort of notes Logan would be taking.

Oh, right. He’d left the others in the bushes.

“I brought my friends, too,” he informed the kid, who blinked up at him. “Logan and Patton, remember them? Little critter?”

He said the last words in the chirps of the Ampen language, only a little strained by his accent, and the kid visibly brightened. “Little critter!”

“Wait right here, and I’ll get them,” Roman instructed, lowering a flat hand to convey wait. The kid probably didn’t really grasp it, but seemed content enough to stay put, shifting from one foot to the other.

It took no time at all to find Patton and Logan, who had progressively edged closer to the cliff face as he’d taken his sweet time in there.

“Okay, so,” he started, “I know where all the missing Humlilts went.”

---

Virgil shuffled his feet slightly, feeling the cool stone under his toes.

He should probably leave now, because even if the fluffy chirp alien really was there, they knew or at least suspected he was a human, and aliens hated humans. All of them, even the ones that looked soft like birds or cool like dinosaurs.

A soft, velvety nose poked up against his hand, and he squatted to gently pat the strange little singing puppy-antelope that had parted from the group to check on him. He couldn’t help but smile a little bit as it bumped its snout against his knee, sounding like a windchime.

Okay. Maybe not all aliens.

He looked up at the clitter-clatter of talons on rock, and then the fluffy chirping alien really did careen into view, feathers all puffed up like that very angry owl that had roosted outside his window for three whole hours one time. The other two bigger aliens came in only moments later.

Virgil couldn’t help but shrink back slightly from where he was still crouched, because aliens were weird and sometimes they did weird things that he didn’t really… get. Typically, this would be right before they started getting really mad or shaky, and screaming at him.

Before Fluff-Chirp could get any closer, though, the puppy-antelope had charged between them, planting its little legs and lowering its head so that the little horns were pointed out in warning. Virgil went still, eyes darting between Fluff-Chirp and the little creature, who he was pretty sure was the one with the white spot on its forehead, the one he’d named Susan after his nice neighbor.

The cool dinosaur alien had promised not to hurt them (he was pretty sure), but would it count if the puppy-antelopes attacked them first?

Fluff-Chirp stepped forward a little bit, and Susan let out a shrill cry like someone blowing really hard on a flute. Virgil clapped his hands over his ears as he attempted to whistle the calm-down sound, but Susan would not be budged, even as the other two aliens got all tense and twitchy.

In front of it, Fluff-Chirp stopped advancing, and instead plopped down on the ground with a soft thump. They ruffled in their bag, and Virgil was struck with the fear that they would pull out a space blaster gun to shoot Susan for trying to protect him. Hurriedly, he crawled forwards and threw his arms around the puppy-antelope (puppylope?) and hugged it close to shield it from any laser gun beams, his eyes squeezing shut.

There was a grunt-grumble from the cool dinosaur, and the click-click-click of the bunches of arms of the blue one moving around, but all he heard from Fluff-Chirp was shuffling, and then—

“Hello good morning,” the fluffy alien said. Or at least, that was what Virgil thought the birdsong-like words meant.

Fluff-Chirp always said it when waking up in their little camp, and Virgil had said it back, because that was just basic manners, especially when someone gives you stuff. Fluff-Chirp had given him a bunch of sweet sliced up fruit, kind of with the feeling of mangoes and the taste of strawberries. It had reminded him of home.

It… kind of smelled like Fluff-Chirp’s fruit now, actually.

—

Patton watched hopefully as the kid slowly opened one eye to peek over at them.

He hadn’t meant to scare the poor little guy by rushing in, he’d just been absolutely delighted to hear that not only would he get to see some Humlilts after all, but also that the kid seemed to have some company after all.

Some very loyal company, if the one threat-displaying at him was any indication. Patton was careful not to engage, particularly since further back in the cave, he could see a whole assembly of tiny, reflective eyes. Roman would probably just hold him up in the air if there was any real danger, but it was the principle of the matter. He didn’t want to upset the little guys!

Or the kid, who had finally spotted the dishes of fruit Patton had set out.

“You wanna come eat with me, little critter?” Patton offered, patting the ground near him.

“Little critter…,” the Human murmured. Their face was much more expressive now that it wasn’t mostly concealed by wood, and the kid looked painfully young. Probably no more than seven or eight sun cycles. Patton’s hearts twanged in sympathy.

Slowly, like they were waiting for the rug to be yanked out from under their feet, the kid scooted forward enough that they could grab a few pieces of the dana fruit, setting one down in front of the Humlilt to distract it. Patton eye-crinkled encouragingly, and took a piece of his own to nibble on.

“Do you remember me? I’m Patton. Patton,” he emphasized, ‘pat’-ing his own chest in example.

The kid paused mid-bite, and then swiped their wrist over their mouth before mumbling, “Patton,” back. Patton glowed with happiness.

“And that’s Logan,” he said, bolstered by one apparent success. Logan obligingly stepped forwards and gestured to himself.

“I am Logan,” he enunciated clearly.

The kid, who had stopped eating to focus wholeheartedly on this new task, scrunched his brow up. “I am Logan?”

“No, not quite,” Logan corrected gently. “Logan. I am Logan.” He cast a meaningful look to Patton.

“And I am Patton!” he added cheerfully, gesturing between the two of them. “Logan! Patton!”

“Logan,” the kid mimicked, looking at the Ulgorii and then the Ampen, “Patton.”

“You got it! Good job!” Patton noticed that the kid was very careful to keep their hands in their lap, and wondered if Humans were normally this withdrawn, or if exposure to other aliens had caused this reticence.

“Good job?” the kid echoed, wide eyed. They looked to Roman curiously, though only for a moment before dropping their gaze.

“I am Roman,” Roman surprised them both by beating them to the introductory punch.

“... Roman?” the kid offered, and got a chorus of nonsense praise for their effort. They bared their little teeth and clapped their hands together, and it took the three of them an alarmed pause and exchange of glances to realize that they weren’t, in fact, being threatened by a youngling.

“Joy? Or perhaps, contentment?” Logan was mumbling to himself. “The skin around the child’s eyes folds much like an Ampen expression of happiness, so…”

“It would make more sense to be happy after receiving praise, right?” replied Roman, who had gotten a bit bristly from nerves for a moment. Patton resisted the urge to elbow the both of them into not saying long, confusing sentences. Luckily, the kid seemed too occupied with their own thoughts to notice.

“Patton, Logan, Roman,” they recited, looking at each of them in turn. Then, very carefully, they reached up and patted their own chest. “Virgil. I am Virgil?”

There was a brief moment of stunned silence, and then Patton trilled in delight, clapping his hands in an echo of the Human’s gesture, in hopes that it would convey his own happiness and pride in the kid’s quick learning. The kid jumped, but then did that teeth-bearing smile again.

“Virgil!” he tested out, not quite getting the Human tones right, but that was okay because he could practice! “Virgil Virgil Virgil! Yes! That’s you!”

“I am Virgil!” the Human was practically bouncing in place as they matched Patton’s energy, and Patton couldn’t help but dart forward and try to bump his head to the Human’s affectionately.

Roman hissed something exceedingly panicked, but Patton was already using one of the Human’s bent legs to reach, and then he was brushing his antenna to the kid-- to Virgil’s forehead, and then the Human was lifting their arms slowly and curling them around him, and okay now Patton was a little bit concerned, but.

But, all Virgil did was lean into him slightly, arms bracing but not suffocating, and sniffle once, like they were holding back tears. Any resolve Patton had to not give his teammates stress ulcers faded away like dust in the wind, and he leaned in carefully and wrapped his arms around as much as he could reach of the kid’s shoulders and neck, which Roman would tell him was stupid dangerous because necks were weak points on Humans and they would absolutely react defensively--

Virgil promptly burst into tears, their chin coming to hook over Patton’s shoulder as a stuttering little wail worked its way out of their system. Patton made soothing nonsense croons and sung Ampen lullabies as the kid shuddered their way through a good cry, and tried not to feel too alarmed that unlike Ampens, Humans apparently leaked emotions while they cried.

Once Virgil had more or less settled down, they seemed completely wiped from the outpour of emotion, eyes drooping, body tilting to one side. For the first time since they’d arrived, the kid looked too wiped out to be nervous. Sure enough, only a few moments later, they shifted to curl up on their side, falling asleep on the cold stone easily.

Patton looked up at his teammates from where he was sitting in the center of the curled c-shape of the kid’s body, and offered them a sheepish shrug. “Well. Now we know that Humans can experience touch hunger?”

#sanders sides #ts patton #ts virgil #ts logan #ts roman #the end of being alone #teoba #donation drive #commissioned works #wibar #wibar au kid virgil #bumblebeekitten #space au #writing #my writing #i genuinely feel so soft writing this au #let virgil have hugs 2020

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vuristwo · 3 years

Text

Why Belos can’t be a human.

Warning: Large text post ahead! There will also be spoilers for the entire Owl House series. Especially season 2. You have been warned, but I hope you’ll enjoy reading!

1. The age gap

We don’t really know how old Emperor Belos is, but we do know he is at least 50. It’s also stated in the Unauthorized History of The Boiling Isles, that he was a crusader during the Savage Ages. I think that if he was a crusader, then he must have been pretty good at magic, and therefore probably in his 20s? That would make him 70.

OK, so Gwendolyn’s great grandmother told her of a human that appeared on the Boiling Isles. That’s 3 generations back from Gwendolyn. If a generation is about 80 years, then that’s a pretty big time jump, and would make the human 250-300+ years old. Although it does look like the Clawthorns have their children at a pretty young age, it is still a huge age gap.

No human has lived over 130. And seeing as Belos can perfectly move and fight, I’m pretty sure he’s not THAT old. His hair is gray, but he still has hair, so I really can’t see him older than 80. The other thing is that Belos can be an entirely different human, that entered the Demon Realm some 70 years ago or something. Although if that were the case, I think people would know. It would give an explanation as to why he wears the mask though!

One thing I noticed just now is that in Luz’s notes on Wittebane’s journal. She writes that the journal can be from the 1600s. By the look of the Human Realm, The Owl House takes place in modern day, or at least the 21st century. Seeing as we have smartphones, among other things.

2. He's cursed.

We’ve seen from the season 2 trailer that Belos is cursed. It’s at least fair to assume that the shadow cast on the wall is Emperor Belos, given the presence of the Golden Guard, the background looking like Belos’ castle, and the antlers looking very much like the ones on Belos’ mask.

Human anatomy and biology is different from humans. “Most witches wouldn’t be able to recognize a human right away”. Which means there are some differences. Plus, witches have that whole bile sac thing going on. So seeing as how their anatomy is different, can humans even be cursed? And if they can, would they be able to transform similar to Eda, Lilith and Belos? I doubt it.

That’s just assuming his transformation is a curse. Belos looks to be in agony when he transforms, so it doesn’t look like it’s something he is in control of.

3. He can melt.

Presumably since humans have different anatomy to witches, you can’t exactly make a human melt. The farthest we have gotten with a human “changing their physiology” is with Luz using the invisibility glyph on herself in Echoes of the Past.

As a small note, if Belos is in fact a human, and did get cursed. Then it’s totally a possibility that his warped genetics and anatomy can allow him to use magic that can melt him.

4. The Palisman juice.

It’s hard to forget that Emperor Belos consumes whatever juices are inside a palisman. Now this juice may just be magic bile, since palismen have their own magic source. And magic on the Boiling Isles is either made from magic bile, or commanded with glyphs. So it seems illogical that Belos would consume this bile.

We all know that anything we ingest goes to our stomach. Yet bile is stored in the heart. Also, Emperor Belos injects this juice into his eye. If a human were to pour something over their eye, it would just splash back. It wouldn’t go into the eye. Which brings me to my next point.

5. His glowy eye

If he were in fact a human, his eye glows a considerable amount. By the singular color, I’d say that he only has a pupil and iris. Which doesn’t line up with any human, nor Boiling Isles native. His eyes can even change color. They’re a solid green when he injects the palisman juice, they’re blue once Luz chips his helmet, and in the season 2 trailer.

7. He uses magic outside his staff.

We see that he can do his melting thing, use telekinesis and summon beasts, all without the use of his staff. We know that Luz has to rely on her glyphs, or a staff to use magic. However, Emperor Belos can cast magic without the use of either, just like a normal witch. Plus, there is the fact that his staff is made up of mechanical parts. And not wood or some other material. And in place of a palisman is a glowing red orb.

Dana Terrace has said that the wood palismen are made from is potentially becoming scarce. So perhaps in place of carving something out of wood. Belos had to make his staff from scratch, with mechanics instead. Anyone can use a witch's staff, as far as we know. Even Luz, a human can do it. So why doesn’t Belos?

8. He can speak telepathically.

Multiple times he has shown that he had the ability to speak telepathically, and from a distance. We see this when Luz, Willow and Gus are in the artifact room. And when Luz is fighting Belos. The interesting thing here is that he can also hear telepathically. As he responds to Luz speaking in the artifact room.

Perhaps it’s an ability you’re given once you’re emperor? It might be some form of oracle magic, as we see a similar thing between Odalia and Amity. But that connection was interrupted once Amity destroyed the pendant.

Ending note:

While writing this, I realised that Belos has powers that are bizarre for both witches and humans. It can be chalked up to Belos being the emperor. But with some further thinking. People have noted that there are similarities between Belos and Wittebane. But we’ve established that they can’t be the same person.

But what if Emperor Belos is a child of Wittebane? Or grandchild, or great grandchild, something like that. If Wittebane had a child with a witch, then genetics suggest that the child would be half witch half human. That could also explain why Belos needs his palisman juice, because his bile sac can’t produce bile naturally. Plus, the fact that he has to wear a mask to cover his human heritage. The curse could be a result of that as well. Maybe I’m just crazy, but I wouldn’t rule it out.

If you read through this whole thing, then thank you so much! It took some time to write and figure out how I wanted to explain myself. If you’ve got something to say regarding this theory, I’d be happy to hear it! And please, have a nice day!

(Reblogs are appreciated)

#the owl house #emperor belos #belos #toh #toh spoilers #toh speculation #the owl house spoilers #toh s2 spoilers #theory #speculation #analysis

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theskeletoninthegarden · 2 years

Note

1, 18, and 25!

This started out short but uhhh I got away with myself again

I actually do, sometimes, like to write in certain fonts depending on the story. I don't know what it is. For the gritty TWD, right now it's Sitka Text, but it started off in Ariel, back when it was more of a draft then it is now. Ariel is draft work, from there I change the font after I've gone over a chapter at least once. This is something I got from copy pasting old work from, say, Google Docs, to Scivener.

18. The passage:

Higgs was stock still, up until they got closer, the man staring, owl like, and stuttering what was undoubtedly the shortened form of their name. Kas reached down, snatched the cigarette from his fingers, and snapped in-twine. The pack was next, which they crumbled in one hand, and tossed, sharply, across the tarmac. He barely glanced at their toss, still gaping like a fish, and Kaspar took the time to pull down their mask just to snap at him: “What the fuck, Higgs?” “Kas-.” “I leave for two goddamn years, and you pick up a smoking habit,” they nearly yelled, wanting to strangle the man. “Do you know what that does to your health— what it could do to your work capacity?” Higgs blinked, his vision swimming, and Kaspar stopped shouting in time to watch him sit up. It took several long seconds for him to gather himself, for him to stand, and stare at them, unblinking. Kaspar was ready, that time, when he surged forward. They met him, wrapping their arms around his throat, over his shoulders, lifted up off the ground as Higgs encompassed their waist with his own and buried his face into their chest. When their feet touched the ground, they were too weak to hold themself up, and fell to their knees with him. Their fingers went to his hair, his hands smoothed pathways up their back, reacquainting himself with the solid feeling of their person pressed against his own, of their person existing within his space. Kaspar was crying, the stubble of his beard rough and welcome and wonderful as he pressed a kiss beneath their ear, against their temple, and on the crown of their head. “Kas-,” he tried, meeting his forehead with theirs, blinking into their eyes, drawing away to smooth his thumbs over the corners of their jaw, and smiling, finally, when the certainty of what he saw, what he was feeling, set in. “You stupid man,” they muttered, trying to come up with something to say, and only landing on the issue of his apparent nicotine habit. God, they were worse for bringing it up, why did they have to start their reunion by yelling at him? “It’s over, it’s done,” he promised, Kaspar laughing weakly, their body’s horrible desire to just sob ruining the sound. He held their face again, wrapped his arms around their waist just after, crushed them to his chest and smothered his nose in their neck. “I promise, Kas.”

This is from my Death Stranding fic. "Death, Invited". The main character, Kaspar, has only just been reunited after a two year hiatus with their best friends and work mates. This is near the end of the chapter, when they are, specifically, reunited with Higgs.

Before seeing him outside (he's working on a motorcycle outside of their future work place), their friends were video calling him to find out his location. Kaspar, whom Higgs doesn't know is there during the call, sees him pull out a pack of cigarettes. They march outside, all happy feelings dashed by his audacity, and challenges him, the confrontation ending in tears as the moment of their reunion catches up with them both.

The nicotine issue is a big deal b/c in their line of work, physical health is the Most Important Thing one can keep track of and the job has always meant a big deal for them both, so Kas' initial reaction is understandable. But it's also easier then facing the mixed feelings of grief and relief and everything else that comes from finally seeing Higgs again. All the same, they still both break down and hold each other--they've always been terribly touched starved, but to each other the other person was once a Safe Space for them before their forced parting.

When Higgs says "It's over, it's done," he's not just talking about the smoking, although it takes him a few chapters longer for him to really be able to tell himself that he may never have to worry about being parted from them again.

(spoilers: he does, it's awful)

25. Keeping to the same story, Kaspar has a terrible cowlick at the tip of their widows peak, dead center of their head. They don't discover this until they chop their hair off after leaving home. No one talks about it out loud, but they play with it sometimes, and Higgs thinks it's cute

Thank you for asking! I'd forgotten about this post and answering the questions has been the highlight of my day!

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kettlequills · 3 years

Text

that world will cease to be: here in my shrine

For anon, who wanted a fic of Laat and Miraak exploring each other's bodies, and everyone who wanted a sequel to the soulmate au. Here you go: I tried. At the bottom there's a gloss of all the Dovahzul used, though pretty much all of it is contextually explained or translated.

This fic contains explicit n.s.f.w, sexual content, and is 1.8. +. Also: suicidal ideation, oral , b.d. sm, species dysphoria, light blood drinking, praise, overstimulation, abusive relationships, including featuring jealousy and possessiveness, and implied/referenced mind control and manipulation. Read at your own risk. Available on A03 here (and recommended, because this is Long).

There is an island where time does not exist. Or rather, where time has stopped, warped, turned half-counter-clockwise and decided that it would like to go four to the left actually.

Dead men stride ashfields that burgeon with last season's and four years of yesterday's summer crops. Their haunting cries part darkened smoke-clouds from a mountain that can't decide whether it has erupted and their dragon-claw boots leave no footsteps. No trace at all of them on silvery sand that thinks itself still a cliff, but a trail of dead netch and liquid-eyed nixhounds. Long-gone elves peer confusedly through gaps in ice-tunnels to a broken sky and thick air long distant from what their lips once tasted, trading the ancient pelts of great cats and wood-carved weapons made of some icy material that radiates magic with the commoners of Raven Rock. Sometimes, old Nords chase them through the snowfields up on the Moesring mountains, but that happens only in Sun’s Dawn, and everyone sensible knows to simply stay inside then. They will disappear on Tirdas, but it is Middas, all the time, until it is Fredas instead, shortly after Morndas afternoon (never morning). And that is not even starting with the month of Hearthfire, which as everyone in Raven Rock knows, is simply that time between ten and five o’clock where the sun shakes in what they have been generously describing as the sky.

The town itself is largely unchanged, for what could have been centuries now. Fethis Alor still tends his stand, the Retching Netch waits in a perpetual state of nearly closing down. Glover Mallory has yet to add a single wrinkle to his collection. Every so often, oldfolk come wandering out the barrows, shrivelled bodies that pay in ancient coins with flickers of life in death-blue eyes, but coin is coin, and if old Crescius has been working a thriving trade with the dead priest Zahkriisos in oil and coal, plenty of others in Raven Rock see no need to be stingy.

Occasionally, there are newfolk, outsiders. Furious bureaucrats from Morrowind, perhaps, come to see why their island flies colours that have not been seen since mighty dragons swept their hungry wings over every inch of Tamriel. Beggars, refugees, curious wizards, come to see the Temple. It is not often they last long before they are unmade from the fabric of expectation that links the threads of reality together, or they quite simply go mad. For the most part, though, even gods avoid Solstheim.

The Dragonborns are not known to be fond of gods.

It is best not to pay too much attention to the Temple or the dragons that live within it. Focus instead on the routine, the script, and know in your heart that time is broken and fate is a lie. Choose ignorance. The summer storms shake the ground from the Temple, Shouts of laughter and rage, growing pains, and dragons scatter from its roof like doves. It is a magical untime on Solstheim, and there are worse things than the total freedom of a world shaped by the expectant whim of two godsouled-mortals that keep for the most part to their temple and themselves.

Frea does not choose ignorance. She has been shaman of the Skaal for, at least, twelve generations, or maybe even three days, and the sight of the Tree Stone still turns her stomach. Sometimes long-dead friends are standing round it, smiling at Frea like nothing has changed at all (and it hasn’t, surely? The sun still rises on the day where Gjalund Salt-Sage brought the dragon-break into Raven Rock port), but Frea is tired now. Still young, still strong, she goes to make the same plea she always makes to the Last Dragonborn.

“When are you going to let us go?” Frea asks, over ale. This year’s season has been terrible for crops, but no one quite ever expects to run out, so the barrels remain full of thick Skaal ale that always tastes just like the last time Frea could remember having it.

She is growing to hate that taste.

Laataazin, the Last Dragonborn, is shorter than Frea, being one of those warm-blooded humans from across the sea. Their feet just lightly brush the ground from where they sit next to Frea on the fallen tree stump not far from the Stone. They wear the same armour they always have, as bright and well-used as it has been since the day they walked out of Apocrypha hand in hand with the murderer of Frea’s friends and broke the world. The only difference is their mask hangs from their belt instead of concealing their scarred spider-web of a face, its blank owl-eyes staring accusingly up at Frea.

They grimace at the ale Frea hands them, pulling the cork out with their teeth. Laat says nothing, but looks at Frea, the wisps of blonde hair that escape her hood, the air of terrible exhaustion that slumps her shoulders. They like the Skaal shaman; Frea is the sort of companion that Laat may have considered taking adventuring once, strong enough to keep up, quick enough to get out of the way, and wild enough to relish the months of uninterrupted travelling through the depths of Skyrim’s countryside.

But it has been a long time since Laataazin has gone adventuring, longer still since they have stepped foot in Skyrim. They miss it; the vastness of the wilds, the clear air, the promise of a fight and treasure to be won. Surely it must be time for a visit, soon? Laat cannot remember the last time they went. Beyond their beloved wife, there is little to draw them back there.

And I am here, Miraak presence brushes against their mind, like a touch on their arm. It is tinged with smugness.

Yes, Laat thinks, hiding their smile from Frea, you are. Did you not want privacy?

That is, after all, the reason they decided to hold their regular meeting with Frea today – it is not like Frea, not being dragon-souled, is aware enough of the passing untime to know if Laat reschedules. But Miraak has ushered them from the temple, claiming to want of all things solitude. This is impossible with their souls interlinked, but physical distance and polite-pretence is easy to arrange. It is unusual enough for Miraak to request it instead of Laat seeking the embrace of nature that it makes them immensely curious.

Miraak radiates discontent for a moment (you miss me, Laat’s chest warms), but withdraws. He is fussing with something involving water, trying not to get the sleeves of his robe wet. They do their best to leave him to it and focus on Frea.

“How long do you plan to keep us imprisoned here?” Frea is asking dolefully, as if rephrasing the question will compel Laataazin to give her an answer she wants to hear. “Trapped in this unliving existence, where no thing changes or grows as the All-Maker bade it?”

Unimpressed, Laat scowls at Frea. They kick the ash with their boots, digging with their heel a scar into the earth that exposes a scurrying beetle. That is change, right there. Not the same as the orderly march Akatosh imposes upon the land, but then, it is his rules that argue that two Dragonborn may not walk Nirn at once.

Laat is no longer inclined to listen to such rules.

Frea looks at the beetle. Something in her eyes flickers. Her loose hand drops the ale, which floods from the bottle, soaking the little scar where the beetle rapidly crawls to escape death by drowning. Curiously, Laat watches, but when the golden liquid gets too close they nudge a line of sand to dam it. The beetle, saved, disappears into the ash.

“I wish to return to the All-Maker,” Frea says, quietly.

A sudden surge of annoyance from Miraak catches Laat’s attention. Unthinkingly, they press into his mind. Through his eyes they glimpse Miraak’s bare hand – ink-veined and thin – clutching at a bar of soap, the dim outline of his body beneath the surface of the bathwater, even one knobbly knee, a hint of-

Laataazin, he chides, vexed. Laat blinks and with effort wrenches themselves away. Anchoring themselves to the feel of the wooden stump underneath them, they inhale the salty scent of seaspray and ashfall. Their boots scuffing the ash, Frea’s solid warmth against their side, the weight of their armour on their shoulders.

Are you all right? Laat asks. They are really trying not to think too much about the fact that Miraak is bathing, and that means Miraak is naked. He has never been fully undressed with Laat. They have seen only glimpses of his body beneath the robes when they have sex, his hands, and rarely, his face. Usually, Laat occupies themselves with something like hunting or sleep that distracts their mind when Miraak bathes, because Miraak is very sensitive to his privacy where his body is concerned.

Miraak is naked. And wet. Wet and naked.

Geh, he replies. I dropped the soap.

His indignation at their amusement tempts them to laugh out loud. They do not, because Frea with her gentle mortal-soul and fragile eardrums sits next to them, long legs not struggling to reach the ground at all. Cursed Nords.

Stop thinking about my naked body, he adds, and do not try to look.

Don’t be shy, Miraak, Laat teases slyly, doing their best to ground themselves in the moment, on the tree with Frea not in the bath in the temple, even as they poke fun at him. You’ve been inside me from the moment I awoke in Helgen, and I know you were still watching even when a gentleman might �� look away.

They both know it is true, and though Laat is already well aware that Miraak watches them when they bathe, undress, or fuck, Miraak’s embarrassed defensiveness immediately confirms it. They have never minded - Laat has a soldier’s easy practicality about their body.

I was keeping an eye on you to make sure you were not taken advantage of in your many distractions, Laat Dovahkiin, he retorts. Laat has a vague sense of him splashing water over his face.

They roll their eyes and pull away.

“Dragonborn, do you hear me? I wish to die,” says Frea, intensely. “This is no way to live. You must know this, somewhere. Are you not tired of this unending nightmare?”

It is difficult to remain focused on Frea, because Miraak’s thoughts keep drifting to Laat like a ping on the edges of their awareness. They are soft thoughts, warm ones, shy-feeling, tinged with a little note of – is that arousal? Laat’s barely-restrained curiosity piques.

Is he trying to masturbate? It is rare for Miraak to do so. Admittedly, Laat doesn’t remember the last time he has tried without Laat sensing it and volunteering a… helping hand. No, the last time they have felt something like this from him, they followed him to the icy cell he prefers to sleep in when alone. In the memory, Miraak’s hand is hidden in the folds of his robes, but his masked face jerks towards Laat when they open the door, biting off a sound Laat is suddenly very eager to hear. Laat comes to sit beside him – ignoring his fluster, his demands – and murmurs to him about certain options they have. The night ends with Miraak writhing underneath them as they push into him, rocking him slowly against the bed while he gasps and begs, the echoes of his Voice he is desperately trying to muffle in the pillows sending shivers into the walls. There is no exact translation for ‘please, fuck me, please’ in Miraak’s preferred tongue of Dovahzul, but Laat learns that night several new ways to say it anyway.

Miraak sighs wearily, and Laat feels him cast an ice-spell in his bathwater.

Sorry, thinks Laat, sheepish.

“Please,” says Frea, somewhere distant. “Please hear me, Dragonborn. You are the only one who can wake us from this spell.”

Ni faas, replies Miraak, It is a memory I also … fondly recall.

Apologetically, they take a sip of their ale. They wince. Vile. The wines of Cyrodiil, where Laat likely hails from, are infinitely better. But Miraak enjoys the taste on their tongue, and they feel him hum where he lays in the bath.

Gripping Laat’s arm, Frea shakes them roughly. Snapped into their body, Laat blinks and glares at Frea. The Skaal is wise enough to back off, hands upraised, but her blue eyes are full of terrible sorrow when they look at Laat, no fear at all of Laat lashing out with a gauntleted fist.

“The Traitor has changed you,” Frea says to them. “He has changed us all. But you… I do not think any of the people you left behind would recognise you, Dragonborn.”

“You do not know me,” Laat signs, the shapes sharp and clipped. They are in Nirn now, after all, and their Voice would hurt Frea if not kill her if they spoke aloud. Dragons alone are strong enough to bear it. “You know nothing of the world beyond this island, girl.”

“I have heard tale of you, and when first we met… You slew Alduin World-Eater,” Frea shakes her head, slowly. “You would have helped us. You would know that what is happening is wrong.”

Laat rises to their feet, nettled by the reminder of their bitter fate, but Frea only stares at them, as if hoping something will happen. When nothing does beyond Laat’s glare, dimming into confusion at the odd look on her face, the light gutters out in Frea’s heart. Her shoulders bow, as if slumped by immense weights.

“I suggest,” Frea says heavily, “that you reflect on what it is that has changed in this time of unreality. And what has not. Tell me, what do you truly know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes? Please, remember my words, Dragonborn.”

With that, she turns and crunches away over the snow.

Laat takes a step after Frea, rage bubbling in their gut like a noxious poison – Miraak, touching in concern the edges of their mind – but gritting their teeth hard enough to feel the bones creak, they drag themselves back. No. Laat likes Frea, they do not want to kill her.

They do, however, want to hunt.

Enjoy yourself, Laat thinks to Miraak, taking a moment to send him a soothing pulse. I’m going to go and catch dinner.

Don’t get something large, I have already prepared food for us, Miraak requests.

Full of surprises, today, aren’t you? He grumbles something about being much maligned that Laat ignores, already setting off at a light jog into the wilderness surrounding the temple.

It is a bitter day on Solstheim, with high winds and a brittle, icy chill. The animals are wary, and it takes Laat a few hours to find anything worth catching. Eventually, they manage to corner a small arctic hare. It is dead with a Shout, and Laat skins it with their boot-knife. The hunter in them unwinds at the kill, the blood on their hands.

Frea’s words echo through their mind. “Tell me what you know of the lands beyond these shores that you have seen with your own eyes.”

Laat considers. It has been a while since they have spoken to one of their dragon acquaintances. Odahviing and Venfokest avoid Miraak, but Odahviing at least is bound to come if Laat calls. Perhaps they will ask how Skyrim is doing.

Something about the prospect makes Laat feel a little uneasy, as if there is something they are forgetting.

When are you back? Miraak’s question is more a vague feeling of longing for their presence and a desire to know where they are than it is words, but Laat answers it anyway.

I am coming to you now.

They feel from him a definite tinge of bubbling excitement, and then again that strange anxious spark. Pruzah.

He is definitely planning something. Seething curiosity carries Laat home, to the great Temple of Miraak sprawling between towering fences of heaped dragon-skeletons, fused and warped together by thousands of years of moving ice and snow. Laat ducks under the tongueless jaws and over the fleshless claws, poised in permanent screams of rending agony. As always, they grimace. It is not their favourite of Miraak’s choice in décor.

The interior of the temple is much better, these days, its hard edges softened by the multitude of pelts that ripple along the walls like the sides of some great breathing beast. Laat has hunted all of these themselves, and it still plucks their pride to see the fruits of their work displayed so prominently in Miraak’s temple. The rabbit they pack in ice and leave in an empty brazier. It will not go anywhere.

You are skilled, he interjects into their thoughts. And also prone to cold.

Laat closes their eyes and goes to him, not needing to ask, not needing to see – Laataazin could find Miraak blind and deaf, robbed of all sense, even dead, even dying. The ties that bind them are beyond such petty things as flesh, as mortality.

Soul-of-my-soul, they think, trailing their fingertips over the thickly covered walls, the soft furs, the unyielding stone beneath. Breathing in the smoky scent of incense, the long-distant iron tang of blood and daedra. Always I come to you. Through Apocrypha, through storm, through time and fate itself, no creature could bar me from you that I would not tear asunder.

Do not keep me waiting any longer, Miraak answers, softly. Laat can feel his hunger.

He is outside in the room they usually use when sleeping together. It is fairly large, walled-off, but open to the great sky and set with wards to deter prying eyes and inclement weather. There is no furniture at all, save for a cooking pot in the corner by a fire, a small chest that holds additional blankets and other supplies, and a huge bed, made completely of stone in the Dwemer fashion. It is piled high with furs to make it soft.

The reason, of course, is Laataazin.

“Miraak,” they whisper, as soft as they possibly can, and their Voice shudders the air with a low sonic reverberation. Anything more fragile than stone would be destroyed in an exhale.

“Laat Dovahkiin.”

He is perched on the bed, masked face tilted towards them measuringly. Over his lap luxuriates a thick snow-bear pelt, his long fingers fiddling with something under it almost absently. They can just see a small glimpse of his foot peeking out of the shaggy fur, wider than Laat has expected, the curve of his arch flattening towards his clawed toes. He is wearing a robe of deep purple, belted tightly around his waist so that no skin shows in the fall of its folds around the tucked hood of his mask. But simply by virtue of how uncomfortably stiff he looks, Laat wagers his robe is only a layer thick, his gloves are nowhere to be seen, and he is not even wearing socks.

Laat starts to strip off their armour, hoping to join him in the plush furs. He shifts; his presence strengthens in their mind shivery and avid, like ghostly lips are under their skin caressing the tight strings of nerves as Laat’s fingers fumble over the buckles. An urgency makes itself known, whether it is his or theirs they cannot tell, only that it seems incredibly important that the bulky plate is gone, leaving Laat in their breeches and tunic.

“Are you hungry?” Miraak says in his rich, deep voice. “I made soup.”

“You made soup?” Laat signs, honestly taken aback. They scrub their hair with one hand, dissatisfied with the length of the limp strands. Time to cut it soon.

“I told you I did.” Miraak’s rejoinder is curt, but Laat can feel a storm of emotions inside of him, more nervousness, quiet sparks of hurt. Puzzlingly, underneath it all is vast breathlessness.

“I am sorry,” Laat signs, “I thought you meant you got someone else to cook.”

Like normal, they don’t add, but clearly Miraak senses their confusion.

“It is pea soup,” he adds, with all the snappishness of an insult, and then looks down at his hands like he is hoping they will wring his own neck for him.

Pea soup is Laataazin’s favourite. They like the warmth, the simplicity, even the odd green of it. It is the first meal they recall eating, served by Sigrid after their escape from Helgen. It is decidedly not Miraak’s.

Miraak acting strange, trying to make one of Laat’s favoured foods, wearing slightly fewer than his usual full robes, having just bathed –

“Miraak,” Laat signs, slowly. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Miraak says nothing, but Laat can feel his frustration. Not for the first time, Laat wonders how they would have ever come to know him without a window into his soul, for his mask is expressionless, his body language has not changed at all, and his manner is anything but welcoming. Still, their heart squeezes at the thought of him taking the time to do something as simple and sweet as make their favourite soup.

“I am not hungry,” they sign, “but I would love to try it with you later.”

Laat takes a seat on the bed next to him. This close, they can see what he is fussing with in his hands. It is a coil of soft cotton rope, dyed black, and he is threading it through his hands again and again, rhythmic, hypnotic. His shoulders are tense. Understanding dawns as Laat gains a sense of what he wants.

“Want some help?” Laat signs.

The anxious movement of his hands pauses. His chin tucks close to his chest. The dim firelight plays over the gold surface of his mask, making the shadows jump and dance like the carved tentacles are twitching.

“Geh,” says Miraak. “I would relieve your curious mind.”

He trails off, but his mind does not, conveying a soft fear of exposure – unwanted, terrible, frightening, but at the hands of Laat, intriguing, even exciting. Another dragon-soul, who… knows, who has the most immediate window into how it feels.

No wonder he is being shy, Laat thinks, Miraak has never in all the time they have known each other reacted to having to remove his clothing with anything other than discomfort. To some extent, Laat even understands. They have times when their body feels wrong, too little, too soft, no teeth or claws or worst of all no wings, but for Miraak, that sense of not fitting his body never fades at all, and the marks of daedric corruption from years in Apocrypha has only worsened it.

Laat inhales. “You want me to take your robe off and touch you under it?”

They both feel the tug of arousal in his belly as Laat’s hands finish the signs. Laat’s approval at it makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle. The air electrifies, Laat’s blood warms. Already, Laat’s mind feels closer, overlapping with his, drifting in and out of seeing with their eyes or his. The rope seems to grow heavier in their - his - hands.

“Geh.”

Laat shifts to sit by his hip, trying to catch his eyes in the dark slits of his mask. Either he is avoiding their stare or the mask is at the wrong angle to penetrate the shadows.

“Tell me your watchword, Miraak.” Laat’s signs are firm but clear. They can’t hide their excitement from him, don’t bother trying, and his chest rises and falls a little quicker. Laat’s stomach quivers with butterflies.

He dithers, thinking through his choice, but when he speaks his voice is strong, steady, and confident. “Sikgolt.”

“Good,” Laat signs. They take the rope from him.

Miraak lifts his hands, and the voluminous sleeves fall to gather in indigo ripples around his elbows, baring his arms. Laataazin curls the first length of rope around his forearms and then just looks for a moment, memorising it. The contrast between the dyed rope and his sunless skin, stained murky ink-green-yellow like a slow-ripening bruise that makes Laat ache to dig their thumb in and push until it blooms purple. The green veins that fork through the softer skin of his wrists, the pulse-point that will hammer there if Laat tickles it with their tongue (and the groans that will fall from him, twisted, broken things, the bitten curses, the hungry ache).

There are scars there, just visible as thinned lines underneath the dark stipple of soap-softened hair, relics from a fraught past. His hands, thin and uncallused, a scholar’s hands still, offer up to the rope like the worshipful priest he still is (if to his own altar – Niid, zu’u losiil, he murmurs back), tipped by curving black claws that catch the light with a dim ebony sheen. He has filed them down, Laat can see the smoothed edges, the hint of dust caught under a nail that has escaped his washing.

Miraak has filed his claws so that he would not hurt Laataazin if he touches his fingertips to their bare skin, not even by accident.

The rush of admiration they feel for him is sudden, intense, and warm, warm, like the blush that climbs steadily into their cheeks. The arousal that sparks in one sparks the other, and Miraak is not as unaffected by Laat’s extended perusal as he is trying to pretend. Goosebumps raise where Laat’s eyes drag, and he grumbles and shifts on the bed.

It is false annoyance; Laat feels instead his anxiety, insecurity at having the marks of daedric corruption on display, his fear of exposure and powerlessness, the private worrying of his vanity.

Beautiful, Laat thinks, and politely ignores the confused feelings that flood through him as he catches their thought, all ending in an ember of lust. Miraak, despite his many conflicted feelings on his body, likes to be appreciated, but he finds Laat’s private, fond awareness of that fact intensely embarrassing.

“Laataazin.”

Laat’s shoulders shake in a silent chuckle.

They take his hand in theirs, smiling up at him. “Squeeze,” they sign with the other, and he obliges, gripping Laat’s hand until it feels like the bones creak. Laat makes a note of the pressure, then releases him with a gentle pat.

Loop by loop, they wrap the soft rope around Miraak’s arms six times, spreading the pressure out to protect his circulation. Checking the looseness with two fingers against his wrist, Laat tucks the tails around the loops, makes a knot, cinches it evenly, then knots it again for security. It takes a while, for Laataazin’s hands shake and tremble, and Miraak’s skin is sensitive to chafing. But as they work, Laataazin feels the rope’s increasing pressure acting upon him, the quiet, observant mood he settles into, dripped through with steady peace. His lassitude sinks soporific into the tired ache behind Laat’s eyes, and their head droops to rest on his chest.

“Not too tight,” he tells them, testing the rope. Laat skims kisses over his knuckles.

They allow him time to acclimatise to the ropes, feeling the minute tense of his muscles testing for give in the knots. They can hear the creaks of the flexing rope, his deep breathing metallic under the mask, even the distant wind blowing over the ashlands. Somewhere, a dragon roars.

Kruziikrel, Miraak identifies absently.

The fabric of his robe is silky and cool against Laat’s forehead. Beneath it, they can smell Miraak, old books, mouldy paper, spilt ink and the bitter reek of ash. From anyone else, it would be unpleasant – from Miraak, it is familiar, and thus, beloved.

Laat can feel the warm weight of their head on Miraak’s chest, the soothing hold of the rope, the robe shifting on his skin. He feels too warm, already, his breath fogging against his mask to blow soft as butterfly kisses against his dry lips. A little sleepy, too, wrung out by all the excitement and anxiousness of preparing himself for them.

“Ni faas. It was nothing,” Miraak rumbles. They can feel the vibrations through his chest when he speaks, the breath ringing in his lungs.

Their dragon soul.

It is tempting to indulge in the moment, lay their body across his legs like a pinning weight and allow them both to simply drift, hearts harmonising, breath mixing, until Laat has to untie Miraak’s hands and chase the blood to flushing. But they turn their cheek to the side, instead, so their breath skates into the opening of Miraak’s robe. He shivers.

It would be a shame to not take advantage of Miraak’s uncharacteristic willingness to be vulnerable.

Their fingers twist into signs. It takes Miraak a moment, either to parse it in his warm fog or to realise that Laat has signed, but when he does Laat relishes in the surge of indignation.

“I am not having a nap, and I am not that old,” Miraak huffs, and Laataazin laughs against his chest. It is nearly noiseless, but not quite. The furs tremble beneath them.

Wuth, they think to him. Old man.

“You’re the one whose – stopped,” Miraak snaps, and his voice loses its steadiness.

Must I do everything for you, Diist-Dovahkiin? Laat sighs gustily, teasingly, but they sit up and plant their weight square over his hips.

For a moment, they are both breathing through the sensations, Miraak’s heart thudding in his chest at the agonising burn of warm thighs squeezing his hipbones, the bend of Laat’s knees straining tight muscles from the hike to meet with Frea, the weight pressing his spine into the bed like a stone, even the arterial pulse he swears he can feel drumming his skin through the robe and their clothes pounding from the secret warmth of Laat’s inner thigh. The thought of all that blood, all that glorious heat, in their veins makes him dizzy.

Laat looks down at him and sees themselves mirrored in shadows over his mask and in his hidden gaze. The rolling slopes of their body encircle him, contain him, like a stopper in the narrow neck of a bottle. Their eyes smoke with intensity, flickers of amber red visible in the deep brown. In his eyes, they are handsome and powerful, beautiful as the killing edge of a new blade.

“You are so warm,” he tells them inanely.

“Let me see you,” Laat signs, bringing their hands deliberately wide in the movements so that their knuckles brush the blank gold face of Miraak’s mask. They want to show him his own face, his true face, the loveliness they find there among the ink-scars and exhaustion-wrung shadows.

Miraak hesitates. Old shames glare gluttonous at his vulnerability, and Miraak feels like shrinking into the safety of the mask. Is it not enough to let them do this? Must he lose every wall, every shelter, every defence he has against the rawness of this new Solstheim where bareness is unremarkable, and no one sings as dragons do? His face of flesh and skin does not even have majestic horns or tough scales - no, it is softened, wearied, by time and torture. The wrinkles he admires as they form on Laat and the steely greys of their hair remind Miraak only of the time he has lost to unwilling bondage on himself. They, after all, do not have the face of a prisoner of Apocrypha.

He is only a man. Despite the strength of Laat’s opinion of him, their dragon-soul, Miraak is only a man, and one beset by foolish vanity at that.

Laat says nothing, of course they don’t, but the swell of tender feeling is almost worse. This close, this hungry, the line between them is blurrier than it ever is. Without the mask, Miraak may as well … submit. Laat pursues the feeling, pressing into his mind, his body, until their touches feel mirrored and they are the hand that brushes and the skin that aches in response both.

Laat leans forward (catches Miraak’s irreverent thought about how so very warm they are, are they running a fever, against his bound wrists, his chest) and lifts the edge of the mask’s hood, revealing his neck. Old inkstains stripe his throat in greenish trails, splatters where he has coughed and choked on the fluid bubbling in his lungs, out his mouth. Laat can’t resist swiping their tongue over the arch of tendons, as if the coolness of their spit can smear such deeply-sunken marks. Tender kisses dot his shoulders, gentle lips mumble and mouth over the exposed ridge of his collarbones, blunt teeth threatening the bobbing gulp of the apple of his throat, sensations that spark fireworks behind his eyes. Laat’s lips tingle where they kiss him, his fragile skin papery and dry like the crumbling pages of ancient books.

They together feel his breathing fanning over his eyelids, penned in by the mask, as he tilts his head back. Exposes his neck to Laataazin, like a dog showing his belly to his master.

Beautiful, thinks Laat again, and Miraak swallows a groan.

Desire breathes like something living in the coil of his gut, drawing like a wave into his cock. The liquid movements of the robes over the sensitive flesh as Laat rocks back and forth over his hips while they kiss, sensuous, deliberate, rhythmic, just too far forward to grind against him, are exquisite torture.

Torture? Laat’s laugh is a sigh that ripples up to prickle the tainted skin under his ear. Miraak exhales roughly, flexing his wrists against the ropes to ground himself. They are edging ever closer to the lip of the mask, trying to steal it off without his notice. It is one of their more obvious designs. Not even close, soul-of-my-soul.

“What are you planning?” Miraak asks, more to reply than because he cares to know. Past experience has taught him that Laat is more than capable of using his anticipation as a weapon, stringing him on a teetering edge until he shatters like poorly blown glass in their hands.

You like it, Laat thinks, amused, indulgent as a cat in a sunbeam. Miraak, haughty, does not respond. He does not need to. The evidence that tells Laat they are right is beginning to rather eagerly tent his robe, after all.

This close he can smell the oil they use to clean their armour and weapons, and sweat, pure human sweat. Laataazin’s deals with daedra have been so much lesser than Miraak’s, and they barely have any marks, save for a wickedness in their grin as their hips roll against him that Miraak thinks must have come from straight from the Lord of Debauchery himself.

You know it didn’t, Laataazin contradicts. Their scarred nose bumps the underside of his mask as they lean forwards, palms pressing down heavy and soothing onto his chest. Hinting.

“Niid,” Miraak murmurs.

A flicker of disappointment, but Laat moves on from the mask without comment. They resettle their weight further over his hips, trapping his cock between their body and his. Miraak chokes, his arms twitching in abortive movement, like he could pull their body, their hands away. But Laat lingers, tracing the shape of his cock through his robe with heavy, palming strokes. It is so powerful a sensation that it hurts, hurts, like crackling lightning in his veins.

Miraak writhes, trying to unseat them, but Laat only rides him out like he is a bucking horse. His body undulates between their thighs and they grind down, eyes fluttering shut and mouth parting, a glimpse of their crooked teeth as they bite their lip.

Laat’s shameless pleasure in his struggle undoes him.

“Laat,” Miraak moans. They ground him with a hand to his chest, and his breath heaves like bellows against its firm weight.

Your arms are tied, Laat’s thought is involuntary, almost indistinguishable in heady lust, you just have to lie here and … take it.

They feel Miraak want to protest that he is not entirely helpless – there’s the Voice, there’s magic, they may be stronger physically but he could even flip them – yet his whole body is boneless, the ropes hemming him in sweetly, and they know if Laat just asks, he would take any amount of anything. To please them.

“Zu’u losiil, Laat Dovahkiin.” Miraak is shaky and breathless. I am yours. It is true. Without them, he would be a prisoner, lonely, bitter, still at the whim of the fates, bound to serve all his life in the hope for a taste of freedom. This service, he chooses. As they chose him, over the world.

“Good,” Laataazin whispers aloud, and the stone bed shakes. Somewhere distant, something smashes as it falls, shaken by the earthquake of their Voice.

Miraak’s eyes fly open to meet theirs through the slits of his mask, halfway through a ragged gasp. They see themselves as he sees them, scarred face is watchful, intent, their dark eyes alight with a rich glow.

“Laataazin.”

It is too much for him. Laat rubs his chest soothingly as Miraak’s head thumps back against the furs and his arms lift, futile, trying to cover his masked face, trying to hide. His knuckles meet only the coolness of his mask, smooth and hard, the antithesis of Laat’s body on his. He knows he is blushing, blotches of deep blue and yellow ink bursting like rotted flowers under the surface of his skin, knows that Laat could see it, if they open his robe.

The soul-of-his-soul thinks Miraak is good.

As if summoned, Laat deftly parts the folds of his robe and bares his chest. The bear pelt he lies on is so thick that the soft fur rises around the edges of his body like a wreath, his robe spread out beneath them like royal purple butterfly wings. The paleness of the fur and the richness of the silk all seem to exaggerate the archival yellow of his skin, warming to chlorophyll and indigo, like he is an unfinished painting given colour, depth, reality, by the paintbrush of his blush.

He is beautiful, and mine, they think, ghosting over pebbled flesh with indulgent, explorative touches. Miraak is thinner under his robes than he first appears, with jutting ribs from one-too-many forgotten meals to sustain a body that has not quite managed to process anything beyond ink with any reliability. His mottled skin is oddly smooth, hairless, and after a moment, Laat realises why.

“You shaved,” Laat signs, tapping his chest to get his attention. He lowers his arms cautiously, eyeing them through the slits of the mask. “Your beard, too?”

“Geh,” says Miraak.

Laat feels his embarrassed flush of self-consciousness. He shaved because he hopes Laat would put their mouth on him as they are so fond of doing, and does not want them to have to pick hair from their teeth. His hair grows very thick and all of it ink-soaked to dripping, leaving green stains on fabrics when he brushes against them. He worries; hardly thinks it’s beneficial for Laat to swallow any of Mora’s corruption that can possibly be avoided. Just as quickly, there is a fluster as Miraak tries to hide his thoughts from them.

Prickly and proud as ever, their dragon-soul.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” Laat assures him, their signs quick and fond at his worry. “And I certainly don’t mind you thinking of what I’m going to do to you.”

Their signs leave them free to smile, slow, wide, and Miraak shivers at the promise in it. Lightly they push on his elbows, encouraging him to lift his arms over his head so that his shoulders strain and his torso is exposed, like a sacrifice. Then, as Miraak has dared to hope, they lower their head and kiss his chest.

Laat explores, taking their time, feeling the raised lips of scars catch under their nails. He does not have many, all things considered, not half as much as they do, but there is enough to provide texture. Testament, they suppose, to his expertise with healing magic. Miraak runs cooler than they do, and as their searching hands find the secret, soft places that make him twitch and gasp (his sides are sensitive to broad strokes, but he jerks and hisses at gentle, featherlight circles over his hipbones, and the sound he makes when Laat licks a long stripe over his pectoral muscle and catches the edge of his nipple is so hungry it does not bear repeating), they feel him warm under them.

Sweat wells, bitter and acrid ink, in the dips of his collarbones, the dark hair of his armpits, his navel. Laat brushes the worst of it away and keeps going, ignoring the apocryphal reek and distracting Miraak from it before he can protest. They are determined to map his entire torso under their lips and tongue, the drugging strokes of their palms pressing against the heave of his lungs. His skin is soft and dry, curiously textured, delicate as vellum. When he blushes, sometimes the ink forms linear lines, swirls of no mortal language, as if it is trying to imitate the written pages of Apocrypha, like there are books not blood trapped underneath his skin. Laat knuckles his flesh until it fades into blotchy colours and pays it no attention at all.

They have no need for flesh-sunk knowledge and the words of magic lost to time. This is its own kind of lesson, and Laat will always rather be skilled in love than in secrets.

They hear the crackle of the fire, the wet noises of their mouth, Miraak’s moans and stifled cries. He whimpers when they give into the desire to suck on his skin until it bruises brilliant purples and blues, bright as an illustration commissioned by a master, so they do it again, again, until his nipples pinking with blood distract them. Laat torments the hard buds with quick, fluttering flicks of their tongue that make Miraak choke on a growl, and smile when they feel the tugging chains of arousal searing straight to his cock.

Miraak pants, half-wishing he let Laat take the damn mask off, because there doesn’t seem to be enough air and he feels like he is melting. It’s too much, he thinks, and Laat’s dark eyes flick up to his, measuring, probing for how he is doing, it hurts.

“Faaz,” Miraak gets out. You are hurting me. They must be.

Sensation so bright it might as well be pain has him arrested, senseless, sharp like needles in his lungs, and he is not sure where he is, only that the world is bound by the rope around his wrists, squeezing his thunderous crash of a heart into a mortal body that twists and rocks under Laataazin like it is possessed. He is aware that he is making noises, hisses and gasps and bitten off words that would embarrass him if he were more present, but Miraak is not – is gone.

He is, dimly, afraid of what is happening to his body, for he is fairly certain that sex has never been like this. With his nerves under-stimulated from years in bitter Apocrypha, Laat’s focused attention is utterly overwhelming. There are many reasons he prefers to remain clothed; safe concealment from the immensity of the world scraping at him like raw wool is one.

It always is like this, with Laat.

“You are fine, Miraak,” Laat tells him, knows he understands even if they are not certain he sees their signs, “This is not pain.”

He eases a little at their reassurance, but just to prove it, they bite him hard enough that their teeth carve welts into his flesh. Hard enough that the confused morass of sensation – pleasure, it is his and theirs, at the same moment – narrows into the piercing beam of pain, true pain. Miraak keens, and against him, Laat moans richly, reverberating.

If only – if only, but no, this truly is a rare opportunity. Laat needs to be gentle and relish the rare freedom of touching Miraak’s bare skin, not overwhelm him quickly.

Miraak bares his teeth. “I am not fragile,” he says, his pride bidding him ignore the quiver in his deep voice lodged somewhere in his stomach, and the nagging fear that he absolutely is, actually, and if Laat isn’t careful, his bones will shatter to dust like the ruined books that populate old tombs like monuments to impermanence.

“You blush so prettily when I treat you like you are,” Laat signs, cheeky. “Can you blame me?”

When they are done, though, their hands find his ribs again and push down, hard. Miraak wheezes a breath, but Laat only smiles at him, as if to say, See? We’re fine.

Miraak slams his head back into the pillows, hissing. Again with the praise. I am going to pulverise you in training later, Laat feels him think, and allows the ghostly curl of their amusement to thread like gold in his sternum.

Laat withdraws, gives him a moment to catch his breath. They check his bound hands briefly, then hum, satisfied by the strength of his grip. The break is barely a second, not long enough, just enough to admire his flustered state.

One hand tweaks his nipple, twisting it hard enough that the dull pressure will ache, the other smooths underneath the fallen robe around his hips and ghosts around the base of his cock. He reacts like their skin burns him.

“Niid,” says Miraak at once, “niid – Dovahkiin, saraan-“

The hand at his chest taps him. Laat does not move their other hand, not at all, allows Miraak to feel like he is dying, knowing that he will not.

“Your watchword, Miraak?” Laat signs. Their expression is serious, but their mouth is smiling, like they know a secret.

It takes him a moment, not to remember, for they feel the word come at once to the forefront of his mind, but to make his breathing cooperate so the word comes out steady and even. Always so proud.

“Sikgolt,” he says, at last.

“You know what to say, if you want this to stop,” signs Laat, “If not, behave.”

“I am not a pet,” Miraak tries to snarl, but his words are lost in an explosive cry when Laat spits into their hand and grasps his cock firmly with quick, rough strokes. Dry, it is just too much to be bearable, but Laat’s grip is workmanlike, brusque, and utterly unrelenting. Even when Laat smears his own ink-laced precome down his cock, it is not enough to prevent the agony of the friction.

Good, they think. Laat does not want him to be comfortable.

Miraak responds to that with a shattered sound.

Laat focuses on remaining in their own body, on the sweat-sticky shirt on their back, the slight grind and click of their wrist as they jerk him off, tries to distance themselves from the cacophony of Miraak’s thoughts. They want him to be overwhelmed, but not drag them with him to the point where they cannot be certain they will be able to watch him.

It is nice, they think meditatively, to be able to do this with him. They are surprised, but pleased, at how this night has gone, have not ever quite believed that Miraak would be capable of or willing to experience such a large amount of touch and vulnerability. After all, it took a long time of very patient compromises to reach the point of physical intimacy. Sex is studded with pitfalls, as having thick ink for blood means that Miraak’s arousal is not always reliable, and he regularly cannot bear touch, which his pride detests. Once they discovered they have a love of ropes in common and that Miraak can bring himself to ask for it, things became easier, and the rest Laat simply consigns to cultural differences he cannot explain in any way they understand, or the effects of his time in Apocrypha.

Still, Laat knows him well enough at this point to not need to think too hard about the movement of their hand on his cock. Dragging touches that form a circle for his jerking hips to thrust into, long strokes up the left side, switching to caress over the crease of his thigh and fondle his balls, rubbing that spot underneath that presses on the base and makes his eyes roll into the back of his head.

He is fracturing under their attention, their dragon-soul, twisting and shuddering on the bed like he can through movement plea for the violent pleasure to ebb enough for him to catch a breath. The mask shakes and casts golden reflections hurtling over the walls as he alternately thrusts his head back, then at once bows his body towards Laat, runnels of inky sweat pooling in the divots of his hips, staining the furs. He cries out, convinced they are hurting him, unable to register the intensity of the sensations he feels as anything other than pain.

Watching his anguish, Laat feels an erotic thrill. How glorious, to have a creature so ancient and strong under their power. They close their hand around his cock, caressing the sensitive underside of the swollen glans with their thumb. Miraak, sensing, perhaps recognising Laat’s warm appreciation, panics and jerks, his bound hands trying to interfere. Feeling indulgent, Laat lets him tug against their strength.

Laat squeezes his cockhead until he flushes turgid purple, then rubs their thumb against the dripping slit. They fuck him like this slowly, watching his balls flush and tighten up against the base of his shaft. It won’t take long. Cruel perhaps, for his mind is a mess and his body is not much better, but it always makes his cock throb.

Miraak howls like he is being murdered. His breathing is shuddering gasps and hitched sobs. He is being good, though, holding himself as still as he can through what Laat can tell is sheer stubborn will alone. His body tries to jerk away from their rough touch, and the sounds that fall so sweetly on Laat’s ears are utterly broken, but he does not wrench himself away. Miraak bears it.

He behaves.

A reward is due. Laat releases him to reposition themselves so their scarred cheek rasps against his cock and their arms are wrapped around his thighs and hips, holding him still. Miraak breathes heavily, they feel the muscles flex in his stomach and thighs as he strains to sit up without dislodging them.

“What -” His words crack off. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing?”

“You’ll like it,” Laat promises. They dig circles into the bony jut of his hips, watching for his reaction. The hood of his mask hides his throat bobbing in a swallow, but Laat can see his shaky exhale. They can sense Miraak’s confusion, lust-fogged mind struggling to grasp what is happening, not even truly certain where he is, not particularly caring about anything beyond Laat, Laat, Laataazin. His thoughts are run-on strings of harsh dragon-words, difficult to parse, overshadowed by flashes of feeling and thought, lightning-bright among the seething sea of sensory overload.

Maintaining eye contact with the dark holes in the mask, Laat gives the bobbing cock in front of their face an exploratory lick.

Miraak jumps.

They do it again.

This time, he groans. Laat lowers their mouth to his cock and starts by licking him, flicking their tongue over the sensitive underside. When his hips start twitching and lifting towards them, they slip his cock into their mouth and go down, down, as if they mean to swallow him whole.

His bound hands fly to their hair, unable to get a grip on it, but Laat looks up. His mind is beset by visions of his cock hurting them, bruising their throat so they can barely speak, but Laat only shakes off his hands kindly, a strange feeling of warmth in their breast at his worry.

“I will not hurt myself,” they sign, “I have taken bigger than you before.”

So saying, their mouth envelops his cock. Their nose bumps against his hips, and they control themselves, drawing back just a little to gain a new breath, then back down. They swallow when they feel the head bump against the back of their throat, let it slide into the tight space there.

They catch an image flashing through his mind - young man, pale cheeks freckle-blazed, mask pushed up over frizzing carroty hair; “Quiet, quiet, do you want the whipping - you have to be quiet, Miraak!” Burst of coals against Miraak’s pinwheeling arm - incense and dragon rumbles overhead - “Vahlok- !?” - and Miraak rams his bound hands against his mask to cover where his mouth hides beneath it so hard Laat hears the metal ring.

Laat pushes in on his hips hard enough to bruise. They hum, quietly, but the shaking sound still catches Miraak’s attention, especially as the vibrations judder through his cock in their mouth. Name me, they think to him fiercely. Name who has you.

“Laat-aaz-in,” Miraak cries. The mask’s shadowed tentacles seem to curl and writhe like worms in the rain. His knuckles are reddening against the implacable metal, soft flesh, breakable, not enough to pierce it. They find themselves glad for once that it is there - they would not have liked to see him try to shove his hands into his mouth.

Make noise for me, my strong dragon, Laat thinks, bobbing their head even as their narrowed eyes watch him carefully, you can take this. It is for his benefit - he is still responding to their praise, to their encouragement, the iron core of his will soaking it in. It grounds him, earths him enough to birth a shattering wail rippling with the strength of the Voice.

“Niid!” Miraak tries to argue, “Laat – I cannot – I cannot-“

His mind is a mess, but they are confident he is present, that he knows where they are and what is happening. They can sense his watchword close to his mind, even lift their mouth for a moment to give him a breath to say it in.

Frustrated, Miraak jerks, and what comes out instead is “Aaz! Mercy - aaz, aaz!”

It is not the signal, so pleased, Laat continues. They are savouring the warmth of him, the throb and pulse of his veins through the soft, sensitive skin, his salty bitterness on their tongue, the reek of his sweat. A shame it would be to stop soon, for something as irrelevant as Miraak’s comfort.

“Zu’u losiil,” Miraak moans in a trembling voice at that thought.

They are reasonably certain that in the dark holes of his mask he is looking at them, so they sign to him, resting as much of their weight through their forearms to keep his hips still as they can. Still, he thrusts abortively when they try to take him down into their throat again, and Laat has to withdraw quickly to prevent choking.

“My strong dragon, I am here,” Laat asserts. “I will give you what you need. Shout if you need to, I have you.”

The wall stripes with the reflections of the mask in the firelight. He is breathing rapidly, his arms trembling lightly. His mottled skin gleams with the richness of his sweat. Miraak is trying, they can tell, but when they dip the tip of their tongue into the slit of his cock, curious to see his reaction, he breaks.

“MUL QAH!”

The thunder of his Shout rocks the room. Miraak’s Dragon Aspect roars into life, and Laat hurriedly yanks their hands back before they are pierced through by the sudden emergence of spines marching down his belly and chest, protecting his vulnerable innards. Frankly, given their choice of words, Laat is not entirely surprised. Still, the moment of distraction is all they need, and as Miraak stretches his resplendent wings, his iridescent tail, Laat swallows him down again. They hold their breath for as long as they can, encouraging him to rock into their throat.

“L- aaat,” Miraak manages. It is pleading. It has to hurt him, with how sensitive he is, how much this all is - the warmth, the wetness, the wet laps of their tongue, their breath, their humming, the flex of their muscles, the hungry pleasure of Laat watching him. If they allow him in their mind, they can feel it - the sharpness like the agonising piercing joy of being fucked with a needle, back and forth dipping in and out of flesh, pricks of red red blood lubricating the steely slide, back and forth, back and forth.

Swirling their tongue around him, Laat smirks. They grab onto the thick spines that jut razor-sharp from his hips and hold him still as they draw back up, hollowing their cheeks around him. Then down, to the accompaniment of his broken gasps and snarls. The spines make it much easier to keep him in his place. Despite his increased strength, Laat is always the stronger of the two of them. They control him like a wild animal breaking to the lash, Miraak’s power, his strength, his Dragon Aspect - they are nothing here unless Laat wills it.

You are going to take this until I make you come, they inform him. Miraak sobs.

His eyes are burning coals behind the mask, enough to shadow it. He is wreathed in horns, in fire, in the brilliance of his soul, the amber-blue scales that blaze over his chest, his arms, clinging the thickest to his scars in belts so bright it almost hurts to look at him. His bound hands are taloned and sharp, trimmed claws turned deadly knives, and Laat keeps a careful eye on them in case he tries to grab their head again.

They know he won’t. Miraak will behave for as long as they ask him to.

He slams his head back against the furs, in what Laat thinks is agreement.

It is thrilling. Triumphant desire burns in Laat, a thunderous need to break the shining, vicious, powerful creature before them, in their mouth, in their soul. His growls shudder their bones when they tease him, and his wings close around them like pressing hands on their shoulders, trying to urge them deeper even as he thrusts up. Laat resists the pressure, lets his cock scrape against their teeth as they rise up, a warning and promise both.

Miraak shudders a breath, his hands flexing into fists. His tail underneath Laat curls sinuously around their leg, angling for the fork of their legs. Laat moans as they suck him and grinds down against the muscular coil. They can feel the intoxicating ridged texture of his scales against them through their breeches, igniting sparks in the seething pressure in their belly.

They release his cock with a pop and sit up to rut harder against him, using the spikes thrusting from the bones of his hips to dictate his movement. They stare down at the slits of his mask with intense, dark eyes.

“Good,” Laat whispers, needing to vocalise their approval, and Miraak’s body locks up as he is ripped into orgasm.

All the grounding in the world cannot prevent the backlash of searing white that flashes across Laat’s eyes, the sympathetic clench in their belly and the heated lance of pure want that stabs into the base of their spine. Their hand fumbles at him, pinning his spurting cock to his belly with clumsy strokes, the other bracing themselves against the bed as it feels like shuddering waves rock the island.

Laat is even fairly certain that one of them briefly blacks out.

In the aftermath, Miraak shakes. His auroral wings curve around them both, like he is protecting them from the world. Shredded fur dusts his shoulders like snow from his gnashing horns. His come is sticky and warm on his chest, chased through with shimmering greens and blues. Laat, cheeks flushed and breathing hard, runs a finger through it, gathering some of the pearly fluid.

They lift their hand to his mask, intentions clear. Miraak’s bound hands scrabble at the edge of the mask, the deadly-sharp dragon-talons a hindrance, trying to lift it enough for them to reach him under the hood. In frustration, he tears it off. Laat hears it clatter to the floor beside the bed.

Exposed, Miraak pants. He is luminous with the Dragon Aspect, his eyes, the thinness of his veins limned as if he is lit from within, haloed by horns. Laat presses the finger to his lips and he lets it slide into his mouth obediently. He glows there, too, his teeth sharpened to lambent daggers of gold and blue. The gaunt arches of his cheekbones blaze with a green blush. His long, dark, wet hair is plastered to his forehead, dripping ink as it continues in a thick mane down his shoulders and back, speared by the flaming spires and spikes of his dragon-soul.

His curious eyes, double-irised, one malachite and ice, the other goat-pupilled and bronze, are dark with lust. Laat can barely make out his second irises behind the brightness of the Dragon Aspect. Fresh tears trace the paths of the stains on his face. When he blinks at them with his wet eyes, more follow. His thin lips hollow around Laat’s finger, and they can feel his tongue, forked in this aspect, soft, wet, warm, licking even as he draws back and releases them.

Laat cannot help the quiet, fractious sound they make at the sight of his tears, the dizzying pulse of lust. It rumbles between them like a stormcloud. His tail tightens around their leg, intangible muscles of light rippling around them like the coils of a vast snake.

“Beautiful,” they sign, “you are beautiful.”

The growl that rumbles out of Miraak is half-feral. His slitted eyes watch them, the tips of his wings brushing their back with ghostly caresses. Pulling off their shirt, Laat wipes him clean as gently as they can. They toss the soiled shirt over their shoulder, not particularly interested where it lands. Unbinding Miraak’s hands with just the slightest tinge of regret, Laat chafes them quickly to make sure the blood is flowing. If only they could keep him like this forever.

They try to avoid scratching themselves on the curving talons burning with the strength of Miraak’s Shout, but it is either that or the sharp scales that armour him like gauntlets. Pursing their lips, Laat stares at the small line of welling red across their palm.

“Hi los ahraan,” Miraak says, you are wounded, and then all at once his wings flare and his tail twists and his body surges, and Laat is slamming down onto their back. His sinuous length curls above them, flaming eyes narrowed at the cut like it is a personal offense. He leans down, great horns digging into Laat’s cheek, obscuring their vision.

Laat holds their breath, anticipation hot in their belly. His forked tongue flickers out and laves the cut. He is gentle, but it stings. When he pulls back up to regard them they fancy they can smell the tang of their blood on his breath. He rumbles at their approval, and they can feel the vibration all the way down into their breastbone. The heaviness of his perpetually wet hair falls about them like a curtain.

Laat tries to unwedge their hands, gives up and thinks instead, as strongly as they can, Remember, no magic, Miraak. It is only a little cut, not worth risking a seizure over.

“Geh,” he says. His voice is even deeper in Dragon Aspect, rough as untumbled stones creaking in ancient cliffs. His vast wings completely block out the surrounding world, until it feels as if the sky has fallen and they have been swallowed up into the gullet of Aetherius, as if Aetherius could ever be half as beautiful as the soul-of-their-soul. The wings of Miraak’s Dragon Aspect remind them of the skies of Sovngarde, flaring with impossible, vivid colours, martial flickers and deep, internal glow that cannot be tarnished by any amount of daedra.

Not for the first time, Laat feels a pang of jealousy. How come you get wings and a tail with this Shout, and I don’t? And with only two words?

“Zu tiid.” I have had time. “This Shout was my mind in my prison. Morah, Laat Dovahkiin.”

Meditate, Laat thinks sourly. You sound like the Greybeards. Can’t you just show me?

“Geh.”

But you won’t.

Miraak’s tail rubs along their leg, then twines round it like a thick vine. Trapped between their chests, Laat can feel the steady beat of his heart against their hands, the roughness of the patches of scales that fringe over his skin. They push lightly, and his wings spread as he lifts himself enough to free their hands. When he breathes, ghostly flames flicker and curl in his nose and mouth.

“Zu laan aam hi,” he says in his voice of a mountain, and Laat understands the sense of what he means from the press of feeling in their mind. He wants to repay the favour, to give Laat the pleasure they have given him.

They wriggle against him, considering, but their muscles cramp in fatigue. “That very much did for me too,” they sign, with a rueful smile, “I can’t believe you didn’t feel it.”

Miraak snorts, and pale flames shoot out to lick against Laat’s cheeks. They do not hurt, only tickle softly, like the soapy caress of water on dry skin. Well, he was rather preoccupied, they suppose, their smirk widening.

“You can give me a massage later, if you want, though,” they add, as his dissatisfaction with that answer is blatantly clear, “My back’s been giving me grief.”

“Geh,” he says immediately, with true enthusiasm, and they feel him twitch as if struggling not to flip them and begin at once.

Laat exhales in amusement. “What a dedicated servant you are,” they tease him. “If only I had a team of people half as devoted as you, I’d be living like an emperor.”

“Will this please you?” Miraak says, and before Laat can even sign his mind turns to practicalities.

His cult is the best place to start, though he is reluctant to lose many of them, but fewer than six servants is an insult of the highest degree to Laataazin’s status. Four, at least, Soskro and Mirdein were loyal blades - supplemented with Sulis and Ulf, all well-trained by Miraak himself and comely to the eye, which is important, should Laat wish a break from Miraak’s own charms. Then for variety, he could turn to Raven Rock, there is surely some soft-handed noble there craving the honour of serving Laat Dovahkiin (that Severin girl?), and perhaps that dashing sellsword that Laat enjoys, with the chitin armour and the handsome jaw-

No, no, Laat is laughing in breaths that shake the bed, No, I don’t need servants, Miraak, - sensing his mutinous feelings, they add swiftly - I don’t want them. And his name is Teldryn! He is attractive though, isn’t he?

“Geh, zu mindok,” says Miraak, unsure why they need to confirm the obvious.

“Perhaps,” Laat signs, “I’ll ask him to come join us one day, will you like that?”

Miraak’s wings tilt backwards like the ears of a startled Khajiit, and his cheekbones blaze emerald. “Rul laan,” he says, if you want, in a voice that strains to be noncommittal. But underneath that very interesting reaction there is a very real thread of baffling fear, and Laat reaches for him.

“I chose you,” they tell him, “I will keep choosing you.”

Miraak tilts his head, wary of his horns, so that their foreheads press together and their breath mingles. In that resonating voice, he murmurs, “This I know. We are the only ones who are real, Laat Dovahkiin. The others – their lives, their deaths, their pains or desires for freedom, it is less than nothing. I am here, you feel me in your soul, as I feel you in mine.”

Staring into those dual eyes, Laat cannot suppress a frisson of unease. They do not agree - how could they? It is as if he has reached down and found the darkest, guiltiest thoughts Laat regrets having, internal measures of their power against those around them, knowing, knowing, that all those who attempt to constrain them live in ignorance at Laat’s pleasure - but they feel him frown.

“Was it not I who sheltered you from the daedra in Whiterun, I who tended you when the Greybeards trained you in languages you did not know, I who comforted you in your solitude? As it was you who touched me in my cell in Apocrypha, brought me to Nirn and set me free. You alone, my equal. You would not have come to me in Apocrypha if you did not wish to stay with me, Laataazin.” Miraak pronounces each syllable separately, drawing it out as a dragon does. “You broke my chains, and now we are together, and so we will always be. It was not I who offered this choice, if you recall.”

“I do.” He is right in that. “Other people matter, Miraak. We all have lives, no one... is more real than the other. But you don’t have to worry. I still choose you, I am not letting go.”

Miraak’s nostrils smoke. “You will never have to, Laat Dovahkiin. My Voice sings your name. There is nowhere you can go that I cannot find you.”

Laat breathes out slowly and chooses to hear the devotion in his words rather than the threat to their freedom. If he does not fear their interest waning as he claims, they do not know what it is that he fears. They offer him a thread of their own affection, warm regard softened by their intimacy, and his slitted pupils dilate. His shimmering wings soothe against his back, and the Dragon Aspect flickers away.

With that, he rolls off them, casting an ice spell in one hand to cool himself. Frost sheens over his skin, crackling over the soaked robe. It melts in rivulets, taking his inked sweat with it, running down to freshly stain the furs, until he looks streaked with stripes of his natural paperiness like a painted statue in the rain. The sopping darkness of his green hair clings to his shoulders and neck, curls in long strands dragged straight by the weight down to his hips.

As Laat’s eye lingers on the exposed line of his thigh, loops of graceful text begin to appear out of the ink below. They tear their eyes away before their mind can convince them they understand it, and stare at his face until the itch of temptation subsides.

Laat is not certain what he is thinking of - they feel strange, deep musings turning over in his mind, in languages they do not know - but he seems content enough, if quiet.

They tap him to get his attention. “I wasn’t done touching you. Do you need to get dressed now?”

Miraak looks down at the robe clinging wetly to him like he has forgotten it is there. One hand rubs at the bridge of his nose, irritatedly brushing away a lock of hair that drips tears down the angle of his jaw. After a moment, his gaze rises to meet theirs, bolder than they would have thought without the mask.

“Niid,” he says simply. “How do you want me?”

Laat smiles and moves over the bed towards him, feeling his eyes trace over their bare chest, the softness of their belly, their strong shoulders, the slight sway of the relaxed muscle and fat of their arms. An ember of his appreciation warms the blood in their cheeks as they reach his legs.

Lifting his left foot into their lap, Laat kisses his knee. The shape of his bones are fine against their lips. He looks back at them, brows raised, but wedges some of the furs behind his back to support himself, and does not pull away. His foot flexes. The hard claws catch in the fabric of Laat’s breeches, pulling free a loose thread, and they pause to gently untangle him.

He has strong legs, muscled by years of dragon-riding. Laat runs their fingertips over the hard bumps and dips of the thick, crisscrossing calluses and scars that abrade the insides of his legs, imprints of dragonscales made permanent in his flesh. They rub the muscles they can feel underneath it, unsurprised to find them loose and limber. They kiss the soft crinkle of the side of his calf, just under his knee, smelling the warmth of his skin, his musty scent of books and scale.

Their tenderness affects him. Miraak leans towards them, wanting to touch, Laat watching the folds of his loose skin dimple at his waist. Obligingly, they shift closer, hip angled between his thighs, and draw his right leg into their lap instead, palm warm on his knee. He is cold from the ice spell, enough that their skin numbs.

His large hands reach for their face, drawing it to face him. His hands cup their cheeks – they feel him become aware, suddenly, of how small Laat is in comparison to him, how his palms almost eclipse their cheeks, his claws tangling into their short hair. Laat closes their eyes, sighing at the gentle scratch of his blunted claws over their scalp. It is unutterably soothing.

His thumbs brush over the thick spiderweb of scars patterning their face, depressing the cartilage of their nose. Their lashes brush their cheek, his exploring fingers over the thinness of their eyelids, careful of his claws. Lifting to encircle his wrist, not trapping, but touching, just touching, Laat squeezes him and they both sigh at the spreading warmth of lassitude.

“Can I kiss you?” Laat signs one-handed, their movements small and restricted by the circle of his arms. They know he can feel their subtle sort of longing, quite apart from sexual lust that burns like coals in their belly, and even a little nervousness. Nowhere to hide from the soul-of-their-soul.

Miraak hesitates. Laat winces at the confused storm of feelings washing over him, his desire to please and curiosity warring with old fear and instinct. Like any dragon, he does not, as a rule, like having his voice obstructed.

It is not the first time they have asked him, not the first time he has acquiesced. Nor even the first time that his face has been fully bare, not just Laat’s head under the warm darkness of the hood, the metal face angled up to let them just reach his lips. Quick brushes, sometimes longer, where Laat curls their hands into his robes and pushes against him, some bright sparking feeling in them, the forbidden soft warm wetness of their tongue ghosting along his lip, the brilliant spark of their blunt teeth scraping his lower lip until pain waxes, hot and hungry. But it never quite grows easier for him, even with the increase of pleasant memories.

His eyes soften. One hand drops, rubbing over their shoulder, admiring the round cup of muscle filling his palm, the indent of their tan flesh marking under his thumb’s claw. This is Laat Dovahkiin, who brought him from Mora’s cursed Apocrypha, who anchors him to Nirn, who keeps him company on his lonely island and wraps him in soft ropes like he is precious.

Laat is patient and radiates calm. They interpret for him the confusing signals of their bodies, the tightness in his gut that makes him feel like he can’t quite breathe (arousal, affection) the oversensitive pain of his hips and thighs (just a little muscle tiredness), and the throb of his airy mind (the pleasure of submission, soul-of-my-soul).

They know that he does not understand why they desire to put their mouths together so (to restrict his Voice? To gag him, to bite out his tongue? And thus disarmed, choke the air from his lungs? No, no, soul-of-my-soul, Laat whispers in his mind, for pleasure, only that…), but it is… important to them, and it is enough that they want it. For Laat Dovahkiin, he will do this thing.

Something in Laat melts when he thinks that.

“Geh,” says Miraak, unable to quite hide his trepidation.

He tugs them a little closer, his free hand trailing over the meat of their shoulder, stretching over the sharp forks of lightning scars on the back of their neck. Strokes over their muscled back, admiring the folds of their flesh. Laat is fat and warm where he is thin, ghostly, their solidity and weight as unquestionable as the earth. He moves the hand on their cheek to their chest, splayed wide over the ridges of their collarbones, the swell of their small breasts, feels the gentle movement of their breathing. It is only natural to crook his other leg around their body, holding them within the circle of himself, like they are a ship in his whirlpool. How odd, then, that Miraak feels as if he is being pulled into their orbit, not the other way around.

Affection brims in Laat at this thought. They reach into his mind, seeking to feel how he feels, measuring his reactions.

It is Laat that bridges the distance between them when Miraak is unable to, slow and patient with the unconscious reflex that has him jerking back before their lips meet. They simply wait for a beat, then close in regardless, hands squeezing his thigh meditatively. It is grounding.

They feel him think their lips are full, very soft and warm, uncharacteristically undemanding, treating Miraak as if he is a tender thing that must be lulled into peace. Soft, heady brushes of their lips over his closed mouth, sometimes diverting to dust along his cheeks, his jaw – once even, the tip of his nose, making him snort reflexively. Laat laughs at that in their silent way, the puffs of their exhales warm as their kisses on his lips.

Their eyes close when they kiss him again, and they feel him watch their face, close enough to see the near-invisible span of freckles buried under the scars, the faint gleam of sweat on their forehead, the rich curl of their eyelashes. The scraggy tufts of their hair dusting over their cheekbones, the warm shadows clinging beneath their eyebrows.

This is the good thing when they want to kiss him, Miraak thinks, for they come so close he can see every crinkle and crease of their skin, and he can fill his hands with their body.

He runs his hands up and down their spine, and their body yearns towards him like a plant in the sun. Laat sighs when he finds a tense muscle and undoes the knot with his thumb, and smiles when he lingers over their ribs, fascinated with the slow movement of their breath, the rolls and curves of their strength.

Close your eyes, Laat thinks, softly, softly, close your eyes, and open your mouth.

He obeys with a ripple of nervousness, but nothing happens for a long moment. Laat just keeps kissing him, close-mouthed, gentle, until Miraak eases. Their tongue, when it comes to flick lightly at the crease of his bottom lip, surprises him, but even more so is the hazy release of their exhale from their mouth and nose. Their breath is close enough that Miraak could breathe it himself. They feel his flare of excitement at taking and tasting the air that carries their Voice inside himself, and he clumsily nudges closer.

Laat obliges him with a speed that betrays their true eagerness, feels his head swims under the sudden influx of warm, warm approval, pride and pleasure, and their breath, tinted, he thinks, a little, with the power of their Thu’um. They stay like that a moment, Laat’s hands bracing on his stomach, breathing into each other. Miraak’s mind is clouded and warm where it tangles with theirs, as if it’s full of cotton.

Laat wants to kiss him so badly it feels like they want to devour him, greedy with their indulgence, wants his lips, his tongue, the warm wetness of his mouth. The urge to just take it, to fuck his throat with their tongue, is so strong, and they cannot help the way their hands dig into his sides, tense with their restraint. But this is good, they think, a little reluctantly, and there is no need to push on this. With this, Laat has patience on their side.

They pull back to let Miraak breathe properly, but do not go far. Their foreheads press against each other. Laat swears they can feel the hollow thudding of his heartbeat in their chest at the place where their souls meet like tributaries.

“I only moved slightly, there is no need for all this… excitement,” Miraak mutters, but his voice sounds a little destroyed, and Laat grins.

They move to pull away, but Miraak catches their face in his hands again, preventing them from going too far. Laat blinks at him, warm and steady like a cat, and sees their own face reflected in his eyes, his soul, their blown pupil, the way their mouth parts, almost automatically, at the proximity.

“You enjoy it so,” Miraak says, a little bemused.

It is not often that they manage to surprise one another, being as interlinked as they are, but Laat is truly shocked when Miraak furrows up his brow and boldly presses his cold lips to theirs. He has never initiated a kiss, not once, Laat has never thought he would. They feel his determination, shot through with threads of insecurity – am I doing it right? They are not responding – and, classically Miraak, his hands tighten on their cheeks, holding them in place, redoubling his assault instead of pulling back. It is a clumsy mishmash, and they bump noses and once clash teeth, but it is the best kiss Laat has ever had.

Afterwards, they lay down next to each other. Chilled, Laat wraps themselves in the furs they pull over from the drier side of the bed, sighing at the feeling of the cosy softness. Miraak presses up close behind them before they can roll back to face him, their bodies separated by the furs. Laat’s heart warms.

“Want me to fetch your robes and mask?” they sign, knowing he can see over their shoulder.

His nose against their hair shakes. “Niid. Like this I am fine.”

Miraak, insistent and affectionate as a cat, rubs and nuzzles his face against the back of their head and shoulders. His arm curves around their waist, pulling him flush against them. Laat can feel his warm breath against the shell of their ear. Involuntarily, Laat thinks of the warmth of his dragon-wings, how large they are. Larger than his arm, for certain.

Pulling back, Miraak’s lungs billow with air. He Shouts, and the shimmering wings Laat has just been thinking wistfully of drape over them like a blanket. His tail curves around them, hemming in their body against his. They can feel the bladed tip against their stomach, the point made dull by their thick swaddling of furs. It is immediately warmer in the safe cocoon of his wings.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Laat can’t help laughing as they sign, ignoring the stony bed vibrating underneath them, “It was only a thought!”

“Fah hi.” For you. The resonance of his voice echoed with the tenderness of the feeling they can sense in him seems to make his every word louder.

Laat is still for a moment. “I do love you,” they sign, eventually, the burning of their eyes making them glad that they are facing away. They clear their throat.

Miraak’s grip tightens. “Zu’u losiil, Laataazin.”

I am yours. Laat sighs, and wonders if he will ever learn that love and possession are not the same. Though they are not sure that Dovahzul has a word for love, not in the way that Laat means it. Is it even possible for him to return the sentiment in the language he prefers?

For some reason, this line of thought summons Frea’s face before their mind, her sanctimonious words, and Laat’s mood sours.

Sensing their disquiet, Miraak hums against them soothingly. “You are troubled.”

“Frea wants to die,” Laat signs. “I don’t know what to do about her.”

“Do you not like Frea?” Miraak asks, and they feel him turning faces and names over in his mind, struggling to recall which of the many people of Solstheim Laat means. The Skaal woman? He does not associate with the Skaal much - they are not overfond of him, and Miraak is likewise not fond of being called a monstrous traitor by people he must refrain from killing.

“I do.” Laat touches the twitching tip of his tail, as if to soothe his momentary annoyance.

“Then keep her,” Miraak says, as if the answer is obvious. “You will miss her if she dies.”

“But she is unhappy!”

They feel Miraak’s shoulders move in a shrug. “You know my Shout,” he says calmly.

At that, Laat jerks their elbow into his ribs and wriggles. Miraak’s enfolding wing lifts hesitantly, enough for Laat, sweating, to work their way down to lying on their back. Thus freed, they jab a finger in his face as they sign.

“That’s wrong, Miraak! It is immoral to compel someone to go along with you just because it’s easier!” Miraak’s fire-bright eyes blinks at the finger in his face, all four pupils narrowing to focus on it. Laat deflates. “It doesn’t last that long anyway,” their motions are jerky and frustrated, “it would wear off then Frea would cleave me in two with her axe, and I would certainly deserve it.”

“Only because you use it like a hatchet, Laat Dovahkiin,” says Miraak, gaze returning to Laat’s eyes, “blindly superimposing your mind over another. Bend Will works best as a suggestion enforcing a desire or pattern that is already there. Simply find what makes them happy, find what is a barrier to your will, and remove it. The Skaal girl wishes to live as she once did, yes, free to worship her god? Then with your words allow her to do that, and her mind will do the rest.”

Laat’s hands lowered. “I didn’t know it could do that,” they sign, meek, unsure whether the feeling in them is horror or awe.

“With time and patience, the limit to my Shout is your will and the breadth of your imagination,” Miraak explains. He lowers his wing again, slowly, as if fearing that Laat will push it away. “With skill, you could encourage a resentful Greybeard to become a career warmonger, or a compassionate enemy your staunchest defender to the grave, all of their own volition.”

Some strange tinge of unease roils in the back of their mind. Laat touches the wing, feeling the bony spur of the joint, the leathery membrane, unsure how to respond.

Miraak’s voice is quiet and persuasive. It rumbles like the song of earth into Laat, through each bone, each thought in their mind.

“What is worse,” Miraak murmurs, so soft, so low, so deep, “allowing a good woman that you care for to die, or bringing her many more years of happiness and joy through the use of one Shout? A lifetime of bliss with one you love, all for speaking three words? How could you deny her that?”

“I suppose,” Laat signs, but they cannot meet his eye for guilt.

They feel him observing them quietly, some strange dissatisfaction in him that they cannot identify.

“I will do it,” he volunteers suddenly.

“What?” Surprised, Laat glares at him. “No! It’s unethical! You cannot force someone to be happy, or to stay with you simply because you want them to! It would be nothing but a lie.”

For a brief moment, Miraak scowls, the jagged crown of horns and his glowing teeth making him look truly fearsome. But then his expression smooths. “Dismiss it from your mind, Laat Dovahkiin,” he says, gently. “It is simply handled, and already agreed.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Laat signs anxiously, searching his face, “You’re just going to talk to her? Don’t-”

Raising a taloned hand, Miraak clasps theirs to stop their words. He gives Laat a soft, odd smile. “She will not even remember we have spoken,” he promises. “Only where there was frustration and pain, there will now be joy and peace.”

He strokes their hands with the backs of his talons with immense tenderness, nuzzling in close to with his breath and careful rubbing of his sharp cheekbones caress the warm hollow of Laat’s neck. With his touch and his mind he lulls them, sending soothing waves of affection and warmth, feelings of safety, recalling to them the ache in their muscles from sex, the tender sweetness of their kisses. His nose fits under their jaw as if it has been made for him, and despite themselves, Laat sighs. It has never been wise, loving him. But how can they help it? He is the soul-of-their-soul.

“Zu’u aam hi unslaad,” he whispers, with the air of a promise, “rii se dii zii.” I serve you forever, essence of my soul.

They reach for his hair, combing the thick wet locks over his shoulder, avoiding the spines on his back. Droplets of ink run down their arms as they begin to braid, loose and messy.

“You worry too much about people that are not worth your time,” Miraak says, and by his smile Laat supposes he means it lightheartedly.

With a heavy heart, they allow themselves to be cheered, and offer him a small smile in return. “Who should I worry about? You?” they tease, not entirely how much they are joking.

He smirks. “You could.”

Despite themselves, Laat chuckles, hearing the distant crack of stone in their Voice. They tug on the messy braid of wet hair they’ve made, and Miraak goes, a tingle of arousal running through him at the sensation. Laat kisses his cheeks and nose, making his dual eyes flutter shut as he sighs.

“Why,” they sign one-handed when he opens his eyes at their lack of movement, fingers so close they brush his cheek, “you attempting to take over the world again?”

“Niid,” says Miraak, his taloned hand coming to cup their face with the tenderness of a man who knows he is touching something immensely precious, “I have the best of it here, and that is everything I desire.”

With thanks to thuum.org:

Geh: Yes.

Laat Dovahkiin: Last Dragonborn.

Ni faas: lit. no fear. No worries/it’s fine.

Pruzah: Good.

Sikgolt: lit. rune place. Library.

Niid: No.

Zu’u losiil: I am (emphatic) yours.

Wuth: Old.

Diist Dovahkiin: First Dragonborn.

Faaz: lit. (you cause) pain. You’re hurting me.

Saraan: Wait.

Aaz: Mercy.

Los ahraan: (You) are wound(ed).

Mul Qah: Strength Armour (Dragon Aspect Shout)

Zu tiid: I (have had) time.

Morah: Meditate/think deeply (upon it).

Zu laan aam hi: lit. I want to serve you.

Zu mindok: I know.

Rul laan: When (you) want.

Fah hi: For you.

Zu’u aam hi unslaad, rii se dii zii: I serve you forever/ceaselessly, essence/soul of my spirit/soul.

@argisthebulwark as promised.

#inkwrites #minors dni #my fic that world will cease to be #not safe for minors #tw possessiveness #tw jealousy #tw blood #laataazin #mind control #skyrim #tes #miraak #fic

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wordsfromthesol · 4 years

Text

Sleep Deprived

Author: @wordsfromthesol Taglist: @zphilophobiaz Pairing: Tim Drake x Reader Summary: Tim accidentally falls asleep in the wrong apartment. That apartment happens to be yours, and it happens to be on your first day at your new job. Warnings: Language maybe? Word Count: 1.6k

It was the first day of your new job, your new job at Wayne Enterprises. Unfortunately, this meant you had to actually start waking up early. When the alarm went off at 5:30 in the morning you absolutely dreaded leaving your warm bed, but it was your first day and you were determined to make a good impression. Throwing your legs over the side of the bed, you slowly pushed yourself up and shuffled into the bathroom. Forty-five minutes later you came out and nearly fell to the floor in shock upon noticing a figure in your bed. Stalking closer you noticed they had a mask on…and was that a cape? After staring for a solid minute and a half you finally recognized the emblem, Red Robin, one of the infamous vigilantes of Gotham. You had only been in Gotham a week, was this normal? Shaking the thoughts from your mind you squinted through the dark and made your way to your closet. Selecting an outfit you tip-toed into the living room and got dressed. You had planned to actually make breakfast, but you supposed you had time to stop somewhere. Jotting down a quick note for the hero, you quietly went back into the room and placed it on the nightstand before leaving.

Tim's eyes fluttered before shooting open. His mind went into panic mode, quickly surveying the area and finding a note on the nightstand.

Red Robin,

I think you stumbled into my apartment by accident, but I'm sure keeping Gotham safe takes quite a toll. Since you’re a hero, I'm hoping you won't steal any of my stuff. Feel free to help yourself to any coffee.

Tim made his way to the window. "This isn't even close to my apartment." He mumbled to himself just as his phone rang.

"Dick?"

"Where the hell are you?"

"I…uh…working."

"At an apartment building half a mile from yours?"

"Why do you -- nevermind. I guess I slept here." Tim stopped trying to keep up the façade.

"DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND I DON'T KNOW ABOUT?!" Dick's voice went up two octaves as he screamed across the phone line.

"Geez, calm down Dick. No, I don't have a girlfriend. I honestly don't know how I ended up here. I was patrolling late last night --"

Dick cut him off, "When was the last time you slept? Not including this morning." He quickly added the qualifying statement.

"Three days…" Tim mumbled, knowing he was about to get an ear full from his brother.

"You can't keep doing this Tim. You're going to get yourself hurt."

"I know, okay." The statement long and drawn out. "I didn't mean to, I just get hyper fixated…"

"You're taking off tonight. From patrol and case work. And you better figure out how to thank that poor girl."

Tim knew it was pointless arguing with him and relented before hanging up the phone. At least now he could catch up on some WE work these next few days.

You quickly learned from your new coworkers that heroes stumbling into random apartments for a nap was not a normal occurrence in Gotham. You were just lucky…according to them. When you got back the mysterious figure had left. Though it would've been more surprising if he was still there.

When your alarm went off the next morning, you proceeded to the bathroom as usual. Only this time when you were done, your head hesitantly peaked around the corner, half expecting the hero to be in your bed once again. He wasn't. Slightly disheartened, you made your way to the WE building and went straight to research and development, hoping to avoid the morning gossip.

"Oh, Y/N! You're here. Can you run this up to Mr. Drake's office?" Your supervisor asked before you could step through the door.

"You…you mean like…the CEO, Mr. Drake?"

She could hear the wavering in your voice and quickly consoled you, "Don't worry. He's never here. More of a night owl I suppose. Just set it on his desk."

"Okay…" You were still hesitant, but couldn't exactly turn her down on your second day of work. Once you got to his office, his secretary didn't bother looking up. They just waved you along. Just as you set the folder on his desk, you heard the door opening. "Shit." You mumbled, praying that it wasn't the CEO.

"You must be Y/N." The voice was clear and crisp behind you. You spun around to see Timothy Drake, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, standing before you.

"Uh…yeah. You know who I am?"

"Heh, well I do run the company."

"But I just started yesterday. I'm nobody."

"Don't be ridiculous. What did you bring?" Tim motioned towards the folder on his desk beside you.

"A proposal from Sarah. I think it's some new circuit board."

"Well don't try to sell me on it." Tim could hear the lack of enthusiasm in your voice, not that you were trying to hide it.

"Sorry…not my thing I guess." You tried to play off the awkwardness…it did not work.

"You work under her, don't you?" Tim furrowed his brows as he stalked over and grabbed the folder, slowly thumbing through the papers.

"Yeah." You wanted to rant more, but you didn't think it was appropriate. It was your second day, and though the work didn't interest you, Wayne Enterprises did. This was how you could get your foot in the door. How you could make a difference in the world.

"Well, then what is your thing?" Tim was determined to get the answers he wanted. After all, he had to have some way to repay you for letting him crash uninvited at your apartment. And not waking him or telling the world that he was there.

"Honestly…" You hesitated to complain about your brand new job, but something about Tim felt familiar and safe. "I want to develop technology that makes a difference, that helps people. The projects I've seen seem completely money driven, which I understand. But in Gotham we have so much to look out for. Think about a chemical to counterattack Poison Ivy's spell or a ballistics vest you can comfortably wear under anything…" You drifted off into your thoughts until you realized you had been ranting for almost fifteen minutes. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound ungrateful for this --" Tim cut you off.

"No. I think we may have placed you in the wrong division. I want you to meet someone."

"I figured it out." Tim proudly announced as he sauntered into the Batcave, nodding toward Dick sitting at the computer.

"Figured out how to convince me to let you patrol tonight? Because the answer is no." Dick didn't even bother to look up. Mainly because he didn't want to be persuaded otherwise.

"No. You were right, I needed time. But the girl. Y/N."

"Your new girlfriend…" Dick wagged his eyes as he spun around to face his brother.

Tim rolled his eyes and attempted to ignored his older brother's comment. "She's the new WE employee. I'm moving her from our standard R&D department." Dick arched his eyebrows, still unsure where Tim was going with this. "She's going to be working with Lucius."

"And you think that's a good idea?"

"Yes. I fully checked her out and I think her work will benefit us more than it will WE."

"So you going to officially introduce yourself then?"

"Yes," Tim looked suspiciously at the mischievous glare in Dick's eyes before quickly adding, "But not for that reason!"

"Hmm" Dick spun back around towards the computer.

"Don't you dare tell Jason about this!" Tim screamed as he bolted up the stairs.

The next day you stood in awe once more as your new boss, Lucius Fox, was showing you more of the lab. There was technology here that you didn't even think existed. That's when it all clicked, this was tech used by superheroes. Wayne Enterprises supplied tech to the Justice League, Titans, Outsiders…all the superhero groups you could think of had displayed various pieces you now recognized around the lab. Your jaw finally dropped open as you watched Red Robin himself saunter down the hallway.

"Lucius! I heard you had a new protégé." The vigilante eyed you as he came to a stop next to your new boss.

"Red Robin. I didn't know you were stopping by today." You noticed Lucius smirk as he side-eyed the hero.

"Well I…" The remark caught Tim off guard…he didn't really have a particular reason for coming to the lab today. Well other than you. "I had to meet Y/N. I've heard great things so far."

"Right, well I have your suit repaired." Lucius chimed in to relieve some of the awkward tension before quickly disappearing to retrieve it.

Your eyes squinted as you glanced awkwardly around the room, "I've been employed here for like 3 days now…"

"Your…uh…research at school. And your internship at LexCorp…" Of course he had researched you. There's no way you would've gotten into the position without extensive background checks. You awkwardly fiddled with your fingers, hoping Lucius would soon return. You didn't expect Red Robin to try and continue the conversation. "Also thanks for letting me crash the other night. Guess I didn't realize how tired I was."

"So you don't just pick a random apartment to sleep in every night?"

"Well I try not to…I already got berated enough by my brother for that night."

"Good, as you should've." Red Robin looked slightly hurt by your commentary, so you continued. "It's never healthy to let yourself get to that point. What if you had to fight someone?"

"You sound like him…but fair enough. At least it allowed me to work normal hours for once this week."

The gears were turning in your head as everything fell into place, "Tim?" you blurted out before you realized what you had said.

"Ha! Well that didn’t take long." Lucius chuckled as he walked out, costume in hand. Tim's cheeks were already turning a bright crimson.

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robbyrobinson · 3 years

Text

OWL HOUSE X CTHULHU MYTHOS: GOD AWAKEN (24)

Camila found herself alone in a dark, dank room. Around her wrists were tightly bound in a rope extending from the ceiling. It had now been a few hours since she was cruelly torn away from her only daughter. Her daughter may as well be dead at that point. Every passing hour, Camila tried in vain to loosen the strains weighing her down. The thought of what could become of her daughter filled her with determination, but even that was not enough to make a dint.

“Mija.”

The door swung open alerting the middle-aged woman. Any hope that it was her daughter on the other side were quickly dashed when she was met with the cold, luminous glow of a golden mask.

“It is time, daughter.”

Camila squinted her eyes in a scowl. “Whatever you have planned, you will not prevail.”

Emperor Belos let out a low, hazy chuckle. He was in such a sickly state his ribs were poking through his robes. At that rate, taking the life essences of palismans was not enough to delay the inevitable. Death was now knocking at Emperor Belos’ door to claim him and it occurred to Belos that Death was not a patient fellow. “I am really going to miss your feisty attitude; maybe that is where Luz got her fire from.”

Camila wanted to bash Belos’ mask in until his skull cracked from the pummeling. “Leave my daughter out of this.”

Belos raised his hand in objection. “Fret not, daughter: I will take good care of your daughter.” He turned away from Camila and exited through the door. “I will raise her to the perfect child. Better than you ever were.”

Emperor Belos firmly grasped his staff. He inhaled deeply and exhaled through the tiny slits in his mask. His legs were clenching up giving him a near gallop to his walk. The Owl Spy walked down the hall seeing his lord staggering.

“Any problem, your Majesty?”

Belos waved his head to save face. “Just interrogating the human woman.”

“I see. Luz and the Owl Lady are still locked away, so there should be little issue for the occasion.”

“Excellent; you have always been a loyal follower,” Belos lamented. “By the way, have you seen Kikimora? She is usually the one who would oversee these public punishments.”

The Owl Spy bowed his head. “It’s a shame, really. I cannot believe the odds of this happening.”

Belos tilted his head quizzically. “What pray tell?”

“Our Kikimora was in your laboratory earlier, and for the likes of me, I don’t know how it happened.”

Belos tapped his fingers on the tip of his staff. “Well, what is it? Go on.”

“Kikimora...lost her footing and fell into one of your vaults. She was not in too much pain from the looks of it. It was like...taking a long sleep.”

Belos loosened his grasp on his staff. “Well. That’s a pity.”

Belos resumed walking in the opposite direction without much thought aside from finally getting revenge on his adoptive daughter. When he was completely gone, the Owl Spy opened the door to Camila’s cell. Camila tensed up when she heard the door open again.

“Are you back to mock me more?” She looked at the site of the opened door instead seeing the Owl Spy. “You’re...you’re not Belos.”

The Owl Spy nodded and removed his mask. “Your daughter happens to be friends with my daughter.”

“Oh. Well, why are you here?” Camila walked backward as a way of trying to get as far away as she could.

“Relax, I am not going to hurt you,” he reassured.

“I’m sorry that I am having a hard time believing what any of you witches tell me,” Camila said, “after all, it was your coven that attacked the hospital I was working at and dragged me kicking and screaming to this world.”

The Owl Spy nodded in understanding. “Listen to me: your daughter is still alive, and she is fighting to save you.”

Camila perked up. “Take me to her, please.”

The Owl Spy put his finger on her mouth. “Not too loud...I do have a plan, just listen carefully.”

Amity sprinted down the halls with the knowledge that her siblings were locked away in the dungeon. Her breath was getting heavier and all the running was making her legs sore, but the pain was only a minor stumbling block.

“I just hope Luz has the glyphs ready.”

From the corner of her eye, she could see the mighty door of the dungeon coming into crystal view. In front of the door, two large burly guards were in front of it. Given their attire, it was easy to identify them as working for the dreaded Conformatorium. Amity quickly hid in a wall’s corner hoping to have been silent enough to not be heard. She glared out from behind the wall and saw that the guards were still none the wiser. In fact, they were having a conversation from the looks of it, but about what the witch-in-training did not know nor care.

Amity took her finger and drew a spell circle into the air drawing forth a fire ball. This too she had to do in great silence. She held the ball in the palm of her hand and watched it flicker as it danced around. She took one final look and flung it. She quickly dashed herself away when the guards took the bait and ran to find the origin of the sound.

Amity raced her way to the door now seeing that locks of varying shapes and sizes were all over the door. The witch girl looked around in some ways hoping that the key wasn’t too far behind. Having another idea in mind, Amity placed her hands on the door and inhaled. With a wave of her hand, permafrost began to manifest from her palms and wrists before spreading in all directions on the door. She could feel the door’s metallic design shift underneath her palms becoming converted to solid ice.

Once the door was completely frozen, Amity looked around for something she could pitch at the door. Scanning her surroundings, Amity grabbed a medium-sized rock and tossed it at the door. Much like breaking grass or fine china, the door broke into fragmented pieces and shattered. Without much prompt, Amity immediately dashed in on the off chance that the two guards from earlier returned. It took little effort to see that her siblings were in a cell together.

“Edric, Emira!”

She dashed to their cell, stopping just short of the bars. Now, Edric was nothing more than fragile glass: he was sprawled on the floor in capable of moving. From her sister’s wailing, Odalia likely arrived earlier and withdrew another hit of magic. Now, the boy’s magic sac was completely depleted. Without magic to balance off of, he was a vegetable. Emira looked up to her baby sister. Mascara was running from her eyes.

“Mittens?”

Amity hushed her. “Don’t worry, I’m here now. Once I get the staff, we’ll have our brother back.”

Emira’s eyes widened fearfully. “Look out!”

Amity jumped out of the way of a red beam that sliced into the floor of the dungeon leaving a deep cut in it. “So you’ve come to stop us?”

Amity clenched her fists. “Mother.”

Odalia held the staff in her hand and it shined its ominous red glow. “Why must you prevent Lord Nyarlathotep’s plans?”

“Mother, can’t you see that Nyarlathotep had corrupted you?” Amity asked “the staff has to be destroyed.”

Odalia shook her head. “I have finally gotten everything that I could have ever hoped for.”

“You’re insane.”

“Because of Lord Nyarlathotep, I have gone up exceedingly on the pecking order of this isle; I am a part of an elite group of magic, and now, with his help, I have become one of the most powerful witches on the Boiling Isles! Maybe even second to the Emperor himself! After years of trying to upkeep the proud Blight name, I am now reaping the benefits of that labor.”

Amity got up on feet. “If you let Nyarlathotep and Belos win, then the family line will die with you.”

Odalia firmly grasped the staff in her hand. “You have always been a perpetual thorn in my side, haven’t you?”

Amity did not respond. Her mother continued her tirade.

“You should be more grateful to your mother that I even allowed you to be born. After all these years molding you until you achieved perfection, you instead chose to throw that all away by continuing to see that half-witch behind my back, and I would have at least loved it that you’d befriend...I don’t know maybe a river troll...but no, once that human vermin encroached on our world, you have always been by her side...Why? Are you really telling me that all that time and energy I put into raising you so you could be the best that you could possibly be was all for naught? You are an insult to the Blight family name.”

Amity shook her head in defiance. “The only insult to our family is you.”

“Is that so? Is that how you really feel?”

Amity nodded whilst gripping the ground.

“Death it is then.”

Odalia shot fire balls from the staff in a flurry. Amity instinctively dodged them and shot ice from her finger tips. It quickly froze the balls of fire and they dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

Odalia slammed the staff on the ground creating a tremor. The earth opened up to swallow Amity whole. Once more with quick thinking, the witch girl fell into the hole but bounced back. Odalia stared into the crevice seeing that she created a barrier that bounced her off.

“All that talent, spoiled.”

Odalia lifted the gem of the staff to the sky and twirled it. A crackle of sound came from the gem and it began to glow a bright, crimson red as it charged. Odalia flashed a smile and discharged a ball of light. Amity created another barrier this time large enough to cover the cell of the twins. “Stop this at once! Edric and Emira could get in the way!”

Odalia laughed to herself. The barrier was quickly starting to destabilize from the eldritch powers eating away at it. “This magic is infinitely more powerful than the run-of-the-mill variety you have been studying.”

Amity drew more attention to the barrier. She twirled her finger once more and fired it into the barrier. Holes began to form inside of the barrier which the witch girl tried to fight by hardening it. Sweat was beating down from Amity’s forehead. Her fingers started chafing from the prolonged time she put into resealing the barrier. She sensed the magic being cast from her magic sac was draining slowly. If it were to completely disappear, Amity would be sure to faint.

“I am going to stop you no matter what!”

Odalia shot more of the alien light at the orb forming. It was readily eclipsing the size of the barrier Amity devised. Amity’s knees clamped together. “Just a little more...”

The barrier shattered sending Amity flying back. Amity’s eyes fluttered open seeing the Blight matriarch approaching her. She went to get off her back, but Odalia pinned her down with the staff. It was pressed firmly on her stomach. The gem once more shined brightly.

“If only you would’ve been a better daughter.”

She lifted the staff up and flipped it. The growing gem reflected in Amity’s eyes. The power inside of it surged and crackled. There was a sudden surge of heat coming from the object. On instinct, Amity rolled over and kicked the end of the staff.

“You brat!”

Odalia made a grab for the gem, but Amity took her other leg and tripped the matriarch with it. Odalia held out her hand but it was too late. The gem made contact with the ground and shattered into millions of pieces. A green mist slithered put of the remnants and entered the cell holding Edric. The gaseous cloud hovered over the boy and entered the orifices of his face.

Edric’s skin returned to its former glory, and when he inhaled, his skin bubbled up as it was filled with the magic it was deprived of. Edric opened his eyes, looking around. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Emira’s eyes widened and she sighed in relief. “Edric!”

Before Edric could say anything, she spontaneously hugged him. “You’re crushing my ribs.”

Odalia screamed and clung onto the pieces of the destroyed staff. In her blind anger, she grabbed Amity by her neck and lifted her in the air. “You ungrateful, insolent, self-absorbed brat!”

Amity grabbed her mother’s hands attempting to pry them off her. “Lord Nyarlathotep will be most displeased when I tell him what you have done!”

A crackle grabbed their attention. On the ground, another mist was growing. It widened into a flat circle and opened up. “What is this??”

The hole began to suck whatever was in its path inside it. The sound of legions of flutes emitted from the hole now understood to be a portal. It had the two warring family members in its proximity and was sucking them in. Amity grabbed the cell bar for dear life. “What if that is Nyarlathotep’s dimension? Then that means...”

“Whatever Nyarlathotep had in that dimension was likely feeding on Edric’s magic,” Emira interrupted. She shook. “And I think they’re still hungry.”

Amity’s finger tips were starting to give way. She walked timidly so she could be close enough to grab another bar. Odalia grabbed her. “If those monsters are hungry, you will satiate their hunger!”

The older woman ripped Amity’s hold of the bar and tossed her on the ground. The pressure of the portal grabbed the rim of her shirt to draw her in. Her legs flailed around to catch solid ground.

“Mittens!” the twins shouted.

Odalia observed her daughter’s struggling with indifference and turned to walk away. Black tentacles burst through the portal’s opening and, for some indiscernible reason, bypassed the witch girl and instead grabbed a hold of Odalia’s legs.

“What? Me!?”

It jerked Odalia on the ground, flopping her on her chest. She sunk her long fingernails into the ground. “No, you can’t have me! My bloodline! You cannot do this to me, I am a BLIGHT!!”

But what Odalia did not understand was that there existed beings of unknowable shape and form, some that are older than the universe itself, and they give little thought to the status of the person they are interacting with. The Boiling Isles itself and all the witches within were small specks of dust that the gods would step on without malice but cannot be burdened with our conventional morality.

The tentacles jerked harder on her legs. The once proud matriarch of the Blight family was now reduced to a powerless bully who was begging for her life. Her fingernails scrapped the floor leaving marks in it when the final pull was administered. She shrieked one final time before becoming engulfed by the portal and disappeared. Amity plopped on the ground her heart beating fast.

“Where do you think it sent her?” Edric asked.

“Who knows,” Amity replied. “But now that it’s over, time to get you both out.”

Unbeknownst to them, their mother was ripped from the demon realm and was cast into a dimension outside of space-time, the unfathomable void that the Outer Gods made their domain. It is there where Odalia’s mind would melt from the presence of the gods and she would be an unintelligible mess and the fibre of her being would be shredded for eternity.

#the owl house #owl house #fanfiction #owl house fanfiction #cthulhu mythos #cthulhu #odalia blight #amity blight #fanfic

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edasnest · 4 years

Text

Agony of a Witch spoilers ahead!!

Alright I’m just as fucked up as everyone else but I wanted to dig into a few details of the episode that I haven’t seen other people discuss yet.

Sort of an off-hand thing, but I wish Principal Bump had remembered what he told Eda when Luz first enrolled into Hexside: that she and Luz were safe from the Emporer’s Coven. I would’ve hoped he would take Luz aside and at least change her school uniform to be one solid color again as to not draw attention to her, but oh well.

Willow and Gus are so Ride or Die for Luz that they’re willing risk their entire lives and futures helping Luz heal the Boiling Isles Most Wanted. I sort of want to know how Eda reacted to the two showing up on her doorstep without Luz, like did she hold herself together long enough to tell the kids to go home? Or did she just grab Lilith’s staff and bolt? Did she try to come up with a plan first or was she so overwhelmed with emotion that she barreled in with a one-track mind? Lilith mentioned Eda being late which I thought was kind of odd considering the circumstances. If Eda rushed immediately towards the castle, what would cause her delay?

I know everyone’s ready to form an angry mob and go after Lilith but I’m genuinely curious about her motivations. Yeah, she was a bitch to Luz but I think that’s just due to her limited interactions with her and the fact that she’s human. Anyone that spends more than 5 minutes with Luz tends to become attached, honestly, she’s so lovable. But there seems to be a sort of stigma against humans on the Boiling Isles?

Regardless, Lilith definitely fucked up. On so many levels. Idk about you guys but political atmospheres tend to take time to shift. Belos only came to power 50 years ago. What could he have possibly done for Lilith to be so eager to join his coven when it was still fresh and new when she was a girl? It could only have been a few years old at that point, maybe somewhere between 5-15? maybe 20? What kind of total subjugation did Belos pull to where only after a few years of ruling, Lilith and Eda were all in and ready to join his coven? It’s one thing to be scared of being killed if you don’t conform to his will, it’s another to actively want to help in his reign.

She mentions her “real family”; is the emporer her father? Grandfather? Why was joining the Emporer’s Coven so vitally important to her that she willingly cursed her own sister as a teenager?? Was she being blackmailed? Threatened? She didn’t get a chance to explain before Eda acted out in anger and I really really need to hear that explanation. Because something had been promised to her in order for her to go to such drastic measures. She has a gem in her chest as well, and we know now that her appearance has drastically changed since they were girls. Was she also cursed? Was it a sick initiation ritual when she became the leader of the coven? Was she willingly cursed or was it forced upon her? 30-40 years of the knowledge that she cursed her own baby sister eating away at her, somehow thinking this was helping her all along. That this would be good for Eda. What was she promised to make all of that okay?

Alright last thing: What the Actual Fuck is Belos’ deal. What is he? Who is he to Eda and Lily? Whyyyyyyy why why why why why does he absorb the life force of palismans??????????? I’m now super duper grateful to the Bat Queen for protecting abandoned palismans if the alternative is to become some dude’s energy face mask. Speaking of which, why is that so vital to his being able to function? He seemed about ready to break before he did that but then he was super Gucci. I’m also extremely concerned about the giant heart?? In his throne room??? Is his castle alive like Hooty? Does Hooty have a secret area where his heart is? The concept of an entire building being sentient and alive seems to be unheard of on the isles, at least when Willow and Gus were introduced to the owl house, but it seems the castle might be the same. (Is the ultimate showdown Hooty versus Castle? Because that would be awesome)

Is the castle the spirit of the “Titan” Willow mentioned? Did Belos somehow conquer the titan and trap it’s sentience inside the castle? How did he know the kids were trespassing and trying to steal the relics unless the castle told him so? Gus’ illusions were pretty solid up to that point and they didn’t seem to trip any magic alarm system. They just seemed to be caught. Why wouldn’t the Emporer’s Castle have an alarm system unless there wasn’t a need for one? Hooty seems to be able to find where everyone is within his walls whenever he needs to tell them something. Is the castle the same?

Tl;dr: @ Dana I need answers, please tell me Lilith’s motivations and explain Belos’ whole thing, I’m dying and I want my wife Eda to be okay

#textside school of magic and demonics #the owl house #the owl house meta #long post #agony of a witch #agony of a witch spoilers #edalyn clawthorne #lilith clawthorne #give me back my wife

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non-sequitura · 3 years

Text

Non-sequitura Disney in-depth analysis (after making a tier list)

Warning: SUPER longform. If you don’t know a movie well, you should skip the summary. I tried to be light on spoilers, but they’re there.

I went chronologically from favorite to least favorite. So S tier is, in order from fave to least fave, The Incredibles, WALL-E, then Zootopia.

S tier (Something I consider high quality AND a movie I greatly enjoy. I would love more Disney movies be like this.)

The Incredibles - one of my favorite movies of all time, possibly THE favorite. Rockin social commentary, epic action scenes, memorable characters, not a minute of screentime wasted, great take on the Fantastic Four, hilarious parts for both adults and children, an interesting villain, etc.

WALL-E - I love how social commentary was done here. Also skies above, what a beautiful love story. Really blazed a trail in non-verbal storytelling (especially given it was an animated kids film!) Robot animations are particularly delightful.

Zootopia - another social message delivered excellently and entertainingly. I love Judy and her persistence, I love the expressiveness of the faces and the epic city setting. I love Judy and Nick's banter. This movie deserves to be remembered longer than it has been so far. Admittedly, not one of my fave villains, which makes it my least favorite of the Ss.

A tier (either super high quality or something I greatly enjoy and deem of at least reasonably good quality)

Mulan - this movie did everything right. Truly feminist protagonist, an icon for strong Asian women, fairly culturally accurate (tho Mushu confuses me), GORGEOUS and iconic music. Lets a relatively natural romance develop. I frickin love the action scenes, I love the emporer. Sadly, this movie just didn't lodge its way in my heart as well as Pixar did. Pixar just has some magic, yo.

Cinderella - my gosh what an underrated protagonist. Her family straight-up abuses her and she never loses sight of her goals for a better life. Iconic visuals helped bring Disney out of bankruptcy. A gorgeous alto singing voice.

Wreck-it Ralph - alright alright ppl don’t crucify me for this. I honestly can’t think of much wrong with this movie. Vanellope and Ralph’s vitriolic best buds relationship is adorable, her forgiveness of him is heartwarming and (relatively) deserved, rockin’ Owl City song, epic visuals that mix together bc of all the different games. ALSO ONE OF THE BEST DISNEY VILLAINS NO CAP. One of the only twist villains I like. And we stan the romantic pairing.

Tangled - I’ve talked about this a lot, but Rapunzel deserved the whole world after what she’s gone through. That being said, Gothel is not some shallow monster she needs to escape from, but an intelligent, well-defined monster with backstory. I could totally see this story happening if the world of Tangled existed. Epic love story, hilarious dialogue. Music is… good but much of it is less memorable to me. Visuals are good but not quite at the level/creativity of many other disney films.

The Lion King - they really put Hamlet in Africa and pulled it off lol. But in all seriousness, no one took the premise of this film seriously at the time and it became sooo iconic. I love Scar and his eventual downfall, I love how Simba grows emotionally, I love the sad moments that don’t overpower the overall feeling of light goofiness. And music so memorable it was one of the first Disney musicals.

Coco - not a super unique story premise. But an incredible culture to explore with such creativity and sensitivity. I love the themes of death not being the worst and music being so central to the story. Twist/twist villain was memorable and not expected. And yeah, it did make me cry, so props there.

Ratatouille - the most recently watched of these films for me. This movie is soooo unique! Back when Pixar was truly super out there with their concepts. Super Parisian visuals and soundtrack. It somehow starts goofy (THE OLD LADY TRIES TO KILL REMY WITH A SHOTGUN WHILE WEARING A GAS MASK) but really drives home the message that you can truly do what you want regardless of who you are. Colette can get it. And the monologue by Ego at the end is one of my favorites in film.

Frozen - Anna is one of my favorite Disney protagonists. She’s so resilient and loyal. Elsa ain’t bad either but she experiences… less character development. The film is a tad too pleased with its own self-awareness for my taste, but there’s no denying how iconic the music and visuals were.

Inside Out - Alright, this movie hits home for me bc I tried to run away after moving. A super thoughtful, heartfelt depiction of (potentially depression? imo) with great moments of humor. Riley’s inner world is so creative and lovely. Also realistic depictions of Minnesota/California culture.

Tarzan - Jane! is! smart! and! adorable! Her scientific curiosity makes her very endearing. it’s so cute to see her and Tarzan learn from each other. Also Tarzan’s “found mother” is epic. Solid score. Solid film all around. To quote Lily Orchard, “This film is what Pocahontas tried to be.”

B tier (one of my favorites but has a few significant flaws that bring it down (or not quite as memorable to me, but consider good quality))

Peter Pan - Haven’t seen it in a hot sec, but I remember being super charmed by this as a kid. Just going out, having incredible adventures, and returning to a warm home at the end of the day. Tinker Bell is hilarious and beautifully drawn. Gets major negative points for the depiction of Native Americans tho.

Big Hero 6 - I was super charmed by the protagonist, his family/friends, and the setting. The plot/villain’s motivations are a bit of a mess, though.

Princess and the Frog - This movie has so much flavor to it! The visuals/music are lovely and unique. Tiana is incredible but it’s kinda annoying how EVERYONE keeps trying to shoehorn her into romance. The thing is, her goals are entirely reasonable. Focus on her restaurant, then look to settle down. But they’re like “nooo you’re ignoring the important things in life” smh. Also, epic villain, woohoo! The movie dragged significantly for me when they were in the bayou. Charlotte is delightful.

Winnie the Pooh - don’t remember it super well, but I think it was charming and occasionally dark, which is an addictive concoction.

The Little Mermaid - MAN ppl roast Ariel way more than she deserves. Visually, it was… fine. idk. This movie is good. I don’t have much else to say about it.

Snow White - the one that started it all. Visually, super impressive. Musically, lovely. I find the romance a bit… off. Well, more than a bit. What is it with Disney and kissing sleeping people?

Alice in Wonderland - a nerdy acid trip. Right up my alley! I also like films where ppl go on incredible adventures and return to the status quo, but THEY changed bc of it. Epic. SUUUUPER creative visual interpretation of Carroll’s book. Brave - gosh I loooove films where a parent and child learn to understand each other. Never got why ppl hated this movie so much. The Scottish flavor is present and fun. Merida made one mistake and made it up. The arrow scene is iconic.

Cars - a fun ride! (hahaha puns.) We love seeing Paul Newman as a car.

B-minus tier? (same as B, but problematic, or weaker story-wise.)

Hunchback - man… settings-wise, this film might be my favorite. I also love Esmeralda and Quasimodo as characters and as a duo (though the sexualized depiction of Romani ppl is not epic.) I also don’t find the discrimination against Esmeralda/Quasimodo jarring bc it matches the time period. Frollo is super interesting as a villain. The gargoyles are… def not necessary. Basically, this film doesn’t know what it’s doing with tone.

Sleeping Beauty - Aurora was my favorite when I was younger because I thought she was the prettiest, and that still defines how i feel about this, basically. Visually lovely - everything is kind of elongated and gothic. Maleficent is spiteful and epic. I have no issue with the fluffier parts of the movie, like the music or the fairies. RIP for lack of consent being a plot point, though.

Hercules - Megara is incredible. one of the only Disney “princesses” who acts like an adult and has cynicism as a major part of her personality. I love her and Herc’s progression where she learns to trust him (yes, he is genuinely that sincere, it’s not a front.) Muses are unique, whoever came up with them was high on something and I’m living for it. I just think the plot itself was somewhat unrealistic/ weirdly-paced. There are some memorable songs, some less-than-memorable songs. Art style is cool but I’m personally not a fan. EXTREMELY inaccurate depictions of the original Greek gods.

C tier (entertaining, but I don't consider it a great movie)

Bolt - I watched this like 11 years ago. It was fun! A cool concept about those put on a pedestal learning their worth even without celebrity boosting them up. Animation was… fine I think. not super memorable to me.

Frozen 2 - They really took any scrap of character development Elsa had in the first movie, threw it in the garbage and set it on fire. Anna deserved so much better. Songs are bombastic and impressive, have the occasional interesting lyric, but are really weirdly placed and none are quite as iconic as the first movie’s (except Aurora, she does great work here. Also the song Anna sings after she thinks Elsa died.)

Not a big fan of the vaguely homeopathic theme. Not a big fan of Olaf’s WEIRD character development. Not a big fan of the suuuuuper awkward dialogue and the animations that imply not only that Kristoff is into his reindeer but that Elsa and Anna are into each other (if you’re questioning if they did that, yes, they did, I can find screenshots of some really weird expressions/moments. THIS IS NOT THE TIME TO PANDER TO YOUR WEIRD FANS, DISNEY.)

The voice actors did great work, the animators did great work (look at the details on their clothes! Look at how Elsa’s posture changes to be more confident! look at how they're animated while they're singing!) Some weird costume/makeup choices that make Elsa look like an aging starlet, but she also has some gorgeous moments so eh. It’s a wash for me.

They really did not know what to do with Kristoff this movie, huh. The only thing that happened to him was singing a cheesy 90s ballad and marrying Anna, both of which were admittedly epic. Also, the trolls got 0 appearances despite being literally psychic. Probably could have helped with a lot. I'm not a huge fan of lore/worldbuilding, and thee was a lot of it here. Overall neutral on it.

Also a big theme in this movie I don’t love - **** TANGIBLE CONSEQUENCES TO OUR ACTIONS!!! The danger is Elsa’s death, the elements, colonialism, and Arendelle literally being destroyed. None of those end up playing out, so I was left at the end going “this film had literally no stakes.”

Monsters U - same as above - entertaining at the time! Not super memorable. The ppl we were supposed to dislike kept switching. Doesn’t really match the canon of Monsters Inc (I thought they were supposed to have known each other since childhood so why did they meet in college?)

Cars 3 - so apparently, everyone HATED this movie! Fun! I never watched Cars 2 (yes watched Cars 1 if you haven’t been paying attention to this list), but I didn’t think this movie was bad at all. Well-acted, some fun chase scenes, the scene where Lightning fails at driving in the simulation is genuinely hilarious, and some interesting perspectives on teachers getting the spotlight for their skills for once.

Incredibles 2 - I liked this film at first, but then it was… just okay in retrospect. I love me some good family dynamics. The plot here makes not a lot of sense. THEY BUILT UP THE UNDERMINER FOR NOTHING AND THEN FORGOT ABOUT HIM. I was surprised by the villain swap, but it happened so last minute I never really understood their motivations even after they explained them. Tried to tackle waaaay too many messages.

D tier (I didn't enjoy these or consider them mediocre)

Finding Dory - Maybe I should have put this higher? Like C tier at least. Ah well. Wasn’t a huge fan of the body/physical comedy (not my thing), but it was entertaining and awww finding family is heartwarming.

Finding Nemo - I remember nothing about this movie.

E tier (this film has significant problems)

Beauty and the Beast - *sigh*… I want to love this movie. The score is gorgeous. Visually, they could have made it more distinctly Rococo-era France but didn’t (why?) The voice actors did good work and I think Paige O’Hara is SUPER underrated here.

The Beast is emotionally manipulative with an awful temper that (for MOST of the movie. He doesn’t change.) That’s the main reason this is in E tier. This movie shaped so many generations of people thinking they can change the behavior of someone who treats them badly through the power of love. But you can’t. She learns to “love” the beast under coercion. It’s not Stockholm syndrome - it’s a trashy romance novel. Big fan of Gaston as a villain. He’s an archetype ppl can recognize and it’s so satisfying to hate him.

F tier (I think this film actively harms the industry and would rather it not have been made. Both the one in E tier could be considered harmful to the industry, but I think they had significant enough artistic accomplishments to scrape above that. I'm also generally a fan of "lack of censorship bc it's better to teach what not to do.")

Pocahontas - this movie took real historical events and romanticized them AND sexualized one of the only Native princesses they’ve had. Boo. Nothing wrong with animation!Pocahontas as a character, it’s just people put her in a story that doesn’t represent history well at all (and these historical events, unlike those in say, 14th-century Germany, had super relevant effects on people alive today.) And they portrayed the Native Americans and colonial settlers as equally in the wrong. (though I like Governor Radcliffe as a potential villain and love the line “see how I glitter.” I can’t NOT laugh when I hear it.) Lovely music, though. Nice animation, but the colors are weirdly… muted?

Bad Garbage (I don't wish this film had never been made, but I wish I never had to see it.)

Planes - this movie was ridiculous. I remember not much about it except that I kinda hated it and that it was super cheesy with tension one could see right through that immediately resolved itself via one twist or another.

Haven’t seen tier: Recess, A Bug’s Life, A Goofy Movie, DuckTakes Movie, Lilo and Stitch, Pinocchio (actually i have seen this but I remember nothing about it), The Nightmare before Christmas, Toy Stories 1, 2, and 3, Up, 101 Dalmatians, The Great Mouse Detective, Cars 2, Moana, The Good Dinosaur, Pete’s Dragon, Fantasia, Peter Pan Return to Neverland, Fantasia 2000, The Black Cauldron (read the book, though!), Bambi (or I did and remember nothing about it), The Rescuersm, The Rescuers Down Under, Planes Fire and Rescue, Bambi 2, The Fox & the Found, Oliver and Company, Atlantis, Treasure Planet (I want to, though), Piglet’s Big Movie, The Jungle Book, the Emporer’s New Groove, The Jungle Book 2, Chicken Little, Brother Bear, The Three Caballeros, Pooh’s Heffalump Movie, Dumbo, The Adventures of Ichabod and Mr. Toad, Aladdin (seen parts but never the whole thing), Strange Magic, The Sword in the Stone, James and the Giant Peach, Frankenweenie, Lady and the Tramp, Ralph Breaks the Internet, Doug’s 1st Movie, Monsters Inc. (want to, though), Meet the Robinsons, Dinosaur, The Aristocats, Robin Hood, The Tigger Movie, Who Framed Roger Rabbit, that pooh movie at the end without the title on it

-11/21/20

#blog #non-sequitura-blog #11/21/20 #november #2020 #longform #analysis #disney

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